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FROM  THE  LIBRARY  OF 
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 PRINCETON  THEOLOGICAL  SEMINARY 
 
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 Published  by  Longman  .Rur^.Eees.  OiTne&Brmm ,  Jan.l.lfft9. 
 
THE 
 
 REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE, 
 
 OF  NOTTINGHAM, 
 
 LATE  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
 
 WITH    AN    ACCOUNT    OF    HIS 
 
 LIFE, 
 
 BY    ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 
 
 IN    TWO   VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL.  I. 
 
 THE    NINTH  EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED    FOR 
 LONGMAN,  HURST,  REES,  ORME,  AND  BROWN, 
 
 PATERNOSTER-ROW. 
 
 1821. 
 
Printed  by  A.  and  R.  Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street,  London. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE  FIRST  VOLUME. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Account  of  the  Life  of  H.  K.  White  1 
 
 POEMS    INSERTED    IN    THE    LIFE. 
 On  being  confined  to  School  one  pleasant    Morning    in    Spring; 
 
 ivritten  at  the  Age  of  Thirteen 5 
 
 Extract  from  an  Address  to  Contemplation^  ivritten  at  Fourteen 7 
 
 To  the  Rosemary   19 
 
 To  the  Morning - 21 
 
 My  own  Character •••••  28 
 
 Ode  on  Disappointment *•  '"55 
 
 Lines,  ivritten  in  Wilford  Church-Yard,  on  Recovery  from  Sickness. »,  58 
 
 Letters     61 
 
 POEMS    INSERTED    IN    THE    LETTERS. 
 Elegy,  occasioned  by  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill,  ivho  ivas  drowned  in  the 
 
 River  Trent    84 
 
 Extemporaneous  Verses  124,  125 
 
 *'   Yes,  my  stray  Steps  have  wandered'''*    189 
 
 Hints,  &c 274 
 
 A  Prayer 275 
 
 A  Prayer 276 
 
 Lines,  and  Note,  by  Lord  Byron 279 
 
 Lines,  by  Professor  Smyth,  of  Cambridge,  on  a  Monument  erected 
 by  an  American  Gentleman,  in  All  Saints'  Church,  Cambridge, 
 
 to  the  Memory  of  Henry  Kirke  White    * 280 
 
IV  CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS  WRITTEN  BEFORE  THE  PUBLICATION  OF 
 CLIFTON  GROVE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Childhood,  Part  I 281 
 
 II 289 
 
 Fragment  of  an  Eccentric  Drama 299 
 
 To  a  Friend    506 
 
 On  reading  the  Poems  of  Warton    308 
 
 To  the  Muse 509 
 
 To  Love 511 
 
 The  Wandering  Boy 512 
 
 Fragment,  "The  Western  Gale" 515 
 
 Ode,  written  on  Whit-Monday 516 
 
 Canzonet 518 
 
 Commencement  of  a  Poem  on  Despair  ibid. 
 
 To  the  Wind,  a  Fragment    521 
 
 The  Eve  of  Death - ibid. 
 
 Thanatos    323 
 
 Athanatos 324 
 
 On  Music  526 
 
 Ode  to  the  Harvest  Moon 528 
 
 Song,  "  Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes" 551 
 
 The  Shipwreck'd  Solitary's  Song ssr 
 
 Sonnet    535 
 
ACCOUNT 
 
 OF    THE 
 
 LIFE    OF   H.  K.   WHITE. 
 
 It  fell  to  my  lot  to  publish,  with  the  assistance  of  my 
 friend  Mr.  Cottle,  the  first  collected  edition  of  the  works 
 of  Chatterton,  in  whose  history  I  felt  a  more  than  ordi- 
 nary interest,  as  being  a  native  of  the  same  city,  familiar 
 from  my  childhood  with  those  great  objects  of  art  and 
 nature  by  which  he  had  been  so  deeply  impressed,  and 
 devoted  from  my  childhood  with  the  same  ardour  to  the 
 same  pursuits.  It  is  now  my  fortune  to  lay  before  the 
 world  some  account  of  one  whose  early  death  is  not  less 
 to  be  lamented,  as  a  loss  to  English  literature,  and  whose 
 virtues  were  as  admirable  as  his  genius.  In  the  present 
 instance  there  is  nothing  to  be  recorded,  but  what  is 
 honourable  to  himself  and  to  the  age  in  which  he  lived  ; 
 little  to  be  regretted,  but  that  one  so  ripe  for  heaven 
 should  so  soon  have  been  removed  from  the  world. 
 
 Henry  Kirke  White,  the  second  son  of  John  and 
 Mary  White,   was   born    in    Nottingham,    March  21st, 
 
 VOL.  I.  B 
 
1785.  His  father  was  a  butcher;  his  mother,  whose 
 maiden  name  was  Neville,  is  of  a  respectable  Stafford- 
 shire family. 
 
 From   the  years   of  three  till  five,    Henry  learnt    to 
 read   at   the    shool   of   Mrs.  Garrington ;    whose   name, 
 unimportant  as  it  may  appear,  is  mentioned  because  she 
 had  the  good  sense   to  perceive  his  extraordinary  capa- 
 city,   and    spoke    of  what   it    promised   with   confidence. 
 She  was  an  excellent  woman,   and  he  describes  her  with 
 affection  in  his  poem  upon  Childhood.     At  a  very  early 
 age  his  love  of  reading  was  decidedly  manifested ;  it  was 
 a  passion  to  which  every  thing  else  gave  way.     "  I  could 
 fancy,"  says  his  eldest  sister,  "  I  see  him  in  his  little  chair, 
 with  a  large  book  upon  his  knee,  and  my  mother  calling, 
 '  Henry,  my  love,  come  to  dinner ;'  which  was  repeated 
 so  often  without  being  regarded,  that  she  was  obliged  to 
 chang-e   the   tone  of  her   voice   before    she    could   rouse 
 him."     When  he  was  about  seven,  he  would  creep  un- 
 perceived  into  the  kitchen,    to  teach  the  servant  to  read 
 and  write ;  and  he  continued  this  for  some  time  before  it 
 was  discovered  that  he  had  been  thus  laudably  employed. 
 He  wrote  a  tale  of  a  Swiss  emigrant,  which  was  probably 
 his  first  composition,  and  gave  it  to  this  servant,  being 
 ashamed  to  show  it  to  his  mother.     The  consciousness  of 
 genius  is  always  at  first  accompanied  with  this  diffidence ; 
 it  is   a  sacred    solitary  feeling.     No  forward  child,  how- 
 ever  extraordinary  the    promise  of  his   childhood,   ever 
 produced  any  thing  truly  great. 
 
When  Henry  was  about  six,  he  was  placed  under  the 
 Rev.  John  Blanchard,  who  kept,  at  that  time,  the  best 
 school  in  Nottingham.  Here  he  learnt  writing,  arith- 
 metic, and  French.  When  he  was  about  eleven,  he  one 
 day  wrote  a  separate  theme  for  every  boy  in  his  class, 
 which  consisted  of  about  twelve  or  fourteen.  The  master 
 said  he  had  never  known  them  write  so  well  upon  any 
 subject  before,  and  could  not  refrain  from  expressing  his 
 astonishment  at  the  excellence  of  Henry's.  It  was  consi- 
 dered as  a  great  thing  for  him  to  be  at  so  good  a  school, 
 yet  tliere  were  some  circumstances  which  rendered  it  less 
 advantageous  to  him  than  it  might  have  been.  Mrs. 
 White  had  not  yet  overcome  her  husband's  intention  of 
 breeding  him  up  to  his  own  business :  and  by  an  arrange- 
 ment which  took  up  too  much  of  his  time,  and  would  have 
 crushed  his  spirit,  if  that  "  mounting  spirit"  could  have 
 been  crushed,  one  whole  day  in  the  week,  and  his  leisure 
 hours  on  the  others,  were  employed  in  carrying  the 
 butcher's  basket.  Some  differences  at  length  arose  between 
 his  father  and  Mr.  Blanchard,  in  consequence  of  which 
 Henry  was  removed. 
 
 One  of  the  ushers,  when  he  came  to  receive  the  money 
 due  for  tuition,  took  the  opportunity  of  informing  Mrs. 
 White  what  an  incorrigible  son  she  had,  and  that  it  was 
 impossible  to  make  the  lad  do  any  thing.  This  inform- 
 ation made  his  friends  very  uneasy ,-  they  were  dispirited 
 about  him ;  and  had  they  relied  wholly  upon  this  report, 
 the  stupidity  or  malice  of  this  man  would  have  blasted 
 
 B  2 
 
Henry's  progress  for  ever.  He  was,  however,  placed 
 under  the  care  of  a  Mr.  Shipley,  who  soon  discovered 
 that  he  was  a  boy  of  quick  perception,  and  very  admirable 
 talents ;  and  came  with  joy,  like  a  good  man,  to  relieve 
 the  anxiety  and  painful  suspicions  of  his  family. 
 
 While  his  school-masters  were  complaining  that  they 
 could  make  nothing  of  him,  he  discovered  what  Nature 
 had  made  him,  and  wrote  satires  upon  them.  These  pieces 
 were  never  shown  to  any,  except  his  most  particular 
 friends,  who  say  that  they  were  pointed  and  severe.  They 
 are  enumerated  in  the  table  of  contents  to  one  of  his 
 manuscript  volumes,  under  the  title  of  School-Lampoons ; 
 but,  as  was  to  be  expected,  he  had  cut  the  leaves  out,  and 
 destroyed  them. 
 
 One  of  his  poems  written  at  this  time,  and  under  these 
 feelings,  is  preserved. 
 
ON  BEING  CONFINED  TO  SCHOOL 
 
 One  pleasant  Morning  in  Spring, 
 
 Written  at  the  Age  of  Thirteen. 
 
 The  morning  sun's  enchanting  rays 
 Now  call  forth  every  songster's  praise ; 
 Now  the  lark,  with  upward  flight, 
 Gayly  ushers  in  the  light ; 
 While  wildly  warbling  from  each  tree. 
 The  birds  sing  songs  to  Liberty. 
 
 But  for  me  no  songster  sings, 
 For  me  no  joyous  lark  up-springs ; 
 For  I,  confined  in  gloomy  school. 
 Must  own  the  pedant's  iron  rule. 
 And,  far  from  sylvan  shades  and  bowers. 
 In  durance  vile  must  pass  the  hours ; 
 There  con  the  scholiast's  dreary  lines. 
 Where  no  bright  ray  of  genius  shines, 
 And  close  to  rugged  learning  cling, 
 While  laughs  around  the  jocund  spring. 
 
 How  gladly  would  my  soul  forego 
 All  that  arithmeticians  know, 
 Or  stiff  grMiimarians  quaintly  teach, 
 Or  all  that  industry  can  reach, 
 To  taste  each  morn  of  all  the  joys 
 That  with  the  laughing  sun  arise  j 
 And  unconstrain'd  to  rove  along 
 The  bushy  brakes  and  glens  among ; 
 B   3 
 
And  woo  the  muse*s  gentle  power. 
 In  unfrequented  rural  bower ! 
 But,  ah  !  such  heaven-approaching  joys 
 Will  never  greet  my  longing  eyes  j 
 Still  will  they  cheat  in  vision  fine. 
 Yet  never  but  in  fancy  shine. 
 
 Oh,  that  I  were  the  little  wren 
 That  shrilly  chirps  from  yonder  glen  ! 
 Oh,  far  away  I  then  would  rove, 
 To  some  secluded  bushy  grove  j 
 There  hop  and  sing  with  careless  glee. 
 Hop  and  sing  at  liberty ; 
 And  till  death  should  stop  my  lays, 
 Far  from  men  would  spend  my  days. 
 
 About  this  time  his  mother  was  induced,  by  the  advice 
 of  sevei'al  friends,  to  open  a  Ladies'  Boarding  and  Day 
 School  in  Nottingham,  her  eldest  daughter  having  pre- 
 viously been  a  teacher  in  one  for  some  time.  In  this  she 
 succeeded  beyond  her  most  sanguine  expectations,  and 
 Henry's  home  comforts  were  thus  materially  increased, 
 though  it  was  still  out  of  the  power  of  his  family  to  give 
 him  that  education  and  direction  in  life  which  his  talents 
 deserved  and  required. 
 
 It  was  now  determined  to  breed  him  up  to  the  hosiery 
 trade,  the  staple  manufacture  of  his  native  place,  and  at 
 the  age  of  fourteen  he  was  placed  in  a  stocking-loom, 
 with  the  view,  at  some  future  period,  of  getting  a  situation 
 in  a  hosier's  warehouse.  During  the  time  that  he  was  thus 
 employed,  he  might  be  said  to  be  truly  unhappy ;   he  went 
 
to  his  work  with  evident  reluctance,  and  could  not  re- 
 frain from  sometimes  hinting  his  extreme  aversion  to  it  • 
 but  the  circumstances  of  his  family  obliged  them  to  turn 
 a  deaf  ear.  *     His  mother,  however,  secretly  felt  that  he 
 
 *  His  temper  and  tone  of  mind  iil  this  period,  when  he  was  in  his 
 fourteenth  year,  are  displayed  in  this  extract  from  an  Address  to 
 Contemplation. 
 
 Thee  do  I  own,  the  prompter  of  my  joys, 
 The  soother  of  my  cares,  inspiring  peace  j 
 And  I  will  ne'er  forsake  thee.  —  Men  may  rave, 
 And  blame  and  censure  me,  that  I  don't  tie 
 My  ev'ry  thought  down  to  the  desk,  and  spend 
 The  morning  of  my  life  in  adding  figures 
 With  accurate  monotony  ;  that  so 
 The  good  things  of  the  world  may  be  my  lot, 
 And  I  might  taste  the  blessedness  of  wealth : 
 But,  oh  !   I  was  not  made  for  money-getting  ; 
 For  me  no  much-respected  plum  awaits. 
 Nor  civic  honour,  envied.  —  For  as  still 
 I  tried  to  cast  with  school  dexterity 
 The  interesting  sums,  my  vagrant  thoughts 
 Would  quick  revert  to  many  a  woodland  haunt, 
 Which  fond  remembrance  cherish'd,  and  the  pen 
 Dropt  from  my  senseless  fingers  as  I  pictured. 
 In  my  mind's  eye,  how  on  the  shores  of  Trent 
 I  erewhile  wander'd  with  my  early  friends 
 In  social  intercourse.     And  then  I'd  think 
 How  contrary  pursuits  had  thrown  us  wide. 
 One  from  the  other,  scatter'd  o'er  the  globe; 
 They  were  set  down  with  sober  steadiness, 
 Each  to  his  occupation.     I  alone, 
 B  4 
 
8 
 
 was    worthy   of  better    things,    to   her   he    spoke   more 
 openly:    he  could   not   bear,    he   said,    the    thought   of 
 
 A  wayward  youth,  misled  by  Fancy's  vagaries, 
 
 Remain'd  unsettled,  insecure,  and  veering 
 
 With  ev'ry  wind  to  ev'ry  point  o'  th'  compass. 
 
 Yes,  in  the  counting-house  I  could  indulge 
 
 In  fits  of  close  abstraction ;  yea,  amid 
 
 The  busy  bustling  crowds  could  meditate, 
 
 And  send  my  thoughts  ten  thousand  leagues  away 
 
 Beyond  the  Atlantic,  resting  on  my  friend. 
 
 Aye,  Contemplation,  ev'n  in  earliest  youth 
 
 I  woo'd  thy  heavenly  influence  !  I  would  walk 
 
 A  weary  way  when  all  my  toils  were  done. 
 
 To  lay  myself  at  night  in  some  lone  wood, 
 
 And  hear  the  sweet  song  of  the  nightingale. 
 
 Oh,  those  were  times  of  happiness,  and  still 
 
 To  memory  doubly  dear ;  for  growing  yeai's 
 
 Had  not  then  taught  me  man  was  made  to  mourn ; 
 
 And  a  short  hour  of  solitary  pleasure. 
 
 Stolen  from  sleep,  was  ample  recompence 
 
 For  all  the  hateful  bustles  of  the  day. 
 
 My  op'ning  mind  was  ductile  then,  and  plastic. 
 
 And  soon  the  marks  of  care  were  worn  away. 
 
 While  I  was  sway'd  by  every  novel  impulse. 
 
 Yielding  to  all  the  fancies  of  the  hour. 
 
 But  it  has  now  assum'd  its  character ; 
 
 Mark'd  by  strong  lineaments,  its  haughty  tone. 
 
 Like  the  firm  oak,  would  sooner  break  than  bend. 
 
 Yet  still,  oh.  Contemplation  !  I  do  love 
 
 To  indulge  thy  solemn  musings;  still  the  same 
 
 With  thee  alone  I  know  to  melt  and  weep. 
 
 In  thee  alone  delighting.     Why  along 
 
9 
 
 spending  seven  years  of  his  life  in   sliining  and   folding 
 up  stockings ;    he  wanted  something  to   occupy   his  hrain^ 
 and  he  should  be  wretched  if  he  continued   longer  at  this 
 trade,  or  indeed  in  any  thing  except  one  of  the  learned 
 professions.      These  frequent    complaints,  after   a   year's 
 application,  or  rather  misapplication,  (as  his  brother  says,) 
 at  the  loom,  convinced  her  that  he  had  a  mind  destined 
 for  nobler  pursuits.      To  one  so    situated,  and  with  no- 
 thing but  his  own  talents  and  exertions  to  depend  upon, 
 the    Law  seemed  to  be  the  only  practicable  line.       His 
 affectionate   and    excellent   mother   made   every    possible 
 effort  to  effect  his  wishes,   his  father  being  very  averse  to 
 the   plan,  and  at  length,    after   overcoming   a  variety  of 
 obstacles,  he  was  fixed  in  the  office  of  Messrs.  Coldham 
 and  Enfield,    attornies  and  town-clerks    of  Nottingham. 
 As  no  premium  could  be  given  with  him,  he  was  engaged 
 to  serve  two  years  before  he  was  articled,   so  that,  though 
 he  entered   this  office  when  he  was  fifteen,    he  was  not 
 articled  till  the  commencement  of  the  year  1802, 
 
 On  his  thus  entering  the  law,  it  was  recommended  to 
 
 The  dusky  tract  of  commerce  should  I  toil, 
 When,  with  an  easy  competence  content, 
 I  can  alone  be  happy ;  where  with  thee 
 I  may  enjoy  the  loveliness  of  Nature, 
 And  loose  the  wings  of  Fancy  !  —  Thus  alone 
 Can  I  partake  of  happiness  on  earth  ; 
 And  to  be  happy  here  is  man's  chief  end, 
 For  to  be  happy  he  mubt  needi  be  good. 
 
10 
 
 him  by  his  employers,   that  he  should  endeavour  to  ob- 
 tain some  knowledge  of  Latin.       He  had   now  only  the 
 little    time    which  an  attorney's  office,    in  very  extensive 
 practice,    afforded ;    but   great   things    may   be   done   in 
 "  those   hours    of    leisure    which  even  the    busiest   may 
 create  *,"  and  to  his  ardent  mind  no  obstacles  were  too 
 discouragmg.     He  received  some  instruction  in  the  first 
 rudiments  of  this  language,  from  a  person  who  then  re- 
 sided at  Nottingham  ^under  a  feigned  name,  but  was  soon 
 obliged  to  leave  it,  to  elude  the  search  of  government, 
 who  were  then  seeking  to  secure  him.      Henry  discovered 
 him  to  be  Mr.  Cormick,  from  a  print  affixed  to  a  con- 
 tinuation of  Hume  and    Smollett,    and    published,    with 
 their  histories,  by  Cooke.       He  is,  I  believe,    the  same 
 person  who  wrote  a  life  of  Burke.      If  he  received  any 
 other  assistance  it  was  very  trifling ;  yet,   in  the  course  of 
 ten   months,    he  enabled   hunself  to    read   Horace  with 
 tolerable  facility,  and  had  made  some  progress  in  Greek, 
 which  indeed  he  began  first.      He  used  to  exercise  him- 
 self in  declining  the  Greek  nouns  and  verbs  as  he  was 
 going  to  and  from  the  office,   so  valuable  was  time  become 
 to  him.     From  this  time  he  contracted  a  habit  of  employ- 
 ing his  mind  in  study  during  his  walks,  which  he  continued 
 to  the  end  of  his  life. 
 
 He  now   became    almost   estranged  from  his  family; 
 even  at  his  meals  he  would  be  reading,  and  his  evenings 
 
 Turner's  Preface  to  the  History  of  the  Anglo-Saxons. 
 
11 
 
 were  entirely  devoted  to  intellectual  improvement.      He 
 had  a  little  room  given  him,  which  was  called  his  study, 
 and  here  his  milk  supper  was  taken  up  to  him  ;    for,  to 
 avoid  any  loss  of  time,  he  refused  to  sup  with  his  family, 
 though  earnestly  entreated  so  to  do,  as  his  mother  already 
 began  to  dread  the  effects  of  this  severe   and  unremit- 
 ting application.     The  law  was  his  first  pursuit,  to  which 
 his    papers    show    he    had    applied    himself   with    such 
 industry,    as  to   make  it  wonderful    that  he  could   have 
 found  time,    busied  as  his  days  were,  for  any  thing  else. 
 Greek  and  Latin  were  the  next  objects :  at  the  same  time 
 he  made  himself  a  tolerable  Italian  scholar,  and  acquired 
 some  knowledge    both    of    the    Spanish  and  Portuguese. 
 His  medical  friends  say  that  the  knowledge  he  had  ob- 
 tained of   chemistry  was    very  respectable.      Astronomy 
 and  electricity  were  among  his  studies :  some  attention  he 
 paid  to  drawing,  in  which  it  is  probable  he  would  have 
 excelled.      He  was  passionately  fond  of  music,  and  could 
 play  very  pleasingly  by  ear  on  the  piano-forte,  composing 
 the  basfe  to  the  air  he  was  playing;  but  this  propensity  he 
 checked,  lest  it  might  interfere  with  more  important  objects. 
 He  had  a  turn  for  mechanics,  and  all  the  fittings-up  of  his 
 study  were  the  work  of  his  own  hands. 
 
 At  a  very  early  age,  indeed  soon  after  he  was  taken 
 from  school,  Henry  was  ambitious  of  being  admitted  a 
 member  of  a  Literary  Society  then  existing  in  Notting- 
 ham, but  was  objected  to  on  account  of  his  youth  :  after 
 repeated  attempts  and  repeated  failures,  he  succeeded  in 
 his  wish,  through  the  exertions  of  some  of  his  friends,  and 
 
12 
 
 was  elected.  In  a  very  short  time,  to  the  great  surprise 
 of  the  society,  he  proposed  to  give  them  a  lecture,  and 
 they,  probably  from  curiosity,  acceded  to  the  proposal. 
 The  next  evening  they  assembled  :  he  lectured  upon 
 Genius,  and  spoke  extempore  for  above  two  hours,  in  such 
 a  manner  that  he  received  the  unanimous  thanks  of  the 
 society,  and  they  elected  this  young  Roscius  of  oratory 
 their  Professor  of  Literature.  There  are  certain  courts  at 
 Nottingham,  in  which  it  is  necessary  for  an  attorney  to 
 plead;  and  he  wished  to  qualify  himself  for  an  eloquent 
 speaker  as  well  as  a  sound  lawyer. 
 
 With  the  profession  in  which  he  was  placed,  he  was 
 well  pleased,  and  suiFered  no  pursuit,  numerous  as  his 
 pursuits  were,  to  interfere  in  the  slightest  degree  with  its 
 duties.  Yet  he  soon  began  to  have  higher  aspirations 
 and  to  cast  a  wistful  eye  toward  the  universities,  with 
 little  hope  of  ever  attaining  their  important  advantages, 
 yet  probably  not  without  some  hope,  however  faint. 
 There  was  at  this  time  a  magazine  in  publication,  called 
 the  Monthly  Preceptor,  which  proposed  prize  themes  for 
 boys  and  girls  to  write  upon ;  and  which  was  encouraged 
 by  many  school-masters,  some  of  whom,  for  their  own 
 credit,  and  that  of  the  important  institutions  in  which 
 they  were  placed,  should  have  known  better  than  to  en- 
 courage it.  But  in  schools,  and  in  all  practical  systems  of 
 education,  emulation  is  made  the  main-spring,  as  if  there 
 were  not  enough  of  the  leaven  of  disquietude  in  our 
 natures,  without  inoculating  it  with  this  dilutement  —  this 
 Daccine  virus  of  envy.      True  it  is,  that  we  need  encou- 
 
13 
 
 ragement  in  youth ;  that  though  our  vices  spring  up  and 
 thrive  in  shade  and  darkness,  hke  poisonous  funoi,  our 
 better  powers  require  light  and  air;  and  that  praise  is 
 the  sunshine,  without  which  genius  will  wither,  fade,  and 
 die ;  or  rather  in  search  of  which,  like  a  plant  that  is  de- 
 barred from  it,  will  push  forth  in  contortions  and  defor- 
 mity. But  such  practices  as  that  of  writing  for  public 
 prizes,  of  publicly  declaiming,  and  of  enacting  plays  before 
 the  neighbouring  gentry,  teach  boys  to  look  for  applause 
 instead  of  being  satisfied  with  approbation,  and  foster  in 
 them  that  vanity  which  needs  no  such  cherishing.  This 
 is  administering  stimulants  to  the  heart,  instead  of 
 "  feeding  it  with  food  convenient  for  it ;"  and  the  effect 
 of  such  stimulants  is  to  dwarf  the  human  mind,  as  lap-dogs 
 are  said  to  be  stopt  in  their  growth  by  being  dosed  with 
 gin.  Thus  forced,  it  becomes  like  tlie  sapling  which 
 shoots  up  when  it  should  be  striking  its  roots  far  and  deep, 
 and  which  therefore  never  attains  to  more  than  a  sapling's 
 size. 
 
 To  Henry,  however,  the  opportunity  of  distinguishing 
 himself,  even  in  the  Juvenile  Library,  was  useful ;  if  he 
 had  acted  with  a  man's  foresight,  he  could  not  have  done 
 more  wisely  than  by  aiming  at  every  distinction  within 
 his  little  sphere.  At  the  age  of  fifteen,  he  gained  a  silver 
 medal  for  a  translation  from  Horace ;  and  the  following 
 year  a  pair  of  twelve-inch  globes,  for  an  imaginary  Tour 
 from  London  to  Edinburgh.  He  determined  upon 
 trying  for  this  prize  one  evening  when  at  tea  with  his 
 family,   and  at  supper  he  read  to  them  his  performance, 
 
14 
 
 to  which  seven  pages  were  granted  in  the  magazine^ 
 though  they  had  limited  the  allowance  of  room  to  three. 
 Shortly  afterwards  he  w^on  several  books  for  exercises  on 
 different  subjects.  Such  honours  were  of  great  importance 
 to  him ;  they  were  testimonies  of  his  ability,  which  could 
 not  be  suspected  of  partiality,  and  they  prepared  his  father 
 to  reirard  with  less  reluctance  that  change  in  his  views  and 
 wishes  which  afterwards  took  place. 
 
 He  now  became  a  correspondent  in  the  Monthly 
 Mirror,  a  magazine  which  first  set  the  example  of  typo- 
 graphical neatness  in  periodical  publications,  which  has 
 given  the  world  a  good  series  of  portraits,  and  which 
 deserves  praise  also  on  other  accounts,  having  among  its 
 contributors,  some  persons  of  extensive  erudition  and 
 acknowledged  talents.  Magazines  are  of  great  service  to 
 those  who  are  learning  to  write;  they  are  fishing-boats, 
 which  the  Buccaneers  of  Literature  do  not  condescend  to 
 sink,  burn,  and  destroy  ;  young  poets  may  safely  try  their 
 strength  in  them ;  and  that  they  should  try  their  strength 
 before  the  public,  wdthout  danger  of  any  shame  from 
 failure,  is  highly  desirable.  Henry's  rapid  improvement 
 was  now  as  remarkable  as  his  unwearied  industry.  The 
 pieces  which  had  been  rewarded  m  the  Juvenile  Preceptor 
 might  have  been  rivalled  by  many  boys ;  but  what  he 
 produced  a  year  afterwards,  few  men  could  equal. 
 Those  which  appeared  in  the  Monthly  Mirror  attracted 
 some  notice,  and  introduced  him  to  the  acquaintance  of 
 i|f  r.  Capel  Lofft,  and  of  Mr.  Hill,  the  proprietor  of  the 
 work,    a   gentleman  who  is  himself  a   lover  of  English 
 
15 
 
 literature,  and  who  has  probably  tlie  most  copious  col- 
 lection of  English  poetry  in  existence.  Their  encourao-e- 
 ment  induced  him,  about  the  close  of  the  year  1802,  to 
 prepare  a  little  volume  of  poems  for  the  press.  It  was 
 his  hope  that  this  publication  might  either,  by  the  success 
 of  its  sale,  or  the  notice  which  it  might  excite,  enable 
 him  to  prosecute  his  studies  at  college,  and  fit  himself 
 for  the  Church.  For  thou^rh  so  far  was  he  from  feelinff 
 any  dislike  to  his  own  profession,  that  he  was  even 
 attached  to  it,  and  had  indulged  a  hope  that  one  day  or 
 other  he  should  make  his  way  to  the  Bar,  a  deafness,  to 
 which  he  had  always  been  subject,  and  which  appeared 
 to  grow  progressively  w^orse,  threatened  to  preclude  all 
 possibility  of  advancement ;  and  his  opinions,  which  had 
 at  one  time  inclined  to  deism,  had  now  taken  a  strouQ- 
 devotional  bias. 
 
 Henry  was  earnestly  advised  to  obtain,  if  possible, 
 some  patroness  for  his  book,  whose  rank  in  life,  and 
 notoriety  in  the  literary  world,  might  afford  it  some  pro- 
 tection. The  days  of  dedications  are  happily  well  nio-h 
 at  an  end ;  but  this  was  of  importance  to  him,  as  givino- 
 his  little  volume  consequence  in  the  eyes  of  his  friends 
 and  townsmen.  The  Countess  of  Derby  was  first  applied 
 to,  and  the  manuscript  submitted  to  her  perusal.  She 
 returned  it  with  a  refusal,  upon  the  ground  that  it  was  an 
 invariable  rule  with  her  never  to  accept  a  compliment  of  the 
 kind ;  but  this  refusal  was  couched  in  language  as  kind  as 
 it  was  complimentary,  and  he  felt  more  pleasure  at  the 
 kindness  which  it  expressed,  than  disappointment  at  the 
 
16 
 
 taiiure  of  his  application:  a  2l.  note  was  inclosed  as  her 
 subscription  to  the  work.  The  Margravine  of  Anspach 
 was  also  thought  of.  There  is  among  his  papers  the 
 draught  of  a  letter  addressed  to  her  upon  the  subject,  but  I 
 believe  it  was  never  sent.  He  was  then  recommended  to 
 apply  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire.  Poor  Henry  felt  a 
 fit  repugnance  at  courting  patronage  in  this  way,  but 
 he  felt  that  it  was  of  consequence  in  his  little  world,  and 
 submitted ;  and  the  manuscript  was  left  with  a  letter,  at 
 Devonshire  House,  as  it  had  been  with  the  Countess  of 
 Derby.  Some  time  elapsed,  and  no  answer  arrived  from 
 Her  Grace ;  and  as  she  was  known  to  be  pestered  with 
 such  applications,  apprehensions  began  to  be  entertained 
 for  the  safety  of  the  papers.  His  brother  Neville  (who 
 was  now  settled  in  London)  called  several  times  ;  of 
 course  he  never  obtained  an  interview:  the  case  at  last 
 became  desperate,  and  he  went  with  a  determination  not 
 to  quit  the  house  till  he  had  obtained  them.  After  wait- 
 in  o-  four  hours  in  the  servants'  hall,  his  perseverance  con- 
 quered their  idle  insolence,  and  he  got  possession  of  the 
 manuscript.  And  here  he,  as  well  as  his  brother,  sick  of 
 "  dancing  attendance"  upon  the  great,  would  have  rehn- 
 quished  all  thoughts  of  die  dedication,  but  they  were 
 uro-ed  to  make  one  more  trial :  —  a  letter  to  Her  Grace 
 was  procured,  with  which  Neville  obtained  audience, 
 wisely  leaving  the  manuscript  at  home  :  and  the  Duchess, 
 with  her  usual  good  nature,  gave  permission  that  the 
 volume  should  be  dedicated  to  her.  Accordingly  her 
 name  appeared  in  the  tide-page,  and  a  copy  was  trans- 
 mitted  to   her   in   due   form,    and   in   its  due    Morocco 
 
17 
 
 livery,  of  which  no  notice  was  ever  taken.  Involved  as 
 she  was  in  an  endless  round  of  miserable  follies,  it  is  pro- 
 bable that  she  never  opened  the  book,  otherwise  her  heart 
 was  good  enough  to  have  felt  a  pleasure  in  encouraging 
 the  author.  Oh,  what  a  lesson  would  the  history  of  that 
 heart  hold  out  ! 
 
 Henry  sent  his  little  volume  to  each  of  the  then  existing 
 reviews,*  and  accompanied  it  with  a  letter,  wherein  he 
 stated  what  his  advantages  had  been,  and  what  were  the 
 hopes  which  he  proposed  to  himself  from  the  publication  : 
 requesting  from  them  that  indulgence  of  which  his  pro- 
 ductions did  not  stand  in  need,  and  which  it  might  have 
 been  thought,  under  such  circumstances,  would  not  have 
 been  withheld  from  works  of  less  promise.  It  may  be 
 well  conceived  with  what  anxiety  he  looked  for  their  opi- 
 nions, and  with  what  feelings  he  read  the  following  article 
 in  the  Monthly  Review  for  February,  1804. 
 
 Monthly  Review,  February y  1804, 
 "  The  circiyiistances  under  which  this  little  volume  is  offered  to  the 
 public,  must,  in  some  measure,  disarm  criticism.  We  have  been  inform- 
 ed that  Mr.  White  has  scarcely  attained  his  eighteenth  year,  has  hitherto 
 exerted  himself  in  the  pursuit  of  knowledge  under  the  discouragements 
 of  penury  and  misfortune,  and  now  hopes,  by  this  early  authorship,  to 
 obtain  some  assistance  in  the  prosecution  of  his  studies^  at  Cambridge. 
 He  appears,  indeed,  to  be  one  of  those  young  men  of  talents  and  appli- 
 cation who  merit  encouragement ;  and  it  would  be  gratifying  to  us  to 
 hear  that  this  publication  had  obtained  for  him  a  respectable  patron,  for 
 we  fear  that  the  mere  profit  arising  from  the  sale  cannot  be,  in  any 
 measure,  adequate  to  his  exigencies  as  a  student  at  the  university.  A 
 subscription,  with  a  statement  of  the  particulars  of  the  author's  case, 
 VOL.  I.  C 
 
18 
 
 might  have  been  calculated  to  have  answered  his  pui'pose :  but,  as  a 
 book  which  is  to  "  win  its  way"  on  the  sole  ground  of  its  own  merit, 
 this  poem  cannot  be  contemplated  with  any  sanguine  expectation.  The 
 author  is  very  anxious,  however,  that  critics  should  find  in  it  something 
 to  commend,  and  he  shall  not  be  disappointed :  we  commend  his 
 exertions,  and  his  laudable  endeavours  to  excel ;  but  we  cannot  com- 
 pliment him  with  having  learned  the  difficult  art  of  writing  good 
 poetry. 
 
 "  Such  lines  as  these  will  sufficiently  prove  our  assertion  : 
 
 "  Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  Boy^ 
 When  the  hoarse  thunder  shook  the  vaulted  Sky, 
 And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
 Sternly  careering  in  the  eddying  storm." 
 
 "  If  Mr.  White  should  be  instructed  by  Alma-mater,  he  will,  doubt- 
 less, produce  better  sense  and  better  rhymes." 
 
 I  know  not  who  was  the  writer  of  this  precious  article. 
 It  is  certain  that  Henry  could  have  no  personal  enemy ; 
 his  volume  fell  into  the  hands  of  some  dull  man,  who 
 took  it  up  in  an  hour  of  ill  humour,  turned  over  the  leaves 
 to  look  for  faults,  and  finding  that  Boy  and  Sky  were  not 
 orthodox  rhymes,  according  to  his  wise  creed  of  criticism, 
 sate  down  to  blast  the  hopes  of  a  boy,  who  had  confessed 
 to  him  all  his  hopes  and  all  his  difficulties,  and  thrown 
 himself  upon  his  mercy.  Widi  such  a  letter  before  him, 
 (by  mere  accident  I  saw  that  which  had  been  sent  to  the 
 Critical  Review,)  even  though  the  poems  had  been  bad, 
 a  srood  man  would  not  have  said  so ;  he  would  have 
 avoided  censure,  if  he  had  found  it  impossible  to  bestow 
 
19 
 
 praise.      But   that   the  reader  may  perceive  the  wicked 
 injustice,   as  well  as   the  cruehy  of  this  reviewal,   a  few 
 specimens  of  the  volume,  thus  contemptuously  condemned 
 because  Boy  and  Sky  are  used  as  rhymes  in  it,  shall  be  in 
 serted  in  this  place. 
 
 TO  THE  HERB  ROSEMARY,'' 
 
 1. 
 
 Sweet  scented  flower  !  who  art  wont  to  bloom 
 
 On  January's  front  severe, 
 
 And  o'er  the  wintry  desert  drear 
 To  waft  thy  waste  perfume ! 
 Come,  thou  shalt  form  my  nosegay  now, 
 And  I  will  bind  thee  round  my  brow ; 
 
 And  as  I  twine  the  mournful  wreath, 
 I'll  weave  a  melancholy  song : 
 And  sweet  the  strain  shall  be  and  long, 
 
 The  melody  of  death. 
 
 2. 
 Come,  funeral  flow'r  !  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
 With  the  pale  corse  in  lonely  tomb. 
 And  throw  across  the  desert  gloom 
 A  sweet  decaying  smell. 
 
 *  The  Rosemary  buds  in  January.      It  is  the  flower  commonly  put  in  the 
 coffins  of  the  dead, 
 
 C   2 
 
20 
 
 Come,  press  my  lips,  and  lie  with  me 
 Beneath  the  lowly  Alder  tree. 
 
 And  we  will  sleep  a  pleasant  sleep. 
 And  not  a  care  shall  dare  intrude. 
 To  break  the  marble  solitude. 
 
 So  peaceful  and  so  deep. 
 
 And  hark  i  the  wind-god,  as  he  flies. 
 
 Moans  hollow  in  the  forest  trees. 
 
 And  sailing  on  the  gusty  breeze. 
 Mysterious  music  dies. 
 Sweet  flower  !  that  requiem  wild  is  mine. 
 It  warns  me  to  the  lonely  shrine. 
 
 The  cold  turf  altar  of  the  dead  ; 
 
 My  grave  shall  be  in  yon  lone  spot. 
 
 Where  as  I  lie,  by  all  forgot, 
 A  dying  fragrance  thou  wilt  o'er  my  ashes  shed. 
 
21 
 
 TO    THE    MORNING. 
 
 WRITTEN   DURING   ILLNESS. 
 
 Beams  of  the  day-break  faint !  I  hail 
 Your  dubious  hues,  as  on  the  robe 
 Of  night,  which  wraps  the  slumbering  globe, 
 
 I  mark  your  traces  pale. 
 Tir*d  with  the  taper's  sickly  light, 
 And  with  the  wearying,  number' d  night, 
 I  hail  the  streaks  of  morn  divine : 
 And  lo  !  they  break  between  the  dewy  wreathes 
 
 That  round  my  rural  casement  twine : 
 The  fresh  gale  o'er  the  green  lawn  breathes ; 
 It  fans  my  feverish  brow,  —  it  calms  the  mental  strife. 
 And  cheerily  re-illumes  the  lambent  flame  of  life. 
 
 The  lark  has  her  gay  song  begun. 
 
 She  leaves  her  grassy  nest. 
 And  soars  till  the  unrisen  sun 
 
 Gleams  on  her  speckled  breast. 
 Now  let  me  leave  my  restless  bed. 
 And  o'er  the  spangled  uplands  tread ; 
 
 Now  through  the  custom'd  wood-walk  wend ; 
 By  many  a  green  lane  lies  my  way, 
 
 Where  high  o'er  head  the  wild  briars  bend. 
 Till  on  the  mountain's  summit  grey, 
 I  sit  me  down,  and  mark  the  glorious  dawn  of  day. 
 
 Oh,  Heav'n  !  the  soft  refreshing  gale 
 
 It  breathes  into  my  breast ! 
 My  sunk  eye  gleams ;  my  cheek,  so  pale. 
 
 Is  with  new  colours  drest. 
 c  3 
 
22 
 
 Blithe  Health  !  thou  soul  of  life  and  eatvc  ! 
 Come  thou  too,  on  the  balmy  breeze. 
 
 Invigorate  my  frame : 
 I'll  join  with  thee  the  buskin'd  chace. 
 With  thee  the  distant  clime  will  trace^ 
 
 Beyond  those  clouds  of  flame. 
 
 Above,  below,  what  charms  unfold 
 
 In  all  the  varied  view  ! 
 Before  me  all  is  bm-nishM  gold. 
 
 Behind  the  twilight's  hue. 
 The  mists  which  on  old  Night  await, 
 Fai*  to  the  west  they  hold  their  state. 
 
 They  shun  the  clear  blue  face  of  Morn ; 
 
 Along  the  fine  cerulean  sky. 
 
 The  fleecy  clouds  successive  fly. 
 While  bright  prismatic  beams  their  shadowy  folds  adorn. 
 
 And  hark  !  the  Thatcher  has  beguK 
 
 His  whistle  on  the  eaves, 
 And  oft  the  Hedger's  bill  is  heard 
 
 Among  the  rustling  leaves. 
 The  slow  team  creaks  upon  the  road. 
 
 The  noisy  whip  resounds. 
 The  driver's  voice,  his  carol  blithe. 
 The  mower's  stroke,  his  whetting  scythe. 
 
 Mix  with  the  morning's  sounds. 
 
 Who  would  not  rather  take  his  seat 
 Beneath  these  clumps  of  trees, 
 
 The  early  dawn  of  day  to  greet. 
 And  catch  the  healthv  breeze. 
 
23 
 
 Than  on  the  silken  couch  of  Sloth 
 
 Luxurious  to  lie  ? 
 Who  would  not  from  life's  dreary  waste 
 Snatch,  when  he  could,  with  eager  haste, 
 
 An  interval  of  joy  ? 
 
 To  him  who  simply  thus  recounts 
 
 The  morning's  pleasures  o'er. 
 Fate  dooms,  ere  long,  the  scene  must  close 
 
 To  ope  on  him  no  more. 
 Yet,  Morning  !  unrepining  still 
 
 He'll  greet  thy  beams  awhile ; 
 And  surely  thou,  when  o'er  his  grave 
 Solemn  the  whisp'ring  willows  wave, 
 
 Wilt  sweetly  on  him  smile.; 
 And  the  pale  glow-worm's  pensive  light 
 Will  guide  his  ghostly  walks  in  the  drear  moonless  night 
 
 An  author  is  proof  against  revievi^ing,  when,  like  myself, 
 he  has  been  reviewed  above  seventy  times;  but  the  opinion 
 of  a  reviewer,  upon  his  first  publication,  has  more  effect, 
 both  upon  his  feelings  and  his  success,  than  it  ought  to 
 have,  or  would  have,  if  the  mystery  of  the  ungentle  craft 
 were  more  generally  understood.  Henry  wrote  to  the 
 editor,  to  complain  of  the  cruelty  with  which  he  had  been 
 treated.  This  remonstrance  produced  the  following  an- 
 swer in  the  next  month  : 
 
 Montlily  Review^  Marcfi,  1 804. 
 
 ADDRESS    TO    CORRESPONDENTS. 
 
 In  the  course  of  our  long  critical  labours  we  have  necessarily  been 
 forced  to  encounter  the  resentment,  or  withstand  the  lamentations,  of 
 
 c  4 
 
24 
 
 many  disappointed  authors ;  but  we  have  seldom,  if  ever,  been  more 
 affected  than  by  a  letter  from  Mr.  White,  of  Nottingham,  complaining 
 of  the  tendency  of  our  strictures  on  his  poem  of  Clifton  Grove,  in  our 
 last  number.     His  ejcpostulations  are  written  with  a  warmth  of  feeling 
 in  which  we  truly  sympathize,  and  which  shall  readily  excuse,  with  us, 
 some  expressions  of  irritation ;  but  Mr.  White  must  receive  our  most 
 serious  declaration,  that  we  did  "  judge  of  the  book  by  the  book  itself;" 
 excepting  only,  that,  from  his  former  letter,  we  were  desirous  of  miti- 
 gating the  pain  of  that  decision  which  our  public  duty  required  us 
 to  pronounce.     We  spoke  with  the  utmost  sincerity  when  we  stated 
 our  wishes  for  patronage  to  an  unfriended  man  of  talents,  for  talents 
 Mr.  White  certainly  possesses,  and  we  repeat  those  wishes  with  equal 
 cordiality.     Let  him  still  trust  that,  like  Mr,  Giffard,  (see  preface  to  his 
 translation  of  Juvenal),  some  Mr.  Cookesley  may  yet  appear  to  foster  a 
 capacity  which  endeavours  to  escape  from  its  present  confined  sphere  of 
 action;    and  let  the  opulent  inhabitants  of  Nottingham  reflect,    that 
 some  portion  of  that  wealth  which  they  have  worthily  acquired  by  the 
 habits  of  industry,  will  be  laudably  applied  in  assisting  the  efforts  of 
 mind." 
 
 Henry  was  not  aware  that  reviewers  are  infallible. 
 His  letter  seems  to  have  been  answered  by  a  different 
 writer ;  the  answer  has  none  of  the  common-place  and 
 vulgar  insolence  of  the  criticism ;  but  to  have  made  any 
 concession  would  have  been  admitting  that  a  review  can 
 do  wrong,  and  thus  violating  the  fundamental  principle 
 of  its  constitution. 
 
 The  poems  which  had  been  thus  condemned,  appeared 
 to  me  to  discover  strong  marks  of  genius.  I  had  shown 
 ithem  to  two  of  my  friends,  than  whom  no  persons  living 
 
 19 
 
25 
 
 better  understand  what  poetry  is,  nor  have  given  better 
 proofs  of  it,  and  their  opinion  coincided  with  my  own. 
 I  was  fully  convinced  of  the  injustice  of  this  criticism,  and 
 having  accidentally  seen  the  letter  which  he  had  written 
 to  the  reviewers,  understood  the  whole  cruelty  of  their 
 injustice.  In  consequence  of  this  I  wrote  to  Henry,  to 
 encourage  him :  told  him,  that  though  I  was  w^ell  aware 
 how  imprudent  it  was  in  young  poets  to  pubhsh  their 
 productions,  his  circumstances  seemed  to  render  that 
 expedient,  from  which  it  would  otherwise  be  right  to 
 dissuade  him  :  advised  him  therefore,  if  he  had  no  better 
 prospects,  to  print  a  larger  volume  by  subscription,  and 
 offered  to  do  what  little  was  in  my  power  to  serve  him 
 in  the  business.  To  this  he  replied  in  the  following 
 letter. 
 
 «  I  dare  not  say  all  I  feel  respecting  your  opinion  of  my  little  vo- 
 lume. The  extreme  acrimony  with  which  the  Monthly  Review  (of  all 
 others  the  most  important)  treated  me,  threw  me  into  a  state  of  stupe- 
 faction; I  regarded  all  that  had  passed  as  a  dream,  and  I  thought  I  had 
 been  deluding  myself  into  an  idea  of  possessing  poetic  genius,  when  in 
 fact  I  had  only  the  longing,  without  the  afflatus.  I  mustered  reso- 
 lution enough,  however,  to  write  spiritedly  to  them  :  their  answer  in 
 the  ensuing  number  was  a  tacit  acknowledgment  that  they  had  been 
 somewhat  too  unsparing  in  their  correction.  It  was  a  poor  attempt 
 to  salve  over  a  wound  wantonly  and  most  ungenerously  inflicted. 
 Still  I  was  damped,  because  I  knew  the  work  was  very  respect- 
 able, and  therefore  could  not,  I  concluded,  give  a  criticism  grossly 
 deficient  in  equity  —  the  more  especially,  as  I  knew  of  no  sort  of 
 inducement  to  extraordinary  severity.     Your  letter,  however,  has  re- 
 
26 
 
 vived  me,  and  I  do  again  venture  to  hope  that  I  )iiay  still   produce 
 something  which  will  survive  me. 
 
 "  With  regard  to  your  advice  and  offers  of  assistance,  I  will  not 
 attempt,  because  I  am  unable,  to  thank  you  for  them.  To-morrow 
 morning  I  depart  for  Cambridge,  and  I  have  considerable  iiopcs  that, 
 as  I  do  not  enter  into  the  university  with  any  sinister  or  interested 
 views,  but  sincerely  desire  to  perform  the  duties  of  an  affectionate  and 
 vigilant  pastor,  and  become  more  useful  to  mankind,  I  therefore  have 
 hopes,  I  say,  that  I  shall  find  means  of  support  in  the  university. 
 If  I  do  not,  I  shall  certainly  act  in  pursuance  of  your  recommend- 
 ations; and  shall,  without  hesitation,  avail  myself  of  your  offers  of 
 service,  and  of  your  directions. 
 
 "  In  a  short  time  this  will  be  determined;  and  when  it  is,  I  shall 
 take  the  liberty  of  writing  to  you  at  Keswick,  to  make  you  ac(juainted 
 with  the  result. 
 
 "•  I  have  only  one  objection  to  publishing  by  subscription,  and  1 
 confess  it  has  weight  with  me.  —  It  is,  that,  in  this  step,  I  shall  seem  to 
 be  acting  upon  the  advice  so  unfeelingly  and  contumeliously  given  by 
 the  Monthly  Reviewers,  who  say  what  is  equal  to  this  —  that  had  I 
 gotten  a  subscription  for  my  poems  before  their  merit  was  known, 
 I  might  have  succeeded  ;  provided,  it  seems,  I  had  made  a  particzdar 
 statevient  of  my  case ;  like  a  beggar  who  stands  with  his  hat  in  one 
 hand,  and  a  full  account  of  his  cruel  treatment  on  the  coast  of  Barbary 
 in  the  other,  and  so  gives  you  his  penny  sheet  for  your  sixpence,  by 
 way  of  half-purchase,  half-charity. 
 
 "  1  have  materials  for  another  volume,  but  they  were  written  prin- 
 cipally while  Clifton  Grove  was  in  the  press,  or  soon  after,  and  do  not 
 now  at  all  satisfy  me.  Indeed,  of  late,  I  have  been  obliged  to  desist, 
 almost  entirely,  from  converse  with  the  dames  of  Helicon.  The 
 drudgery  of  an  attorney's  office,  and  the  necessity  of  preparing  myself, 
 
27 
 
 in  case  I  should  succeed  in  getting  to  college,  in  what  little  leisure  I 
 could  boast,  left  no  room  for  the  flights  of  the  imagination." 
 
 In  another  letter  he  speaks,  in  still  stronger  terms,  of 
 what  he  had  suffered  from  the  unfeelmg  and  iniquitous 
 criticism : 
 
 «  The  unfavourable  review  (in  the  "  Monthly")  of  my  unhappy 
 work,  has  cut  deeper  than  you  could  have  thought  ;  not  in  a  lite- 
 rary point  of  view,  but  as  it  affects  ray  respectability.  It  repre- 
 sents me  actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering  money  to  put 
 myself  at  college,  when  my  work  is  worthless ;  and  this  with  every 
 appearance  of  candour.  They  have  been  sadly  misinformed  re- 
 specting me :  this  review  goes  before  me  wherever  I  turn  my  steps : 
 it  haunts  me  incessantly ;  and  I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in 
 the  hands  of  Satan  to  drive  me  to  distraction.  I  must  leave  Not- 
 tingham." 
 
 It  is  not  unworthy  of  remark,  that  this  very  reviewal, 
 which  was  designed  to  crush  the  hopes  of  Henry,  and 
 suppress  his  struggling  genius,  has  been,  in  its  conse- 
 quences, the  main  occasion  of  bringing  his  Remains  to. 
 light,  and  obtaining  for  him  that  fame  which  assuredly 
 will  be  his  portion.  Had  it  not  been  for  the  indignation 
 which  I  felt  at  perusing  a  criticism  at  once  so  cruel  and  so 
 stupid,  the  little  intercourse  between  Henry  and  myself 
 would  not  have  taken  place ;  his  papers  would  probably 
 have  remained  in  obUvion,  and  his  name  in  a  few  years 
 have  been  forgotten. 
 
 I  have   stated   that   his    opinions    were,    at   one   time, 
 inchning  towards  deism:    it  needs  not  be  said  on  what 
 
28 
 
 sli<i-ht  grounds  the  opinions  of  a  youth  must  needs  be 
 founded:  while  they  are  confined  to  matters  of  specu- 
 lation, they  indicate,  whatever  their  eccentricities,  only  an 
 active  mind :  and  it  is  only  when  a  propensity  is  mani- 
 fested to  such  principles  as  give  a  sanction  to  immorality, 
 that  they  show  something  wrong  at  heart.  One  little 
 poem  of  Henry's  remains,  which  was  written  in  this 
 unsettled  state  of  mind.  It  exhibits  much  of  his  character, 
 and  can  excite  no  feelings  towards  him,  but  such  as  are 
 favourable. 
 
 'my  own  character. 
 
 Addressed  (during  Illness)  to  a  Lady. 
 
 Dear  Fanny,  I  mean,  now  Pm  laid  on  the  shelf, 
 
 To  give  you  a  sketch  —  ay,  a  sketch  of  myself. 
 
 'Tis  a  pitiful  subject,  I  frankly  confess, 
 
 And  one  it  would  puzzle  a  painter  to  dress ; 
 
 But  however,  here  goes,  and,  as  sure  as  a  gun, 
 
 I'll  tell  all  my  faults  like  a  penitent  nun ; 
 
 For  I  know,  for  my  Fanny,  before  I  address  her, 
 
 She  won't  be  a  cynical  father  confessor. 
 
 Come,  come,  'twill  not  do  !  put  that  purling  brow  down  ; 
 
 You  can't,  for  the  soul  of  you,  learn  how  to  frown. 
 
 Well,  first  I  premise,  it's  my  honest  conviction, 
 
 That  my  breast  is  a  chaos  of  all  contradiction ; 
 
 Religious  —  Deistic  —  now  loyal  and  warm ; 
 
 Then  a  dagger-drawn  democrat  hot  for  reform : 
 
 This  moment  a  fop,  tJiat,  sententious  as  Titus ; 
 
 Democritus  now,  and  anon  Heraclitus ; 
 
 Now  laughing  and  pleas' d,  like  a  child  with  a  rattle ; 
 
 Then  vex'd  to  the  soul  with  impertinent  tattle; 
 
29 
 
 Now  moody  and  sad,  now  unthinking  and  gay, 
 To  all  points  of  the  compass  I  veer  in  a  day. 
 
 I'm  proud  and  disdainful  to  Fortune's  gay  child. 
 But  to  Poverty's  offspring  submissive  and  mild : 
 As  rude  as  a  boor,  and  as  rough  in  dispute ; 
 Then  as  for  politeness  —  oh  !  dear  —  I'm  a  brute  I 
 I  show  no  respect  where  I  never  can  feel  it ; 
 And  as  for  contempt,  take  no  pains  to  conceal  it ; 
 And  so  in  the  suite,  by  these  laudable  ends, 
 I've  a  great  many  foes,  and  a  very  few  friends. 
 
 And  yet,  my  dear  Fanny,  there  are  who  can  feel 
 That  this  proud  heart  of  mine  is  not  fashion'd  like  steeT. 
 It  can  love  (can  it  not  ?)  —  it  can  hate,  I  am  sure ; 
 And  it's  friendly  enough,  though  in  friends  it  be  poor. 
 For  itself  though  it  bleed  not,  for  others  it  bleeds ; 
 If  it  have  not  n;9e  virtues,  I'm  sure  it's  the  seeds: 
 And  though  far  from  faultless,  or  even  so-so, 
 I  think  it  may  pass  as  our  worldly  things  go. 
 
 Well,  I've  told  you  my  frailties  without  any  gloss ; 
 
 Then  as  to  my  virtues,  I'm  quite  at  a  loss  ! 
 
 I  think  I'm  devout,  and  yet  I  can't  say. 
 
 But  in  process  of  tune  I  may  get  the  wrong  way. 
 
 I'm  a  general  lover,  if  that's  commendation. 
 
 And  yet  can't  withstand,  you  knoio  whose  fascination. 
 
 But  I  find  that  amidst  all  my  tricks  and  devices. 
 
 In  fishing  for  virtues,  I'm  pulling  up  vices ; 
 
 So  as  for  the  good,  why,  if  I  possess  it, 
 
 I  am  not  yet  learned  enough  to  express  it. 
 
 You  yourself  must  examine  the  lovelier  side. 
 And  after  your  every  art  you  have  tried. 
 Whatever  my  faults,  I  may  venture  to  say, 
 Hypocrisy  never  will  come  in  your  way. 
 
30 
 
 1  am  upright,  I  hope ;  I  am  downright,  I'm  clear  I 
 And  I  think  my  worst  foe  must  allow  Pm  sincere ; 
 And  if  ever  sincerity  glow'd  in  my  breast, 
 'Tis  now  when  I  swear ** 
 
 About  this  time  Mr.  Pigott,  the  curate  of  St.  Mary's, 
 Nottingham,  hearing  what  was  the  bent  of  his  reUgious 
 opinions,  sent  him,  by  a  friend,  Scott's  Force  of  Truth, 
 and  requested  him  to  peruse  it  attentively,  which  he 
 promised  to  do.  Having  looked  at  the  book,  he  told  the 
 person  who  brought  it  to  him,  that  he  could  soon  write  an 
 answer  to  it ;  but  about  a  fortnight  afterwards,  when  this 
 friend  enquired  how  far  he  had  proceeded  in  his  answer  to 
 Mr.  Scott,  Henry's  reply  was  in  a  very  different  tone  and 
 temper.  He  said,  that  to  answer  that  book  was  out  of  his 
 power,  and  out  of  any  man's,  for  it  was  founded  upon 
 eternal  truth ;  that  it  had  convinced  him  of  his  error ;  and 
 that  so  thoroughly  was  he  impressed  with  a  sense  of  the 
 importance  of  his  Maker's  favour,  that  he  would  willingly 
 give  up  all  acquisitions  of  knowledge,  and  all  hopes  of 
 fame,  and  live  in  a  wilderness  unknown,  till  death,  so  he 
 could  insure  an  inheritance  in  heaven. 
 
 A  new  pursuit  was  thus  opened  to  him,  and  he  en- 
 gaged in  it  with  his  wonted  ardour.  "  It  was  a  constant 
 feature  in  his  mind,"  says  Mr.  Pigott,  "  to  persevere  in 
 the  pursuit  of  what  he  deemed  noble  and  important. 
 Religion,  in  which  he  now  appeared  to  himself  not  yet  to 
 have  taken  a  step,  engaged  all  his  anxiety,  as  of  all  con- 
 cerns the  most  important.  He  could  not  rest  satisfied 
 till  he  had  formed  his  principles  upon  the  basis  of  Chris- 
 
31 
 
 tianity,  and  till  he  had  begun  in  earnest  to  think  and  act 
 agreeably  to  its  pure  and  heavenly  precepts.  His  mind 
 loved  to  make  distant  excursions  into  the  future  and 
 remote  consequences  of  things.  He  no  longer  limited  his 
 views  to  the  narrow  confines  of  earthly  existence ;  he  was 
 not  happy  till  he  had  learnt  to  rest  and  expatiate  in  a 
 world  to  come.  What  he  said  to  me  when  we  became 
 intimate  is  worthy  of  observation:  that,  he  said,  which 
 first  made  him  dissatisfied  with  the  creed  he  had  adopted, 
 and  the  standard  of  practice  which  he  had  set  up  for  him- 
 self, was  the  imrity  of  mind  which  he  perceived  was  every 
 where  inculcated  in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  and  required  of 
 every  one  who  would  become  a  successful  candidate  for 
 future  blessedness.  He  had  supposed  that  morality  of 
 conduct  was  all  the  purity  required  ;  but  when  he  ob- 
 served that  purity  of  the  very  thoughts  and  intentions  of 
 the  soul  also  was  requisite,  he  was  convinced  of  his  de- 
 ficiencies, and  could  find  no  comfort  to  his  penitence  but 
 in  the  atonement  made  for  human  frailty  by  the  Redeemer 
 of  mankind ;  and  no  strength  adequate  to  his  weakness, 
 and  sufficient  for  resisting  evil,  but  the  aid  of  God's  spirit, 
 promised  to  those  who  seek  them  from  above  in  the 
 sincerity  of  earnest  prayer." 
 
 From  the  moment  when  he  had  fiilly  contracted  these 
 opinions,  he  was  resolved  upon  devoting  his  life  to  the 
 promulgation  of  them;  and  therefore  to  leave  the  lawy 
 and,  if  possible,  place  himself  at  one  of  the  universities. 
 Every  argument  was  used  by  his  friends  to  dissuade  him 
 
^'2 
 
 from  his  purpose,  but  to  no  effect ;  his  mind  was  unalter- 
 ably fixed,  and  great  and  numerous  as  the  obstacles 
 were,  he  was  determined  to  surmount  them  all.  He  had 
 now  served  the  better  half  of  the  term  for  which  he  was 
 articled:  his  entrance  and  continuance  in  the  profession 
 had  been  a  great  expense  to  his  family ;  and  to  give  np 
 this  lucrative  profession,  in  the  study  of  which  he  had 
 advanced  so  far,  and  situated  as  he  was,  for  one  wherein 
 there  was  so  little  prospect  of  his  obtaining  even  a  decent 
 competency,  appeared  to  them  the  height  of  folly  or  of 
 madness.  This  determination  cost  his  poor  mother  many 
 tears ;  but  determined  he  was,  and  that  by  the  best  and 
 purest  motives.  WitJiout  ambition  he  could  not  have 
 existed ;  but  his  ambition  now  was  to  be  eminently  useful 
 in  the  ministry. 
 
 It  was  Henry's  fortune  through  his  short  life,  as  he 
 was  worthy  of  the  kindest  treatment,  always  to  find  it. 
 His  employers,  Mr.  Coldham  and  Mr.  Enfield,  listened 
 with  a  friendly  ear  to  his  plans,  and  agreed  to  give  up 
 the  remainder  of  his  time,  though  it  was  now  become 
 very  valuable  to  them,  as  soon  as  they  should  think  his 
 prospects  of  getting  through  the  miiversity  were  such  as 
 he  might  reasonably  trust  to  ;  but,  till  then,  they  felt 
 themselves  bound,  for  his  own  sake,  to  detain  him.  Mr. 
 Pigott,  and  Mr.  Dashwood,  another  clergyman,  who  at 
 that  time  resided  in  Nottingham,  exerted  themselves  in 
 his  favour:  he  had  a  fi-iend  at  Queen's  College,  Cam- 
 bridge, who  mentioned  him  to  one  of  the  fellows  of  St. 
 
H 
 
 X 
 
 ^ 
 
 ^ 
 \ 
 
 '^ 
 
33 
 
 John's,  and  tliat  gentleman,  on  the  representations  made  to 
 him  of  Henry's  talents  and  piety,  spared  no  effort  to  obtain 
 for  him  an  adequate  support. 
 
 As  soon  as  these  hopes  were  laid  out  to  him,  his  em- 
 ployers gave  him  a  month's  leave  of  absence,  for  the 
 benefit  of  uninterrupted  study,  and  of  change  of  air, 
 which  his  health  now  began  to  require.  Instead  of  going 
 to  the  sea-coast,  as  was  expected,  he  chose  for  his  re- 
 treat the  village  of  Wilford,  which  is  situated  on  the 
 banks  of  the  Trent,  and  at  the  foot  of  Clifton  Woods. 
 These  woods  had  ever  been  his  favourite  place  of  resort, 
 and  were  the  subject  of  the  longest  poem  in  his  little 
 A^olume,  from  which,  indeed,  the  volume  was  named.  He 
 delighted  to  point  out  to  his  more  intimate  friends  the 
 scenery  of  this  poem ;  the  islet  to  which  he  had  often 
 forded  when  the  river  was  not  knee-deep ;  and  the  little 
 hut  wherein  he  had  sate  for  hours,  and  sometimes  all  day 
 long,  reading  or  writing,  or  dreaming  with  his  eyes  open. 
 He  had  sometimes  wandered  in  these  woods  till  night 
 far  advanced,  and  used  to  speak  with  pleasure  of  having 
 once  been  overtaken  there  by  a  thunder  storm  at  mid- 
 night, and  watching  the  lightning  over  the  river  and  the 
 vale  towards  the  town. 
 
 In  this  village  his  mother  procured  lodgings  for  him, 
 and  his  place  of  retreat  was  kept  secret,  except  from  his 
 nearest  friends.  Soon  after  the  exph'ation  of  the  month, 
 intelligence  arrived  that  the  plans  which  had  been  formed 
 
 VOL.  I.  D 
 
34 
 
 in  his  behalf  had  entirely  failed.  He  went  immediately 
 to  his  mother :  "  All  my  hopes,"  said  he,  "  of  getting  to 
 the  university  are  now  blasted ;  in  preparing  myself  for 
 it,  I  have  lost  time  in  my  profession;  I  have  much 
 ground  to  get  up,  and  as  1  am  determined  not  to  be  a 
 mediocre  attorney,  I  must  endeavour  to  recover  what  1 
 have  lost."  The  consequence  was,  that  he  applied 
 himself  more  severely  than  ever  to  his  studies.  He  now 
 allowed  himself  no  time  for  relaxation,  little  for  his  meals, 
 and  scarcely  any  for  sleep.  He  would  read  till  one,  two, 
 three  o'clock  in  the  morning ;  then  throw  himself  on  the 
 bed,  and  rise  again  to  his  work  at  five,  at  the  call  of  a 
 larum^  which  he  had  fixed  to  a  Dutch  clock  in  his  cham- 
 ber. Many  nights  he  never  lay  down  at  all.  It  was  in 
 vain  that  his  mother  used  every  possible  means  to  dissuade 
 him  from  this  destructive  application.  In  this  respect, 
 and  in  this  only  one,  was  Henry  undutiful,  and  neither 
 commands,  nor  tears,  nor  entreaties,  could  check  his  des- 
 perate and  deadly  ardour.  At  one  time  she  went  every 
 night  into  his  room,  to  put  out  his  candle :  as  soon  as  he 
 heard  her  coming  up  stairs,  he  used  to  hide  it  in  a 
 cupboard,  throw  himself  into  bed,  and  affect  sleep  while  she 
 was  in  the  room ;  then,  when  all  was  quiet,  rise  again,  and 
 pursue  his  baneful  studies. 
 
 "  The  night,"  says  Henry,  in  one  of  his  letters,  "  has 
 been  every  thing  to  me ;  and  did  the  world  know  how  I 
 have  been  :ndebted  to  the  hours  of  repose,  they  would 
 not  wonder  that  night  images  are,  as  they  judge,  so  ridi- 
 
o 
 
 5 
 
 culoHsly  predominant  in  my  verses."  During  some  of  these 
 midnight  hours  he  indulged  himself  in  complaining,  but  in 
 such  complaints  that  it  is  to  be  wished  more  of  them  had 
 been  found  among  his  papers. 
 
 ODE       , 
 
 ON  DISAPPOINTMENT. 
 
 Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 
 
 Not  in  thy  terrors  clad ; 
 Come  in  thy  meekest,  saddest  guise ; 
 Thy  chastening  rod  but  terrifies 
 The  restless  and  the  bad. 
 But  I  recline 
 Beneath  thy  shrine, 
 And  round  my  brow  resign'd,  thy  peaceful  cypress  twine. 
 
 Though  Fancy  flies  awa}^ 
 
 Before  thy  hollow  tread, 
 Yet  meditation,  in  her  cell. 
 Hears  with  faint  eye,  the  lingering  knell, 
 That  tells  her  hopes  are  dead ; 
 And  though  the  tear 
 By  chance  appear, 
 Yet  she  can  smile,  and  say.  My  all  was  not  laid  here, 
 
 D  2 
 
36 
 
 5, 
 
 Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 
 
 Though  from  Hope's  summit  hurrd. 
 Still,  rigid  Nurse,  thou  art  forgiven. 
 For  thou  severe  wert  sent  from  heaven 
 To  wean  me  from  the  world  : 
 To  turn  my  eye 
 From  vanity, 
 And  point  to  scenes  of  bliss  that  never,  never  die. 
 
 4. 
 
 What  is  this  passing  scene  ? 
 
 A  peevish  April  day  ! 
 A  little  sun  —  a  little  rain. 
 And  then  night  sweeps  along  the  plain, 
 And  all  things  fade  away. 
 Man  (soon  discuss' d) 
 Yields  up  his  trust, 
 And  all  his  hopes  and  fears  lie  with  him  in  the  dust. 
 
 Oh,  what  is  beauty's  power  ? 
 
 It  flourishes  and  dies ; 
 Will  the  cold  earth  its  silence  break. 
 To  tell  how  soft  how  smooth  a  cheek 
 Beneath  its  surface  lies  ? 
 Mute,  mute  is  all 
 O'er  beauty*s  fall ; 
 Her  praise  resounds  no  more  when  mantled  in  her  pall. 
 
31 
 
 6. 
 
 The  most  belov'd  on  earth 
 
 Not  long  survives  to-day ; 
 So  music  past  is  obsolete, 
 And  yet  'twas  sweet,  'twas  passing  sweet. 
 But  now  'tis  gone  away. 
 Thus  does  the  shade 
 In  memory  fade, 
 When  in  forsaken  tomb  the  form  belovM  is  laid. 
 
 Then  sii>ce  this  world  is  vain, 
 
 And  volatile  and  fleet. 
 Why  should  I  lay  up  earthly  joys, 
 Where  rust  corrupts,  and  moth  destroys, 
 And  cares  and  sorrows  eat  ? 
 Why  fly  from  ill 
 With  anxious  skill, 
 When  soon  this  hand  will  freeze,  this  tJirobbing  heart  be  still  ? 
 
 8. 
 
 Come,  Disappointment,  come ! 
 
 Thou  art  not  stern  to  me ; 
 Sad  Monitress  !  I  own  thy  sway, 
 A  votary  sad  in  early  day, 
 I  bend  my  knee  to  thee. 
 From  sun  to  sun 
 My  race  will  run, 
 I  only  bow,  and  say.  My  God,  thy  will  be  done  J 
 
 D  3 
 
38 
 
 On  another  paper  are  a  few  lines,  written  probably  in 
 the  freshness  of  his  disappointment. 
 
 I  DREAM  no  more  —  the  vision  flies  away. 
 
 And  Disappointment  *  *  ♦  ♦ 
 
 There  fell  my  hopes  —  I  lost  my  all  in  this. 
 
 My  cherish'd  all  of  visionary  bliss. 
 
 Now  hope  farewell,  farewell  all  joys  below ; 
 
 Now  welcome  sorrow,  and  now  welcome  woe. 
 
 Plunge  rae  in  glooms  *  *  *  * 
 
 His  health  soon  sunk  under  these  habits ;  he  became 
 pale  and  thin,  and  at  length  had  a  sharp  fit  of  sickness. 
 On  his  recovery  he  wrote  the  following  lines  in  the  church- 
 yard of  his  favourite  village. 
 
 LINES 
 
 On  Recovery  from  Sickness, 
 
 Here  would  I  wish  to  sleep.  —  This  is  the  spot 
 Which  I  have  long  mark'd  out  to  lay  my  bones  in ; 
 Tir'd  out  and  wearied  with  the  riotous  world. 
 Beneath  this  Yew  I  would  be  sepulchred. 
 It  is  a  lovely  spot !     The  sultry  sun. 
 From  his  meridian  height,  endeavours  vainly 
 To  pierce  the  shadowy  foliage,  while  the  zephjT 
 Comes  wafting  gently  o'er  the  ripling  Trent, 
 And  plays  about  my  wan  cheek.    'Tis  a  nook 
 Most  pleasant.     Such  a  one  perchance  did  Gray 
 Frequent,  as  with  a  vagrant  muse  he  wanton'd. 
 
39 
 
 Come,  I  will  sit  me  down  and  meditate, 
 
 For  I  am  wearied  with  my  summer's  walk  ; 
 
 And  here  I  may  repose  in  siient  ease  ; 
 
 And  thus,  perchance,  when  life's  sad  journey's  o'er. 
 
 My  harass'd  soul,  in  this  same  spot,  may  find 
 
 The  haven  of  its  rest  — beneath  this  sod 
 
 Perchance  may  sleep  it  sweetly,  sound  as  deatli. 
 
 I  would  not  have  my  corpse  cemented  down 
 
 With  brick  and  stone,  defrauding  the  poor  earth-worm 
 
 Of  its  predestin'd  dues ;  no,  I  would  lie 
 
 Beneath  a  little  hillock,  grass-o'ergrown, 
 
 Swath'd  down  with  oziers,  just  as  sleep  the  cotters. 
 
 Yet  may  not  undAstm^ukJi  d  be  my  grave  ; 
 
 But  there  at  eve  may  some  congenial  soul 
 
 Duly  resort,  and  shed  a  pious  tear, 
 
 The  good  man's  benison  —  no  more  I  ask. 
 
 And,  oh  J  (if  heavenly  beings  may  look  down 
 
 From  where,  with  cherubim,  inspired  they  sit. 
 
 Upon  this  little  dim-discover'd  spot, 
 
 The  earth,)  then  will  I  cast  a  glance  below 
 
 On  him  who  thus  my  ashes  shall  embalm ; 
 
 And  I  will  weep  too,  and  will  bless  the  wanderer. 
 
 Wishing  he  may  not  long  be  doom'd  to  pine 
 
 In  this  low-thoughted  worid  of  darkling  woe, 
 
 But  that,  ere  long,  he  reach  his  kindred  skies. 
 
 Yet  'twas  a  silly  thought,  as  if  the  body, 
 Mouldering  beneath  the  surface  of  the  earth. 
 Could  taste  the  sweets  of  summer  scenery, 
 And  feel  the  freshness  of  the  balmy  breeze  ! 
 Yet  nature  speaks  within  the  human  bosom. 
 And,  spite  of  reason,  bids  it  look  beyond 
 His  narrow  verge  of  being,  and  provide 
 A  decent  residence  for  its  clayey  shell, 
 D    1 
 
40 
 
 Endear'd  to  it  by  time.     And  who  would  lay 
 
 His  body  in  the  city  burial-place, 
 
 To  be  thrown  up  again  by  some  rude  Sexton, 
 
 And  yield  its  narrow  house  another  tenant. 
 
 Ere  the  moist  flesh  had  mingled  with  the  dust, 
 
 Ere  the  tenacious  hair  had  left  the  scalp, 
 
 Expos'd  to  insult  lewd,  and  wantonness  ? 
 
 No,  I  will  lay  me  in  the  village  ground ; 
 
 There  are  the  dead  respected.     The  poor  hind. 
 
 Unlettered  as  he  is,  n\  ould  scorn  to  invade 
 
 The  silent  resting-place  of  death.     I've  seen 
 
 The  labourer,  returning  from  his  toil, 
 
 Here  stay  his  steps,  and  call  his  children  round. 
 
 And  slowly  spell  the  rudely  sculptur'd  rhymes. 
 
 And,  in  his  rustic  manner,  raoxahze. 
 
 I've  mark'd  with  what  a  silent  awe  he'd  spoken. 
 
 With  head  uncover' d,  his  respectful  manner. 
 
 And  all  the  honours  which  he  paid  the  grave, 
 
 And  thought  on  cities,  where  ev'n  cemeteries, 
 
 Bestrew'd  with  all  the  emblems  of  mortality. 
 
 Are  not  protected  from  the  drunken  insolence 
 
 Of  wassailers  profane,  and  wanton  havoc. 
 
 Grant,  Heav'n,  that  here  my  pilgrimage  may  close  1 
 
 Yet,  if  this  be  deny'd,  where'er  my  bones 
 
 May  lie  —  or  in  the  city's  crowded  bounds. 
 
 Or  scatter'd  wide  o'er  the  huge  sweep  of  waters,. 
 
 Or  left  a  prey  on  some  deserted  shore 
 
 To  the  rapacious  cormorant,  —  yet  still, 
 
 (For  why  should  sober  reason  cast  away 
 
 A  thought  which  soothes  the  soul  ?)  —  yet  still  my  spirit 
 
 Shall  ^ving  its  way  to  these  my  native  regions, 
 
 And  hover  o'er  this  spot.     Oh,  then  I'll  think 
 
 Of  times  when  I  was  seated  'neath  this  yew 
 
 In  solemn  rumination ;   and  will  smile 
 
 With  joy  that  I  have  got  my  long'd  release. 
 
41 
 
 His,  friends  are  of  opinion   that   he    never    thoroughly 
 recovered   from    the    shock   which     his    constitution    had 
 sustained.     Many  of  his  poems  indicate  that  he  thought 
 himself    in  danger  of  consumption ;    he  was    not   aware 
 that  he  was    generating  or  fostering    in  himself   another 
 disease  little  less  dreadful,  and  which  threatens   intellect 
 as  well  as  life.     At  this  time  youth  was  in  his  favour,  and 
 his    hopes,  which  were    now   again   renewed,    produced 
 perhaps  a  better  effect    than    medicine.     Mr.  Dashwood 
 obtained    for   him    an   introduction   to    Mr.    Simeon,   of 
 King's    College,  and  with  this  he  was  induced  to  go  to 
 Cambridge.      Mr.   Simeon,    from    the     recommendation 
 which  he  received,    and  from  the   conversation    he    liad 
 with  him,    promised  to    procure   for   him    a  sizarship    at 
 St.  John's,    and,  with    the    additional  aid   of  a  friend,   to 
 supply    him    with    301.    annually.      His   brother  Neville 
 promised  twenty;  and  his  mother   it  was   hoped,  would 
 be  able  to  allow  fifteen  or  twenty  more.     With    this,    it 
 was  thought,  he  could  go  through  college.     If  this  pros- 
 pect had  not  been  opened  to   him,   he  would   probably 
 have   turned   his  ..thoughts     towards    the    ordiodox   dis- 
 senters. 
 
 On  his  return  to  Nottingham,  the  Rev.- Robin- 
 son, of  Leicester,  and  some  other  friends,  advised  him  to 
 apply  to  the  EUand  Society  for  assistance,  conceiving  that 
 it  would  be  less  oppressive  to  his  feelings  to  be  depend- 
 ant on  a  society,  instituted  for  the  express  purpose  of 
 training  up  such  young  men  as  himself  (that  is,  such  in 
 circumstances  and  opinions)  for  the  ministry,  than  on  the 
 
42 
 
 bounty  of  an  individual.  In  consequence  of  this  advice, 
 he  went  to  Elland  at  the  next  meeting  of  the  society,  a 
 stranger  there,  and  without  one  friend  among  the  mem- 
 bers. He  was  examined,  for  several  hours,  by  about 
 five-and-twenty  clergymen,  as  to  his  religious  views  and 
 sentiments,  his  theological  knowledge,  and  his  classical 
 attainments.  In  the  course  of  the  enquiry  it  appeared 
 that  he  had  published  a  volume  of  poems  :  their  ques- 
 tions now  began  to  be  very  unpleasantly  inquisitive 
 concerning  the  nature  of  these  poems,  and  he  was  assailed 
 by  queries  from  all  quarters.  It  was  well  for  Henry 
 that  they  did  not  think  of  referring  to  the  Monthly 
 Review  for  authority.  My  letter  to  him  happened  to  be  in 
 his  pocket ;  he  luckily  recollected  this,  and  produced  it 
 as  a  testimony  in  his  favour.  They  did  me  the  honour  to 
 say  that  it  was  quite  sufficient,  and  pursued  this  part  of 
 their  enquiry  no  farther.  Before  he  left  Elland,  he  was 
 given  to  understand,  that  they  were  well  satisfied  with 
 his  theological  knowledge;  that  they  thought  his  clas- 
 sical proficiency  prodigious  for  his  age,  and  that  they 
 had  placed  him  on  their  books.  He  retm-ned  little 
 pleased  with  his  journey.  His  friends  had  been  mis- 
 taken :  the  bounty  of  an  individual  calls  forth  a  sense  of 
 kindness  as  well  as  of  dependance ;  that  of  a  society  has 
 the  virtue  of  charity  perhaps,  but  it  wants  the  grace.  He 
 now  wrote  to  Mr.  Simeon,  stating  what  he  had  done, 
 and  that  the  beneficence  of  his  unknown  friends  was  no 
 longer  necessary:  but  that  gentleman  obhged  him  to 
 decline  the  assistance  of  the  society,  which  he  very 
 willingly  did. 
 
43 
 
 This  being  finally  arranged,  he  quitted  his  employers 
 in  October,   1804".     How  much   he   had  conducted  him-  , 
 self  to  their  satisfaction,  will  appear  by  this  testimony  of 
 Mr.  Enfield,   to   his   diligence  and   imiform  worth.     "  I 
 have  great  pleasure,"  says  this  gentleman,    "  in  paying  the 
 tribute  to  his  memory,  of  expressing  the  knowledge  which 
 was  afforded   me,    during   the   period  of  his   connection 
 with  Mr.  Coldham    and  myself,    of  his  diligent   applica- 
 tion, his  ardour  for  study,  and  his  virtuous  and  amiable 
 disposition.     He  very  soon  discovered  an  unusual  aptness 
 in    comprehending   the   routine   of    business,    and    great 
 ability  and  rapidity  in  the  execution  of  every  thing  which 
 was  entrusted  to  him.     His   diligence  and  punctual  at- 
 tention  were   unremitted,    and   his   services   became   ex- 
 tremely valuable   a  considerable  time  before  he  left  us. 
 He  seemed  to  me  to  have   no   relish   for   the   ordinary 
 pleasures  and  dissipations  of  young  men ;    his  mind  was 
 perpetually  employed,   either  in  the  business  of  his  pro- 
 fession, or  in  private  study.     With  his  fondness  for  lite- 
 rature we  were  well   acquainted,    but   had  no   reason  to 
 offer  any  check  to  it,  for  he  never  permitted  the  indul- 
 gence of   his  literary  pursuits  to  interfere  with   the  en- 
 gagements of  business.     The  difficulty  of  hearing,  under 
 which  he  laboured,  was  distressing  to  him  in  the  practice 
 of  his  profession,  and  was,  I  think,   an  inducement,  in  co- 
 operation with  his  other  inclinations,  for  his  resolving  to 
 relinquish  the  law.     I  can,  with  truth,  assert,  that  his  de- 
 termination was  matter  of  serious  regret  to   my  partner 
 and  myself." 
 
44 
 
 Mr.  Simeon  had  advised   him   to  degrade   for  a   year, 
 and  place  himself,  during  that  time,  under  some  scholar. 
 
 He  went  accordingly  to  the  Rev. Grainger,  of  Win- 
 
 teringham,  in  Lincolnshire,  and  there,  notwithstanding  all 
 the  entreaties  of  his  friends,  pursuing  the  same  unrelent- 
 ing course  of  study,  a  second  illness  was  the  consequence. 
 Wlien  he  was  recovering,  he  was  prevailed  upon  to  relax, 
 to  ride  on  horseback,  and  to  drink  wine ;  tliese  latter  re- 
 medies he  could  not  long  afford,  and  he  would  not  allow 
 himself  time  for  relaxation  when  he  did  not  feel  its  im- 
 mediate necessity.  He  frequently,  at  this  time,  studied 
 fourteen  hours  a-day:  the  progress  which  he  made  in 
 twelvemonths  was  indeed  astonishing:  when  he  went  to 
 Cambridge,  he  was  immediately  as  much  distinguished 
 for  his  classical  knowledge  as  his  genius :  but  the  seeds  of 
 death  were  in  him,  and  the  place  to  which  he  had  so  long 
 looked  on  with  hope,  served  unhappily  as  a  hot-house  to 
 ripen  them.  * 
 
 *  During  his  residence  in  my  family,  says  Mr.  Grainger,  his  conduct 
 was  highly  becoming  and  suitable  to  a  Christian  profession.  He  was 
 mild  and  inoffensive,  modest,  unassuming,  and  affectionate.  He  at- 
 tended with  great  cheerfulness,  a  Sunday  school  which  I  was  endea- 
 vouring to  establish  in  the  village,  and  was  at  considerable  pains  in  the 
 instruction  of  the  children ;  and  I  have  repeatedly  observed,  that  he 
 was  most  pleased,  and  most  edified,  with  such  of  my  sermons  and  ad- 
 dresses to  my  people,  as  were  most  close,  plain,  and  familiar.  When 
 we  parted,  we  parted  with  mutual  regret;  and  by  us  his  name  will  long 
 be  remembered  with  affection  and  delight. 
 
45 
 
 During  his  first   term   one  of  the    university  scholar- 
 ships became  vacant,    and  Henry,    young  as  he  was  in 
 college,    and    almost    self-taught,    was  advised,  by  those 
 who  were  best  able  to  estimate  his  chance  of  success,  to 
 offer  himself  as  a  competitor  for  it.     He  past  the  whole 
 term  in  preparing   himself  for  this,    reading   for   college 
 subjects  in  bed,  in  his  walks,  or,  as  he  says,  where,  when, 
 and  how  he  could,  never  having  a  moment  to  spare,  and 
 often  going  to  his  tutor  without  having  read  at  all.     His 
 strength  sunk  under   this,    and   though  he  had  declared 
 himself  a  candidate,  he  was  compelled    to    decUne :    but 
 this  was  not  die  only  misfortune.     The  general  college 
 examination    came    on;    he    was    utterly    unprepared    to 
 meet   it,    and   believed    that   a  failure   here  would   have 
 ruined  his  prospects  for    ever.       He  had    only  about  a 
 fortnight  to  read  what  other  men  had  been  the  whole  term 
 reading.       Once   more   he  exerted  himself  beyond  what 
 his  shattered  health  could  bear;    the   disorder  returned, 
 and  he  went  to  his  tutor,  Mr.  Catton,  with  tears  in  his 
 eyes,  and  told  him  that  he  could  not  go  into  the  hall  to 
 be  examined.     Mr.  Catton,  however,  thought  his  success 
 here  of  so  much  importance,  that  he  exhorted  him,  with 
 all  possible  earnestness,  to  hold  out  the  six  days  of  the 
 examination.        Strong    medicines    were    given    him,    to 
 enable  him  to  support  it ;  and  he  was  pronounced  the  first 
 man  of  his  year.     But  life  was  the  price  which  he  was  to 
 pay  for  such  honours  as  this ;  and  Henry  is  not  the  first 
 young  man    to    whom    such  honours  have    proved  fatal. 
 He  said  to  his  most  intimate  friend,  almost  the  last  time 
 he  saw  him,    that  were  he  to  paint  a  picture  of  Fame, 
 
46 
 
 crowning  a  distinguished  under-graduate,  after  the  S^iate- 
 house  examination,  he  would  represent  her  as  concealing 
 a  death's  head  under  a  mask  of  beauty. 
 
 Wlien  this  was  over  he  went  to  London.  London  was 
 a  new  scene  of  excitement,  and  what  his  mind  required 
 was  tranquillity  and  rest.  Before  he  left  college,  he  had 
 become  anxious  concerning  his  expenses,  fearing  that 
 they  exceeded  his  means.  Mr.  Catton  perceived  this, 
 and  twice  called  him  to  his  rooms,  to  assure  him  of  every 
 necessary  support,  and  every  encouragement,  and  to  give 
 him  every  hope.  This  kindness  relieved  his  spirits  of  a 
 heavy  weight,  and  on  his  return  he  relaxed  a  little  from 
 his  studies,  but  it  was  only  a  little.  I  found  among  his 
 papers  the  day  thus  planned  out :  —  "  Rise  at  half  past  five. 
 Devotions  and  walk  till  seven.  Chapel  and  breakfast 
 till  eight.  Study  and  lectures  till  one.  Four  and  a  half 
 clear  reading.  Walk,  &c.  and  dinner,  and  Wollaston, 
 and  chapel  to  six.  Six  to  nine,  reading  —  three  hours. 
 Nine  to  ten,  devotions.     Bed  at  ten." 
 
 Among  his  latest  writings  are  these  resolutions  :  — 
 
 "  I  will  never  be  in  bed  after  six. 
 
 I  will  not  drink  tea  out  above  once  a  w^eek,  excepting  on 
 
 Sundays,   unless  there  appear   some   good   reason  for 
 
 so  doing. 
 I  will  never  pass  a  day  without  reading  some  portion  of  the 
 
 Scriptures. 
 
47 
 
 I  will  labour  diligently  in  my  mathematical  studies,  be- 
 cause I  half  suspect  myself  of  a  dislike  to  them. 
 
 I  will  walk  two  hours  a  day,  upon  the  average  of  every 
 week. 
 
 Sif  mihi  gratia  addita  ad  here  facie?ido.'* 
 
 About  this  time,  judging  by  the  hand-writing,  he  wrote 
 down  the  following  admonitory  sentences,  which,  as  the 
 paper  on  which  they  are  written  is  folded  into  the  shape 
 of  a  very  small  book,  it  is  probable  he  carried  about  with 
 him  as  a  manual. 
 
 "  1.  Death  and  judgment  are  near  at  hand. 
 
 2.  Though  thy  bodily  part  be  now  in  health  and  ease, 
 the  dews  of  death  will  soon  sit  upon  thy  forehead. 
 
 3.  That  which  seems  so  sweet  and  desirable  to  thee 
 now,  will,  if  yielded  to,  become  bitterness  of  soul  to  thee 
 all  thy  life  after. 
 
 4.  Wlien  the  waters  are  come  over  thy  soul,  and  when, 
 in  the  midst  of  much  bodily  anguish,  thou  distinguishest 
 the  dim  shores  of  Eternity  before  thee,  what  wouldest 
 thou  not  give  to  be  lighter  by  this  one  sin  ? 
 
 5.  God  has  long  withheld  his  arm ;  what  if  his  forbear- 
 ance  l)e  now    at   an  end?     Canst    thou    not  contemplate 
 
48 
 
 these  things  with  the  eyes  of  death  ?    Art  thou  not  a  dying 
 man,  dying  every  day,  every  hour  ? 
 
 6.  Is  it  not  a  fearful  thing  to  shrink  from  the  sum- 
 mons when  it  comes  ? —  to  turn  with  horror  and  despair 
 from  the  future  being  ?  Think  what  strains  of  joy  and 
 tranquilHty  fall  on  the  ear  of  the  saint  who  is  just 
 swooning  into  the  arms  of  his  Redeemer:  what  fearful 
 shapes,  and  dreadful  images  of  a  disturbed  conscience, 
 surround  the  sinner's  bed,  when  the  last  twig  which 
 he  grasped  fails  him,  and  the  gulf  yawns  to  receive 
 him. 
 
 7.  Oh,  my  soul,  if  thou  art  yet  ignorant  of  the  enormity 
 of  sin,  turn  thine  eyes  to  the  man  who  is  bleeding  to  death 
 on  the  cross  !  See  how  the  blood,  from  his  pierced  hands, 
 trickles  down  his  arms,  and  the  more  copious  streams  from 
 his  feet  run  on  the  accursed  tree,  and  stain  the  grass  with 
 purple  !  Behold  his  features,  though  scarcely  animated 
 with  a  few  remaining  sparks  of  life,  yet  how  full  of  love, 
 pity,  and  tranquillity  !  A  tear  is  trickling  down  his  cheeky 
 and  his  lip  quivers.  —  He  is  praying  for  his  murderers  ! 
 O,  my  soul  !  it  is  thy  Redeemer  —  it  is  thy  God  !  And 
 this  too  for  Sin  —  for  Sin  !  and  wilt  thou  ever  again  submit 
 to  its  yoke? 
 
 8.  Remember  that  the  grace  of  the  Holy  Spirit  of  God 
 is  ready  to  save  thee  from  transgression.  It  is  always 
 at  hand:  thou  canst  not  sin  without  wilfully  rejecting 
 its  aid. 
 
49 
 
 9.  And  is  there  real  pleasure  in  sin  ?  Thou  knowest 
 there  is  not.  But  there  is  pleasure,  pure  and  exquisite 
 pleasure,  in  holiness.  The  Holy  Ghost  can  make  the 
 paths  of  religion  and  virtue,  hard  as  they  seem,  and 
 thorny,  ways  of  pleasantness  and  peace,  where,  though 
 there  be  thorns,  yet  are  there  also  roses ;  and  where  all  the 
 wounds  which  we  suffer  in  the  flesh,  from  the  hardness  of 
 the  journey,  are  so  healed  by  the  balm  of  the  spirit,  that 
 they  rather  give  joy  than  pain." 
 
 The  exercise  which  Henry  took  was  no  relaxation ;  he 
 still  continued  the  habit  of  studying  while  he  walked; 
 and  in  this  manner,  while  he  was  at  Cambridge,  com- 
 initted  to  memory  a  whole  tragedy  of  Euripides.  Twice 
 he  distinguished  himself  in  the  following  year,  being  again 
 pronounced  first  at  the  great  college  examination,  and 
 also  one  of  the  three  best  theme  writers,  between  whom 
 the  examiners  could  not  decide.  The  college  offered 
 him,  at  their  expense,  a  private  tutor  in  mathematics 
 during  the  long  vacation ;  and  Mr.  Catton,  by  procuring  for 
 him  exhibitions  to  the  amount  of  66l.  per  annum,  enabled 
 him  to  give  up  the  pecuniary  assistance  which  he  had 
 received  from  Mr.  Simeon  and  other  friends.  This  intention 
 he  had  expressed  in  a  letter  written  twelve  months  before 
 his  death.  "  With  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  (he  says), 
 I  have  the  pleasure  to  inform  you,  that  I  shall  be  obliged, 
 in  strict  rectitude,  to  wave  the  offers  of  many  of  my 
 friends.  I  shall  not  even  need  the  sum  Mr.  Simeon 
 mentioned  after  the  first  year ;    and  it  is  not  impossible 
 
 VOL.  I.  E 
 
50 
 
 that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without  any  assistance  at  all. 
 I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  at  the  thought  of  this,  not 
 throuo-h  any  vain  pride  of  independence,  but  because  I 
 shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed  testimony  to  the  truth, 
 than  if  I  were  supposed  to  be  bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of 
 oblio-atiou  or  *rratitude.  I  shall  always  feel  as  much 
 indebted  for  intended  as  for  actually  afforded  assistance  ; 
 and  thouo-h  I  should  never  think  a  sense  of  thankfulness 
 an  oppressive  burden,  yet  I  shall  be  happy  to  evince  it, 
 when,  in  the  eyes  of  the  "mrld,  the  obligation  to  it  has  been 
 discharged."  Never,  perhaps,  had  any  young  man, 
 in  so  short  a  time,  excited  such  expectations  ;  every 
 university  honour  was  thought  to  be  within  his  reach; 
 he  was  set  down  as  a  medallist,  and  expected  to  take  a 
 senior  wrangler's  degree;  but  these  expectations  were 
 poison  to  him  ;  they  goaded  him  to  fresh  exertions 
 when  his  strength  was  spent.  His  situation  became  truly 
 miserable :  to  his  brother,  and  to  his  mother,  he  wrote 
 always  that  he  had  relaxed  in  his  studies,  and  that  he 
 was  better  ;  always  holding  out  to  them  his  hopes,  and 
 his  good  fortune  :  but  to  the  most  intimate  of  his  friends, 
 (Mr.  Maddock,)  his  letters  told  a  different  tale :  to  him 
 he  complained  of  dreadful  palpitations  —  of  nights  of 
 sleeplessness  and  horror,  and  of  spirits  depressed  to  the 
 very  depth  of  wretchedness,  so  that  he  went  from  one 
 acquaintance  to  another,  implormg  society,  even  as  a 
 starving  beggar  entreats  for  food.  During  the  course  of 
 this  summer,  it  was  expected  that  the  mastership  of  the 
 free-school  at  Nottingham  would  shortly  become  vacant. 
 A  relation  of  his  family  was  at  that  time  mayor  of  the 
 
51 
 
 town  ;  he  suggested  to  them  what  an  advantageous  situation 
 it  would  be  for  Henry,  and  offered  to  secure  for  him 
 the  necessary  interest.  But  though  the  salary  and  emolu- 
 ments are  estimated  at  from  4  to  6001.  per  annum,  Henry 
 declined  the  offer ;  because,  had  he  accepted  it,  it  would 
 have  frustrated  his  intentions  with  respect  to  the  ministry. 
 This  was  certainly  no  common  act  of  forbearance  in  one 
 so  situated  as  to  fortune,  especially  as  the  hope  which  he 
 had  most  at  heart,  was  that  of  being  enabled  to  assist  his 
 family,  and  in  some  degree  requite  the  care  and  anxiety  of 
 his  father  and  mother,  by  making  them  comfortable  in  their 
 declining  years. 
 
 The  indulgence  shown  him  by  his  college,  in  provid- 
 ing him  a  tutor  during  the  long  vacation,  was  peculiarly 
 unfortunate.  His  only  chance  of  life  was  from  relax- 
 ation, and  home  was  the  only  place  where  he  would  have 
 relaxed  to  any  purpose.  Before  this  time  he  had 
 seemed  to  be  gaining  strength ;  it  failed  as  the  year 
 advanced  :  he  went  once  more  to  London  to  recruit 
 himself,  —  the  worst  place  to  which  he  could  have  gone  : 
 the  variety  of  stimulating  objects  there  hurried  and  agi- 
 tated him,  and  when  he  returned  to  college,  he  was  so 
 completely  ill,  that  no  power  of  medicine  could  save  him. 
 His  mind  was  worn  out,  and  it  was  the  opinion  of  his 
 medical  attendants,  that  if  he  had  recovered,  his  intel- 
 lect would  have  been  affected.  His  brother  Neville  was 
 just  at  this  time  to  have  visited  him.  On  his  first  seizure, 
 Henry  found  himself  too  ill  to  receive  him,  and  wrote  to 
 say  so :   he  added,  with  that  anxious  tenderness  towards 
 
 E   2 
 
52 
 
 the  feelings  of  a  most  affectionate  family  which  always 
 appeared  in  his  letters,  that  he  thought  himself  recovering ; 
 but  his  disorder  increased  so  rapidly,  that  this  letter  was 
 never  sent ;  it  was  found  in  his  pocket  after  his  decease. 
 One  of  his  friends  wrote  to  acquaint  Neville  with  his  dan- 
 ger :  he  hastened  down  ;  but  Henry  was  delirious  when  he 
 arrived.  He  knew  him  only  for  a  few  moments  ;  the  next 
 day  sunk  into  a  state  of  stupor ;  and  on  Sunday,  October 
 19th,  1806,  it  pleased  God  to  remove  him  to  a  better 
 world  and  a  higher  state  of  existence. 
 
 The  will  which  I  had  manifested  to  serve  Henry,  he 
 had  accepted  as  the  deed,  and  had  expressed  himself 
 upon  the  subject  in  terms  which  it  would  have  humbled 
 me  to  read,  at  any  other  time  than  when  I  was  performing 
 the  last  service  to  his  memory.  On  his  deceasCj  Mr. 
 B.  Maddock  addressed  a  letter  to  me,  informing  me  of  the 
 event,  as  one  who  had  professed  an  interest  in  his  friend's 
 fortunes.  ;  I  enquired,  in  my  reply,  if  there  was  any 
 intention  of  publishing  what  he  might  have  left,  and  if  I 
 could  be  of  any  assistance  in  the  publication :  this  led  to  a 
 correspondence  with  his  excellent  brother,  and  the  whole 
 of  his  papers  were  consigned  into  my  hands,  with  as  many 
 of  his  letters  as  could  be  collected. 
 
 These  papers  (exclusive  of  the  correspondence)  filled 
 a  box  of  considerable  size.      Mr.  Coleridge  was  present 
 
53 
 
 when  I  opened  them,  and  was,  as  well  as  myself,  equally 
 affected  and  astonished  at  the  proofs  of  industry  which 
 they  displayed.  Some  of  them  had  been  written  before 
 his  hand  was  formed,  probably  before  he  was  thirteen. 
 There  were  papers  upon  law,  upon  electricity,  upon  cher 
 mistry,  upon  the  Latin  and  Greek  languages,  from  their 
 rudiments  to  the  higher  branches  of  critical  study,  upon 
 history,  chronology,  divinity,  the  fathers,  &c.  Nothing 
 seemed  to  have  escaped  him.  His  poems  were  numer- 
 ous ;  among  the  earliest,  was  a  sonnet  addressed  to  my- 
 self, long  before  the  little  intercourse  which  had  sub- 
 sisted between  us  had  taken  place.  Little  did  he  think, 
 when  it  was  written,  on  what  occasion  it  would  fall  into 
 my  hands.  He  had  begun  three  tragedies  when  very 
 young;  one  was  upon  Boadicea,  another  upon  Inez  de 
 Castro;  the  third  was  a  fictitious  subject.  He  had  plan- 
 ned also  a  History  of  Nottingham.  There  was  a  letter 
 upon  the  famous  Nottingham  election,  which  seemed  to 
 have  been  intended  either  for  the  newspapers,  or  for  a 
 separate  pamphlet.  It  was  written  to  confute  the  absurd 
 stories  of  the  Tree  of  Liberty,  and  the  Goddess  of  Reason ; 
 with  the  most  minute  knowledge  of  the  circumstances,  and 
 a  not  improper  feeling  of  indignation  against  so  infamous 
 a  calumny  ;  and  this  came  with  more  weight  from  him,  as, 
 his  party  inclinations  seem  to  have  leaned  towards  the  side 
 which  he  was  opposing.  This  was  his  only  finished  com- 
 position in  prose.  Much  of  his  time,  latterly,  had  been 
 devoted  to  the  study  of  Greek  prosody:  he  had  begun 
 several  poems  in  Greek,  and  a  translation  of  the  Samson 
 
 E  3 
 
54 
 
 Agonistes.     I  have  inspected  all  the  existing  Manuscripts 
 of  Chatterton,  and  they  excited  less  wonder  than  these. 
 
 Had  my  knowledge  of  Henry  terminated  here,  I  should 
 have  hardly  believed  that  my  admiration  and  regret  for 
 him  could  have  been  increased ;  but  I  had  yet  to  learn 
 that  his  moral  qualities,  his  good  sense,  and  his  whole 
 feelings,  were  as  admirable  as  his  industry  and  genius. 
 All  his  letters  to  his  family  have  been  communicated  to  me 
 without  reserve,  and  most  of  those  to  his  friends.  A 
 selection  from  these  are  arranged  in  chronological  order 
 in  these  volumes,  which  will  make  him  his  own  biographer, 
 and  lay  open  to  the  world  as  pure  and  as  excellent  a  heart, 
 as  it  ever  pleased  the  Almighty  to  warm  with  life.  Much 
 has  been  suppressed,  which,  if  Henry  had  been  like  Chat- 
 terton, of  another  generation,  I  should  willingly  have 
 published,  and  the  world  would  willingly  have  received ; 
 but  in  doing  honour  to  the  dead,  I  have  been  scrupulously 
 careful  never  to  forget  the  living. 
 
 It  is  not  possible  to  conceive  a  human  being  more  ami- 
 able in  all  the  relations  of  life.  He  was  the  confidential 
 friend  and  adviser  of  every  member  of  his  family ;  this  he 
 instinctively  became ;  and  the  thorough  good  sense  of  his 
 advice  is  not  less  remarkable,  than  the  affection  with 
 which  it  is  always  communicated.  To  his  mother  he  is  as 
 earnest  in  beseeching  her  to  be  careful  of  her  health,  as 
 he  is  in  labouring  to  convince  her  that  his  own  com- 
 plaints  were    abating;    his    letters   to   her  are   always  of 
 
55 
 
 hopes,  of  consolation,  and  of  love.  To  Neville  he  writes 
 with  the  most  brotherly  intimacy?  still,  however,  in  that 
 occasional  tone  of  advice  which  it  was  his  natm*e  to  as- 
 sume, not  from  any  arrogance  of  superiority,  but  from 
 earnestness  of  pure  affection.  To  his  younger  brother  he 
 addresses  himself  like  the  tenderest  and  wisest  parent; 
 and  to  two  sisters,  then  too  young  for  any  other  commu- 
 nication, he  writes  to  direct  their  studies,  to  enquire  into 
 their  progress,  to  encourage  and  to  improve  them.  Such 
 letters  as  these  are  not  for  the  public ;  but  they  to  whom 
 they  are  addressed  will  la}'  them  to  their  hearts  like  relics, 
 and  will  find  in  them  a  saving  virtue,  more  than  ever  relics 
 possessed. 
 
 With  regard  to  his  poems,  the  criterion  for  selection 
 was  not  so  plain;  undoubtedly  many  have  been  chosen 
 which  he  himself  would  not  have  published ;  and  some 
 few  which,  had  he  lived  to  have  taken  that  rank  among 
 English  poets,  which  would  assuredly  have  been  within 
 his  reach,  I  also  should  then  have  rejected  among  his 
 posthumous  papers.  I  have,  however,  to  the  best  of  my 
 judgment,  selected  none  which  does  not  either  mark  the 
 state  of  his  mind,  or  its  progress,  or  discover  evident 
 proofs  of  what  he  would  have  been,  if  it  had  not  been 
 the  will  of  Heaven  to  remove  him  so  soon.  The  reader, 
 who  feels  any  admiration  for  Henry,  will  take  some  in- 
 terest in  all  these  Remains,  because  they  are  his :  he  who 
 shall  feel  none  must  have  a  blind  heart,  and  therefore  a 
 blind  understanding.  Such  poems  are  to  be  considered 
 as  making  up  his  history.     But  the  greater  number  are 
 
 E  4 
 
^6 
 
 of  such  beauty,  that  Chattertoii  is  the  only  youthful  poet 
 whom  he  does  not  leave  far  behind  him. 
 
 While  he  was  under  Mr.  Grainger  he  wrote  very  little ; 
 and  when  he  went  to  Cambridge,  he  was  advised  to  stifle 
 his  poetical  fire,  for  severer  and  more  importimt  studies ; 
 to  lay  a  billet  on  the  embers  until  he  had  taken  his  de- 
 gree, and  then  he  might  fan  it  into  a  flame  again.  This 
 advice  he  followed  so  scrupulously,  that  a  few  fragments, 
 written  chiefly  upon  the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers, 
 are  a]l  which  he  produced  at  the  university.  The  greater 
 part,  therefore,  of  these  poems,  indeed  nearly  the  whole 
 of  them,  were  written  before  he  was  nineteen.  Wise  as 
 the  advice  may  have  been  which  had  been  given  him, 
 it  is  now  to  be  regretted  that  he  adhered  to  it,  his  latter 
 fragments  bearing  all  those  marks  of  improvement  which 
 were  to  be  expected  from  a  mind  so  rapidly  and  con- 
 tinually progressive.  Frequently  he  expresses  a  fear  that 
 early  death  would  rob  him  of  his  fame ;  yet,  short  as  his 
 life  was,  it  has  been  long  enough  for  him  to  leave  works 
 worthy  of  remembrance.  The  very  circumstance  of  his 
 early  death  gives  a  new  interest  to  his  memory,  and 
 thereby  new  force  to  his  example.  Just  at  that  age  when 
 the  painter  would  have  wished  to  fix  his  likeness,  and 
 the  lover  of  poetry  would  delight  to  contemplate  him,  in 
 the  fiiir  morning  of  his  virtues,  the  full  spring  blossom 
 of  his  hopes,  — just  at  that  age  hath  death  set  the  seal 
 of  eternity  upon  him,  and  the  beautiful  hath  been  made 
 permanent.  To  the  young  poets  M^ho  com*  after  him, 
 Henry  will   be   what  Chattertoii  was  to  him;  and   they 
 
57 
 
 will  find  in  him  an  example  of  hopes  with  regard  to 
 worldly  fortune,  as  humble,  and  as  exalted  in  all  better 
 things,  as  are  enjoined  equally  by  wisdom  and  religion, 
 by  the  experience  of  man,  and  the  word  of  God  :  and 
 this  example  will  be  as  encouraging  as  it  is  excellent.  It 
 has  been  too  much  the  custom  to  complain  that  genius  is 
 neglected,  and  to  blame  the  public  when  the  public  is  not 
 in  fault.  They  who  are  thus  lamented  as  the  victims  of 
 genius,  have  been,  in  almost  every  instance,  the  victims 
 of  their  own  vices  ;  while  genius  has  been  made,  like 
 charity,  to  cover  a  multitude  of  sins,  and  to  excuse  that 
 which  in  reality  it  aggravates.  In  this  age,  and  in  this 
 country,  whoever  deserves  encouragement  is,  sooner  or 
 later,  sure  to  receive  it.  Of  this  Henry's  history  is  an 
 honourable  proof.  The  particular  patronage  which  he 
 accepted  was  given  as  much  to  his  piety  and  religious 
 opinions  as  to  his  genius :  but  assistance  was  offered  him 
 from  other  quarters.  Mr.  P.  Thomson,  (of  Boston,  Lin- 
 colnshire,) merely  upon  perusing  his  litde  volume,  wrote 
 to  know  how  he  could  serve  him ;  and  there  were  many 
 friends  of  literature  who  were  ready  to  have  afforded  him 
 any  support  which  he  needed,  if  he  had  not  been  thus  pro- 
 vided. In  the  university  he  received  every  encouragement 
 which  he  merited ;  and  from  Mr.  Simeon  and  his  tutor, 
 Mr.  Catton,  the  most  fatherly  kindness. 
 
 "  I  can  venture,"  says  a  lady  of  Cambridge,  in  a  letter 
 to  his  brother,  "  I  can  venture  to  say,  with  certainty, 
 there  was  no  member  of  the  university,  however  high  his 
 rank  or  talents,  who  would  not  liave  been  happy  to  have 
 
58 
 
 availed  themselves  of  the  opportunity  of  being  acquainted 
 with  Mr.  Henry  Kirke  White.  I  mention  this  to  intro- 
 duce a  wish  which  has  been  expressed  to  me  so  often  by 
 the  senior  members  of  the  university,  that  I  dare  not 
 decline  the  task  they  have  imposed  upon  me :  it  is  their 
 hope  that  Mr.  Southey  will  do  as  much  justice  to  Mr. 
 Henry  White's  limited  wishes,  to  his  unassuming  preten- 
 sions, and  to  his  rational  and  fervent  piety,  as  to  his 
 various  acquirements,  his  polished  taste,  his  poetical  fancy, 
 his  undeviating  principles,  and  the  excellence  of  his  moral 
 character  :  and  that  he  will  suffer  it  to  be  understood, 
 that  these  inestimable  qualities  had  not  been  unobserved, 
 nor  would  they  have  remained  unacknowledged.  It  was 
 the  general  observation,  that  he  possessed  genius  without 
 
 Of  his  fervent  piety,  his  letters,  his  prayers,  and  his 
 hymns,  will  afford  ample  and  interesting  proofs.  I  must 
 be  permitted  to  say,  that  my  own  views  of  the  religion  of 
 Jesus  Christ  differ  essentially  from  the  system  of  belief 
 which  he  had  adopted  ;  but,  having  said  this,  it  is  indeed 
 my  anxious  wish  to  do  full  justice  to  piety  so  fervent.  It 
 was  in  him  a  living  and  quickening  principle  of  goodness, 
 which  sanctified  all  his  hopes  and  all  his  affections ;  which 
 made  him  keep  watch  over  his  own  heart,  and  enabled  him 
 to  correct  the  few  symptoms,  which  it  ever  displayed,  of 
 human  imperfection. 
 
 His  temper  had  been  irritable  in  his  younger  days ;  but 
 this  he  had  long  since  effectually  overcome ;  the  marks  of 
 
59 
 
 youthful  confidence,  which  appear  in  his  earliest  letters, 
 had  also  disappeared ;  and  it  was  impossible  for  man  to  be 
 more  tenderly  patient  of  the  faults  of  others,  more  uniformly 
 meek,  or  more  unaffectedly  humble.  He  seldom  discovered 
 any  sportiveness  of  imagination,  though  he  would  very 
 ably  and  pleasantly  rally  any  one  of  his  friends  for  any  little 
 peculiarity ;  his  conversation  was  always  sober  and  to  the 
 purpose.  That  which  is  most  remarkable  in  him,  is  his 
 uniform  good  sense,  a  faculty  perhaps  less  common  than 
 genius.  There  never  existed  a  more  dutiful  son,  a  more 
 affectionate  brother,  a  warmer  friend,  nor  a  devouter 
 Christian.  Of  his  powers  of  mind  it  is  superfluous  to 
 speak ;  they  were  acknowledged  wherever  they  were  known. 
 It  would  be  idle  too  to  say  what  hopes  were  entertained  of 
 him,  and  what  he  might  have  accomplished  in  literature. 
 These  volumes  contain  what  he  has  left,  immature  buds 
 and  blossoms  shaken  from  the  tree,  and  green  fruit;  yet  will 
 they  evince  what  the  harvest  would  have  been,  and  secure 
 for  him  that  remembrance  upon  earth  for  which  he  toiled. 
 
 "  Thou  soul  of  God's  best  earthly  mould, 
 Thou  happy  soul !  and  can  it  be 
 
 That  these 
 
 Are  all  that  must  remain  of  thee  !'* 
 
 Wordsworth. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  September,  1799. 
 DEAR    BROTHER, 
 
 IN  consequence  of  your  repeated  solicitations,  I  now  sit 
 down  to  write  to  you,  although  I  never  received  an  an- 
 swer to  the  last  letter  which  I  wrote,  nearly  six  months 
 ago ;  but,  as  I  never  heard  you  mention  it  in  any  of  my 
 mother's  letters,  I  am  induced  to  think  it  has  miscarried, 
 or  been  mislaid  in  your  office. 
 
 It  is  now  nearly  four  months  since  I  entered  into  Mr. 
 Coldham's  office ;  and  it  is  with  pleasure  I  can  assure  you, 
 that  I  never  yet  found  any  thing  disagreeable,  but,  on  the 
 contrary,  every  thing  I  do  seems  a  pleasure  to  me,  and 
 for  a  very  obvious  reason, — it  is  a  business  which  I  like — 
 a  business  which  I  chose  before  all  others;  and  I  have 
 two  good-tempered,  easy  masters,  but  who  will,  never- 
 theless, see  that  their  business  is  done  in  a  neat  and  proper 
 manner.     The  study  of  the  law  is  well  known  to  be  a  dry 
 
64 
 
 difficult  task,  and  requires  a  comprehensive,  good  under- 
 standing ;  and  I  hope  you  will  allow  me  (without  charging 
 me  with  egotism)  to  have  a  tolerable  one;  and  I  trust 
 with  perseverance,  and  a  very  large  law  library  to  refer 
 to,  I  shall  be  able  to  accomplish  the  study  of  so  much 
 of  the  laws  of  England,  and  our  system  of  jurisprudence, 
 in  less  than  five  years,  as  to  enable  me  to  be  a  country 
 attorney;  and  then,  as  I  shall  have  two  more  years  to 
 serve,  I  hope  I  shall  attain  so  much  knowledge  in  all 
 parts  of  the  law,  as  to  enable  me,  with  a  litde  study  at 
 the  inns  of  court,  to  hold  an  argument  on  the  nice  points 
 in  the  law  with  the  best  attorney  in  the  kingdom.  A  man 
 that  understands  the  law  is  sure  to  have  business ;  and  in 
 case  I  have  no  thoughts,  in  case,  that  is,  that  I  do  not 
 aspire  to  hold  the  honourable  place  of  a  barrister,  I  shall 
 feel  sure  of  gaining  a  genteel  livelihood  at  the  business  to 
 which  I  am  articled. 
 
 I  attend  at  the  office  at  eight  in  die  morning,  and 
 leave  at  eight  in  the  evening ;  then  attend  my  Latin 
 until  nine,  which,  you  may  be  sure,  is  pretty  close  con- 
 finement. 
 
 Mr.  Coldham  is  clerk  to  the  commercial  commis- 
 sioners, which  has  occasioned  us  a  deal  of  extraordinary 
 work.  I  worked  all  Sunday,  and  until  twelve  o'clock  on 
 Saturday  night,  when  they  were  hurried  to  give  in  the 
 certificates  to  the  bank.  We  had  also  a  very  trouble- 
 some cause  last  assizes.  The  Corporation  versus  Gee, 
 which   we  (the  attorneys   for   the   corporation)  lost.     It 
 
65 
 
 was  really  a  very  fatiguing  day,  (I  mean  the  clay  on  which 
 it  was  tried).  I  never  got  any  thing  to  eat,  from  five  in 
 the  afternoon  the  preceding  day,  until  twelve  the  next 
 night,  when  the  trial  ended. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  26th  Juno,  1800. 
 DEAR  BROTHER, 
 
 My  mother  has  allowed  me  a  good  deal  lately  foi*^ 
 books,  and  I  have  a  large  assortment  (a  retailer's  phrase). 
 But  I  hope  you  do  not  suppose  they  consist  of  novels ;  — 
 no  —  I  have  made  a  firm  resolution  never  to  spend  above 
 one  hour  at  this  amusement.  Though  I  have  been 
 obliged  to  enter  into  this  resolution  in  consequence  of  a 
 vitiated  taste  acquired  by  reading  romances,  I  do  not 
 intend  to  banish  them  entirely  fi^'om  my  desk.  After  long 
 and  fatiguing  researches  in  Blackstone  or  Coke,  when  the 
 mind  becomes  weak,  through  intense  application,  Tom 
 Jones,  or  Robinson  Crusoe,  will  afford  a  pleasing  and 
 necessary  relaxation. 
 
 A-propos  —  now  we  are  speaking  of  Robinson  Crusoe, 
 I  shall  observe,  that  it  is  allowed  to  be  the  best  novel  for 
 youth  in   the   English    language.     De   Foe,,   the  author^ 
 
 VOL.  I.  F 
 
66 
 
 was  a  singular  character;  but  as  I  make  no  doubt  yon 
 have  read  his  life,  I  will  not  trouble  you  with  any  further 
 remarks. 
 
 The  books  which  I  now  read  with  attention,  are  Black- 
 stone,  Knox's  Essays,  Plutarch,  Chesterfield's  Letters, 
 four  large  volumes,  Virgil,  Homer,  and  Cicero,  and  se- 
 veral others.  Blackstone  and  Knox,  Virgil  and  Cicero, 
 I  have  got;  the  others  I  read  out  of  Mr.  Coldham's 
 library.  I  have  finished  Rollin's  Ancient  History,  Blair's 
 Lectures,  Smith's  Wealth  of  Nations,  Hume's  England, 
 and  British  Nepos,  lately.  When  I  have  read  Knox  I 
 will  send  it  you,  and  recommend  it  to  your  attentive 
 perusal ;  it  is  a  most  excellent  work.  I  also  read  now  the 
 British  Classics,  the  common  edition  of  which  I  now  take 
 in ;  it  comes  every  fortnight ;  I  dare  say  you  have  seen  it ; 
 it  is  Cooke's  edition.  I  would  recommend  you  also  to 
 read  these ;  I  will  send  them  to  you.  I  have  got  the 
 Citizen  of  the  World,  Idler,  Goldsmith's  Essays,  and  part 
 of  the  Rambler.  I  will  send  you  soon  the  fourth  num- 
 ber of  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  I  am  noticed  as  worthy 
 of  commendation,  and  as  affording  an  encouraging  pros- 
 pect of  future  excellence.  —  You  will  laugh.  I  have  also 
 turned  poet,  and  have  translated  an  ode  of  Horace  into 
 English  verse^  also  for  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  but,  un- 
 fortunately, when  I  sent  it,  I  forgot  the  title,  so  it  won't 
 be  noticed. 
 
 I  do  not  forsake  the  flowery  paths  of  poesy,  for  that  is 
 my  chief  delight ;   I  read  the  best  poets.     Mr.  Goldham 
 
67 
 
 has  got  Johnson's  complete  set,  with  their  lives ;  these  of 
 course  I  read. 
 
 With  a  little  drudgery,  I  read  Italian  —  Have  got  some 
 good  Italian  works,  as  Pastor  Fido,  &c.  &c.  I  taught 
 myself,  and  have  got  a  grammar. 
 
 I  must  now  beg  leave  to  return  you  my  sincere  thanks 
 for  your  kind  present.  I  like  "  La  Bruyere  the  Less" 
 very  much ;  I  have  read  the  original  La  Bruyere :  I  think 
 him  like  Rouchefoucault.     Madame  de  Genlis  is  a  very 
 
 able  woman. 
 
 *     #     #     #     # 
 
 But  I  must  now  attempt  to  excuse  my  neglect  in  not 
 writing  to  you.  First,  I  have  been  very  busy  with  these 
 essays  and  poems  for  the  Monthly  Preceptor.  Second,  1 
 was  rather  angry  at  your  last  letter  —  I  can  bear  any 
 thing  but  a  sneer,  and  it  was  one  continued  grin  from 
 beginning  to  end,  as  were  all  the  notices  you  made  of  me 
 in  my  mother's  letters,  and  I  could  not,  nor  can  I  now, 
 brook  it.  I  could  say  much  more,  but  it  is  very  late,  and 
 must  beg  leave  to  wish  you  good  night. 
 I  am,  dear  brother. 
 
 Your  affectionate  friend, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 P.  S.  You  may  expect  a  regular  correspondence  from 
 me  in  future,  but  no  sneers ;  and  shall  be  very  obliged 
 by  a  long  letter. 
 
 F  2 
 
68 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE, 
 
 Nottingham,  25th  June,  1800c 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 You  are  inclined  to  flatter  me  when  you  compare  my 
 application  with  yours ;  in  truth,  I  am  not  half  so 
 assiduous  as  you,  and  I  am  conscious  I  waste  a  deal  of 
 time  unwittingly.  But,  in  reading,  I  am  upon  the  con- 
 tinual search  for  improvement :  I  thirst  after  knowledge, 
 and  though  my  disposition  is  naturally  idle,  I  conquer 
 it  when  reading  an  useful  book.  The  plan  which  I  pur- 
 sued, in  order  to  subdue  my  disinclination  to  dry  books, 
 was  this,  to  begin  attentiveli)  to  peruse  it,  and  continue 
 thus  one  hour  every  day ;  the  book  insensibly,  by  this 
 means,  becomes  pleasing  to  you ;  and  even  when  reading 
 Blackstone's  Commentaries,  which  are  very  dry,  I  lay 
 down  the  book  with  regret. 
 
 With  regard  to  the  Monthly  Preceptor,  I  certainly  shall 
 be  agreeable  to  your  taking  it  in,  as  my  only  objection 
 was  the  extreme  impatience  which  I  feel  to  see  whether 
 my  essays  have  been  successful ;  but  this  may  be  obviated 
 by  your  speedy  perusal,  and  not  neglecting  to  forward  it. 
 
69 
 
 But  you  must  have  the  goodness  not  to  begin  till  August, 
 as  my  bookseller  cannot  stop  it  this  month. 
 
 I   had  a  ticket  given  me   to    the   boxes,    on   Monday 
 night,    for  the  benefit   of  Campbell,    from   Drury-Lane, 
 and  there  was  such  a  riot  as  never  was  experienced  here 
 before.      He  is  a  democrat,  and  the  soldiers  planned  a 
 riot  in  conjunction  with  the  mob.      We  heard  the  shout- 
 ing of  the  rabble  in  the  street  before  the  play  was  over; 
 the  moment  the  curtain  dropt,  an   officer  went  into  the 
 front  box,   and  gave  the  word  of  command ;  immediately 
 about  sixty  troopers  started  up,    and    six   trumpeters   in 
 the  pit  played  "  God  save   the   king."      The  noise  was 
 astonishing.     The  officers  in   the  boxes  then  drew  their 
 swords ;  and  at  another  signal  the  privates  in  the  pit  drew 
 their  bludgeons,    which  they  had  hitherto  concealed,  and 
 attacked  all  indiscriminately,  that  had   not   an   uniform: 
 the  officers  did  the  same  with  their  swords,  and  the  house 
 was  one   continued   scene   of  confusion :    one  pistol  was 
 fired,  and  the  ladies  were  fainting   in    the  lobby.      The 
 outer  doors  were    shut   to    keep  out  the  mob,    and   the 
 people  jumped  on  the  stage  as  a  last  resource.     One  of 
 these  noble  officers,  seeing  one  man  stand  in  the  pit  with 
 his  hat  on,  jumped  over  the  division,  and  cut  him  with 
 his  sword,   which  the  man  instantly  wrenched  from  him, 
 and  broke,    whilst  the  officer   sneaked  back  in  disgrace. 
 They  then  formed  a  troop,  and  having  emptied  the  play- 
 house,  they  scoured  the  streets  with  their  swords,  and  re- 
 
 r  3 
 
70 
 
 turned  home  victorious.  The  players  are,  in  consequence, 
 dismissed ;  and  we  have  informations  in  our  office  against 
 the  officers. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  Michaelmas-day,  1800. 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 I  CANNOT  divine  what,  in  an  epistolary  correspondence, 
 can  have  such  charms  (with  people  who  write  only  com- 
 mon-place occurrences)  as  to  detach  a  man  from  his  usual 
 affairs,  and  make  him  waste  time  and  paper  on  what  can- 
 not be  of  the  least  real  benefit  to  his  correspondent. 
 Amongst  relatives,  certainly  there  is  always  an  incitement; 
 we  always  feel  an  anxiety  for  their  welfare.  But  I  have 
 no  friend  so  dear  to  me,  as  to  cause  me  to  take  the 
 trouble  of  reading  his  letters,  if  they  only  contained  an 
 account  of  his  health,  and  the  mere  nothings  of  the  day ; 
 indeed,  such  an  one  would  be  unworthy  of  friendship. 
 What  then  is  requisite  to  make  one's  correspondence 
 valuable  ?  I  answer,  sound  sense.  Nothing  more  is  requi- 
 site ;  as  to  the  style,  one  may  very  readily  excuse  its  faults, 
 if  repaid  by  the  sentiments.  You  have  better  natural  abilir 
 ties  than  many  youth,  but  it  is  with  regret  I  see  that  you 
 
71 
 
 will  not  give  yourself  the  trouble  of  writing  a  good 
 letter.  There  is  hardly  any  species  of  composition  (in  my 
 opinion)  easier  than  the  epistolary  ;  but,  my  friend,  you 
 never  found  any  art,  however  trivial,  that  did  not  require 
 some  application  at  first.  For,  if  an  artist,  instead  of 
 endeavouring  to  surmount  the  difficulties  which  presented 
 themselves,  were  to  rest  contented  with  mediocrity,  how 
 could  he  possibly  ever  arrive  at  excellence  ?  Thus  'tis 
 with  you ;  instead  of  that  indefatigable  perseverance  which, 
 in  other  cases,  is  a  leading  trait  in  your  character,  I  hear 
 you  say,  "  Ah,  my  poor  brains  were  never  formed  for 
 letter-writing  —  I  shall  never  write  a  good  letter,"  or  some 
 such  phrases ;  and  thus  by  despairing  of  ever  arriving  at 
 excellence,  you  render  yourself  hardly  tolerable.  You 
 may,  perhaps,  think  this  art  beneath  your  notice,  or 
 unworthy  of  your  pains  ;  if  so,  you  are  assuredly  mistaken, 
 for  there  is  hardly  any  thing  which  would  contribute  more 
 to  the  advancement  of  a  young  man,  or  which  is  more 
 engaging. 
 
 You  read,  I  believe,  a  good  deal ;  nothing  could  be 
 more  acceptable  to  me,  or  more  improving  to  you,  than 
 making  a  part  of  your  letters  to  consist  of  your  senti- 
 ments, and  opinion  of  the  books  you  peruse;  you  have 
 no  idea  how  beneficial  this  would  be  to  yourself;  and  that 
 you  are  able  to  do  it  I  am  certain.  One  of  the  greatest 
 impediments  to  good  writing,  is  the  thinking  too  much 
 before  you  note  down.  This,  I  think,  you  are  not 
 entirely  free  from.     I  hope,  thai  by  always  writing  the  first 
 
 F  4- 
 
72 
 
 idea  that  presents  itself,  you  will  soon  conquer  it ;  my 
 letters  are  always  the  rough  first  draft,  of  course  there  are 
 many  alterations ;  these  you  will  excuse. 
 
 I  have  written  most  of  my  letters  to  you  in  so  negligent 
 a  manner,  that,  if  you  would  have  the  goodness  to  return 
 all  you  have  preserved,  sealed^  I  will  peruse  them,  and  all 
 sentences  worth  preserving  I  will  extract,  and  return. 
 
 You  observe,  in  your  last,  that  your  letters  are  read  with 
 contempt.  —  Do  you  speak  as  you  think  ? 
 
 You  had  better  write  again  to  Mr. .     Between 
 
 friends,  the  common  forms  of  the  world  in  writing  letter 
 for  letter,  need  not  be  observed;  but  never  write  three 
 without  receiving  one  in  return,  because  in  that  case  they 
 must  be  thought  unworthy  of  answer. 
 
 We  have  been  so  busy  lately,  I  could  not  answer  yours 
 sooner.  —  Once  a  month  suppose  we  write  to  each  other. 
 If  you  ever  find  that  my  correspondence  is  not  worth  the 
 trouble  of  carrying  on,  inform  me  of  it,  and  it  shall  cease. 
 
 P.  S.  If  any  expression  in  this  be  too  harsh,  excuse  it. 
 -I  am  not  in  an  ill  humour,  recollect. 
 
73 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  lUli  April,  1801. 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 On  opening  yours,  I  was  highly  pleased  to  find  two 
 and  a  half  sheets  of  paper,  and  nothing  could  exceed  my 
 joy  at  so  apparently  long  a  letter ;  but,  upon  finding  it 
 consisted  of  sides  filled  after  the  rate  of  five  words  in  a 
 line,  and  nine  lines  in  a  page,  I  could  not  conceal  my  cha- 
 grin; and  I  am  sure  I  may  very  modestly  say,  that  one  of 
 my  ordinary  pages  contains  three  of  yours:  if  you  knew 
 half  the  pleasure  I  feel  in  your  correspondence,  I  am  con- 
 fident you  would  lengthen  your  letters.  You  tantalize  me 
 with  the  hopes  of  a  prolific  harvest,  and  I  find,  alas !  a 
 thin  crop,  whose  goodness  only  makes  me  lament  its 
 scantiness. 
 
 I  had  almost  forgot  to  tell  you,  that  I  have  obtained 
 the  first  prize  (of  a  pair  of  Adams's  twelve-inch  globes, 
 value  three  guineas)  in  the  first  class  of  the  Monthly  Pre- 
 ceptor. The  subject  was  an  imaginary  tour  from  London 
 to  Edinburgh.  It  is  printed  consequently,  and  shall  send 
 it  to  you  the  very  first  opportunity.  The  proposals  stated, 
 that  the  essay  was  not  to  exceed  three  pages  when  printed 
 —  mine  takes  seven;  therefore  I  am  astonished  they  gave 
 me  the  first  prize.  There  was  an  extraordinary  number  of 
 candidates;  and  they  said  diey  never  had  a  greater  num- 
 ber of  excellent  ones,  and  they  wished  they  could  have 
 
given  thirty  prizes.     You  will    find   it  (in   a   letter)  ad- 
 dressed to  N 5  meaning  yourself. 
 
 Warton  is  a  poet  from  whom  I  have  derived  the  most 
 exquisite,  pleasure  and  gratification.  He  abounds  in  sub- 
 limity and  loftiness  of  thought,  as  well  as  expression. 
 His  "  Pleasures  of  Melancholy"  is  truly  a  sublime  poem. 
 The  following  passage  I  particularly  admire : 
 
 "  Nor  undelightful  in  the  solemn  noon 
 
 Of  night,  where,  haply  wakeful  from  my  couch 
 
 I  start,  lo,  all  is  motionless  around  ! 
 
 Roars  not  the  rushing  wind ;  the  sons  of  men. 
 
 And  every  beast,  in  mute  oblivion  lie : 
 
 All  Nature's  hush'd  in  silence,  and  in  sleep. 
 
 Oh,  then,  how  fearful  is  it  to  reflect, 
 
 That  thro'  the  still  globe's  awful  solitude 
 
 No  being  wakes  but  me." 
 
 How  affecting  are  the  latter  lines !  it  is  impossible  to 
 withstand  the  emotions  which  rise  on  its  perusal,  and  I 
 envy  not  that  man  his  insensibility  who  can  read  them 
 with  apathy.  Many  of  the  pieces  of  the  Bible  are  writ- 
 ten in  this  sublime  manner:  one  psalm,  I  think  the  18th, 
 is  a  perfect  master-piece,  and  has  been  imitated  by  many 
 poets.  Compare  these,  or  the  above  quoted  from  War- 
 ton,  with  the  finest  piece  in  Pope,  and  then  judge  of  the 
 rank  which  he  holds  as  a  poet.  Another  instance  of  the 
 sublime  in  poetry  I  will    give  you,  from  Akenside's  ad- 
 
75 
 
 mirable  "  Pleasures  of  Imagination,"  ^yhere,  speaking  of 
 the  soul,  he  says,  she 
 
 «  Rides  on  the  volley'd  lightning  thro'  the  heav'ns. 
 And  yok'd  with  whirlwinds,  and  the  northern  blast. 
 Sweeps  the  long  tract  of  day." 
 
 Many  of  these  instances  of  sublimity  will  occur  to  you  in 
 Thomson. 
 
 James  begs  leave  to  present  you  with  Bloomfield's  Far- 
 mer's Boy.  Bloomfield  has  no  grandeur  or  height ;  he  is 
 a  pastoral  poet,  and  the  simply  sweet  is  what  you  are  to 
 expect  from  him ;  nevertheless,  his  descriptions  are  some- 
 times little  inferior  to  Thomson. 
 
 How  pleased  should  I  be,  Neville,  to  have  you  with 
 us  at  Nottingham  !  Our  fire-side  would  be  delightful.  —  I 
 should  profit  by  your  sentiments  and  experience,  and  you 
 possibly  might  gain  a  little  from  my  small  bookish  know- 
 ledge. But  I  am  afraid  that  time  will  never  come ;  your 
 time  of  apprenticeship  is  nearly  expired,  and,  in  all  ap- 
 pearance, the  small  residue  that  yet  remains  will  be  passed 
 in  hated  London.  When  you  are  emancipated,  you  will 
 have  to  mix  in  the  bustle  of  the  world,  in  all  probability, 
 also,  far  from  home;  so  that  when  we  have  just  learnt 
 how  happy  we  might  mutually  make  ourselves,  we  find 
 scarcely  a  shadow  of  a  probability  of  ever  having  the  op- 
 
76 
 
 portunity.    Well,  well,  it  is  in  vain  to  resist  the  immutable 
 decrees  of  fate. 
 
 ****** 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottinghaii),  April,  1801. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 As  I  know  you  will  participate  with  me  in  the  plea- 
 sure I  receive  from  literary  distinctions,  I  hasten  to  in- 
 form you,  that  my  poetical  Essay  on  Gratitude  is  printed 
 in  this  month's  Preceptor;  that  my  remarks  on  Warton 
 are  promised  insertion  in  the  next  month's  Mirror ;  and 
 that  my  Essay  on  Truth  is  printed  in  the  present  (April) 
 Monthly  Visitor.  The  Preceptor  I  shall  not  be  able  to 
 send  you  until  the  end  of  this  month.  The  Visitor  you 
 will  herewith  receive.  The  next  month's  Mirror  I  shall 
 -consequently  buy.  I  wish  it  were  not  quite  so  expensive, 
 as  I  think  it  a  very  good  work.  Benjamin  Thomson, 
 Capel  Lofft,  Esq.,  Robert  Bloomfield,  Thomas  Dermody, 
 Mr.  Gilchrist,  under  the  signature  of  Octavius,  Mrs.  Blore, 
 a  noted  female  writer,  under  the  signature  of  Q.  Z.,  are 
 correspondents;  and  the  editors  are  not  only  men  of 
 genius  and  taste,  but  of  the  greatest  respectability.  As  I 
 shall  now  be  a  regular  contributor  to  this  work,  and  as  I 
 think  it  contains  much  good  matter,  I  have  half  an  incli- 
 
 ][) 
 
77 
 
 nation  to  take  it  in,  more  especially  as  you  have  got  the 
 prior  volumes :  but  in  the  present  state  of  my  finances  it 
 will  not  be  prudent,  unless  you  accede  to  a  proposal, 
 which,  I  think,  will  be  gratifying  to  yourself.  —  It  is,  to 
 take  it  in  conjunction  with  me ;  by  which  means  we  shall 
 both  have  the  same  enjoyment  of  it,  with  half  the  expence. 
 It  is  of  little  consequence  who  takes  them,  only  he  must  be 
 expeditious  in  reading  them.  If  you  have  any  the  least 
 objection  to  this  scheme,  do  not  suppress  it  through  any 
 regard  to  punctilio.  I  have  only  proposed  it,  and  it  is  not 
 verij  material  whether  you  concur  or  not ;  only  exercise 
 your  own  discretion. 
 
 You  say,  (speaking  of  a  passage  concerning  you  in  my 
 last,)  "  this  is  compliment  sufficient  ;  the  rest  must  be 
 flattery."  —  Do  you  seriously,  Neville,  think  me  capable  of 
 flattery  ? 
 
 As  you  well  know  I  am  a  carping,  critical  little  dog, 
 you  will  not  be  surprised  at  my  observing  that  there  is 
 one  figure  in  your  last  that  savours  rather  of  the  ludi- 
 crous, when  you  talk  of  a  "  butterfly  hopping  from  book  to 
 book." 
 
 As  to  the  something  that  I  am  to  find  out,  that  is  a 
 perpetual  bar  to  your  progress  in  knowledge,  &c.,  I  am 
 inclined  to  think.  Doctor,  it  is  merely  conceit.  You  fancy 
 that  you  cannot  write  a  letter  —  you  dread  its  idea ;  you 
 conceive  that  a  work  of  four  volumes  would  require  the 
 labours  of  a   life  to  read  through ;  you  persuade  yourself 
 
78 
 
 that  you  cannot  retain  what  you  read,  and  in  despair  do 
 not  attempt  to  conquer  these  visionary  impediments. 
 Confidence,  Neville,  in  one's  own  abilities,  is  a  sure  fore- 
 runner (in  similar  circumstances  with  the  present)  of  suc- 
 cess. As  an  illustration  of  this,  I  beg  leave  to  adduce  the 
 example  of  Pope,  who  had  so  high  a  sense,  in  his  youth, 
 or  rather  iii  his  infancy.,  of  his  own  capacity,  that  there 
 was  nothing  of  which,  when  once  set  about,  he  did  not 
 think  himself  capable;  and,  as  Dr.  Johnson  has  observed, 
 the  natural  consequence  of  this  minute  perception  of  his 
 own  powers,  was  his  arriving  at  as  high  a  pitch  of  perfection 
 as  it  was  possible  for  a  man  with  his  few  natural  endow- 
 ments to  attain. 
 
 When  you  wish  to  read  Johnson's  Lives  of  the  Poets, 
 send  for  them :  I  have  lately  purchased  them.  I  have  now 
 a  large  library.  My  mother  allows  me  ten  pounds  per 
 annum  for  clothes.  I  always  dress  in  a  respectable  and 
 even  in  a  genteel  manner,  yet  I  can  make  much  less  than 
 this  sum  suffice.  My  father  generally  gives  me  one  coat  in 
 a  year,  and  I  make  two  serve.  I  then  receive  one  guinea 
 per  annum  for  keeping  my  mother's  books ;  one  guinea  per 
 annum  pocket-money ;  and  by  other  means  I  gain,  perhaps, 
 two  guineas  more  per  annum  :  so  that  I  have  been  able  to 
 buy  pretty  many ;  and  when  you  come  home,  you  will  find 
 me  in  my  study,  surrounded  with  books  and  papers.  I  am 
 a  perfect  garreteer :  great  part  of  my  library,  however, 
 consists  of  professional  books.      Have  you  read  Burke  on 
 
79 
 
 the  Sublime  ?    Knox's  Winter  Evening  ?  —  Can  lend  them 
 to  you,  if  you  have  not. 
 
 Really,  Neville,  were  you  fully  sensible  how  much  my 
 time  is  occupied,  principally  about  my  profession,  as  a 
 primary  concern,  and  in  the  hours  necessarily  set  apart  to 
 relaxation,  on  polite  literature,  to  which,  as  a  hobby-horse, 
 I  am  very  desirous  of  paying  some  attention,  you  would  not 
 be  angry  at  my  delay  in  writing,  or  my  short  letters.  It  is 
 always  with  joy  that  I  devote  a  leisure  hour  to  you,  as  it 
 affords  you  gratification  ;  and  rest  assured,  that  I  always 
 participate  in  your  pleasure,  and  poignantly  feel  every 
 adverse  incident  which  causes  you  pain. 
 
 Permit  me,  however,  again  to  observe,  that  one  of  my 
 sheets  is  equal  to  two  of  yours ;  and  I  cannot  but  consider 
 this  is  a  kind  of  fallacious  deception,  for  you  always  think 
 that  your  letters  contain  so  much  more  than  mine  be- 
 cause they  occupy  more  room.  If  you  were  to  count  the 
 words,  the  difference  would  not  be  so  great.  You  must  also 
 take  in  account  the  unsealed  communications  to  periodical 
 works,  which  I  now  reckon  a  part  of  my  letter ;  and  there- 
 fore you  must  excuse  my  concluding  on  the  first  sheet,  by 
 assuring  you  that  I  still  remain 
 
 Your  friend  and  brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 P.  S.  A  postscript  is  a  natural  appendage  to  a  letter.  — 
 I  only  have  to  say,    that   positively   you  shall  receive  a 
 
80 
 
 six    or    eight  sheet  letter,    and  that  written  legibly,    ere 
 long. 
 
 TO    MR.  BOOTH. 
 
 Nottingham,  Aupiust  12th,  1801. 
 DEAR    SIR, 
 
 I  MUST  beg  leave  to  apologize  for  not  having  re- 
 turned my  sincere  acknowledgments  to  yourself  and  Mrs. 
 Booth,  for  your  very  acceptable  presents,  at  an  earlier 
 period,  I  now,  however,  acquit  myself  of  the  duty ;  and 
 assure  you,  that  from  both  of  the  works  I  have  received 
 much  gratification  and  edification,  but  more  particularly 
 from  one  on  the  Trinity*,  a  production  which  displays 
 much  erudition,  and  a  very  laudable  zeal  for  the  true 
 interests  of  religion.  Religious  polemics,  indeed,  have 
 seldom  formed  a  part  of  my  studies ;  though,  whenever 
 I  happened  accidentally  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the 
 subject  of  the  Protestant  doctrine  of  the  Godhead,  and 
 compared  it  with  Arian  and  Socinian,  many  doubts  inter- 
 fered, and  I  even  began  to  think  that  the  more  nicely 
 the  subject  was  investigated,  the  more  perplexed  it  would 
 appear,  and  was  on  the  point  of  forming  a  resolution  to 
 
 Jones  on  the  Trinity. 
 
81 
 
 ge  to  heaven  in  1113'  own  way,  without  meddling  or 
 involving  myself  in  the  inextricable  labyrinth  of  contro- 
 versial dispute,  when  I  received  and  perused  this  excel- 
 lent treatise,  which  finally  cleared  up  the  mists  which  my 
 ignorance  had  conjured  around  me,  and  clearly  pointed 
 out  the  real  truth.  The  intention  of  the  author  pre- 
 cluded the  possibility  of  his  employing  the  ornaments 
 and  graces  of  composition  in  his  work  ;  for  as  it  w^as 
 meant  for  all  ranks,  it  must  be  suited  to  all  capacities; 
 but  the  arguments  are  drawn  up  and  arranged  in  so 
 forcible  and  perspicuous  a  manner,  and  are  written  so 
 plainly,  yet  pleasingly,  that  I  was  absolutely  charmed 
 with  them. 
 
 The  "  Evangelical  Clergyman"  Is  a  very  smart  piece; 
 the  author  possesses  a  considerable  portion  of  sarcastic 
 spirit,  and  no  little  acrimony,  perhaps  not  consistent  with 
 the  Christian  meekness  which  he  wishes  to  inculcate.  1 
 consider,  however,  that  London  would  not  have  many 
 graces,  or  attractions,  if  despoiled  of  all  the  amusements 
 to  which,  in  one  part  of  his  pamphlet,  he  objects.  In 
 theory,  the  destruction  of  these  vicious  recreations  is 
 very  fine:  but  in  practice,  I  am  afraid  he  would  find  it 
 quite  different.  *  *  *  Xhe  other  parts  of  this 
 piece  are  very  just,  and  such  as  every  pei'son  must  sub- 
 scribe   to.       Clergymen,    in  general,   are    not  what    they 
 
 ought  to  be ;  and  I  think  Mr. has  pointed  out 
 
 their  duties  very  accurately.  But  I  am  afraid  I  shall  be 
 deemed  impertinent  and  tiresome,  in  troubling  you  with 
 ill-timed  and   obtrusive  opinions,  and   beg   leave,    there- 
 
 VOL.  I,  G 
 
82 
 
 fore,  to  conclude,  with  respects  to  yourself  and  Mrs. 
 Booth,  by  assuring  you  that  I  am,  according  to  custom 
 from  time  immemorial,  and  in  due  form. 
 
 Dear  Sir, 
 Your  obliged  humble  Servant, 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
 
 TO   MR.  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham, 1802. 
 
 DEAR    SIR, 
 
 I  AM  sure  you  will  excuse  me  for  not  having  immediately 
 answered  your  letter,  when  I  relate  the  cause.  —  I  was 
 preparing,  at  that  moment  when  I  received  yours,  a 
 volume  of  poems  for  the  press,  which  I  shall  shortly  see 
 published.  I  finished  and  sent  them  off  for  London  last 
 nio-ht ;  and  I  now  hasten  to  acknowledge  your  letter. 
 
 I  am  very  happy  that  any  poem  of  mine  should  meet 
 with  your  approbation.  I  prefer  the  cool  and  dispas- 
 sionate praise  of  the  discriminate^/^,  to  the  boisterous 
 applause  of  the  cr(md. 
 
 Our  professions  neither  of  them  leave  much  leisure 
 for  the  study  of  polite  literature;  I  myself  have,  how- 
 ever, coined  time,   if  you  will  allow  the  metaphor ;    and 
 
g<. 
 
 tj 
 
 while  I  have  made  such  a  proficiency  in  the  law,  as  has 
 ensured  me  the  regard  of  my  governots,  I  have  paid  my 
 secret  devoirs  to  the  ladies  of  Helicon.  My  draughts 
 at  the  "  fountain  Arethuse,"  it  is  true,  have  been  prin- 
 cipally made  at  the  hour  of  midnight,  when  even  the  guar- 
 dian nymphs  of  the  well  may  be  supposed  to  have  slept; 
 they  are,  consequently,  stolen  and  forced.  I  do  not  see 
 any  thing  in  the  confinement  of  our  situations,  in  the 
 mean  time,  which  should  separate  congenial  minds.  A 
 literary  acquaintance  is,  to  me,  always  valuable  ;  and  a 
 friend.,  whether  lettered  or  unlettered,  is  highly  worth 
 cultivation.  I  hope  we  shall  both  of  us  have  enough 
 leisure  to  keep  up  an  intimacy  which  began  veiy  agreeably 
 for  me,  and  has  been  suffered  to  decay  with  regret. 
 
 I  am  not  able  to  do  justice  to  your  unfortunate  friend 
 Gill ;  I  knew  him  only  superficially,  and  yet  I  saw  enough 
 of  his  unassuming  modesty,  and  simplicity  of  manners, 
 to  feel  a  conviction  that  he  had  a  valuable  heart.  The 
 verses  on  the  other  side  are  perhaps  beneath  mediocrity ; 
 they  are,  sincerely,  the  work  of  thirty  minutes  this  morning, 
 and  I  send  them  to  you  with  all  their  imperfections  on 
 their  head. 
 
 Perhaps  they  will  have  sufficient  merit  for  the  Notting- 
 ham paper ;  at  least  their  locality  will  shield  them  a  little 
 in  that  situation,  and  give  them  an  interest  they  do  not 
 otherwise  possess. 
 
 Do   you    think    calling    the    Naiads  of  the   fountains 
 
 Gr    2 
 
«  Nymphs  of  Paeon"  is  an  allowable  liberty  ?  The  allusion 
 is  to  their  healthy  and  bracing  qualities. 
 
 The  last  line  of  the  seventh  stanza  contains  an  apparent 
 pleonasm,  to  say  no  worse  of  it,  and  yet  it  was  not  written 
 as  such.  The  idea  was  from  the  shriek  of  Death  (personi- 
 fied) and  the  scream  of  the  dying  man. 
 
 ELEGY 
 
 Occasioned  hy  the  Death  of  Mr.  Gill,  who  was  drowned  in  the  River 
 Trent,  ivhile  bathing,  9th  August,  1802. 
 
 1. 
 He  sunk —  th'  impetuous  river  roll'd  along. 
 
 The  sullen  wave  betray' d  his  dying  breath*; 
 And  rising  sad  the  rustling  sedge  among, 
 
 The  gale  of  evening  touch'd  the  cords  of  death. 
 
 2. 
 
 Nymph  of  the  Trent !  why  didst  not  thou  appear 
 To  snatch  the  victim  from  thy  felon  wave ! 
 
 Alas !  too  late  thou  cam'st  to  embalm  his  bier, 
 And  deck  with  water-flags  his  early  grave. 
 
 *  This  line  may  appear  somewhat  obscure.  It  alludes  to  the  last 
 bubbhng  of  the  water,  after  a  person  has  sunk,  caused  by  the  final 
 expiration  of  the  air  from  the  lungs :  inhalation,  by  introducing  the 
 water,  produces  suffocation. 
 
85 
 
 5. 
 Triumphant,  riding  o'er  its  tumid  prey, 
 
 Rolls  the  red  stream  in  sanguinary  pride ; 
 While  anxious  crowds,  in  vain,  expectant  itay. 
 And  ask  the  swoln  corse  from  the  murdering  tide. 
 
 4. 
 The  stealing  tear-drop  stagnates  in  the  eye, 
 
 The  sudden  sigh  by  friendship's  bosom  provM, 
 I  mark  them  rise  —  I  mark  the  gen'ral  sigh ; 
 
 Unhappy  youth  !  and  wert  thou  so  belov'd  ? 
 
 5. 
 On  thee,  as  lone  I  trace  the  Trent's  green  brink, 
 
 When  the  dim  twilight  slumbers  on  the  glade; 
 On  thee  my  thoughts  shall  dwell,  nor  Fancy  shrink 
 
 To  hold  mysterious  converse  with  thy  shade. 
 
 6. 
 Of  thee,  as  early  I,  vnth  vagrant  feet. 
 
 Hail  the  grey-sandal'd  morn  in  Colwick's  vale, 
 Of  thee  my  sylvan  reed  shall  warble  sweet. 
 
 And  wild-wood  echoes  shall  repeat  the  tale. 
 
 7. 
 And,  oh  !  ye  nymphs  of  Paeon  !  who  preeide 
 
 O'er  running  rill  and  salutary  stream, 
 Guard  ye  in  future  well  the  halcyon  tide 
 
 From  the  rude  Death-shriek  and  the  dymg  scream. 
 
 ft  3 
 
86 
 
 TO  MR.  M.  HARRIS. 
 
 Nottingham,  28th  March,  1802. 
 DEAR  SIR, 
 
 I  WAS  greatly  surprised  at  your  letter  of  the  twenty- 
 seventh,  for  I  had  in  reality  given  you  up  for  lost.  I 
 should  long  smce  have  written  to  you,  in  answer  to  your 
 note  about  the  Lexicon,  but  was  perfectly  ignorant  of 
 the  place  of  your  abode.  For  any  thing  I  knew  to  the 
 contrary,  you  might  have  been  quaffing  the  juice  of  the 
 cocoa-nut  under  the  broad  bananes  of  the  Indies,  breath- 
 ing the  invigorating  air  of  liberty  in  the  broad  savannahs 
 of  America,  or  sweltering  beneath  the  line.  I  had,  how- 
 ever, even  then,  some  sort  of  a  presentiment  that  you 
 were  not  quite  so  far  removed  fi'om  our  foggy  atmo- 
 sphere, but  not  enough  to  prevent  me  from  being  asto- 
 nished at  finding  you  so  near  us  as  Leicester.  You  tell 
 me  I  must  not  ask  you  what  you  are  doing ;  I  am,  never- 
 theless, very  anxious  to  know ;  not  so  much,  I  flatter 
 myself,  from  any  inquisitiveness  of  spirit,  as  from  a  de- 
 sire to  hear  of  your  welfare.  Why,  my  friend,  did  you 
 leave  us  ?  possessing,  as  you  did,  if  not  exactly  the  otium 
 cum  dignitate,  something  very  like  it ;  having  every  com- 
 fort and  enjoyment  at  your  call,  which  the  philosophical 
 mind  can  find  pleasure  in ;  and,  above  all,  blessed  with 
 that  easy  competence,  that  sweet  independence,  which 
 renders  the  fatigues  of  employment  supportable,  and  even 
 agreeable. 
 
87 
 
 Quod  satis  est,  cui  contmgit,  nihil  amplius  optet* 
 Certainly,  to  a  man  of  your  disposition,  no  situation 
 could  have  more  charms  than  yours  at  the  Trent-Bridge, 
 I  regard  those  hours  which  I  spent  with  you  there,  while 
 the  moon-beam  was  trembling  on  the  waters,  and  the  harp 
 of  Eolus  was  giving  us  its  divine  swells  and  dying  falls,  as 
 the  most  sweetly  tranquil  of  my  life. 
 
 I  have  applied  myself  rather  more  to  Latin  than  to 
 Greek  since  you  left  us.  I  make  use  of  Schrevehus's 
 Lexicon,  but  shall  be  obliged  to  you  to  buy  me  the  Park- 
 hurst,  at  any  decent  price,  if  possible.  Can  you  tell  me 
 any  mode  of  joining  the  letters  in  writing  in  the  Greek 
 character ;  I  find  it  difficult  enough.  The  following  is  my 
 manner ;  is  it  right  ?  * 
 
 I  can  hardly  flatter  myself  that  you  will  give  yourself 
 the  trouble  of  corresponding  with  me,  as  all  the  advantage 
 would  be  on  my  side,  without  any  thing  to  compensate  for 
 it  on  yours ;  but  —  but  in  fact  I  do  not  know  what  to  say 
 further,  —  only,  that  whenever  you  shall  think  me  worthy 
 of  a  letter,  I  shall  be  highly  gratified. 
 
 *  The  few  Greek  words  which  followed  were  beautifully  written. 
 
 G  4 
 
88 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,   loth  Febi*uai-y,  1803. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 Now  with  regard  to  the  subscription,  I  shall  certainly 
 agree  to  this  mode  of  publication,  and  I  am  very  much 
 obliged  to  you  for  what  you  say  regarding  it.  But  we 
 must  wait  (except  among  your  private  friends)  until  we 
 get  Lady  Derby's  answer,  and  Proposals  are  printed.  I 
 think  we  shall  readily  raise  350,  though  Nottingham  is 
 the  worst  place  imaginable  for  any  thing  of  that  kind. 
 Even  envy  will  interfere.  I  shall  send  proposals  to  Ches- 
 terfield, to  my  uncle ;  to  Sheffield,  to  Miss  Gales's,  (book- 
 sellers,) whom  I  saw  at  Chesterfield,  and  who  have  lately 
 
 sent  me  a  pressing  invitation  to  S ,  accompanied  with 
 
 a  desire  of  Montgomery  (the  Poet  Paul  Positive)  to  see 
 me;  to  Newark  —  Allen  and  Wright,  my  friends  there, 
 (the  latter  a  bookseller  ;)  and  I  think  if  they  were  stitched 
 up  with  all  the  Monthly  Mirrors,  it  would  promote  the 
 subscription.  You  are  not  to  take  any  money;  that 
 would  be  absolute  begging:  the  subscribers  put  down 
 their  names,  and  pay  the  bookseller  of  whom  they  get 
 the  copy. 
 
89 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  lOth  March,  1803. 
 
 DEAR  NEVILLE, 
 
 I  AM  cured  of  patronage  hunting ;    I  will  not  expose 
 myself  to  any  more  similar  mortifications,  but  shall  thank 
 you  to  send  the  manuscripts  to  Mr.  Hill,  with  a  note, 
 stating  that  I  had  written  to  the  Duchess,   and  receiving 
 no   answer,    you   had    called,    and  been   informed  by  a 
 servant,  that  in  all  probability  she  never  read  the  letter,  as 
 she  desired  to  know  Xi^hat  the  book  was  left  there  for;  that 
 you  had,  in  consequence,  come  away  with  the  manuscripts, 
 under   a   conviction  that  your  brother  would   give  Her 
 Grace  no  fiirther  trouble.     State  also,   that  you  have  re- 
 ceived a  letter  from  me,  expressing  a  desire  that  the  pub- 
 lication  might    be    proceeded    on   without    any   further 
 solicitation  or  delay. 
 
 A  name  of  eminence  was,  nevertheless,  a  most  desirable 
 thing  to  me  in  Nottingham,  as  it  would  attach  more 
 respectability  to  the  subscription;  but  I  see  all  further 
 efforts  will  only  be  productive  of  procrastination. 
 
 I  think  you  may  as  well  begin  to  obtain  subscribers 
 amongst  friends  now,  though  the  proposals  may  not  be 
 issued  at  present. 
 
90 
 
 I  have  got  twenty-three,  without  making  the  affair 
 pubhc  at  all,  among  my  immediate  acquaintance:  and 
 mind,  I  neither  solicit  nor  draw  the  conversation  to  the 
 subject,  but  a  rumour  has  got  abroad,  and  has  been 
 received  more  favourably  than  I  expected. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  2d  May,  1803. 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 I  HAVE  just  gained  a  piece  of  intelligence  which 
 much  vexes  me.  Robinson,  the  bookseller,  knows  that 
 I  have  written  to  the  Duchess  of  Devonshire,  and  he 
 took  the  liberty  (certainly  an  unwarrantable  one)  to  men- 
 tion it  to  *  *  *,  whose  *  *  * 
 was  inscribed  to  Her  Grace.  Mr.  *  *  said,  that 
 unless  I  had  got  a  friend  to  deliver  the  poems,  personally^ 
 into  the  hands  of  Her  Grace,  it  was  a  hundred  to  one 
 that  they  ever  reached  her ;  that  the  porter  at  the  lodge 
 bums  scores  of  letters  and  packets  a  day,  and  particu- 
 larly all  letters  by  the  two-penny  post  are  consigned  to 
 the  fire.  The  rest,  if  they  are  net  particularly  excepted, 
 as  inscribed  with  a  pass  name  on  the  back,  are  thrown 
 into  a  closet,  to  be  reclaimed  at  leisure.  He  said,  the 
 way  he  proceeded  was  this :  —  He  left    his  card  at  her 
 
91 
 
 door,  and  the  next  day  called,  and  was  admitted.  Her 
 Grace  then  gave  him  permission,  with  this  proviso,  that 
 the  dedication  was  as  short  as  possible,  and  contained  no 
 compliments,  as  the  Duke  had  taken  offence  at  some  such 
 compliments. 
 
 Now,  as  my  letter  was  delivered  by  you  at  the  door,  I 
 have  scarcely  a  doubt  that  it  is  classed  with  the  penny- 
 post  letters,  and  burnt.  If  my  manuscripts  are  destroyed, 
 I  am  ruined,  but  I  hope  it  is  otherwise.  However,  I 
 think  you  had  better  call  immediately,  and  ask  for  a  par- 
 cel of  Mr.  H.  White,  of  Nottingham.  They  will,  of 
 course,  say  they  have  no  such  parcel ;  and  then,  perhaps, 
 you  may  have  an  opportunity  of  asking  whether  a  packet, 
 left  in  the  manner  you  left  mine,  had  any  probability 
 of  reaching  the  Duchess.  If  you  obtain  no  satisfaction, 
 there  remains  no  way  of  re-obtaining  my  volume  but 
 this  (and  I  fear  you  will  never  agree  to  put  it  in  exe- 
 cution) ;  to  leave  a  card,  with  your  name  inscribed,  (Mr. 
 J.  N.  White,)  and  call  the  next  day.  If  you  are  admitted, 
 you  will  state  to  Her  Grace  the  purport  of  your  errand, 
 ask  for  a  volume  of  poems  in  manuscript,  sent  by  your 
 brother  a  fortnight  ago,  with  a  letter,  (say  from  Notting- 
 ham, as  a  reason  why  I  do  not  wait  on  her,)  requesting 
 permission  of  dedication  to  her ;  and  that  as  you  found 
 Her  Grace  had  not  received  them,  you  had  taken  the 
 liberty,  after  many  enquiries  at  her  door,  to  request  to  see 
 her  in  person. 
 
 I  hope  your  diffidence  will  not  be  put  to  this  test ;    I 
 
92 
 
 hope  you  will  get  the  poems  without  trouble :  as  for  beg- 
 ging patronage,  I  am  tired  to  the  soul  of  it,  and  shall  give 
 it  up. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 1805. 
 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 L  WRITE  you,  with  intelligence  of  a  very  important 
 nature.  You  some  time  ago  had  an  intimation  of  my 
 wish  to  enter  the  church,  in  case  my  deafness  was  not 
 removed.  —  About  a  week  ago  I  became  acquainted  with 
 the  Rev. ,  late  of  St.  John's  College,  Cam- 
 bridge, and  in  consequence  of  what  he  has  said,  I  have 
 finally  determined  to  enter  myself  of  Trinity  College, 
 Cambridge,  with  the  approbation  of  aU  my  fiiends. 
 
 Mr. says  that  it  is  a  shame  to  keep  me  away 
 
 from  the  university,  and  that  circumstances  are  of  no 
 importance.  He  says,  that  if  I  am  entered  of  Trinity, 
 where  they  are  all  select  men,  I  must  necessarilT/,  with  my 
 abilities,  arrive  at  preferment.  He  says  he  will  be  an- 
 swerable that  the  first  year  I  shall  obtain  a  scholai^hip, 
 or  an  exhibition   adequate  to   my  support.     That  by  the 
 
93 
 
 time  I  have  been  of  five  years'  standing,  I  shall  of  course 
 become  a  Fellow  (200l.  a-year);  that  with  the  Fellow- 
 ship I  may  hold  a  Professorship,  (5001.  per  annum,)  and 
 a  living  or  curacy,  until  better  preferments  occur.  He 
 says,  that  there  is  no  uncertainty  in  the  church  to  a  truly 
 pious  man,  and  a  man  of  abilities  and  eloquence.  That 
 those  who  are  unprovided  for,  are  generally  men  who, 
 having  no  interest,  are  idle  drones,  or  dissolute  de- 
 bauchees, and  therefore  ought  not  to  expect  advance- 
 ment. That  a  poet,  in  particular,  has  the  means  of  pa- 
 tronage in  his  pen :  and  that,  in  one  word,  no  young 
 man  can  enter  the  church  (except  he  be  of  family)  with 
 better  prospects  than  myself  On  the  other  hand,  Mr. 
 Enfield  has  himself  often  observed,  that  my  deafness 
 will  be  an  insuperable  obstacle  to  me  as  an  attorney,  and 
 has  said  how  unfortunate  a  thing  it  was  for  me  not  to 
 have  known  of  the  growing  defect,  in  my  organs  of 
 liearing,  before  I  articled  myself.  Under  these  circum- 
 stances, I  conceive  I  should  be  culpable  did  I  let  go  so 
 
 good    an    opportunity   as    now  occurs.     Mr. • 
 
 will  write  to  all  his  university  friends,  and  he  says  there 
 is  so  much  Hberality  there,  that  they  will  never  let  a 
 yomig  man  of  talents  be  turned  ti:*om  his  studies  by  want  of 
 cash. 
 
 Yesterday  I  spoke  to  Mr.  Enfield,  and  he,  with  un- 
 exampled generosity,  said  that  he  saw  clearly  what  an  ad- 
 vantageous thing  it  would  be  for  me;  that  I  must  be 
 sensible  what  a  great  loss  he  and  Mr.  Coldham  would 
 suffer;    but    that   he   was    certain   neither  he,   nor   Mr. 
 
94 
 
 -,  could  oppose  themselves  to  any  thing  which 
 
 was  so  much  to  my  advantage.     When  Mr.  C 
 
 returns  from  London,  the  matter  will  be  settled  with  my 
 mother. 
 
 All  my  mother's  friends  seem  to  think  this  an  excellent 
 thing  for  me,  and  will  do  all  in  their  power  to  forward 
 me. 
 
 Now  we  come  to  a  very  important  part  of  the  business  — 
 the  means,  I  shall  go  with  my  friend  Robert,  in  the  capa- 
 city of  Sizar ^  to  whom  the  expense  is  not  more  than  60l. 
 per  annum.  Towards  this  sum  my  mother  will  contribute 
 201.,  being  what  she  allows  me  now  for  clothes ;  (by  this 
 means  she  will  save  my  board :)  and,  for  the  residue,  I 
 must  trust  to  getting  a  Scholarship,  or  Chapel  Clerk's  post. 
 But,  in  order  to  make  this  residue  cei^tain^  I  shall,  at  the 
 expiration  of  twelve  months,  publish  a  second  volume  of 
 poems  by  subscription. 
 
 My  friend,   Mr.  < says,  that  so  far  as  his  means 
 
 will  go,  I  shall  never  ask  assistance  in  vain.  He  has  but 
 a  small  income,  though  of  great  family.  He  has  just 
 lost  two   rectories   by  scruples   of  conscience,    and   now 
 
 preaches   at  ^— for    801.    a -year.      The   following 
 
 letter  he  put  into  my  hand  as  I  was  leaving  him,  after 
 having  breakfasted  with  him  yesterday.  He  put  it  into 
 my  hand,  and  requested   me   not  to  read   it  until  I  got 
 
95 
 
 home.     It  is  a  breach  of  trust  letting  you  see  it,  but  I 
 wish  you  to  know  his  character. 
 
 "  My  dear  Sir, 
 "  I  sincerely  wish  I  had  it  in  my  power  to  render  you 
 "  any  essential  service,  to  facilitate  your  passing  through 
 "  College :  beheve  me,  I  have  the  mil,  but  not  the  means. 
 "  Should  the  enclosed  be  of  any  service,  either  to  pur- 
 "  chase  books,  or  for  other  pocket  expenses,  I  request 
 "  your  acceptance  of  it;  but  must  entreat  you  not  to 
 "  notice  it,  either  to  myself,  or  any  living  creature.  I  pray 
 "  God  that  you  may  employ  those  talents  that  he  has 
 "  given  you  to  his  glory,  and  to  the  benefit  of  his  people. 
 "  I  have  great  fears  for  you ;  the  temptations  of  College 
 "  are  great.     BeHeve  me 
 
 "  Very  sincerely  yours, 
 
 The  enclosure  was  21.  2s.  I  could  not  refuse  what  was 
 so  delicately  offered,  though  I  was  sorry  to  take  it ;  he  is 
 truly  an  amiable  character. 
 
96 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 1 80.3. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 You  may  conceive  with  what  emotions  I  read  your 
 brotherly  letter;  I  feel  a  very  great  degree  of  aversion 
 to  burthening  my  family  any  more  than  I  have  done,  and 
 now  do;  but  an  oiFer  so  delicate  and  affectionate  I  can- 
 not refuse,  and  if  I  should  need  pecuniary  assistance, 
 which  I  am  in  hopes  I  shall  not,  at  least  after  the  jirst 
 year^  I  shall  without  a  moment's  hesitation  apply  to  my 
 brother  Neville. 
 
 My  college  schemes  yet  remain  in  a  considerable  degree 
 of  uncertainty ;  I  am  very  uneasy  thereabouts.  I  have 
 not  heard  from  Cambridge  yet,  and  it  is  very  doubtful 
 whether  there  be  a  vacant  Sizarship  in  Trinity :  so  that  I 
 can  write  you  no  further  information  on  this  head. 
 
 I  suppose  you  have  seen  my  review  in  this  month's 
 Mirror,  and  that  I  need  not  comment  upon  it;  such  a  re- 
 view I  neither  expected,  nor  in  fact  deserve. 
 
 I  shall  not  send  up  the  Mirror  this  month,  on  this  ac- 
 count, as  it  is  policy  to  keep  it ;  and  you  have,  no  doubt, 
 received  one  from  Mr.  Hill. 
 
 i6 
 
97 
 
 The  errors  in  the  Greek  quotation  I  perceived  the 
 moment  I  got  down  the  first  copies,  and  altered  them,  in 
 most,  with  the  pen ;  they  are  very  unlucky ;  I  have  sent  up 
 the  copies  for  the  reviews  myself,  in  order  that  I  might 
 make  the  correction  in  them. 
 
 I  have  got  now  to  write  letters  to  all  the  reviewers,  and 
 hope  you  will  excuse  my  abrupt  conclusion  of  this  letter  on 
 that  score. 
 
 I  am. 
 
 Dear  Neville, 
 
 Affectionately  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 I  shall  write  to  Mr.  Hill  now  the  first  thing ;  I  owe 
 much  to  him. 
 
 TO   MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham,  — 
 
 And  now,  my  dear  Ben,  I  must  confess  your  letter 
 gave  me  much  pain ;  there  is  a  tone  of  despondence  in 
 it  which  I  must  condemn,  inasmuch  as  it  is  occasioned 
 by  circumstances  which  do  not  involve   your  own  exer- 
 
 VOL.  I.  H 
 
98 
 
 tions,  but  which  are  utterly  independent  of  yourself:    if 
 you  do  your  duty,  why  lament  that  it  is  not  productive  ? 
 In  whatever  situation  we  may  be  placed,  there  is  a  duty 
 we  owe  to  God  and  religion :  it  is  resignation ;  —  nay,  I 
 may  say,   contentment.      All  things  are  in  the  hands  of 
 God ;  and  shall  we  mortals  (if  we  do  not  absolutely  repine 
 at  his  dispensations)  be  fretful  under  them  ?     I  do  beseech 
 you,  my  dear  Ben,  summon  up  the  Christian  within  you, 
 and  steeled  with  holy  fortitude  go  on  your  way  rejoicing  ! 
 There  is  a  species  of  morbid  sensibility  to  which  I  myself 
 have  often  been  a  victim,  which  preys  upon  my  heart,  and, 
 without  giving  birth  to  one  actively  useful  or  benevolent 
 feeling,  does  but  brood  on  selfish  sorrows,  and  magnify  its 
 own  misfortunes.      The  evils  of  such  a  sensibility,  I  pray 
 to  God  you  may  never  feel ;  but  I  would  have  you  beware, 
 for  it  grows  on  persons  of  a  certain  disposition  before  they 
 are  aware  of  it. 
 
 I  am  sorry  my  letter  gave  you  pain,  and  I  trust  my 
 suspicions  were  without  foundation.  Time,  my  dear  Ben, 
 is  the  discoverer  of  hearts,  and  I  feel  a  sweet  confidence 
 that  he  will  knit  ours  yet  more  closely  together. 
 
 I  believe  my  lot  in  life  is  nearly  fixed;  a  month  will 
 tell  me  whether  I  am  to  be  a  minister  of  Christ,  in  the 
 established  church,  or  out.  One  of  the  two,  I  am  now 
 finally  resolved,  if  it  please  God,  to  be.  I  know  my 
 own  unworthiness  :  I  feel  deeply  that  I  am  far  fi-om 
 being  that  pure  and  undefiled  temple  of  the  Holy  Ghost 
 that  a  minister  of  the  word  of  life  ought  to  be,  yet  still  I 
 
99 
 
 liave  an  unaccountable  hope  that  the  Lord  will  sanctify  my 
 efforts,  that  he  will  purify  me,  and  that  I  shall  become  his 
 devoted  servant. 
 
 I  am  at  present  under  afflictions  and  contentions  of 
 spirit,  heavier  than  I  have  yet  ever  experienced.  I  think, 
 at  times,  I  am  mad,  and  destitute  of  religion.  My  pride 
 is  not  yet  subdued  :  the  unfavourable  review  (in  the 
 ^'  Monthly")  of  my  unhappy  work,  has  cut  deeper  than 
 you  could  have  thought ;  not  in  a  literary  point  of  view, 
 but  as  it  affects  my  respectability.  It  represents  me 
 actually  as  a  beggar,  going  about  gathering  money  to 
 put  myself  at  college,  when  my  book  is  worthless ;  and 
 this  with  every  appearance  of  candour.  They  have  been 
 sadly  misinformed  respecting  me  :  this  Review  goes 
 before  me  wherever  I  turn  my  steps ;  it  haunts  me  inces- 
 santly, and  I  am  persuaded  it  is  an  instrument  in  the  hands 
 of  Satan  to  drive  me  to  distraction.  I  7nnst  leave  Notting- 
 ham. If  the  answer  of  the  Elland  Society  be  unfavour- 
 able, I  purpose  writing  to  the  Marquis  of  Wellesley,  to 
 offer  myself  as  a  student  at  the  academy  he  has  instituted 
 at  Fort  William,  in  Bengal,  and  at  the  proper  age  to  take 
 orders  there.  The  missionaries  at  that  place  have  done 
 wonders  already,  and  I  should,  I  hope,  be  a  valuable 
 labourer  in  the  vineyard.  If  the  Marquis  take  no  notice 
 of  my  application,  or  do  not  accede  to  my  proposal, 
 I  shall  place  myself  in  some  other  way  of  making  a 
 meet  preparation  for  the  holy  office,  either  in  the 
 Calvinistic    Academy,   or  in   one  of  the    Scotch  Univer- 
 
 u  2 
 
100 
 
 sities,  wliere  I  shall  be  able  to  live  at  scarcely  any  ex- 
 pense. * 
 
 TO   MR.  R.  A- 
 
 Nottingham,  18th  April,  1804, 
 MY    DEAR    ROBERT, 
 
 I  HAVE  just  received  your  letter.  Most  fervently  do  I 
 return  thanks  to  God  for  this  providential  opening ;  it  has 
 breathed  new  animation  into  me,  and  my  breast  expands 
 with  the  prospect  of  becoming  the  minister  of  Christ 
 where  I  most  desired  it;  but  where  I  almost  feared  all 
 probability  of  success  was  nearly  at  an  end.  Indeed,  I 
 had  begun  to  turn  my  thoughts  to  the  dissenters,  as 
 people  of  whom  I  was  destined,  not  by  choice,  but  neces- 
 sity, to  become  the  pastor.  Still,  although  I  knew  I  should 
 be  happy  any  where,  so  that  I  were  a  profitable  labourer 
 in  the  vineyard,  I  did,  by  no  means,  feel  that  calm,  that 
 indescribable  satisfaction  which  I  do,  when  I  look  toward 
 that  church,  which  I  think,  in  the  main,  formed  on  the 
 apostolic  model,  and  from  which  I  am  decidedly  of  opi- 
 nion there  is  no  positive  grounds  for  dissent.  I  return 
 thanks  to  God  for  keeping  me  so  long  in  ^suspense,  for  I 
 
 *  This  letter  was  not  seen  by  the  Editor   till  after  the  prefatory 
 memoir  was  printed. 
 
101 
 
 know  it  has  been  beneficial  to  my  soul,  and  I  feel  a  con- 
 siderable trust  that  the  way  is  now  about  to  be  made 
 clear,  and  that  my  doubts  and  fears  on  this  head  will, 
 in  due  time,  be  removed. 
 
 Could  I  be  admitted  to  St.  John's,  I  conclude,  from 
 what  I  have  heard,  that  my  provision  would  be  adequate, 
 not  otherwise.  From  my  mother  I  could  depend  on  1 5  or 
 20l.  a-year,  if  she  live,  toward  college  expenses,  and  I 
 could  spend  the  long  vacation  at  home.  The  20l.  per 
 annum  from  my  brother  would  suffice  for  clothes,  &c. ;  so 
 that  if  I  could  procure  201.  a-year  more,  as  you  seem  to 
 think  I  may,  by  the  kindness  of  Mr.  Marty n,  I  conceive  I 
 might,  with  economy,  be  supported  at  college ;  of  this, 
 however,  you  are  the  best  judge. 
 
 You  may  conceive  how  much  I  feel  obliged  by  Mr. 
 Martyn  on  this  head,  as  well  as  to  you,  for  your  un- 
 wearying exertions.  Truly,  fiuends  have  risen  up  to  me  in 
 quarters  where  I  could  not  have  expected  them,  and  they 
 have  been  raised,  as  it  were,  by  the  finger  of  God.  I  have 
 reason,  above  all  men,  to  be  grateful  to  the  Father  of  all 
 mercies  for  his  loving-kindness  towards  me ;  surely  no  one 
 can  have  had  more  experience  of  the  fatherly  concern  with 
 which  God  watches  over,  protects,  and  succours,  his 
 chosen  seed,  than  I  have  had ;  and  surely  none  could  have 
 less  expected  such  a  manifestation  of  his  grace,  and  none 
 could  have  less  merited  its  continuance. 
 
 H  3 
 
102 
 
 In  pursuance  of  your  injunction,  I  shall  lay  aside  Gro- 
 tius,  and  take  up  Cicero  and  Livy,  or  Tacitus.  In  Greek 
 I  must  rest  contented  for  the  ensuing  fourteen  days  with 
 the  Testament;  I  shall  then  have  conquered  the  gospels, 
 and,  if  things  go  on  smoothly,  the  4cts.  I  shall  then  read 
 Homer,  and  perhaps  Plato's  Phaedon,  which  I  lately 
 picked  up  at  a  stall.  My  classical  knowledge  is  very  super- 
 ficial ;  it  has  very  little  depth  or  solidity ;  but  I  have  really 
 so  small  a  portion  of  leisure,  that  I  wonder  at  the  progress- 
 I  do  make,  I  beheve  I  must  copy  the  old  divines, 
 in  rising  at  four  o'clock:  for  my  evenings  are  so  much 
 taken  up  with  visiting  the  sick,  and  with  young  men  who 
 come  for  religious  conversation,  that  there  is  but  little  time 
 for  study. 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham,  24th  April,  1804, 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 Truly  I  am  grieved,  that  whenever  I  undertake  to  be 
 the  messenger  of  glad  tidings,  I  should  frustrate  my  own 
 design,  and  communicate  to  my  good  intelligence  a  taint 
 of  sadness,  as  it  were  by  contagion.  Most  joyfully  did  I 
 sit  down  to  write  my  last,  as  I  knew  I  had  wherewith  to 
 administer  comfort  to  you ;  and  yet,  after  all,  I  find  that, 
 by  gloomy  anticipations,  I  have  converted  my  balsam  into 
 
103 
 
 bitterness,  and  have  by  no  means  imparted  that  unmixed 
 pleasure  which  I  wished  to  do. 
 
 Forebodings  and  dismal  calculations  are,  I  am  convinced, 
 very  useless,    and   I    think   very  pernicious   speculations 
 — "  Sufficient   for  the  day  is    the   evil  thereof."  —  And 
 yet  how  apt  are  we,   when  imminent  trials  molest  us,  to 
 increase  the  burden  by  melancholy  ruminations  on  future 
 evils  !  —  evils  which  exist  only  in  our  own  imaginations  — 
 and  which,  should  they  be  realised,  will  certainly  arrive 
 in  time  to  oppress  us  sufficiently,  without  our  adding  to 
 their  existence  by  previous  apprehension,  and  thus  volun- 
 tarily incurring  the  penalty  of  misfortunes  yet  in  perspec- 
 tive, and  trials  yet  unborn.     Let  us  guard,  then,  I  beseech 
 you,  against  these  ungrateful  divinations  into  the  womb 
 of  futurity  —  we  know  our  affairs  are  in  the  hands  of  one 
 who  has  wisdom  to  do  for  us  beyond  our  narrow  prudence, 
 and  we    cannot,  by  taking   thought,    avoid    any  afflictive 
 dispensation  which   God's  providence  may  have  in  store 
 for   us.      Let  us  therefore   enjoy   with   thankfulness   the 
 present  sunshine,  without  adverting  to  the  common  storm. 
 Few  and  transitory  are  the  intervals  of  calm  and  settled 
 day  with  which  we  are  cheered  in  the  tempestuous  voyage 
 of  life ;    we  ought  therefore    to   enjoy  them,   while   they 
 last,  with  unmixed  delight,  and  not  turn  the  blessing  into 
 a  curse  by  lamenting   that  it  cannot   endure  without  in- 
 terruption.     We,  my  beloved  friend,  are  united  in  our 
 affections  by  no  common  bands  —  bands  which,  I  trust,  are 
 too  strong  to  be  easily  dissevered  —  yet  we  know  not  what 
 
 H   i 
 
104 
 
 God  may  intend  with  respect  to  us,  nor  have  we  any 
 business  to  enquire  —  we  should  rely  on  the  mercy  of  our 
 Father,  who  is  in  heaven  —  and  if  we  are  to  anticipate,  we 
 should  hope  the  best.  I  stand  self-accused  therefore  for 
 my  prurient,  and,  I  may  say,  iyreligious  fears.  A  prudent 
 foresight,  as  it  may  guard  us  from  many  impending  dan- 
 gers, is  laudable ;  but  a  morbid  propensity  to  seize  and 
 brood  over  future  ills,  is  agonizing,  while  it  is  utterly 
 useless,  and  therefore  ought  to  be  repressed. 
 
 I  have  received  intelligence,  since  writing  the  above, 
 which  nearly  settles  my  future  destination.  A in- 
 forms me  that  Mr.  Martyn,  a  fellow  of  St.  John's,  has 
 about  20l.  a -year  to  dispose  of  towards  keeping  a  reli- 
 gious man  at  college  —  and  he  seems  convinced  that  if  my 
 mother  allows  me  20l.  a-year  more,  I  may  live  at  St.  Jo/m^s 
 provided  I  could  gain  admittance,  which,  at  that  college,  is 
 difficult,  unless  you  have  previously  stood  in  the  list  for 
 a  year.  Mr.  Martyn  thinks,  if  I  propose  myself  imme- 
 diately, I  shall  get  upon  the  foundation,  and  by  this 
 day's  post  I  have  transmitted  testimonials  of  my  classical 
 acquirements.  In  a  few  days,  therefore,  I  hope  to  hear 
 that  I  am  on  the  boards  of  St,  John's. 
 
 Mr.  Dashwood  has  informed  me,  that  he  also  has 
 received  a  letter  from  a  gentleman,  a  magistrate  near  Cam- 
 bridge, offering  me  all  the  assistance  in  his  power  towards 
 getting  through  college,  so  as  there  be  no  obligation.  My 
 way  therefore  is  now  pretty  clear. 
 
105 
 
 I  have  just  risen  from  my  knees,  returning  thanks  to  our 
 heavenly  Father  for  this  providential  opening  —  my  heart 
 is  quite  full.  Help  me  to  be  grateful  to  him,  and  pray  that 
 I  may  be  a  faithful  minister  of  his  word. 
 
 TO   HIS    BROTHER   NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham, 
 
 .    MY    DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  SIT  down  with  unfeigned  pleasure  to  write,  in  com« 
 pliance  widi  your  request,  diat  I  would  explain  to  you 
 the  real  doctrines  of  the  Church  of  England,  or,  what  is 
 die  same  thing,  of  the  Bible.  The  subject  is  most  im- 
 portant, inasmuch  as  it  affects  that  part  of  man  which  is 
 incorrupdble,  and  which  must  exist  for  ever— his  souL 
 When  God  made  the  brute  creation,  he  merely  embodied 
 the  dust  of  the  earth,  and  gave  it  the  power  of  locomotion, 
 or  of  moving  about,  and  of  existing  in  a  certain  sphere.  In 
 order  to  afford  mute  animals  a  rule  of  action,  by  which 
 they  might  be  kept  alive,  he  implanted  in  them  certain 
 instincts,  from  which  they  can  never  depart.  Such  is 
 that  of  self-preservation,  and  the  selection  of  proper  food. 
 But  he  not  only  endued  man  widi  these  powers,  but  he 
 gave  him  mi?id,  or  spirit  — a  fhculty  which  enables  him  to 
 ruminate  on  the  objects  which  he  does  not  see—  to  com- 
 pare impressions  —  to  invent  — and  to  feel  pleasure  and 
 
106 
 
 pain,  when  their  causes  are  either  gone  or  past,  or  lie  in 
 the  future.  This  is  what  constitutes  the  human  soul.  It 
 is  an  immaterial  essence  —  no  one  knows  what  it  consists 
 of,  or  where  it  resides ;  the  brain  and  the  heart  are  the 
 organs  which  it  most  seems  to  affect ;  but  it  would  be 
 absurd  to  infer  therefrom,  that  the  material  organs  of 
 the  heart  and  the  brain  constitute  the  soul,  seeing  that 
 the  impressions  of  the  mind  sometimes  affect  one  organ 
 and  sometimes  the  other.  Thus,  when  any  of  the  pas- 
 sions —  love,  hope,  fear,  pleasure,  or  pain,  are  excited,  we 
 feel  them  at  our  heart.  When  we  discuss  a  topic  of  cool 
 reasoning,  the  process  is  carried  on  in  the  brain  ;  yet  both 
 parts  are  in  a  greater  or  less  degree  acted  upon  on  all 
 occasions,  and  we  may  therefore  conclude,  that  the  soul 
 resides  in  neither  individually,  but  is  an  immaterial  spirit, 
 which  occasionally  impresses  the  one,  and  occasionally 
 the  other.  That  the  soul  is  immaterial,  has  been  proved 
 to  a  mathematical  demonstration.  When  we  strike,  we 
 lift  up  our  arm  —  when  we  walk,  we  protrude  our  legs 
 alternately  —  but  when  we  think,  we  move  no  organ  :  the 
 reason  depends  on  no  action  of  matter,  but  seems  as  it 
 were  to  hover  over  us,  to  regulate  the  machine  of  our 
 bodies,  and  to  meditate  and  speculate  on  things  abstract 
 as  well  as  simple,  extraneous  as  well  as  connected  with 
 our  individual  welfare,  without  having  any  bond  which 
 can  unite  it  with  our  gross  corporeal  bodies.  The  flesh 
 is  like  the  temporary  tabernacle  which  the  soul  inhabits, 
 governs,  and  regulates ;  but  as  it  does  not  consist  in  any 
 organization  of  matter,  our  bodies  may  die,  and  return 
 to  the  dust  from  whence  they  were  taken,  while  our  souls — 
 
 3 
 
107 
 
 incorporeal  essences  —  are  incapable  of  death  and  anni-' 
 hilation.  The  spirit  is  that  portion  of  God's  own  im- 
 mortal nature,  which  he  breathed  into  our  clay  at  our 
 birth,  and  which  therefore  cannot  be  destroyed,  but  will 
 continue  to  exist  when  its  earthly  habitation  is  mingled 
 with  its  parent  dust.  We  must  admit,  therefore,  what  all 
 ages  and  nations,  savage  as  well  as  civihzed,  have  ac- 
 knowledged, that  we  have  souls,  and  that,  as  they  are 
 incorporeal,  they  do  not  die  with  our  bodies,  but  are 
 necessarily  immortal.  The  question  then  naturally  arises, 
 what  becomes  of  them  after  death  ?  Here  man  of  his 
 own  wisdom  must  stop :  —  but  God  has  thought  fit,  in 
 his  mercy,  to  reveal  to  us  in  a  great  measure  the  secret 
 of  our  natures,  and  in  the  Holy  Scriptures  we  find  a 
 plain  and  intelligible  account  of  the  purposes  of  our 
 existence,  and  the  things  we  have  to  expect  in  the  world  to 
 come.  And  here  I  shall  just  remark,  that  the  authen- 
 ticity and  divine  inspiration  of  Moses  are  established 
 beyond  a  doubt,  and  that  no  learned  man  can  possibly 
 deny  their  authority.  Over  all  nations,  even  among  the 
 savages  of  America,  cut  out  as  it  were  from  the  eastern 
 world,  there  are  traditions  extant  of  the  flood,  of  Noah, 
 Moses,  and  other  patriarchs,  by  names  which  come  so  near 
 the  proper  ones,  as  to  remove  all  doubt  of  their  identity. 
 You  know  mankind  is  continually  increasing  in  number ; 
 and  consequently,  if  you  make  a  calculation  backwards,  the 
 numbers  must  continue  lessening  and  lessening,  until  yoo 
 come  to  a  point  where  there  was  only  one  man.  Well, 
 according  to  the  most  probable  calculation,  this  point  will 
 be  found  to  be  about  5,800  years  back,  viz.  the  time  of  the 
 
108 
 
 creation,  making  allowance  for  the  flood.  Moreover,  there 
 are  appearances  upon  the  surface  of  the  globe,  which  denote 
 the  manner  in  which  it  was  founded,  and  the  process  thus 
 developed  will  be  found  to  agree  very  exactly  with  the 
 Jigurative  account  of  Moses.  —  (Of  this  I  shall  treat  in  a 
 subsequent  letter.)  —  Admitting  then,  that  the  books  of  the 
 Pentateuch  were  written  by  divine  inspiration,  we  see  laid 
 before  us  the  whole  history  of  our  race,  and,  including  the 
 Prophets,  and  the  New  Testament,  the  whole  scheme  of 
 our  future  existence :  we  learn,  in  the  first  place,  that  God 
 created  man  in  a  state  of  perfect  happiness,  that  he  was 
 placed  in  the  midst  of  every  thing  that  could  delight  the 
 eye,  or  fascinate  the  mind,  and  that  he  had  only  one  com- 
 mand imposed  upon  him,  which  he  was  to  keep  under  the 
 penalty  of  death.  This  command  God  has  been  pleased 
 to  cover  to  our  eyes  with  impenetrable  obscurity.  Moses, 
 in  the  figurative  language  of  the  East,  calls  it  eating  the 
 fruit  of  the  Tree  of  Knowledge  of  Good  and  Evil.  But 
 this  we  can  understand,  that  man  rebelled  against  the  com- 
 mand of  his  Maker,  and  plunged  himself  by  that  crime 
 from  a  state  of  bliss  to  a  state  of  sorrow,  and  in  the  end,  of 
 death.  —  By  death  here  is  meant,  the  exclusion  of  the  soul 
 from  future  happiness.  It  followed,  that  if  Adam  fell  from 
 bliss,  his  posterity  must  fall,  for  the  fruit  must  be  like  the 
 parent  stock  ;  and  a  man  made  as  it  were  dead,  must  like- 
 wise bring  forth  children  under  the  same  curse.  —  Evil 
 cannot  beget  good. 
 
 But  the  benign  Father  of  the  universe  had  pity  upon 
 Adam  and  his  posterity,  and,  knowing  the  frailty  of  our 
 
109 
 
 nature,  he  did  not  wish  to  assume  the  whole  terrors  of 
 his  just  vengeance.     Still  God  is  a  being  who  is  infinitely 
 just,  as  well  as  infinitely  merciful^  and  therefore  his  de- 
 crees are   not   to  be    dispensed   with,    and  his   offended 
 justice   must  have  expiation.     The  case  of  mankind  was 
 deplorable ;  —  myriads  yet  unborn  were  implicated  by  the 
 crime  of  their  common  progenitor  in  general  ruin.     But 
 the  mercy  of  God  prevailed,  and  Jesus  Christ,  the  Mes- 
 sias,    of  whom    all    ages    talked  before   he   came   down 
 amongst  men,    offered   himself  up    as   an  atonement   for 
 man's   crimes.  —  The    Son    of  God   himself,    infinite    in 
 mercy,  offered  to  take  up  the  human  form,   to  undergo 
 the  severest  pains  of  human  life,  and  the  severest  pangs 
 of  death ;  he  offered  to  lie  under  the  power  of  the  grave 
 for  a  certain  period,  and,  in  a  word,  to  sustain  all  the 
 punishment  of  our  primitive  disobedience  in  the  stead  of 
 man.     The  atonement  was  infinite,  because  God's  justice 
 is  infinite ;  and  nothing  but  such  an  atonement  could  have 
 saved  the  fallen  race. 
 
 The  death  of  Christ  then  takes  away  the  stain  of  ori- 
 ginal sin,  and  gives  man  at  least  the  power  of  attaining 
 eternal  bliss.  Still  our  salvation  is  conditional,  and  we 
 have  certain  requisitions  to  comply  with  ere  we  can  be 
 secure  of  heaven.  —  The  next  question  then  is.  What  are 
 the  conditions  on  which  we  are  to  be  saved  ?  The  word 
 of  God  here  comes  in  again  in  elucidation  of  our  duty : 
 the  chief  point  insisted  upon  is,  that  we  should  keep 
 God's  Law  contained  in  the  Ten  Commandments ;  but  as 
 -the  omission  or  breach  of  one  article  of  the  twelve  tables 
 
no 
 
 JS 
 
 a  crime  just   of  as  great   magnitude  as   the   original 
 sin,  and  entails  the  penalty  on  us  as  much  as  if  we  had 
 infringed  the  whole,  God,  seeing  our  frailty,  provided  a 
 means  of  effecting  our  salvation,  in  which  nothing  should 
 be  required  of  us  but  reliance  on  his  truth.  —  God  sent 
 the  Saviour  to   bear  the  weight  of  our   sins ;    he,   there- 
 fore, requires  us  to   believe  implicitly,    that  through  his 
 blood   we   shall  be  accepted.      This  is  the   succedaneum 
 which  he  imposed  in  lieu  of  the  observance  of  the  moral 
 law.     Faith  !    Believe,  and  ye  shall  be  saved.  —  He 
 requires  from  us  to  throw  ourselves  upon  the  Redeemer, 
 to  look  for  acceptance  through  him  alone,  to  regard  our- 
 selves as  depraved,  debased,  fallen  creatures,  who  can  do 
 nothing  worthy  in  his  sight,  and  who  only  hope  for  mercy 
 through   the    Lord   and  Saviour  Jesus   Christ.     Faith  is 
 the  foundation-stone 5  Faith  is  the  superstructure;  Faith 
 is  all  in  all.  —  "  By  Faith  are  ye  saved ;    by  Faith  are 
 ye  justified." 
 
 How  easy,  my  dear  Neville,  are  the  conditions  God 
 imposes  upon  us  !  He  only  commands  us  to  feel  the  tie 
 of  common  gratitude,  to  trust  in  the  mediation  of  his 
 Son,  and  all  shall  be  forgiven  us.  And  shall  our  pride, 
 our  deluded  imaginations,  our  false  philosophy,  interfere 
 to  blind  our  eyes  to  the  beauties  of  so  benevolent,  so 
 benign  a  system?  — Or  shall  earthly  pleasures  engross  all 
 our  thoughts,  nor  leave  space  for  a  care  for  our  souls  ?  — 
 God  forbid.  As  for  Faith,  if  our  hearts  are  hardened, 
 and  we  cannot  feel  that  implicit,  that  fervent  belief, 
 which    the  Scripture  requires,  let  us  pray  to  God,    that 
 
Ill 
 
 he  will  send  his  Holy  Spirit  down  upon  us,  that  he  will* 
 enlighten  our  understanding  with  the  knowledge  of  that 
 truth  which  is  too  vast,  too  sublime  for  human  understand- 
 ings, unassisted  by  Divine  Grace,  to  comprehend. 
 
 I  have  here  drawn  a  hasty  outhne  of  the  gospel -plan 
 of  salvation.  In  a  future  letter  I  shall  endeavour  to  fill 
 it  up.  At  present  I  shall  only  say,  think  on  these  things  ! 
 —  They  are  of  moment  inconceivable.  —  Read  your  Bible, 
 in  order  to  confirm  yourself  in  these  sublime  truths,  and 
 pray  to  God  to  sanctify  to  you  the  instructions  it  con- 
 tains. At  present  I  would  turn  your  attention,  exclu- 
 sively, to  the  New  Testament.  Read  also  the  book  which 
 accompanies  this  letter ;  —  it  is  by  the  great  Locke,  and 
 will  serve  to  show  you  what  so  illustrious  a  philosopher 
 thought  of  Revelation. 
 
112 
 
 TO  MR.  R.  A- 
 
 Nottingham,  May  7th,  1804. 
 ^EAR    ROBERT, 
 
 *  *  #  » 
 
 You  don't  know  how  I  long  to  hear  how  your  declam- 
 ation was  received,  and  "  all  about  it,"  as  we  say  in 
 these  parts.  I  hope  to  see  it,  when  I  see  its  author  and 
 pronouncer.  Themistocles,  no  doubt,  received  due  praise 
 from  you  for  his  valour  and  mhtlety;  but  I  trust  you 
 poured  down  a  torrent  of  eloquent  indignation  upon  the 
 ruling  principles  of  his  actions,  and  the  motive  of  his 
 conduct,  while  you  exalted  the  mild  and  unassuming 
 virtues  of  his  more  amiable  rival.  The  object  of  The- 
 mistocles was  the  aggrandisement  of  himself,  that  of 
 Aristides  the  welfare  and  prosperity  of  the  state.  The 
 one  endeavoured  to  swell  the  glory  of  his  country;  the 
 other  to  promote  its  security,  external  and  internal, 
 foreign  and  domestic.  While  you  estimated  the  services 
 which  Themistocles  rendered  to  the  state,  in  opposition 
 to  those  of  Aristides,  you  of  course  remembered  that 
 the  former  had  the  largest  scope  for  action,  and  that  he 
 influenced  his  countrymen  to  fall  into  all  his  plans,  while 
 they  banished  his  competitor,  not  by  his  superior  wis- 
 dom or  goodness,  but  by  those  intrigues  and  factious 
 artifices  which  Aristides  would  have  disdamed.  The- 
 mistocles certainly  did  use  had  means  to  a  desirable  end : 
 and  if  we  may  assume  it  as  an  axiom,  that  Providence 
 
113 
 
 will  forward  the  designs  of  a  good  sooner  than  those  of 
 a  bad  man ;  whatever  inequaUty  of  abiUties  there  may  be 
 between  the  two  characters,  it  will  follow  that,  had 
 Athens  remained  under  the  guidance  of  Aristides,  it  would 
 have  been  better  for  her.  The  difference  between  The- 
 mistocles  and  Aristides  seems  to  me  to  be  this :  That  the 
 former  was  a  wise  and  a  fortunate  man  ;  and  that  the 
 latter,  though  he  had  equal  wisdom,  had  not  equal  good 
 fortune.  We  may  admire  the  heroic  qualities  and  the 
 crafty  policy  of  the  one,  but  to  the  temperate  and  disin- 
 terested patriotism,  the  good  and  virtuous  dispositions 
 of  the  other,  we  can  alone  give  the  meed  of  heart-felt 
 praise, 
 
 I  only  mean  by  this,  that  we  must  not  infer  Themistocles 
 to  have  been  the  better  or  the  greater  man,  because  he 
 rendered  more  essential  services  to  the  state  than  Aristides, 
 nor  even  that  his  system  was  the  most  judicious,  —  but 
 only,  that,  by  decision  of  character,  and  by  good  fortune, 
 his  measures  succeeded  best. 
 
 The  rules  of  composition  are,  in  my  opinion,  very  few. 
 If  we  have  a  mature  acquaintance  with  our  subject,  there 
 is  little  fear  of  our  expressing  it  as  we  ought,  provided 
 we  have  had  some  little  experience  in  writing.  The  first 
 thing  to  be  aimed  at  is  perspicuity.  That  is  the  great 
 point,  which,  once  attained,  will  make  all  other  obstacles 
 smooth  to  us.     In  order  to  write  perspicuously,  we  should 
 
 VOL.  I.  I 
 
114 
 
 have  a  perfect  knowledge  of  the  topic  on  which  we  are 
 about  to  treat,  in  all  its  bearings  and  dependencies. 
 We  should  think  well  before  hand  what  will  be  the  clearest 
 method  of  conveying  the  drift  of  our  design.  This  is  similar 
 to  what  the  painters  call  the  massing,  or  getting  the  effect 
 of  the  more  prominent  lights  and  shades  by  broad  dashes 
 of  the  pencil.  When  our  thesis  is  well  arranged  in  our 
 mind,  and  we  have  predisposed  our  arguments,  reasonings, 
 and  illustrations,  so  as  they  shall  all  conduce  to  the  object 
 in  view,  in  regular  sequence  and  gradation,  we  may  sit 
 down  and  express  our  ideas  in  as  clear  a  manner  as  we  can, 
 always  using  such  words  as  are  most  suited  to  our  purpose ; 
 and  when  two  modes  of  expression,  equally  luminous, 
 present  themselves,  selecting  that  which  is  the  most  har- 
 monious and  elegant. 
 
 It  sometimes  happens  that  writers,  in  aiming  at  perspi- 
 cuity, over-reach  themselves,  by  employing  too  many 
 words,  and  perplex  the  mind  by  a  multiplicity  of  illus- 
 trations. This  is  a  very  fatal  error.  Circumlocution 
 seldom  conduces  to  plainness;  and  you  may  take  it  as  a 
 maxim,  that,  when  once  an  idea  is  clearly  expressed,  every 
 additional  stroke  will  only  confuse  the  mind,  and  diminish 
 the  effect. 
 
 When  you  have  once  learned  to  express  yourself  with 
 clearness  and  propriety,  you  will  soon  arrive  at  elegance. 
 Every  thing  else,  in  fact,  will  follow  as  of  course.  But 
 I  warn  you  not  to  invert  the  order  of  things,  and  be 
 paying  your  addresses  to  the  Graces,  when  you  ought  to 
 
115 
 
 be  studying  perspicuity.  Young  writers,  in  general,  are 
 too  solicitous  to  round  off  their  periods,  and  regulate  the 
 cadences  of  their  style.  Hence  the  feeble  pleonasms  and 
 idle  repetitions  which  deform  their  pages.  If  you  would 
 have  your  compositions  vigorous,  and  masculine  in  their 
 tone,  let  every  word  tell;  and  when  you  detect  your- 
 self polishing  off  a  sentence  with  expletives,  regard 
 yourself  in  exactly  the  same  predicament  with  a  poet 
 who  should  eke  out  the  measure  of  his  verses  with  "  titum, 
 titom,  tee.  Sir." 
 
 So  much  for  style 
 
 TO    MR.  R.  A. 
 
 Nottingham,  9th  May,  1804. 
 MY    DEAR    FRIEND, 
 
 *  # 
 
 I  HAVE  not  spoken  as  yet  to  Messrs.  Coldham  and 
 Enfield.  Your  injunction  to  suspend  so  doing,  has  left  me 
 in  a  state  of  mind,  which,  I  think,  I  am  blameable  for  in- 
 dulging, but  which  is  indescribably  painful.    I  had  no  sleep 
 
116 
 
 last  night,  partly  from  anxiety,  and  partly  from  the  effects 
 of  a  low  fever,  which  has  preyed  on  my  nerves  for  the 
 last  six  or  seven  days.  I  am  afraid,  Robert,  my  religion 
 is  very  superficial.  I  ought  not  to  feel  this  distrust  of 
 God's  providence.  Should  I  now  be  prevented  from 
 going  to  college,  I  shall  regard  it  as  a  just  punishment  for 
 my  want  of  faith. 
 
 I  conclude  Mr.  Martyn  has  failed  in  procuring  the  aid 
 he  expected  ?     Is  it  so  ? 
 
 On  these  contingencies,  Robert,  you  must  know  from 
 my  peculiar  situation,  I  shall  never  be  able  to  get  to  col- 
 lege. My  mother,  at  all  times  averse,  has  lately  been 
 pressed  by  one  of  the  deacons  of  Castlegate  Meeting,  to 
 prevail  on  me  to  go  to  Dr.  Williams.  This  idea  now 
 fills  her  head,  and  she  would  feel  no  small  degree  of 
 pleasure  in  the  failure  of  my  resources  for  college. 
 Besides  this,  her  natural  anxiety  fov  my  welfare  will 
 never  allow  her  to  permit  me  to  gO  to  the  university 
 depending  almost  entirely  on  herself,  knowing  not  only 
 the  inadequacy,  but  the  great  uncertainty,  of  her  aid. 
 Coldham  and  Enfield  must  hkewise  be  satisfied  that  my 
 way  is  clear :  I  tremble,  I  almost  despair.  A  variety  of 
 contending  emotions,  which  I  cannot  particularize,  agi- 
 tate my  mind.  I  tremble  lest  I  should  have  mistaken 
 my  call :  these  are  solemn  warnings  :  —  but  no  —  I  cannot 
 entertain  the  thought.     To  the  ministry  T  am  devoted. 
 
117 
 
 I   believe,    by   God  ;    in  what   way  must  be  left  to  his 
 providence. 
 
 TO   HIS   BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  June,  1 804. 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 In  answer  to  your  question,  whether  the  Sizars  have 
 any  duties  to  perform,  I  answer,  No.  Somebody,  perhaps, 
 has  been  hinting  that  there  are  servile  offices  to  be  per- 
 formed by  Sizars.  It  is  a  common  opinion,  but  perfectly 
 erroneous.  The  Oxford  servitors,  I  believe,  have  many 
 unpleasant  duties ;  but  the  Sizars  at  Cambridge  only  differ 
 from  the  rest  in  name. 
 
 I  3 
 
118 
 
 TO   MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham,  June  15th,  1804. 
 MY   DEAR   BEN, 
 
 I  DO  not  sit  down  to  write  you  a  long  letter,  for  I  have 
 been  too  much  exhausted  with  mathematics  to  have  much 
 vigour  of  mind  left ;  my  lines  will  therefore  be  wider  than 
 they  are  wont  to  be,  and  I  shall,  for  once,  be  obliged  to 
 diffuse  a  little  matter  over  a  broad  surface.  For  a  conso- 
 latory letter  I  trust  you  have  little  need,  as  by  this  time 
 you  have  no  doubt  learned  to  meet  with  calmness,  those 
 temporary  privations  and  inconveniencies  which,  in  this 
 life,  we  must  expect,  and  therefore  should  be  prepared  to 
 encounter. 
 
 This  is  true  —  this  is  Christian  philosophy :  it  is  a  philo- 
 sophy in  which  we  must  all,  sooner  or  later,  be  instituted, 
 and  which,  if  you  stedfastly  persist  in  seeking,  I  am  sure 
 God  will  assist  you  to  your  manifest  comfort  and  peace. 
 
 There  are  sorrows,  and  there  are  misfortunes  which  bow 
 down  the  spirit  beyond  the  aid  of  all  human  comfort.  Of 
 these,  I  know,  my  dear  Ben,  you  have  had  more  than 
 common  experience ;  but  while  the  cup  of  life  does  over- 
 
119 
 
 flow  with  draughts  of  such  extreme  asperity,  we  ought  to 
 fortify  ourselves  against  lesser  evils,  as  unimportant  to  man, 
 who  has  much  heavier  woes  to  expect,  and  to  the  Christian, 
 whose  joys  are  laid  beyond  the  verge  of  mortal  existence. 
 There  are  afflictions,  there  are  privations,  where  death  and 
 hopes  IRRECOVERABLY  blasted  leave  no  prospect  of  re- 
 trieval ;  when  I  would  no  more  say  to  the  mourner,  "  Man, 
 wherefore  weepest  thou  ?"  than  I  would  ask  the  winds  why 
 they  blew,  or  the  tempest  why  it  raged.  Sorrows  like  these 
 are  sacred ;  but  the  inferior  troubles  of  partial  separation, 
 vexatious  occupation,  and  opposing  current  of  human 
 affairs,  are  such  as  ought  not,  at  least  immoderately,  to 
 affect  a  Christian,  but  rather  ought  to  be  contemplated  as 
 the  necessary  accidents  of  life,  and  disregarded  while  their 
 pains  are  more  sensibly  felt. 
 
 Do  not  think,  I  beseech  you,  my  dear  Ben,  that  I  wish 
 to  represent  your  sorrows  as  light  or  trivial ;  I  know  they 
 are  not  light ;  I  know  they  are  not  trivial ;  but  I  wish  to 
 induce  you  to  summon  up  the  man  within  you ;  and  while 
 those  unhappy  troubles,  which  you  cannot  alleviate,  must 
 continue  to  torment  you,  I  would  exhort  you  to  rise 
 superior  to  the  crosses  of  life,  and  show  yourself  a  genuine 
 disciple  of  Jesus  Christ,  in  the  endurance  of  evil  without 
 repining,  or  unavailable  lamentations. 
 
 Blest  as  you  are  with  the  good  testimony  of  an  approv- 
 ing conscience,  and  happy  in  an  intimate  communion 
 with  the  all-pure  and  all-merciful  God,  these  trifling  con- 
 cerns ought  not  to  molest  you ;    nay,  were  the  tide  of  ad- 
 
 I  4 
 
120 
 
 versity  to  turn  strong  against  you,  even  were  your  friends 
 to  forsake  you,  and  abject  poverty  to  stare  you  in  the  face, 
 you  ought  to  be  abundantly  thankful  to  God  for  his  mercies 
 to  you ;  you  ought  to  consider  yourself  still  as  rich,  yea,  to 
 look  around  you,  and  say,  I  am  far  happier  than  the  sons 
 of  men. 
 
 This  is  a  system  of  philosophy  which,  for  myself,  I 
 shall  not  only  preach,  but  practise.  We  are  here  for 
 nobler  purposes  than  to  waste  the  fleeting  moments  of 
 our  lives  in  lamentations  and  waitings  over  troubles, 
 which,  in  their  widest  extent,  do  but  affect  the  present 
 state,  and  which,  perhaps,  only  regard  our  personal  ease 
 and  prosperity.  Make  me  an  outcast  —  a  beggar ;  place 
 me  a  bare-footed  pilgrim  on  the  top  of  the  Alps  or  the 
 Pyrennees,  and  I  should  have  wherewithal  to  sustain  the 
 spirit  within  me,  in  the  reflection  that  all  this  was  but  as 
 for  a  moment,  and  that  a  period  would  come  when  wrong, 
 and  injury,  and  trouble  should  be  no  more.  Are  we  to 
 be  so  utterly  enslaved  by  habit  and  association,  that  we 
 shall  spend  our  lives  in  anxiety  and  bitter  care,  only  that 
 we  may  find  a  covering  for  our  bodies,  or  the  means  of 
 assuaging  hunger?  for  what  else  is  an  anxiety  afler  the 
 world  ?  Or  are  even  the  followers  of  Christ  themselves  to 
 be  infected  with  the  inane,  the  childish  desire  of  heaping 
 together  wealth  ?  Were  a  man,  in  the  way  of  making 
 a  large  fortune,  to  take  up  his  hat  and  stick,  and  say, 
 *'  I  am  useless  here,  and  unhappy ;  I  will  go  and  abide 
 with  the  Gentoo  or  the  Paraguay,  where  I  shall  be  happy 
 and  useful,"  he  would  be  laughed  at ;  but  I  say  he  would 
 
121 
 
 prove  himself  a  more  reasonable  and  virtuous  man,  than 
 him  who  binds  himself  down  to  a  business  which  he 
 dislikes,  because  it  would  be  accounted  strange,  or  foolish, 
 to  abandon  so  good  a  concern,  and  who  heaps  up  wealth, 
 for  which  he  has  little  relish,  because  the  world  accounts  it 
 policy. 
 
 I  will  refrain  from  pursuing  this  tone  of  reasoning.  I 
 know  the  weakness  of  human  nature,  and  I  know  that  we 
 may  argue  with  a  deal  of  force,  to  show  the  folly  of  grief, 
 when  we  ourselves  are  its  passive  victims.  But  whether 
 strength  of  mind  prevail  with  you,  or  whether  you  still  in- 
 dulge in  melancholy  bodings  and  repinings,  I  am  still  your 
 friend,  nay,  your  sympathizing  friend.  Hard  and  calloiis, 
 and  "  unfeehng"  as  I  may  seem,  I  have  a  heart  for  my 
 ever  dear  Benjamin. 
 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
 
 TO    HIS   BROTHER   NEVILLE. 
 
 Wilford,  near  Nottingham, ,  1804, 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  NOW  write  to  you  from  a  little  cottage  at  Wilford, 
 where  I  have  taken  a  room  for  a  fortnight,  as  well  for 
 the  benefit  of  my  health,  as  for  the  advantage  of  unin- 
 
122 
 
 terrupted  study.     I  live  in  a  homely  house,   in  a  homely 
 style,  but  am  well  occupied,  and  perfectly  at  my  ease. 
 
 And  now,  my  dear  Brother,  I  must  sincerely  beg  pardon 
 for  all  those  manifold  neglects,  of  which  I  cannot  but 
 accuse  myself  towards  you.  When  I  recollect  innumerable 
 requests  in  your  letters,  which  I  have  not  noticed,  and 
 many  enquiries  I  have  not  satisfied,  I  almost  feel  afraid 
 that  you  will  imagine  I  no  longer  regard  your  letters  with 
 brotherly  fondness,  and  that  you  will  cease  to  exercise 
 towards  me  your  wonted  confidence  and  friendship. 
 Indeed,  you  may  take  my  word,  they  have  arisen  from  my 
 peculiar  circumstances,  and  not  from  any  unconcern  or 
 disregard  of  your  wishes,  I  am  now  bringing  my  affairs 
 (laugh  not  at  the  word)  into  some  regularity,  after  all  the 
 hurry  and  confusion  in  which  they  have  been  plunged,  by 
 the  distraction  of  mind  attending  my  publication,  and  the 
 projected  change  of  my  destination  in  life. 
 
123 
 
 TO   HIS   BROTHER   NEVILLE. 
 
 Wilford,  near  Nottingham, ,  1804. 
 
 DEAR   NEVILLE, 
 
 I  HAVE  run  very  much  on  the  wrong  side  of  the  post 
 here  ;  for  having  sent  copies  round  to  such  persons  as  had 
 given  me  in  their  names,  as  subscribers,  with  compliments, 
 they  have  placed  them  to  the  account  of  presents  ! 
 
 And  now,  my  dear  Neville,  I  must  give  you  the  most 
 ingenious  specimen  of  the  invention  of  petty  envy  you 
 perhaps  ever  heard  of.  Wlien  Addison  produced  "  Cato," 
 it  was  currently  received,  that  he  had  bought  it  of  a 
 vicar  for  40L  The  Nottingham  gentry,  knowing  me 
 too  poor  to  buy  my  poems,  thought  they  could  do  no 
 better  than  place  it  to  the  account  of  family  aifection, 
 and,  lo !  Mrs.  Smith  is  become  the  sole  author,  who  has 
 made  use  of  her  brother's  name  as  a  feint !  I  heard  of 
 this  report  first  covertly:  it  was  said  that  Mrs.  Smith 
 was  the  principal  writer :  next  it  was  said  that  I  was  the 
 author  of  one  of  the  inferior  smaller  pieces  only,  ("  My 
 Study ;")  and,  lastly,   on  mentioning  the  circumstances  to 
 
 Mr.  A ,  he  confessed  that  he  had  heard  several  times 
 
 that  my  «  sister  was  the  sole  quill-driver  of  the  family, 
 
124 
 
 and  that  master  Henry,  in  particular,  was  rather  shallow," 
 but  that  he  had  refrained  from  telling  me,  because  he 
 thought  it  would  vex  me.  Now,  as  to  the  vexing  me,  it 
 only  has  afforded  me  a  hearty  laugh.  I  sent  my  compli- 
 ments to  one  great  lady,  whom  I  heard  propagating  this 
 ridiculous  report,  and  congratulated  her  on  her  ingenuity, 
 tellmg  her,  as  a  great  secret,  that  neither  my  sister  or 
 myself  had  any  claim  to  any  of  the  poems,  for  the  right 
 anthor  was  the  Great  Mogul's  cousin-german.  The  best 
 part  of  the  story  is,  that  my  good  friend,  Benj.  Maddock, 
 found  means  to  get  me  to  write  verses  extempore,  to  prove 
 whether  I  could  tag  rhymes  or  not,  which,  it  seems, 
 he  doubted. 
 
 The  following  are  the  verses  referred  to  in  the  foregoing 
 letter :  they  were  composed  eoctempare  in  the  presence  of 
 this  friend,  as  an  evidence  of  Henry's  ability  to  write 
 poetry :  — 
 
 Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy. 
 
 Whose  eye  turns  green  at  merit  not  thine  own. 
 Oh,  far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
 And  find  in  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
 Away,  away,  it  shall  not  be. 
 
 Thou  shalt  not  dare  defile  our  plains ; 
 The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
 Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
 Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  others'  jollity. 
 
125 
 
 Triumphant  monster  !  though  thy  schemes  succeed  — 
 
 Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 
 Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed. 
 
 Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
 When  o'er  his  head  in  silence  that  reposes. 
 
 Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear ; 
 Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses^ 
 
 Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe  ; 
 Then  will  thy  baseness  stand  confest,  and  all 
 Will  curse  the  ungenerous  fate,  that  bade  a  Poet  fall. 
 
 Yet,  ah  !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure : 
 
 Could' St  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey  ? 
 Alas  !  in  robbing  him  thou  robb'st  the  poor, 
 
 Who  only  boast  what  thou  would'st  take  away ; 
 See  the  lorn  Bard  at  midnight  study  sitting, 
 
 O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp  ; 
 While  o'er  fond  Fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting, 
 
 Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
 Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  imprest ; 
 
 Does  jocund  Health  in  thought's  still  mansion  live? 
 Lo,  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest. 
 
 That  short  quick  sigh  —  their  sad  responses  give. 
 
 And  canst  thou  rob  a  Poet  of  his  song; 
 
 Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 
 Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long : 
 
 Then  leave,  oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays 
 While  yet  he  lives  —  for  to  his  merits  just. 
 
 Though  future  ages  join,  his  fame  to  raise. 
 Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust? 
 
126 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham,  7th  July,  1804. 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 The  real  wants  of  life  are  few;  the  support  of  the 
 body,  simply,  is  no  expensive  matter ;  and  as  we  are  not 
 mad  upon  silks  and  satins,  the  covering  of  it  will  not  be 
 more  costly.  The  only  supei'fluity  I  should  covet  would 
 be  books,  but  I  have  learned  how  to  abridge  that  plea- 
 sure; and  having  sold  the  flower  of  my  library  for  the 
 amazing  sum  of  Six  Guineas,  I  mean  to  try  whether 
 meditation  will  not  supply  the  place  of  general  reading, 
 and  probably,  by  the  time  I  am  poor  and  needy,  I  shall 
 look  upon  a  large  library  like  a  fashionable  wardrobe, 
 goodly  and  pleasant,  but  as  to  the  real  utility,  in- 
 different. 
 
 So  much  for  Stoicism,  and  now  for  Mmiachism  —  I 
 shall  never,  never  marry !  It  cannot,  must  not  be.  As 
 to  affections,  mine  are  already  engaged  as  much  as  they 
 will  ever  be,  and  this  is  one  reason  why  I  believe  my 
 life  will  be  a  life  of  celibacy.     I  pray  to  God  that  it  may 
 
127 
 
 be  so,  and  that  I  may  be  happy  in  that  state.  I  love  too 
 ardently  to  make  love  innocent,  and  therefore  I  say 
 farewell  to  it.  Besides,  I  have  another  inducement,  I  can- 
 not introduce  a  woman  into  poverty  for  my  love's  sake, 
 nor  could  I  well  bear  to  see  such  a  one  as  I  must  marry 
 struggling  with  narrow  circumstances,  and  sighing  for 
 the  fortunes  of  her  children.  No,  I  say,  forbear !  and 
 may  the  example  of  St.  Gregory  of  Naz.  and  St.  Basil, 
 support  me. 
 
 All  friends  are  well,  except  your  humble  scribe,  who 
 has  got  a  little  too  much  into  his  old  way  since  your 
 departure.  Studying  and  musing,  and  dreaming  of  every 
 thing  but  his  health ;  still  amid  all  his  studying,  musings, 
 and  dreams. 
 
 Your  true  friend  and  brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
128 
 
 TO  THE  EDITOR. 
 
 Nottingham,  July  9th,  1804. 
 
 I  CAN  710W  inform  you,  that  I  have  reason  to  believe 
 my  way  through  college  is  clear  before  me.  From  what 
 source  I  know  not ;  but  through  the  hands  of  Mr.  Simeon 
 I  am  provided  with  301.  per  annum;  and  while  things  go 
 on  so  prosperously  as  they  do  now,  I  can  command  20l.  or 
 30l.  more  from  my  friends,  and  this,  in  all  probability, 
 until  I  take  my  degree.  The  friends  to  whom  I  allude  are 
 my  mother'  and  brother. 
 
 My  mother  has,  for  these  five  years  past,  kept  a  board- 
 ing school  in  Nottingham :  and,  so  long  as  her  school 
 continues  in  its  present  state,  she  can  supply  me  with  15l. 
 or  20l.  per  annum,  without  inconvenience ;  but  should  she 
 die,  (and  her  health  is,  I  fear,  but  infirm,)  that  resource 
 will  altogether  fail.  Still,  I  think,  my  prospect  is  so  good 
 as  to  preclude  any  anxiety  on  my  part ;  and  perhaps  my 
 income  will  be  more  than  adequate  to  my  wants,  as  I  shall 
 be  a  Sizar  of  St.  John's,  where  the  college  emoluments  are 
 more  than  commonly  large. 
 
 In  this  situation  of  my  affairs,  you  will  perhaps  agree 
 with  me  in  thinking  that  a  subscription  for  a  volume  of 
 poems  will  not   be  necessary;   and,  certainly,   that  mea- 
 
 i6 
 
129 
 
 sure  is  one  which  will  be  better  avoided,  if  it  may  be.     I 
 have  lately  looked  over  what  poems  I  have  by  me  in  manu- 
 script,   and  find   them  more  numerous  than  I  expected  ; 
 but  many  of   them  would  perhaps  be  styled  mopish  and 
 maukish,  and  even  misanthrojnc,    in  the   language  of  the 
 world ;  though,  from  the  latter  sentiment,  I  am  sure  I  can 
 say,  no  one  is  more  opposite  than  I  am.     These  poems, 
 therefore,  will  never  see  the  light,  as,  from  a  teacher  of 
 that  word  which  gives  all  strength  to  the  feeble,  more  forti- 
 tude and  Christian  philosophy  may,  with  justice,  be  ex- 
 pected than  they  display.     The  remainder  of  my  verses 
 would  not  possess  any  great  interest :  mere  description  is 
 often  mere  nonsense :  and  I  have  accjuired  a  strange  habit, 
 whenever  I  do  point  out  a  train  of  moral  sentiment  from 
 the  contemplation  of  a  picture,  to  give  it  a  gloomy  and 
 querulous  cast,  when  there  is  nothing  in  the  occasion  but 
 what  ought  to  inspire  joy  and  gratitude.    I  have  one  *  poem, 
 however,  of  some  length,  which  I  shall  preserve ;  and  I 
 have  another  of  considerable  magnitude  in  design,  but  of 
 which  only  a  part  is  written,  which  I  am  fairly  at  a  loss 
 whether  to  commit  to  the  flames,  or  at  some  future  oppor- 
 tunity to  finish.     The  subject  is  the  death  of  Christ.     I 
 have  no  friend  whose  opinion  is  at  all  to  be  relied  on,  to 
 whom  I  could  submit  it,  and,  perhaps,  after  all,  it  may  be 
 absolutely  worthless. 
 
 With  regard  to  that  part  of  my  provision  which  is  de- 
 rived from  my  unknown  friend,  it  is  of  course  conditional : 
 
 *  Time  is  probably  the  poem  alluded  to. 
 VOL.  I.  K 
 
130 
 
 and  as  it  is  not  a  provision  for  a  poet,  but  for  a  ca7ididate 
 for  order's,  I  believe  it  is  expected,  and  indeed  it  has  been 
 hinted  as  a  thing  advisable,  that  I  should  barter  the  muses 
 for  mathematics,  and  abstain  from  writing  verses  at  least 
 until  I  take  my  degree.  If  I  find  that  all  my  time  will  be 
 requisite,  in  order  to  prepare  for  the  important  office  I  am 
 destined  to  fill,  I  shall  certainly  do  my  duty,  however 
 severely  it  may  cost  me :  but  if  I  find  I  may  lawfully  and 
 conscientiously  relax  myself  at  intervals,  with  those  de- 
 lightful reveries  which  have  hitherto  formed  the  chief  plea- 
 sure of  my  life,  I  shall,  without  scruple,  indulge  myself  in 
 them. 
 
 I  know  the  pursuit  of  Truth  is  a  much  more  important 
 business  than  the  exercise  of  the  imagination ;  and  amid 
 all  the  quaintness  and  stiff  method  of  the  mathematicians, 
 I  can  even  discover  a  source  of  chaste  and  exalted  pleasure. 
 To  their  severe  but  salutary  discipline,  I  must  now  "  sub- 
 "  due  the  vivid  shapings  of  my  youth  ;"  and  though  I  shall 
 cast  many  a  fond  lingering  look  to  Fancy's  more  alluring 
 paths,  yet  I  shall  be  repaid  by  the  anticipation  of  days, 
 when  I  may  enjoy  the  sweet  satisfaction  of  being  useful,  in 
 no  ordinary  degree,  to  my  fellow-mortals. 
 
131 
 
 TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 
 
 Nottingham,  24th  July,  1804. 
 
 DEAR  SIR, 
 
 I  THINK  Mr.  Moore's  love  poems  are  infamous,  because 
 they  subvert  the  first  great  object  of  poetry  —  the  encou- 
 ragement of  the  virtuous  and  the  noble,  and  metamorphose 
 nutritious  aliment  into  poison.  I  think  the  muses  are  de- 
 graded when  they  are  made  the  handmaids  of  sensuality, 
 and  the  bawds  of  a  brothel. 
 
 Perhaps  it  may  be  the  opinion  of  a  young  man,  but  I 
 think  too,  the  old  system  of  heroic  attachment,  with  all 
 its  attendant  notions  of  honour  and  spotlessness,  was,  in 
 the  end,  calculated  to  promote  the  interests  of  the  human 
 race ;  for  though  it  produced  a  temporary  alienation  of 
 mind,  perhaps  bordering  on  insanity,  yet  with  the  very 
 extravagance  and  madness  of  the  sentiments,  there  were 
 inwoven  certain  imperious  principles  of  virtue  and  gene- 
 rosity, which  would  probably  remain  after  time  had  eva- 
 porated the  heat  of  passion,  and  sobered  the  luxuriance  of 
 a  romantic  imagination.  I  think,  therefore,  a  man  of  song 
 is  rendering  the  community  a  service  when  he  displays  the 
 ardour  of  manly  affection  in  a  pleasing  light ;  but  certainly 
 we  need  no  incentives  to  the  irregular  gratification  of  our 
 appetites,  and  I  should  think  it  a  proper  punishment  for 
 
 K  2 
 
132 
 
 the  poet  who  holds  forth  the  allurements  of  illicit  pleasures 
 in  amiable  and  seductive  colours,  should  his  wife,  his  sister, 
 or  his  child  fall  a  victim  to  the  licentiousness  he  has  been 
 instrumental  in  difFusinff. 
 
 TO  MR,  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Winteringhara,  August  3d,  1804. 
 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 I  AM  all  anxiety  to  learn  the  issue  of  your  proposal  to 
 your  father.  Surely  it  will  proceed;  surely  a  plan  laid 
 out  with  such  fair  prospects  of  happiness  to  you,  as  well  as 
 me,  will  not  be  frustrated.  Write  to  me  the  moment  you 
 have  any  information  on  the  subject, 
 
 I  think  we  shall  be  happy  together  at  Cambridge ;  and 
 in  the  ardent  pursuit  of  Christian  knowledge,  and  Christian 
 virtue,  we  shall  be  doubly  united.  We  were  before  friends ; 
 now,  I  hope,  likely  to  be  still  more  emphatically  so.  But 
 I  must  not  anticipate. 
 
 I  left  Nottingham  without  seeing  my  brother  Neville, 
 who  arrived  there  two  days  after  me.  This  is  a  circum- 
 stance which  I  much  regret;  but  I  hope  he  will  come 
 this  way  when  he  goes,    according  to  his  intention,  to  a 
 
133 
 
 watering  place.  Neville  has  been  a  good  brother  to  me, 
 and  there  are  not  many  things  which  would  give  me  more 
 pleasure  than,  after  so  long  a  separation,  to  see  him  again. 
 I  dare  not  hope  that  I  shall  meet  you  and  him  together, 
 in  October,  at  Nottingham. 
 
 My  days  flow  on  here  in  an  even  tenor.  They  are, 
 indeed,  studious  days,  for  my  studies  seem  to  multiply 
 on  my  hands,  and  1  am  so  much  occupied  with  them, 
 that  I  am  becoming  a  mere  bookworm,  runnmg  over  the 
 rules  of  Greek  versification  in  my  walks,  instead  of  ex- 
 patiating on  the  beauties  of  the  surrounding  scenery. 
 Winteringham,  is,  indeed,  now  a  delightful  place:  the 
 trees  are  in  full  verdure,  the  crops  are  browning  the 
 fields,  and  my  former  walks  are  become  dry  under  foot, 
 which  I  have  never  known  them  to  be  before.  The 
 opening  vista,  from  our  church-yard  over  the  Humber, 
 to  the  hills,  and  receding  vales  of  Yorkshire,  assumes  a 
 thousand  new  aspects.  I  sometimes  watch  it  at  evening, 
 when  the  sun  is  just  gilding  the  summits  of  the  hills,  and 
 the  lowlands  are  beginning  to  take  a  browner  hue.  The 
 showers  partially  falling  in  the  distance,  while  all  is  serene 
 above  me ;  the  swelling  sail  rapidly  falUng  down  the 
 river ;  and,  not  least  of  all,  the  villages,  woods,  and  villas 
 on  the  opposite  bank,  sometimes  render  this  scene  quite 
 enchanting  to  me ;  and  it  is  no  contemptible  relaxation, 
 after  a  man  has  been  puzzling  his  brains  over  the  intri- 
 cacies of  Greek  chorusses  all  the  day,  to  come  out  and 
 unbend   his   mind  with    careless   thought   and   negligent 
 
 K  3 
 
134 
 
 fancies,  while  he  refreshes  his  body  witli  the  fresh   air  of 
 the  country. 
 
 I  wish  you  to  have  a  taste  of  these  pleasures  with  me ; 
 and  if  ever  I  should  live  to  be  blessed  with  a  quiet  par- 
 sonage, and  that  great  object  of  my  ambition,  a  garden, 
 I  have  no  doubt  but  we  shall  be,  for  some  short  intervals, 
 at  least,  two  quiet,  contented  bodies.  These  will  be  our 
 relaxations ;  our  business  will  be  of  a  nobler  kind.  Let  us 
 vigilantly  fortify  ourselves  against  the  exigencies  of  the 
 serious  appointment  we  are,  with  God's  blessing,  to  fulfil ; 
 and  if  we  go  into  the  church  prepared  to  do  our  duty, 
 there  is  every  reasonable  prospect  that  our  labours  will 
 be  blessed,  and  that  we  shall  be  blessed  in  them.  As 
 your  habits  generally  have  been  averse  to  what  is  called 
 close  application,  it  will  be  too  much  for  your  strength,  as 
 well  as  unadvisable  in  other  points  of  view,  to  study  very 
 intensely  ;  but  regularly  you  may,  and  must  read ;  and  de- 
 pend upon  it,  a  man  will  work  more  wonders  by  stated 
 and  constant  application,  than  by  unnatural  and  forced 
 endeavours. 
 
135 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Nottingham,  September,  1804. 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 By  the  time  you  will  open  this  letter,  we  shall  have 
 parted,  God  only  knows  whether  ever  to  meet  again. 
 The  chances  and  casualties  of  human  life  are  such  as  to 
 render  it  always  questionable  whether  three  months  may 
 not  separate  us  for  ever  from  an  absent  friend. 
 
 *  *  *  * 
 
 For  my  part,  I  shall  feel  a  vacuum  when  you  are  gone, 
 which  will  not  easily  be  filled  up.  I  shall  miss  my  only 
 intimate  friend  —  the  companion  of  my  walks  —  the  inter- 
 rupter of  my  evening  studies.  I  shall  return,  in  a  great 
 measure,  to  my  old  solitary  habits.  I  cannot  associate 
 with         *         *         nor  yet  with  *         *         * 
 
 has  no  place  in  my  affections,  though  he  has  in  my 
 esteem.  It  was  to  you  alone  I  looked  as  my  adopted 
 brother,  arid  (although,  for  reasons  you  may  hereafter 
 learn,  I  have  not  made  you  my  perfect  confidante)  my 
 comforter.  —  Heu  mihi  amice,  Vale,  longum  Vale  !  I  hope 
 you  will  sometimes  think  of  me,  and  give  me  a  portion  in 
 
 your  prayers. 
 
 *  *  *  # 
 
 Perhaps  it  may  be  that  I   am  not  formed   for  friend- 
 
 K   4 
 
136 
 
 ship,  that  I  expect  more  than  can  ever  be  found.  Time 
 will  tutor  me;  I  am  a  singular  being  under  a  common 
 outside :  I  am  a  profound  dissembler  of  my  inward  feel- 
 ings, and  necessity  has  taught  me  the  art.  I  am  long  be- 
 fore I  can  unbosom  to  a  friend,  yet,  I  think,  I  am  sin- 
 cere in  my  fi'iendship :  you  must  not  attribute  this  to 
 any  suspiciousness  of  nature,  but  must  consider  that  I 
 lived  seventeen  years  my  own  confidante,  my  own  friend, 
 full  of  projects  and  strange  thoughts,  and  confiding  tliem 
 to  no  one.  I  am  habitually  reserved,  and  habitually  cau- 
 tious in  letting  it  be  seen  that  I  hide  any  thing.  Towards 
 you  I  would  fain  conquer  these  habits,  and  this  is  one  step 
 towards  effecting  the  conquest. 
 
 I  am  not  well,  Ben,  to-night,  as  my  hand- writing  and 
 style  will  show;  I  have  rambled  on,  however,  to  some 
 length  ;  my  letter  may  serve  to  beguile  a  few  moments 
 on  your  way.  I  must  say  good  b\'e  to  you,  and  may  God 
 bless  you,  and  preserve  you,  and  be  your  guide  and  di- 
 rector for  ever  !  Remember  he  is  always  with  you ;  remem- 
 ber that  in  him  you  have  a  comforter  in  every  gloom.  In 
 your  wakeful  nights,  when  you  have  not  me  to  talk  to, 
 his  ear  will  be  bent  down  on  your  pillow;  what  better 
 bosom  friend  has  a  man  than  the  merciful  and  benio-nant 
 Father  of  all  ?  Happy,  thrice  happy,  are  you  in  the  privi- 
 lege of  his  grace  and  acceptance. 
 Dear  Ben, 
 
 I  am  your  true  friend, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
13 
 
 O  i 
 
 TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 
 
 High  Pavement,  October  4th,  1804, 
 
 DEAR    KIRKE, 
 
 For  your  kind  and  very  valuable  present,  I  know  not 
 how  to  thank  you.  The  Archbishop  *  has  long  been  one 
 of  my  most  favourite  divmes ;  and  a  complete  set  of  his 
 sermons  really  "  sets  me  up,''  I  hope  I  am  able  to  appre- 
 ciate the  merits  of  such  a  collection,  and  I  shall  always 
 value  them  apart  from  their  merit,  as  a  memento  of 
 friendship. 
 
 I  hope  that,  when  our  correspondence  begins,  it  will 
 neither  be  lax  nor  uninteresting ;  and  that,  on  both  sides, 
 it  may  be  productive  of  something  more  than  mere 
 amusement. 
 
 While  we  each  strive  to  become  wiser  in  those  things 
 wherein  true  wisdom  is  alone  to  be  found,  we  may 
 mutually  contribute  to  each  other's  success,  by  the  commu- 
 nication of  our  thoughts :  and  that  we  may  both  become 
 proficients   in    that  amiable  philosophy  which  makes  us 
 
 Tillolson, 
 
138 
 
 happier    by  rendering  us  better;  that  phik)bophy  which 
 alone  makes  us  wise  unto  salvation,  is  the  prayer  of. 
 Dear  Kirke, 
 
 Your  sincere  friend, 
 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
 
 TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Winteringham,  — ^  1804. 
 *  AMICE    DILECTE, 
 
 PuDERET  me  infrequentiae  nostrarum  literarum,  nisi 
 hoc  ex  te  pendere  sentirem.  Epistolas  a  te  missas  non 
 prius  accepi  quam  kalendis  Decembris  —  res  mihi  acerba, 
 nihilominus  ad  ferendum  levior,  dum  me  non  tibi  ex 
 animo  prorsus  excidisse  satis  exploratum  est. 
 
 Gavisus  sum,  e  litteris  tuis,  amico  Roberto  dicatis,  cum 
 audirem  te  operam  et  dedisse  et  daturum  ad  Grascam 
 linguam  etiamnum  excolendam  cum  viro  omni  doctrina 
 erudito.  —  Satis  scio  te,  illo  duce,  virum  doctissimum  et 
 
 *  This  letter  is  not  to  be  considered  as  a  specimen  of  Henry's  Latin- 
 ity.  It  was  written  when  he  was  only  beginning  those  classical  studies 
 in  which  he  after  wards  made  such  progress. 
 
 7 
 
139 
 
 in  optimarum  artium  studiis  exquisitissimum  futurum  esse : 
 baud  tamen  his  facultatibus  contentuni,  sed  altiora  pe- 
 tentem,  nempe  saliitem  humani  generis  et  sancta  verbi 
 divini  arcana. 
 
 Vix  jam,  amice  !  recreor  e  morbo,  a  quo  graviter  aegro- 
 tavi :  vix  jam  incipio  membra  languore  confecta  in  diem 
 apertam  trahere.  Tactus  arida  manu  febris,  spatiosas 
 trivi  noctes  lacrymis  et  gemitu.  Vidi,  cum  in  conspectu 
 mortis  collocatus  fiierim,  vidi  omnia  clariora  facta,  in- 
 tellexi  me  non  fidem  Christi  satis  servasse,  non,  ut  famu- 
 lum  Dei,  fideliter  vitam  egisse.  ^Egritudo  multa  prius 
 celata  patefacit.  Hoc  ipse  sensi  et  omnes,  sint  sane  reli- 
 giosi,  sint  boni,  idem  sentient.  Sed  ego  praecipue  causam 
 habui  cur  me  afflixerim  et  summisso  animo  ad  pedem 
 crucis  abjecerim.  Imo  vero  et  lacrymas  copiose  effudi  et 
 interdum  consolatio  Sancti  Spiritus  turbinem  animi  pla- 
 cavit.  Utinam  vestigium  hujus  periculi  semper  in  animo 
 retineam  ! 
 
 Non  dubito  quin  tibi  gratum  erit  audire  de  moribus  et 
 studiis  nostris.  Praeceptor  nobis,  nomine  Grainger,  non 
 e  collegio  educatus  fuit,  attamen  doctrina  baud  medio- 
 cris  est,  pietate  eximius.  Hypodidascalus  fuit  in  schola 
 viri  istius  docti  et  admodum  venerandi  Josepbi  Milner, 
 qui  eum  dilexit  atque  honoravit.  Mores  jucundi  et  fa- 
 ciles  sunt,  urbanitate  ac  lepore  suaviter  conditi,  quanquam 
 interdum  in  vultu  tristis  severitas  inest.  Erga  bonos  man- 
 suetus,  malis  se  durior  gerit.  —  JEi\\XQ,  fere  est  Pastor  dili- 
 
140 
 
 gens,  vir  egregius,  et  praeceptor  bonus.  Cum  isthoc  legi- 
 mus  apud  Grjficos,  Homerum  et  Demosthenem  et  Sanctas 
 Scripturas,  apud  Latinos,  Virgilium,  Ciceronem  et  ali- 
 quando  in  ludo  Terentium.  Scribimus  etiam  Latine,  et 
 constructionis  et  elegantiae  gratia ;  nihilominus  (liac  epis- 
 tola  teste)  non  opus  est  dicendi  libi  quam  paululum  ego 
 ipse  proficio.  In  scribendo  Latine,  praeter  consuetudinem 
 in  lingua  Anglicana,  sum  lentus,  piger,  ineptus.  Verba 
 stillant  hen  quam  otiose,  et  quum  tandem  visa  sint  quam 
 inelegantia  !  Spero  tamen  usu  atque  animo  diligenter 
 adhibendo  deinde  Latinis  sermonibus  aliquam  adipisci 
 facilitatem,  nunc  fere  oportet  me  contentum  esse  cupire 
 et  laborare,  paululum  potiundo,  magna  moliendo. 
 
 Intelligis,  procul  dubio,  nos  vicum  incolere  Wintering- 
 hamiensis,  ripis  situm  Humberi  fluminis,  sed  nondum 
 forsan  sentias  locum  esse  agrestem,  fluviis,  coUibus,  arvis, 
 omni  decore  pervenustum.  Domus  nostra  Templo  Dei 
 adjacet ;  a  tergo  sunt  dulces  horti  et  ierrenm  cigger  arbo- 
 ribus  crebre  septus,  quo  deambulare  solemus.  Circum- 
 circa  sunt  rurales  pagi  quibus  s^epe  cum  otium  agamus, 
 post  prandium  imus.  Est  villa,  nomine  Whittonia,  ubi  a 
 celsa  rupe  videre  potes  flumen  Trentii  vasto  Humbero 
 influens,  et  paulo  altius  Oosem  flumen. 
 
 Infra  sub  opaca  saxa  fons  est,  cui  potestas  inest  in  lapi- 
 dem  •  materias  alienas  convertendi ;  ab  altissima  rupe 
 labitur  in  littas,  muschum,  conchas  et  fragiliores  ramos  ar- 
 borum  in  lapidem  transmutans.  In  prospectu  domus  montes 
 
141 
 
 Eboracenses  surgunt  trans  Humberum  siti,  sylvis  et  villis 
 stipati,  nunc  solis  radiis  ridentes,  nunc  horridi  nimbis  ac 
 procellis.  Vela  navium  ventis  impleta  ante  fenestras  satis 
 longo  intervallo  prolabuntur :  dum  supra  in  aere  procelso 
 greges  anserum  vastae  longo  clamore  volitant.  Sape  in 
 animo  revolvo  verba  ista  Homeri : 
 
 COT    6pvi6tt>v  -meTerjvuy  cdyea  TroAAck 
 Xtjvwv  fj  yepuycDUy  ^  kvkvwu  Ss\ixo5€ipoiVf 
 A    (TicD  ^p  Kfifxuyi  KaOcTTpia  a.fA.(pi  ^eedpa 
 Eyda  Ka\  (I'da  iroTwurai  ayawSfifvot  irrepiytarai 
 KA.oyyTjS^y  tsrpoKadil'6uruv,  a/xapaycT  Se  re  Kufxiiv^ 
 Cis  ruv  edvfa  -aroAAck  y^wy  airo  Ka\  KXitxiauv 
 'Ey  KeUov  'mpox^6vTQ  'S.Kaf.iav^piov,  &C. 
 
 Vale.     Dum  vitales  auras  carpam, 
 
 Tuus, 
 
 H.  K,  WHITE. 
 
142 
 
 TO   MR.  K.  SWANN. 
 
 Winteringham,  20th  Oct.  1804, 
 DEAR    KIRKE, 
 
 We  are  safely  arrived,  and  comfortabl)^  settled,  in  the 
 parsonage  of  Winteringham.  The  house  is  most  delight- 
 fully situated  close  by  the  church,  at  a  distance  from  the 
 village,  and  with  delightful  gardens  behind,  and  the  Hum- 
 ber  before.  The  family  is  very  agreeable,  and  the  style 
 in  which  we  live  is  very  superior.  Our  tutor  is  not  only 
 a  learned  man,  but  the  best  pastor,  and  most  pleasing 
 domestic  man.  I  ever  met  with.  You  will  be  o^lad  to  hear 
 we  are  thus  charmingly  situated.  I  have  reason  to  thank 
 God  for  his  goodness  in  leading  me  to  so  peaceful  and 
 happy  a  situation. 
 
 The  year  which  now  lies  before  me,  I  shall,  with  the 
 blessing  of  God,  if  I  am  spared,  employ  in  very  important 
 pursuits ;  and  I  trust  that  I  shall  come  away  not  only  a 
 wiser,  but  a  better  man.  I  have  here  nothing  to  interrupt 
 me  —  no  noise  —  no  society  to  disturb,  or  avocations  to 
 call  me  off,  and  if  I  do  not  make  considerable  improve- 
 ments, I  do  not  know  when  I  shall. 
 
 We  have  each  our  several  duties  to  perform  ;  and 
 though  God  has  been  pleased  to  place  us  in  very  differ- 
 
143 
 
 ent  walks  of  life,  yet  we  may  mutually  assist  each  other 
 by  counsel,  by  admonition,  and  by  prayer.     My  calling 
 is  of  a  nature  the  most  arduous  and  awful ;  /  need  every 
 assistance  fi'om  above,   and    from  my  companions  in  tlie 
 flesh ;  and  no  advice  will  ever  be  esteemed  lightly  by  me, 
 which  proceeds  from  a  servant  of  God,  however  trifling, 
 or  however  ill  expressed.     If  your  immediate  avocations 
 be  less  momentous,   and  less  connected  with  the  world  to 
 come,    your  duty   is    not  the  less  certain,    or   the   more 
 lightly  to  be  attended  to  —  you  are  placed  in  a  situation 
 wherein  God  expects  from  you  according  to  your  powers, 
 as  well  as  from  me  in  mine :  and  there  are  various  dark 
 and  occult  temptations,    of  which    you    are  little  aware, 
 but  into  which  you   may  easily   and   imperceptibly   fall, 
 unless  upheld  by  the  arm  of  Almighty  God.     You  stand  in 
 need,    therefore,    to    exercise   a  constant  reliance   on  the 
 Holy  Spirit,    and  its  influences,    and  to  watch  narrowly 
 your   own    heart,    that   it   conceive   no    secret   sin  :    for 
 although    your  situation  be  not  so  dangerous,    nor  your 
 duties  so  difficult,  yet,  as  the  masks  which  Satan  assumes 
 are  various,  you  may  still  find  cause  for  spiritual  fear  and 
 sorrow,  and  occasion  for  trembhng,  lest  you  should  not 
 have  exercised  your  talents  in  proportion  to  their  extent. 
 It  is  a  valuable  observation,  that  there  is  no  resting-place 
 in  the  spiritual  progress  —  we  must  either  go  backward  or 
 forward,  and  when  we  are  at  a  loss  to  know  whether  our 
 motion    be  onward  or  retrograde,   we  may  rest  assured, 
 that  there  is  something  wanting  which  must  be  supplied 
 —  some  evil  yet  lurking  in  the  heart,  or  some  duty  slightly 
 performedo 
 
144 
 
 You  remember  I  heard  Mr.  *  *,  on  the  night  previous 
 to  my  departure  ;  I  did  not  say  much  on  his  manner,  but 
 I  thought  it  neat,  and  the  sermon  far  better  than  I 
 expected  ;  but  I  must  not  be  understood  to  approve 
 altogether  of  Mr.  *  *  's  preaching.  I  think,  in  particular, 
 he  has  one  great  fault,  that  is  elegance — he  is  not  sufficiently 
 plain.  Remember,  we  do  not  mount  the  pulpit  to  say 
 fine  things,  or  eloquent  things ;  we  have  there  to  proclaim 
 the  good  tidings  of  salvation  to  fallen  man ;  to  point  out 
 the  way  of  eternal  life ;  to  exhort,  to  cheer,  and  to  sup- 
 port the  suffering  sinner  :  these  are  the  glorious  topics 
 upon  which  we  have  to  enlarge  —  and  will  these  permit 
 the  tricks  of  oratory,  or  the  studied  beauties  of  eloquence  ? 
 Shall  truths  and  counsels  like  these  be  couched  in  terms 
 which  the  poor  and  ignorant  cannot  comprehend  ?  —  Let 
 all  eloquent  preachers  beware,  lest  they  fill  any  man's 
 ear  with  sounding  words,  when  they  should  be  feeding 
 his  soul  with  the  bread  of  everlasting  life  !  Let  them  fear, 
 lest,  instead  of  honouring  God,  they  honour  themselves  ! 
 If  any  man  ascend  the  pulpit  with  the  intention  of  utter- 
 ing 2ijine  things  he  is  committing  a  deadly  sin.  Remem- 
 ber, however,  that  there  is  a  medium,  and  that  vulgarity 
 and  meanness  are  cautiously  to  he  shunned ;  but  while  we 
 speak  with  propriety  and  chastity,  we  cannot  be  too 
 familiar  or  too  plain.  I  do  not  intend  to  apply  these 
 remarks  to  Mr.  *  *  individually,  but  to  the  manner  of 
 preaching  here  alluded  to.  If  his  manner  be  such  as  I 
 have  here  described,  the  observations  will  also  fit;  but,  if  it 
 be  otherwise,  the  remarks  refer  not  to  him,  but  to  the  style 
 reprobated. 
 
145 
 
 I  recommend  to  you,  always  before  you  begin  to 
 study,  to  pray  to  God  to  enlighten  your  understanding, 
 and  give  you  grace  to  behold  all  things  through  the  me- 
 dium of  religion.  This  was  always  the  practice  in  the  old 
 universities,  and,  I  believe,  is  the  only  way  to  profit  by 
 learning. 
 
 I  can  now  only  say  a  few  words  to  you,  since  our  re- 
 gular hour  of  retiring  fast  approaches.  I  hope  you  are 
 making  progress  in  spiritual  things,  proportionably  to 
 your  opportunities,  and  that  you  are  sedulously  endea- 
 vouring, not  only  to  secure  your  own  acceptation,  but  to 
 impart  the  light  of  truth  to  those  around  you  who  still 
 remain  in  darkness. 
 
 Pray  let  me  hear  from  you  at  your  convenience,  and 
 my  brother  will  forward  the  letter ;  and  believe  me, 
 
 My  dear  Kirke, 
 Your  friend,  and  fellow-traveller  in  the 
 Tearful  sojourn  of  life, 
 
 H,  K.  WHITE. 
 
 VOL.  r. 
 
146 
 
 TO   HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 Winteringham,  Dec.  1 6th,  1 804. 
 MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 
 
 Since  I  wrote  to  you  last  I  have  been  rather  ill,  having 
 caught  cold,  which  brought  on  a  slight  fever.  Thanks 
 to  excellent  nursmg,  I  am  now  pretty  much  recovered, 
 and  only  want  strength  to  be  .  perfectly  re-established. 
 Mr.  Grainger  is  himself  a  very  good  physician,  but  when 
 I  grew  worse,  he  deemed  it  necessary  to  send  for  a 
 medical  gentleman  fi*om  Barton ;  so  that,  in  addition  to 
 my  illness,  I  expect  an  apothecary's  bill.  This,  however, 
 will  not  be  a  very  long  one,  as  Mr.  Grainger  has  chiefly 
 supplied  me  with  drugs.  It  is  judged  absolutely  neces- 
 sary that  I  should  take  wine,  and  that  I  should  ride.  It 
 is  with  very  great  reluctance  that  I  agree  to  incur  these 
 additional  expenses,  and  I  shall  endeavour  to  cut  them 
 off  as  soon  as  possible.  Mr.  and  Mrs.  Grainger  have 
 behaved  like  parents  to  me  since  I  have  been  ill :  four 
 and  five  times  in  the  night  has  Mr.  G.  come  to  see  me ; 
 and  had  I  been  at  home,  I  could  not  have  been  treated 
 with  more  tenderness  and  care.  Mrs.  Grainger  has  insisted 
 on  my  drinking  their  wine,  and  was  very  angry  when  I 
 made  scruples ;  but  I  cannot  let  them  be  at  all  this  addi- 
 tional expense  —  in  some  way  or  other  I  must  pay  them, 
 as  the  smii  I  now  give,   considering  the  mode  in  which  we 
 
147 
 
 are  accommodated,  is  very  trifling.  Mr.  Grainger  does  not 
 keep  a  horse,  so  that  I  shall  be  obliged  to  hire  one ;  but 
 there  will  be  no  occasion  for  this  for  any  length  of  tune 
 as  my  strength  seems  to  return  as  rapidly  as  it  was  rapidly 
 reduced.  Don't  make  yourself  in  the  least  uneasy  about 
 this,  I  pray,  as  I  am  quite  recovered,  and  not  at  all  appre- 
 hensive of  any  consequences.  I  have  no  cough,  nor  any 
 symptom  which  might  indicate  an  affection  of  the  lungs. 
 I  read  very  little  at  present. 
 
 I  thought  it  necessary  to  write  to  you  on  this  subject 
 now,  as  I  feared  you  might  have  an  exaggerated  account 
 from  Mr.  Almond's  friends,  and  alarm  yourself 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham^  Dec.  27.  1804. 
 MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 
 
 I  HAVE  been  very  much  distressed  at  the  receipt  of 
 your  letter,  accompanied  with  one  from  my  mother,  one 
 from  my  sister,  and  from  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  Kirke 
 Swann,  all  on  the  same  subject;  and  greatly  as  I  feel 
 for  all  the  kindness  and  affection  which  has  prompted 
 these  remonstrances,  I  am  quite  harassed  with  the  idea 
 that  you  should  not  have  taken  my  letter  as  a  plain  ac- 
 
 L  2 
 
148 
 
 count  of  my  illness,  without  any  wish  to  hide  from  you 
 that  I  had  been  ill  somewhat  seriously,  but  that  I  was 
 indeed  better. 
 
 I  can  now  assure  you,  that  I  am  perfectly  recovered, 
 and  am  as  well  as  I  have  been  for  some  time  past.  My 
 sickness  was  merely  a  slight  fever,  rather  of  a  nervous 
 kind,  brought  on  by  a  cold,  and  soon  yielded  to  the  proper 
 treatment.  I  do  assure  you,  simply  and  plainly,  that  I  am 
 now  as  well  as  ever. 
 
 With  regard  to  study,  I  do  assure  you  that  Mr.  Grain- 
 ger will  not  suffer  us  to  study  at  all  hard ;  our  work  at 
 present  is  mere  play.  I  am  always  in  bed  at  ten  o'clock, 
 and  take  two  walks  in  the  day,  besides  riding,  when  the 
 weather  will  permit. 
 
 Under  these  circumstances,  my  dear  brother  may  set 
 his  mind  perfectly  at  ease.  Even  change  of  air  some- 
 times occasions  violent  attacks,  but  they  leave  the  patient 
 better  than  they  found  him. 
 
 I  still  continue  to  drink  wine,  though  I  am  convinced 
 there  is  no  necessity  for  it.  My  appetite  is  amazingly 
 large  —  much  larger  than  when  at  Nottingham. 
 
 shall  come  to  an  arrangement  with  Mr.  Grainger 
 immediately,  and  I  hope  you  will  not  write  to  him  about 
 it.  If  Mr.  Eddy,  the  surgeon,  thinks  it  at  all  necessary 
 for  me  to  do  this  constantly,   I  declare  to  you  that  I  will  ,* 
 
149 
 
 but  remember,  if  I  should  form  a  habit  of  this  now,  it  may 
 be  a  disadvantage  to  me  when  possibly  circumstances  may 
 render  it  inconvenient  —  as  when  I  am  at  college. 
 
 My  spirits  are  completely  knocked  up  by  the  receipt  of 
 all  the  letters  I  have  at  one  moment  received.  My  mother 
 got  a  gendeman  to  mention  it  to  Mr.  Dashwood,  and  still 
 representing  that  my  illness  was  occasioned  by  study  —  a 
 thing  than  which  nothing  can  be  more  remote  from  the 
 truth,  as  I  have,  from  conscientious  motives,  given  up  hard 
 study  until  I  shall  find  my  health  better. 
 
 I  cannot  write  more,  as  I  have  the  other  letters  to  an- 
 swer. I  am  going  to  write  to  Barton,  expressly  to  get 
 advantage  of  the  post  for  this  day,  in  order  that  you  may 
 no  longer  give  yourself  a  moment's  uneasiness,  where  there 
 is  in  reality  no  occasion. 
 
 Give  my  affectionate  love  to  James, 
 And  believe  me. 
 My  dear  Neville, 
 
 Your  truly  affectionate  Brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 One  thing  I  had  forgot  —  you  mention  my  pecuniary 
 matters  —  you  make  me  blush  when  you  do  so.  You 
 may  rest  assured  that  I  have  no  wants  of  that  kind,  nor 
 am  likely  to  have  at  present.  Your  brotherly  love  and 
 anxiety  towards  me  has  sunk  deep  into  my  heart ;  and 
 you  may  satisfy  yourself  with  this,  that  whatever  is  neces- 
 sary for  my  health  shall  not  be  spared,  and  that  when  I 
 
 L  3 
 
150 
 
 want  the  means  of  procuring  these,  I  shall  think  it  my  duty 
 to  tell  you  so. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  JAMES. 
 
 Midway  between  Winteringham  and  Hull, 
 Jan.  nth,  1805. 
 
 DEAR   JAMES, 
 
 You  will  not  be  surj>rised  at  the  style  of  this  letter, 
 when  I  tell  you  it  is  written  in  the  Winteringham  Packet, 
 on  a  heap  of  flour  bags,  and  surrounded  by  a  drove  of 
 14?  pigs,  who  raise  the  most  hideous  roar  every  time  the 
 boat  rolls.  I  write  with  a  silver  pen,  and  with  a  good 
 deal  of  shaking,  so  you  may  expect  very  bad  scribbling. 
 I  am  now  going  to  Hull,  where  I  have  a  parcel  to  send 
 to  my  mother,  and  1  would  not  lose  the  opportunity  of 
 writing. 
 
 I  am  extremely  glad  that  you  are  attentive  to  mat- 
 ters of  such  moment  as  are  those  of  religion ;  and  I  hope 
 you  do  not  relax  in  your  seriousness,  but  continue  to  pray 
 that  God  will  enable  you  to  walk  in  the  paths  of  righteous- 
 ness, which  alone  lead  to  peace.  He  alone,  my  dear  James, 
 is  able  to  give  you  a  heart  to  delight  in  his  service,  and  to 
 set  at  nought  the  temptations  of  the  world.  It  may  seem 
 to  you,  in  the  first  beginning  of  your  Christian  progress, 
 that  religion  wears  a  very  unpromising  aspect,  and  that  the 
 gaieties  of  the  world  are  indeed  very  delicious ;  but  I  assure 
 
151 
 
 you,  from  what  I  have  myself  experienced,  that  the  pleasures 
 of  piety  are  infinitely  more  exquisite  than  those  of  fashion 
 and  of  sensual  pursuits.  It  is  true,  they  are  not  so  violent, 
 or  so  intoxicating,  (for  they  consist  in  one  even  tenor  of 
 mind,  a  lightness  of  heart,  and  sober  cheerfulness,  which 
 none  but  those  who  have  experienced  can  conceive ;)  but 
 they  leave  no  sting  behind  them ;  they  give  pleasure  on 
 reflection,  and  will  soothe  the  mind  in  the  distant  prospect. 
 And  who  can  say  this  of  the  world,  or  its  enjoyments  ? 
 
 Even  those  who  seem  to  enter  with  the  most  spirit  into 
 the  riotous  and  gaudy  diversions  of  the  world,  are  often 
 known  to  confess  that  there  is  no  real  satisfaction  in  them  ; 
 that  their  gaiety  is  often  forced,  when  their  hearts  are 
 heavy ;  and  that  they  envy  those  who  have  chosen  the  more 
 humble  but  pleasant  paths  of  religion  and  virtue. 
 
 I  am  not  at  all  particular  as  to  the  place  of  worship  you 
 may  attend,  so  as  it  be  under  a  serious  preacher,  and  so  as 
 you  attend  regularly.  I  should  think  it  a  very  good  exer- 
 cise for  you,  if  you  were  to  get  a  blank  paper  book,  and 
 were  to  write  down  in  it  any  thing  which  may  strike  you  in 
 the  sermons  you  hear  on  a  Sunday ;  this  would  improve 
 your  style  of  writing,  and  teach  you  to  think  on  what  you 
 hear.  Pray  endeavour  to  carry  this  plan  into  execution :  T 
 am  sure  you  will  find  it  worth  the  trouble.  You  attend  the 
 church  now  and  then,  I  conclude,  and  if  you  do,  I  should 
 wish  to  direct  your  attention  to  our  admirable  liturgy,  and 
 avoid,  if  possible,  remarking  what  may  seem  absurd  in  the 
 manner  it  is  repeated. 
 
 L   4 
 
152 
 
 I  must  not  conceal  from  you  that  I  am  very  sorry  you 
 do  not  attend  some  eminent  minister  in  the  church,  such 
 as  Mr.  Cecil,  or  Mr.  Pratt,  or  Mr.  Crowther,  in  preference 
 to  the  meeting:    since   I  am  convinced  a  man  runs  less 
 danger  of  being  misled,  or  of  building  on  false  foundations, 
 in  the  establishment,  than  out,  and  this  too  for  plain  rea- 
 sons :  — Dissenters   are  apt  to  think  they  are  religious,  be- 
 came they  are  dissenters  —  "  for,"  argue  they,  "  if  we  had 
 not  a  regard  for  religion,  why  should  we  leave  the  estab- 
 lishment at  all?    The  very  act  of  leaving  it  shows  we  have 
 a  regard  for  religion,  because  we  manifest  an  aversion  to  its 
 abuses."     Besides  this,  at  the  meeting-house  you  are  not 
 likely  to  hear  plain  and  unwelcome  truths  so  honestly  told 
 as  in  the  church,  where  the  minister  is  not  so  dependent  on 
 his  flock,  and  the  prayers  are  so  properly  selected,  that  you 
 will  meet  with  petitions  calculated  for  all  your  wants,  bodily 
 and  spiritual,  without  being  left  at  the  mercy  of  the  minister 
 to  pray  for  what  and  in  what  manner  he  likes.    Remember 
 these  are  not  offered  as  reasons  why  you  should  always 
 attend  the  church,  but  to  put  you  in  mind  that  there  are 
 advantages  there  which  you  should  avail  yourself  of,  instead 
 of  making   invidious  comparisons  between  the  two  insti- 
 tutions. 
 
153 
 
 TO    MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Winteringham,  Jan.  31st,  1805. 
 DEAR    BEN, 
 
 I  HAVE  long  been  convinced  of  the  truth  of  what  you 
 say,  respecting  the  effects  of  close  reading  on  a  man's 
 mind,  in  a  religious  point  of  view,  and  I  am  more  and 
 more  convinced  that  literature  is  very  rarely  the  source  of 
 satisfaction  of  mind  to  a  Christian.  I  would  wish  you 
 to  steer  clear  of  too  abstracted  and  subtle  a  mode  of 
 thinking  and  reasoning,  and  you  will  so  be  happier  than 
 your  friend.  A  relish  for  books  will  be  a  sweet  source 
 of  amusement,  and  a  salutary  relaxation  to  you  through- 
 out life ;  but  let  it  not  be  more  than  a  relish,  if  you  value 
 your  own  peace.  I  think,  however,  that  you  ought  to 
 strengthen  your  mind  a  little  w^ith  logic,  and  for  this 
 purpose  I  would  advise  you  to  go  through  Euclid  with 
 sedulous  and  serious  attention,  and  likewise  to  read  Duncan 
 through.  You  are  too  desultory  a  reader,  and  regard 
 amusement  too  much :  if  you  wish  your  reading  in  good 
 earnest  to  amuse  you  when  you  are  old,  as  well  as  now  in 
 your  youth,  you  will  take  care  to  form  a  taste  for  sub- 
 stantia] and  sound  authors,  and  will  not  be  the  less  eager 
 to  study  a  work  because  it  requires  a  little  labour  to 
 understand  it. 
 
 After  you  have  read  Euclid,  and  amused  yourself  with 
 Locke's  sublime   speculations,  you  will  derive  much  plea- 
 
154 
 
 sure  from  Butler's  Analogy,  without  exception  the  most 
 unanswerable  demonstration  of  the  folly  of  infidelity  that 
 the  world  ever  saw. 
 
 Books  like  these  will  give  you  more  strength  of  mind, 
 and  consistent  firmness,  than  either  you  or  I  now  possess ; 
 while,  on  the  other  hand,  the  effeminate  Panada  of  Ma- 
 gazines, Tales,  and  the  tribe  of  penny-catching  pamphlets, 
 of  which  desultory  readers  are  so  fond,  only  tend  to 
 enervate  the  mind,  and  incapacitate  it  for  every  species  of 
 manly  exertion. 
 
 I  continue  to  be  better  in  health,  although  the  weather 
 is  a  great  obstacle  to  my  takmg  a  proper  proportion  of 
 exercise.     I  have  had  a  trip  to  Hull  of  late,  and  saw  the 
 
 famous  painter   R there,   with  whom  I  had  a  good 
 
 deal  of  talk.  He  is  a  pious  man,  and  a  great  astronomer ; 
 but  in  manners  and  appearance,  a  complete  artist.  I  rather 
 think  he  is  inclined  to  Hutchinsonian  principles,  and  enter- 
 tains no  great  reverence  for  Sir  Isaac  Newton. 
 
155 
 
 TO    MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 Winteringhani,  1st  March,  1805. 
 
 MY    DEAR    BEN, 
 
 I  HOPE  and  trust  that  you  have  at  length  arrived  at  that 
 happy  temperament  of  disposition,  that  although  you 
 have  much  cause  of  sadness  within,  you  are  yet  willing 
 to  be  amused  with  the  variegated  scenes  around  you,  and 
 to  join,  when  occasions  present  themselves,  in  innocent 
 mirth.  Thus,  in  the  course  of  your  peregrinations,  oc- 
 currences must  continually  arise,  which,  to  a  mind  willing 
 to  make  the  best  of  every  thing,  will  afford  amusement  of 
 the  chastest  kind.  Men  and  manners  are  a  never-failing 
 source  of  wonder  and  surprise,  as  they  present  themselves 
 in  their  various  phases.  We  may  very  innocently  laugh 
 at  the  brogue  of  a  Somerset  peasant  —  and  I  should  think 
 that  person  both  cynical  and  surly,  who  could  pass  by  a 
 group  of  laughing  children,  without  participating  in 
 their  delight,  and  joining  in  their  laugh.  It  is  a  truth 
 most  undeniable,  and  most  melancholy,  that  there  is  too 
 much  in  human  life  which  extorts  tears  and  groans, 
 rather  than  smiles.  This,  however,  is  equally  certain,  that 
 our  giving  way  to  unremitting  sadness  on  these  accounts, 
 so  far  from  ameliorating  the  condition  of  mortality,  only 
 adds  to  the  aggregate  of  human    misery,    and  throws  a 
 
156 
 
 gloom  over  those  moments  when  a  ray  of  light  is  permit- 
 ted to  visit  the  dark  valley  of  life,   and  the  heart  ought  to 
 be  making  the  best  of  its  fleeting  happiness.     Landscape, 
 too,    ought  to  be  a  source  of  delight  to  you ;  fine  build- 
 ings,  objects  of  nature,   and  a  thousand  things  which  it 
 would  be  tedious  to  name.     I  should  call  the  man,   who 
 could  survey  such  things  as  these  without  being  affected 
 with  pleasure,  either  a  very  weak-minded  and  foolish  per- 
 son, or  one  of  no  mind  at  all.  To  be  always  sad,  and  always 
 pondering  on  internal  griefs,  is  what  I  call  utter  selfish- 
 ness :    I  would  not  give  two-pence  for    a  being  who  is 
 locked  up  in  his  own  sufferings,   and  whose  heart  cannot 
 respond  to  the  exhilarating  cry  of  nature,  or  rejoice  because 
 he  sees  others  rejoice.     The  loud  and  unanimous  chirping 
 of  the  birds  on  a  fine  sunny  morning  pleases  me,  because 
 I  see  they  are  happy ;  and  I  should  be  very  selfish,  did  I 
 not  participate  in  their  seeming  joy.     Do  not,    however, 
 suppose  that  I  mean  to  exclude  a  man's  own  sorrows  from 
 his  thoughts,   since  that  is  an  impossibility,    and,   were  it 
 possible,  would  be  prejudicial  to  the  human  heart.     I  only 
 mean  that  the  whole  mind  is  not   to  be  incessantly   en- 
 grossed with  its  cares,   but  with  cheerful  elasticity  to  bend 
 itself  occasionally  to  circumstances,   and  give  way  without 
 hesitation  to  pleasing  emotions.     To  be  pleased  with  little, 
 is  one  of  the  greatest  blessings. 
 
 Sadness  is  itself  sometimes  infinitely  more  pleasing  than 
 joy  ;  but  this  sadness  nuist  be  of  the  expansive  and 
 generous  kind,  rather  referring  to  mankind  at  large,  than 
 the  individual  ;    and    this    is   a    feeling    not   incompatible 
 
15' 
 
 with  cheerfulness  and  a   contented  spirit.     There  is  difti- 
 cuhy,  however,   in  setting  bounds  to    a  pensive   disposi- 
 tion ;  I  have  felt  it,  and  I  have  felt  that  I  am  not  always 
 adequate  to  the  task.     1  sailed  from  Hull  to  Barton  the 
 day    before  yesterday,   on  a  rough  and  windy  day,  in  a 
 vessel  filled   with   a  marching  regiment  of  soldiers ;    the 
 band  played  finely,  and  I  was  enjoying  the  many  pleas- 
 ing emotions,  which  the  water,  sky,  winds,  and  musical 
 instruments    excited,    when    my    thoughts  were  suddenly 
 called  av/ay  to  more  melancholy  subjects.      A  girl,  gen- 
 teelly  dressed,    and  with    a    countenance  which,    for    its 
 loveliness,  a  painter  might  have  copied  for  Hebe,  with  a 
 loud   laugh  seized  me  by  the  great  coat,   and  asked  me 
 to  lend  it  her :   she  was  one  of  those  unhappy  creatures 
 who  depend    on    the    brutal    and    licentious   for  a  bitter 
 livelihood,  and  w^as  now  following  in  the  train  of  one  of 
 the  officers.       I  w^as  greatly  affected  by  her  appearance 
 and  situation,  and  more  so  by  that  of  another  female  who 
 was  with  her,  and  who,  with  less  beauty,  had  a  wild  sor- 
 rowfulness in  her  face,  which  shewed  she  knew  her  situa- 
 tion.    This   incident,  apparently  trifling,  induced  a  train 
 of  reflections,  which  occupied  me  fully  during  a  walk  of 
 six  or  seven  miles   to  our  parsonage.     At  first  I  wished 
 that  I  had  fortune  to  erect  an  asylum  for  all  the  miserable 
 and  destitute :  —  and  there  was  a  soldier's  wife  with  a  wan 
 and  hagged  face,   and  a  little  infant  in  her  arms,  whom 
 I  would  also  have  wished  to  place  in  it :  —  I  then  grew  out 
 of  humour  with  the  world,    because  it  was  so  unfeeling 
 and  so  miserable,  and  because  there  was  no  cure  for  its 
 miseries;    and  I  wished  for  a  lodging  in  the  wilderness 
 
158 
 
 where  I  might  hear  no  more  of  wrongs,  affliction,  or  vice : 
 but,  after  all  my  speculations,  I  found  there  was  a  reason 
 for  these  things  in  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  that 
 to  those  who  sought  it  there  was  also  a  cure.  So  I 
 banished  my  vain  meditations,  and,  knowing  that  God's 
 providence  is  better  able  to  direct  the  affairs  of  men  than 
 our  wisdom,  I  leave  them  in  his  hands. 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 Winteringham,  5th  Feb.  1805. 
 
 DEAR    MOTHER. 
 
 The  spectacles  for  my  father  are,  I  hope,  such  as  will 
 enable  him  to  read  with  ease,  although  they  are  not  set  in 
 silver.  If  they  hurt  him  through  stiffness,  I  think  the 
 better  way  will  be  to  wear  them  with  the  two  end  joints 
 shut  to,  and  with  a  piece  of  ribbon  to  go  round  the  back 
 of  the  head,  &c.  The  Romaine's  Sermons,  and  the  Cheap 
 Tracts,  are  books  which  I  thought  might  be  useful.  You 
 may  think  I  am  not  yet  privileged  to  make  presents,  since 
 they  will  in  the  end  come  out  of  your  pocket ;  but  I  am 
 
 7 
 
159 
 
 not  in  want  of  cash  at  present,  and  have  reason  to  beheve, 
 from  my  own  calculations,  I  shall  not  have  occasion  to 
 call  upon  you  for  what  I  know  you  can  so  ill  spare.  I  was 
 quite  vexed  afterwards  that  I  did  not  send  you  all  the 
 volumes  of  the  Cheap  Repository,  as  the  others,  which 
 are  the  general  tracts^  and  such  as  are  more  entertaining, 
 would  have  been  well  adapted  to  your  library.  When 
 I  next  go  to  Hull,  I  purpose  buying  the  remaining  vo- 
 lumes ;  and  when  I  next  have  occasion  to  send  a  parcel, 
 you  will  receive  them.  The  volume  you  have  now  got 
 contains  all  the  Sunday  reading  tracts,  and  on  that  ac- 
 count I  send  it  separately.  As  I  have  many  things  to 
 remind  me  of  my  sister  Smith,  I  thought  (though  we 
 neither  of  us  need  such  mementos)  that  she  would  not  be 
 averse  to  receive  the  sermons  of  the  great  and  good, 
 though  in  some  respects  singular,  Romaine,  at  my  hands, 
 as  what  old-fashioned  people  would  call  a  token  of  a  bro- 
 ther'sloDe^  but  what  in  more  courtly  phrase  is  denominated 
 a  memento  of  affection. 
 
160 
 TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 
 
 Wintcrin^^ham,  17th  Feb.  1805. 
 MY    DEAR    SIR, 
 
 I  BLUSH  wlien  I  look  back  to  the  date  of  your  too  long 
 unanswered  letter,  and  were  I  not  satisfied  that  the  con- 
 tents of  my  sheet  of  post  must  always  be  too  unimportant 
 to  need  apology,   I  should  now  make  one. 
 
 The  fine  and  spirited  song  (song  in  the  noblest  sense 
 of  the  word)  which  you  sent  me,  on  the  projected  inva- 
 sion, demands  my  best  thanks.  The  fervid  patriotism 
 which  animates  it  would,  I  think,  find  an  echo  in  every 
 bosom  in  England ;  and  I  hope  and  trust  the  world  has 
 not  been  deprived  of  so  appropriate  an  exhortation.  I 
 perceive,  however,  one  thing,  which  is,  that  your  fire  has 
 been  crampt  by  the  "  crambo"  of  the  rhyme,  at  all 
 times  a  gi'ievous  shackle  to  poets,  and  yet  capable  of 
 such  sweet  and  expressive  modulation,  as  makes  us  hug 
 our  chains,  and  exult  in  the  hard  servitude.  My  poor 
 neglected  muse  has  lain  absolutely  unnoticed  by  me  for 
 the  last  four  months,  during  which  period  I  have  been 
 digging  in  the  mines  of  Scapula  for  Greek  roots;  and, 
 instead  of  drinking,  with  eager  dehght,  the  beauties  of 
 Virgil,  have  been  cutting  and  drying  his  phrases  for 
 future  use.  The  place  where  I  live  is  on  the  banks  of 
 the  Humber  :  here  no  Siciliaji  river,  but  rough  with  •  cold 
 winds,  and  bordered   with  killing  swamps.      What  with 
 
161 
 
 neglect,  and  what  with  the  climate,  so  congenial  to  rural 
 meditation,  I  fear  my  good  Genius,  who  was  wont  to  visit 
 me  with  nightly  visions  "  in  woods  and  brakes,  and  by 
 the  river^s  marge,"  is  now  dying  of  a  fen-ague  ;  and 
 I  shall  thus  probably  emerge  from  my  retreat,  not  a 
 hair-brained  son  of  imagination,  but  a  sedate  black- 
 lettered  book-worm,  with  a  head  like  an  etymologicon 
 magnum. 
 
 Forgive  me  this  flippancy,  in  which  I  am  not  very  apt 
 to  indulge,  and  let  me  offer  my  best  wishes  that  it  is  not 
 with  your  muse  as  with  mine.  Eloquence  has  always 
 been  thought  a-kin  to  poetry :  though  her  efforts  are  not 
 so  effectually  perpetuated,  she  is  not  the  less  honoured, 
 or  her  memory  the  less  carefully  preserved.  Many  very 
 plausible  hypotheses  are  contradicted  by  facts,  yet  I 
 should  imagine  that  the  genius  which  prompted  your 
 ^'  Conspiracy'''  would  be  no  common  basis  on  which  to 
 erect  a  superstructure  of  oratorical  fame.  '*'  Est  enim 
 oratori  finitimus  Poeta,  numeris  adstrictior  paulo,  ver- 
 borum  autem  licentia  liberior,  multis  vero  ornandi  gene- 
 ribus  socius,  ac  pene  par,"  &c.  You,  no  doubt,  are  well 
 acquainted  with  this  passage,  in  the  1st  Dial,  de  Orat. 
 so  I  shall  not  go  on  with  it ;  but  I  encourage  a  hope,  that 
 I  shall  one  day  see  a  living  proof  of  the  truth  of  this 
 position  in  yoiu  Do  not  quite  exclude  me  from  a  kind 
 of  fellow-feeling  with  you  in  your  oratorical  pursuits,  for 
 you  know  I  must  make  myself  a  fit  herald  for  the  import- 
 ant message  I  am  ordained  to  deliver,    and    I    shall  be- 
 
 VOL.  I.  M 
 
162 
 
 stow  some  pains  to  this  end.  No  inducement  whatever 
 should  prevail  on  me  to  enter  into  orders,  if  I  were  not 
 thoroughly  convinced  of  the  truth  of  the  religion  I  pro- 
 fess, as  contained  in  the  New  Testament  ;  and  I  hope 
 that  whatever  I  know  to  be  the  truth,  I  shall  not  hesitate 
 to  proclaim,  however  much  it  may  be  disliked  or  de- 
 spised. The  discovery  of  Truth,  it  is  notorious,  ought 
 to  be  the  object  of  all  true  philosophy;  and  the  attain- 
 ment of  this  end  must,  to  a  philosopher,  be  the  greatest 
 of  all  possible  blessings.  If  then  a  man  be  satisfied  that 
 he  has  arrived  at  the  fountain-head  of  pure  Truth,  and 
 yet,  because  the  generality  of  men  hold  different  senti- 
 ments, dares  not  avow  it,  but  tacitly  gives  assent  to 
 falsehood^  he  withholds  from  men  what,  according  to  his 
 principles,  it  is  for  their  good  to  know  —  he  prefers  his 
 jjersonal  good  to  Truth  —  and  he  proves  that,  whatever  he 
 may  profess,  he  is  not  imbued  with  the  spirit  of  true 
 philosophy. 
 
 I  have  some  intention  of  becoming  a  candidate  for  Sir 
 William  Brown's  medals  this  year  ;  and  if  I  should,  it 
 would  be  a  great  satisfaction  to  me  to  subject  my  at- 
 tempts to  so  good  a  classic  as  I  understand  you  to  be.  In 
 the  mean  time,  you  will  confer  a  real  favour  on  me,  if  you 
 will  transcribe  some  of  your  Latin  verses  for  me,  as  I  am 
 anxious  to  see  the  general  character  of  modern  Latin  as  it 
 is  received  at  Cambridge;  and  elegant  verses  always  give 
 me  great  pleasure,  in  whatever  language  I  read  them. 
 Such  I  know  yours  will  be. 
 
163 
 
 In  this  remote  comer  of  the  world,  where  we  have 
 neither  books  nor  booksellers,  I  am  as  ignorant  of  the 
 affairs  of  the  literary  world  as  an  inhabitant  of  Siberia. 
 Sometimes  the  newspaper  gives  me  some  scanty  hints; 
 but,  as  I  do  not  see  a  review,  I  cannot  be  said  to  hold 
 converse  with  the  Republic.  Pray,  is  the  voice  of  the 
 Muses  quite  suspended  in  the  clang  of  arms,  or  do  they 
 yet  sing,  though  unheeded  ?  All  literary  information  will 
 be  to  me  quite  new  and  interesting ;  but  do  not  suppose 
 I  hope  to  intrude  on  your  more  valuable  time  with  these 
 things.  When  you  shall  have  leisure,  I  hope  to  hear 
 from  you ;  and  whatever  you  say,  coming  from  you,  it 
 cannot  tail  to  interest. 
 
 Believe  me, 
 
 Dear  Sir, 
 
 Very  sincerely  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 M    2 
 
164 
 
 TO    MR.  K.  SWANN. 
 
 Winterinsham,  16th  Mai'ch,  1805. 
 
 DEAR    KIRKE, 
 
 *  *  *       ,         # 
 
 *  *  *  * 
 
 I  WAS    affected    by  the  death  of  young  B .      He 
 
 once  called  upon  me  with  Mr.  H ,  when  I  was  very 
 
 ill,    and  on  that  occasion   Mr.  H said  to  us  both, 
 
 "   Young  men,  I  would  have  you  both  pack  off  to  Lisbon, 
 
 foi'  you  xwnH  last  long  if  you  stay  liere^^      Mr.  H 
 
 was  then  about  to  set  out  for  Hamburgh ;  and  he  told 
 me  afterwards  that  he  never  expected  to  see  me  again, 
 for   that   he   thought   I   was   more   desperately    gone   in 
 
 consumption  than  B .      Yet  you  see  how  the  good 
 
 providence  of  God  has  spared  me,  and  I  am  yet  living,  as 
 I  trust,  to  serve  him  with  all  my  strength.  Had  I  died 
 then,  I  should  have  perished  for  ever ;  but  I  have  now 
 hope,  through  the  Lord  Jesus,  that  I  shall  see  the  day  of 
 death  with  joy,  and  possibly  be  the  means  of  rescuing 
 others  from  a  similar  situation.  I  certainly  thought  of 
 the  ministry  at  first  with  improper  motives,  and  my 
 views  of  Christianity  were  for  a  long  time  very  obscure  ; 
 but  I  have,  I  trust,  gradually  been  growing  out  of  dark- 
 ness  into  light,   and   I  feel  a  well-grounded  hope,  that 
 
165 
 
 God  has  sanctified  my  heart  for  great  and  vahiable  pur- 
 poses.    Woe  be  unto  me  if  I  frustrate  his  designs  ! 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham,  April,  1805. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 #  #  *  * 
 
 You  wrote  me  a  long  sheet  this  last  time,  and  I  have 
 every  reason  to  be  satisfied  with  it,  yet  I  sometimes  wish 
 I  could  make  you  write  closer  and  smaller.  Since  your 
 mind  must  necessarily  be  now  much  taken  up  with  other 
 things,  I  dare  not  press  my  former  inquiries  on  subjects 
 of  reading.  When  your  leisure  season  comes,  I  shall  be 
 happy  to  hear  from  you  on  these  topics. 
 
 It  is  a  remark  of  an  ancient  philosophical  poet,  (Ho- 
 race,) that  every  man  thinks  his  neighbour's  condition 
 happier  than  his  own;  and,  indeed,  common  experience 
 shows,  that  we  are  too  apt  to  entertain  romantic  notions 
 of  absent,  and  to  think  meanly  of  present,  things  ;  to  ex- 
 tol what  we  have  had  no  experience  of,  and  to  be  dis- 
 contented with  what  we  possess.     The  man  of  business 
 
 M  3 
 
166 
 
 sighs  for  the  sweets  of  leisure:  the  person  who,  with  a 
 taste  for  reading,  has  few  opportunities  for  it,  thinks  that 
 man's  life  the  sum  of  bliss,  who  has  nothing  to  do  but 
 to  study.  Yet  it  often  happens  that  the  condition  of  the 
 envier  is  happier  than  that  of  the  envied.  You  have 
 read  Dr.  Johnson's  tale  of  the  poor  Tallow-Chandler, 
 who,  after  sighing  for  the  quiet  of  country  life,  at  length 
 scraped  money  enough  to  retire,  but  found  his  long- 
 sought-for  leisure  so  insupportable,  that  he  made  a  vo- 
 luntary offer  to  his  successor  to  come  up  to  town  every 
 Friday,  and  melt  tallow  for  him  gratis.  It  would  be  so 
 with  half  the  men  of  business,  who  sigh  so  earnestly  for 
 the  sweets  of  retirement ;  and  you  may  receive  it  as  one 
 of  the  maturest  observations  I  have  been  able  to  make 
 on  human  life,  that  there  is  no  condition  so  happy  as  that 
 of  him  who  leads  a  life  of  full  and  constant  employment. 
 His  amusements  have  a  zest  which  men  of  pleasure 
 would  gladly  undergo  all  his  drudgery  to  experience :  and 
 the  regular  succession  of  business,  provided  his  situation 
 be  not  too  anxious,  drives  away  from  his  brain  those 
 harassing  speculations  which  are  continually  assaulting 
 the  man  of  leisure,  and  the  man  of  reading.  The  studi- 
 ous man,  though  his  pleasures  are  of  the  most  refined 
 species,  finds  cares  and  disturbing  thoughts  in  study.  To 
 think  much  and  deeply  will  soon  make  a  man  sad.  His 
 thoughts,  ever  on  the  wing,  often  carry  him  where  he 
 shudders  to  be  even  in  imagination.  He  is  like  a  man 
 in  sleep  —  sometimes  his  dreams  are  pleasing,  but  at 
 others,  horror  itself  takes  possession  of  his  imagination ; 
 and  this  inequality  of  mind  is  almosts  inseparable  from 
 
167 
 
 much  meditation  and  mental  exercise.  From  this  cause 
 it  often  happens,  that  lettered  and  philosophical  men  are 
 peevish  in  their  tempers,  and  austere  in  their  manners. 
 The  inference  I  would  draw  from  these  remarks  is  generally 
 this,  that  although  every  man  carries  about  him  the  seeds 
 of  happiness  or  misery  in  his  own  bosom,  yet  it  is  a  truth 
 not  liable  to  many  exceptions,  that  men  are  more  equally 
 free  from  anxiety  and  care,  in  proportion  as  they  recede 
 from  the  more  refined  and  mental,  to  the  grosser  and 
 bodily  employments  and  modes  of  Hfe,  but  that  the  happiest 
 condition  is  placed  in  the  middle,  between  the  extremes  of 
 both.  Thus  a  person  with  a  moderate  love  of  reading,  and 
 few  opportunities  of  indulging  it,  would  be  inclined  to  envy 
 one  in  my  situation,  because  such  a  one  has  nothing  to  do 
 but  to  read  :  but  I  could  tell  him,  that  though  my  studious 
 pleasures  are  more  comprehensive  than  his,  they  are  not 
 more  exquisite,  and  that  an  occasional  banquet  gives  more 
 delight  than  a  continual  feast.  Reading  should  be  dearer 
 to  you  than  to  me,  because  I  always  read,  and  you  but 
 seldom. 
 
 Almond  and  I  took  a  small  boat  on  Monday,  and  set 
 out  for  Hull,  a  distance  of  thirteen  miles,  as  some  com- 
 pute it,  though  others  make  it  less.  We  went  very  merrily 
 with  a  good  pair  of  oars,  until  we  came  within  four  miles 
 of  Hull,  when,  owing  to  some  hard  working,  we  were  quite 
 exhausted ;  but  as  the  tide  was  nearly  down,  and  the  shore 
 soft,  we  could  not  get  to  any  villages  on  the  banks.  At 
 length  we   made  Hull,    and  just  arrived  in  time  to  be 
 
 M  4 
 
168 
 
 grounded  in  the  middle  of  the  harbour,  without  any  pos- 
 sible means  of  getting  ashore  till  the  flux  or  flood.  As  we 
 were  half  famished,  I  determined  to  wade  ashore  for  pro- 
 visions, and  had  the  satisfaction  of  getting  above  the  knees 
 in  mud  almost  every  step  I  made.  When  I  got  ashore,  I 
 recollected  I  had  given  Almond  all  my  cash.  This  was  a 
 terrible  dilemma  —  to  return  back  was  too  laborious,  and  I 
 expected  the  tide  flowing  every  minute.  At  last  I  deter- 
 mined to  go  to  the  inn  where  we  usually  dine  when  we  go 
 to  Hull,  and  try  how  much  credit  I  possessed  there,  and  I 
 happily  found  no  difficulty  in  procuring  refreshments, 
 which  I  carried  off*  in  triumph  to  the  boat.  Here  new 
 difficulties  occurred ;  for  the  tide  had  flowed  in  considerably 
 during  my  absence,  although  not  sufficiently  to  move  the 
 boat,  so  that  my  wade  was  much  worse  back  than  it  had 
 been  before.  On  our  return,  a  most  placid  and  calm  day 
 was  converted  into  a  cloudy  one,  and  we  had  a  brisk  gale 
 in  our  teeth.  Knowing  we  were  quite  safe,  we  struck 
 across  from  Hull  to  Barton ;  and  when  we  were  off"  Hazel 
 Whelps,  a  place  which  is  always  rough,  we  had  some  tre- 
 mendous swells,  which  we  weathered  admirably,  and 
 (bating  our  getting  on  the  wrong  side  of  a  bank,  owing  to 
 the  deceitful  appearance  of  the  coast)  we  had  a  prosperous 
 voyage  home,  having  rowed  twenty-six  miles  in  less  than 
 five  hours. 
 
1G9 
 
 TO   MR.  K.  SWANN. 
 
 Winteringhani,  April  6th,  1805. 
 
 MY    DEAR    KIRKE, 
 
 *  #  #  #  , 
 
 *  *  *  # 
 
 Your  complaint  of  the  lukewarmness  of  your  affec- 
 tions towards  spiritual  things,  is  a  very  common  one  with 
 Christians.  We  all  feel  it ;  and  if  it  be  attended  with  an 
 earnest  desire  to  acquit  ourselves  in  this  respect,  and  to 
 recover  our  wonted  fervour,  it  is  a  complaint  indicative  of 
 our  faithfulness.  In  cases  of  Christian  experience,  I  sub- 
 mit my  own  opinion  to  any  body's,  and  have  too  serious 
 a  distrust  of  it  myself,  to  offer  it  as  a  rule  or  maxim  of 
 unquestionable  authority ;  but  I  have  found,  and  think, 
 that  the  best  remedy  against  lukewarmness,  is  an  obsti- 
 nate persisting  in  prayer,  until  our  affections  be  moved  ; 
 and  a  regular  habit  of  going  to  religious  duties  with  a 
 prepared  and  meek  heart,  thinking  more  of  obtaining  com- 
 munion with  God,  than  of  spending  so  many  minutes  in 
 seeking  it.  Thus,  when  we  pray,  we  must  not  kneel  down 
 with  the  idea  that  we  are  to  spend  so  many  minutes  in  sup- 
 plication, and  after  the  usual  time  has  elapsed,  go  about 
 our  regular  business ;  we  must  remind  ourselves  that  we 
 have  an  object  in  prayer,   and  that  until  that  object  be  at- 
 
170 
 
 tained,  that  is,  until  we  are  satisfied  that  our  Father  hears 
 us,  we  are  not  to  conceive  that  our  duty  is  performed, 
 although  we  may  be  in  the  posture  of  prayer  for  an  hour. 
 
 TO   HIS   MOTHER. 
 
 Winteringham,  12th  April,  1S05. 
 
 MY  DEAR  MOTHER, 
 
 *  * 
 
 I  HAVE  constructed  a  planetarium,  or  orrery,  of  a  veiy 
 simple  kind,  which  cannot  fail  to  give  even  children  an 
 idea  of  the  order  and  course  of  the  heavenly  bodies.  I 
 shall  write  a  few  plain  and  simple  lectures  upon  it,  with 
 lessons  to  be  got  off  by  heart  by  the  children,  so  that  you 
 will  be  able,  without  any  difficulty,  to  teach  them  the 
 rudiments  of  astronomy.  The  machine,  simple  as  it  may 
 seem,  is  such  that  you  cannot  fail  to  understand  the 
 planetary  system  by  it ;  and  were  it  not  that  I  cannot  afford 
 the  additional  expense,  I  could  make  it  much  more  com- 
 plete and  interesting.  You  must  not  expect  any  thing 
 striking  in  the  instrument  itself,  as  it  only  consists  of  an 
 
171 
 
 index-plate,  with  rods  and  balls.  —  It  will  explain  the  situ- 
 ation of  the  planets,  their  courses,  the  motion  of  the  earth 
 and  moon,  the  causes  of  the  seasons,  the  different  lengths 
 of  day  and  night,  the  reason  of  eclipses,  transits,  &c. 
 When  you  have  seen  it,  and  read  the  explanatory  lectures, 
 you  will  be  able  to  judge  of  its  plainness ;  and  if  you  find 
 you  understand  it,  you  may  teach  geography  scholars  its 
 use.  Should  it  fail  in  other  points  of  view,  it  will  be 
 useful  to  Maria  and  Catharine. 
 
 Remember  to  keep  up  the  plan  of  family  worship  on 
 Sundays  with  strictness  until  I  come,  and  it  will  probably 
 pave  the  way  for  still  further  improvements,  which  I  may, 
 perhaps,  have  an  opportunity  of  making  while  I  stay  with 
 you.  Let  Maria  and  Catharine  be  more  particularly 
 taught  to  regard  Sunday  as  a  day  set  apart  from  all  worldly 
 occupations.  —  Let  them  have  every  thing  prepared  for  the 
 Sabbath  on  the  preceding  day ;  and  be  carefully  warned, 
 on  that  day  in  particular,  to  avoid  paying  too  great  an 
 attention  to  dress.  I  know  how  important  habits  like  these 
 will  be  to  their  future  happiness  even  in  this  world,  and  I 
 therefore  press  this  with  earnestness. 
 
172 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham,  20th  May,  1805. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 My  first  business  must  be  to  thank  you  for  the  *  * 
 *  *,  which  I  received  by  Mr.  K.  Swann ;  you  must  not 
 suppose  that  I  feel  reluctance  to  lie  under  obligations  to 
 so  affectionate  a  brother,  when  I  say,  that  I  have  felt 
 uneasy  ever  since  on  more  accounts  than  one.  I  am  con- 
 vinced, in  the  first  place,  that  you  have  little  to  spare; 
 and  I  fear,  in  the  second,  that  I  shall  prove  an  hindrance 
 to  a  measure  which  I  know  to  be  necessary  for  your 
 health :  I  mean  your  going  to  some  watering-place  for 
 the  benefit  of  sea-bathing.  I  am  aware  of  the  nature  of 
 injuries  received  at  the  joints,  especially  the  knee ;  and  I 
 am  sure  nothing  will  strengthen  your  knee  more  for  the 
 present,  and  prevent  the  recurrence  of  disease  in  it  for 
 the  future.  I  would  have  you,  therefore,  if  by  any 
 means  you  can  be  spared  in  London,  go  to  one  of  the 
 neighbouring  coasts,  and  take  sufficient  time  to  recover 
 your  strength.  You  may  pitch  upon  some  pleasant 
 place,  where  there  will  be  sufficient  company  to  amuse 
 you,  and  not  so  much  as  to  create  bustle,  and  make  a  toil 
 of  reflection,  and   turn   retirement  into  riot.      Since  you 
 
173 
 
 must  be  as  sensible  as  I  am,  that  this  is  necessary  for  your 
 health,  I  shall  feel  assured,  if  you  do  not  go,  that  I  am  the 
 cause,  a  consideration  I  would  gladly  spare  myself.  ^ 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  June,  1805. 
 MY  DEAR  BROTHER, 
 
 I  WROTE  you  a  long  letter  from  Winteringham  some 
 time  ago,  which  I  now  apprehend  you  have  never  re- 
 ceived, or,  if  you  have,  some  more  important  concerns 
 have  occupied  your  time  than  writing  to  me  on  general 
 subjects.  Feeling,  however,  rather  weary  to-night,  I  have 
 determined  to  send  this  sheet  to  you,  as  a  proof  that,  if  I 
 am  not  ^  pundtial,  I  am  certainly  far  from  a  ceremonious 
 correspondent. 
 
 Our  adventure  on  the  Humber  you  should  have  learnt 
 from  K.  Swann,  who,  with  much  minuteness,  filled  up 
 three  sides  of  a  letter  to  his  friend  with  the  account. 
 The  matter  was  simply  this:  He,  Almond,  and  myself, 
 made  an  excursion  about  twelve  or  fourteen  miles  up  the 
 Humber ;  on  our  return  ran  aground,  were  left  by  the  tide 
 
174 
 
 on  a  sand-bank,  and  were  obliged  to  remain  six  hours  in 
 an  open  boat  exposed  to  a  heavy  rain,  high  wind,  and 
 piercing  cold,  until  the  tide  rose,  when  two  men  brought 
 a  boat  to  our  assistance.  We  got  home  about  twelve 
 o'clock  at  night :  no  evil  consequences  ensued,  owing  to 
 our  using  every  exertion  we  could  think  of  to  keep  warmth 
 in  our  bodies. 
 
 TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham,  27th  June,  1805. 
 
 MY  DEAR  FRIEND, 
 
 It  is  some  time  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  still  longer 
 since  I  heard  from  you ;  but  you  are  acquainted  with  my 
 unceremonious  disposition,  and  will,  I  hope,  pardon  me 
 for  obtruding  an  unbidden  guest  on  your  notice.  I  have 
 a  question  to  ask  of  you  in  the  first  place,  and  I  shall  then 
 fill  up  my  letter  with  all  the  familiarity  of  a  man  talking 
 by  your  side,  and  saying  any  thing,  rather  than  be  accused 
 of  saying  nothing.  My  leisure  will  scarcely  permit  me  to 
 write  to  you  again  while  I  am  here,  and  I  shall  therefore 
 make  the  best  use  of  the  present  occasion. 
 
175 
 
 We    have    iDeen    fagging    through    Rollings    Ancient 
 History,  and  some  other  historical  books,  as  I  believe,  to 
 no  great  purpose.     Rollin  is  a  valuable  and  truly  pious 
 writer,  but  so  crammed  and  garnished  with  reflections,  that 
 you  lose  the  thread  of  the  story,  while  the  poor  man  is 
 prosing  about  the  morality  of  it ;  when,  too,   after  all,   the 
 moral  is  so  obvious  as  not  to  need  insisting  upon.     You 
 may  give  my  compliments  to  your  good   friends  Galen, 
 Hippocrates,    and  Paracelsus,   and  tell  them  I  had  much 
 rather  pay  them  my  devoirs  at  a  distance,   than  come  into 
 close   contact   with   them   or   their   cathartics.      Medical 
 Greek,    and   Medical  Latin,    would   act   as   a   sudorific 
 upon  any  man,    who  should  hear  their  tremendous  tech- 
 nicals pronounced  with  the  true  ore  rotundo  of  a  Scotch 
 physician. 
 
 And  now,  my  dear  Sir,  we  will  cry  a  truce  to  flippancy 
 —  I  have  neither  time  nor  inclination  to  indulge  in  it  to 
 excess.  You  and  I  have  been  some  time  asunder  in  the 
 pursuit  of  our  several  studies ;  you  to  the  lively  and  busy 
 seat  of  gaiety,  fashion,  and  folly ;  —  I  to  the  retired  haunts 
 of  a  secluded  village,  and  the  studious  walls  of  a  silent 
 and  ancient  parsonage.  At  first  sight  one  would  think 
 that  my  lot  had  been  most  profitable,  as  undoubtedly  it 
 is  most  secure  ;  but  when  we  come  to  consider  the 
 present  state  of  things  in  the  capital,  the  boundless  oppor- 
 tunities of  spiritual  improvement  which  offer  themselves, 
 and  the  very  superior  society  which  every  serious  man 
 may  there  join  with,  the  tables  seem  turned  in  your 
 favour.     I  hope  and  trust  this  is  really  the  case,  and  that. 
 
176 
 
 with  philosophical  strength  of  mind,  you  have  turned 
 an  unregarding  ear  to  the  voice  of  folly,  and  continued 
 fixed  upon  the  serener  and  far  more  exquisite  occupa- 
 tions of  a  religious  life.  I  have  been  cultivating  in" 
 retirement,  by  slow  and  imperceptible  degrees,  a  closer 
 communion  with  God  ;  but  you  have  been  led,  as  it 
 were,  in  triumph  by  the  energetic  discourses  of  the 
 many  good  men  whom  you  have  had  the  opportunity 
 of  hearing,  to  heights  of  religious  satisfaction,  which  I 
 can  at  present  only  sigh  for  at  a  distance.  I  appeal  to 
 you  whether  the  grace  of  God  is  not  the  source  of 
 exquisite  enjoyments  ?  What  can  be  more  delightful  than 
 that  sweet  and  placid  calm  which  it  casts  over  one's 
 mind  ;  or  than  the  tenderness  it  sheds  abroad  in  our 
 hearts,  both  with  regard  to  God,  and  our  poor  fellow- 
 labourers  ?  Even  worldly-minded  men  confess  that  this 
 life  is,  at  best,  but  a  scene  of  anxiety,  and  disappoint- 
 ment, and  distress.  How  absurd  then,  and  inconsistent, 
 must  be  their  conduct,  when,  in  spite  of  this  so  general 
 and  confirmed  an  experience,  they  neglect  what  can 
 alone  alleviate  the  sorrows  of  this  life,  and  provide  for 
 the  happiness  of  the  next?  How  much  more  is  he  to 
 be  envied,  who  can  exclaim  with  St.  Paul,  "  The  iwrld 
 is  crucified  unto  me,  and  I  unto  the  "world''  "  I  have 
 learnt,  in  "whatever  state  I  am,  therewith  to  he  content'' 
 "  The  wojid  passeth  awmj  and  the  hist  thereof;  biit  he  that 
 doeth  the  'will  of  God  ahideth  for  ever."  There  is,  in  truth, 
 an  indescribable  satisfaction  in  the  service  of  God;  his 
 grace  imparts  such  composure  in  time  of  trouble,  and 
 such  fortitude  in  the  anticipation  of  it,    at  the  same  time 
 
177 
 
 that  it  increases  our  pleasure  by  making  them  inno- 
 cent, that  the  Christian,  viewed  either  as  militant  in  this 
 troublesome  scene,  or  as  a  traveller  who  is  hastening,  by 
 a  difficult,  but  short  journey,  to  a  better  country,  is  a 
 most  enviable  and  happy  character.  The  man  who  lives 
 without  God  in  the  world,  on  the  other  hand,  has 
 neither  rest  here,  nor  certainty  or  hope  for  the  future. 
 His  reflections  must,  at  all  times,  be  dubious  and  dark, 
 not  to  say  distressing:  and  his  most  exquisite  enjoy- 
 ments must  have  a  sting  of  fear  and  apprehension  in 
 them,  which  is  felt  when  the  gay  hour  is  over,  and  its 
 joys  no  more  remembered.  Many  wicked  and  dissipated 
 men  sigh  in  secret  for  the  state  of  the  righteous,  but 
 they  conceive  there  are  insuperable  obstacles  in  the  way 
 of  religion,  and  that  they  must  amend  their  lives  before 
 they  can  hope  for  acceptance,  or  even  dare  to  seek  ac- 
 ceptance with  God.  But  what  a  miserable  delusion  is 
 this  !  If  this  were  truly  the  case,  how  awful  would  be 
 the  condition  of  the  sinner  !  for  we  know  that  our  hearts 
 are  so  depraved,  and  so  obstinately  addicted  to  sin,  that 
 they  cannot  forsake  it  without  some  more  than  mortal 
 power  to  cut  asunder  the  bonds  of  innate  corruption, 
 and  loosen  the  affections  from  this  sinful  bondage.  I 
 was  talking  a  few  days  ago  with  a  young  surgeon  who 
 is  just  returned  from  the  East  Indies,  and  was  expostu- 
 lating with  him  on  his  dissolute  habits :  *'  Sir,"  said  he, 
 "  I  know  you  are  happy,  and  I  would  give  worlds  to  be 
 able  to  subdue  my  passions ;  but  it  is  impossible,  it  never 
 can  be  done :  I  have  made  resolution  upon  resolution, 
 and  the  only  effect  has  been  that  I  have  plunged  deeper 
 
 VOL.  I.  N 
 
178 
 
 into  vice  than  ever."  What  could  be  a  stronger  illus- 
 tration of  the  Scripture  Truth,  That  man's  heart  is  natu- 
 rally corrupt,  and  desperately  wicked  ?  Since  wickedness  is 
 misery,  can  we  conceive  that  an  all-good  and  benevolent 
 God  would  have  originally  created  man  with  such  a  dis- 
 position ?  It  is  sin  which  hath  made  the  world  a  vale 
 of  tears.  It  is  the  power  of  the  cross  of  Jesus  Christ 
 alone  that  can  redeem  us  from  our  natural  depravity  :  — 
 "  Yes,"  my  friend,  "  We  know  on  whom  v,e  have  be- 
 lieved ;  and  we  are  persuaded  that  he  is  able  to  keep 
 that  which  we  have  committed  unto  him  against  the 
 great  day."  When  I  occasionally  reflect  on  the  history 
 of  the  times  when  the  great  Redeemer  appeared,  behold 
 God  preparing  his  way  before  him,  uniting  all  the  civi- 
 lized world  in  one  language,  (Greek,)  for  the  speedier 
 disseminating  of  the  blessed  gospel ;  and  then,  when  I 
 compare  his  precepts  with  those  of  the  most  famous  of 
 ancient  sages,  and  meditate  on  his  life,  his  manners,  his 
 sufferings,  and  cruel  death,  I  am  lost  in  wonder,  love, 
 and  gratitude.  Such  a  host  of  evidence  attended  him, 
 as  no  power  but  that  of  the  devil  could  withstand.  His 
 doctrines,  compared  with  the  morality  of  the  then  world, 
 seem  indeed  to  have  dropt  down  from  heaven.  His  meek- 
 ness, his  divine  compassion  and  pity  for,  and  forgiveness 
 of,  his  bitterest  enemies,  convinces  me  that  he  was  indeed 
 the  Word;  that  he  was  what  he  professed  to  be,  God, 
 in  his  Son,  reconciling  the  world  to  himself.  These 
 thoughts  open  my  eyes  to  my  own  wretched  ingratitude 
 and  disregard  of  so  merciful  and  compassionate  a  mas- 
 ter ;  under  such  impressions,  I  could  ju'dently  long  to  be 
 
179 
 
 separated  altogether  from  the  affairs  of  this  life,  and  live 
 alone  to  my  Redeemer.  But,  alas  !  this  does  not  last 
 long  —  the  pleasing  outside  of  the  delusive  world  entices 
 my  heart  away  ;  beauty  smiles  me  into  a  disgust  of 
 religion,  and  the  fear  of  singularity  frowns  me  into  the 
 concealment  of  it.  How  artfully  does  the  arch-deceiver 
 insinuate  himself  into  our  hearts  !  He  tells  us,  that  there 
 is  a  deal  of  unnecessary  moroseness  in  religion,  a  deal 
 too  many  humiliating  conditions  in  the  Gospel,  and  many 
 ignorant  absurdities  in  its  professors ;  while,  on  the  other 
 hand,  the  polite  world  is  so  cheerful  and  pleasing,  so  full 
 of  harmless  gaiety  and  refined  elegance,  that  we  cannot 
 but  love  it.  This  is  an  insidious  species  of  reasoning. 
 Could  we  but  see  things  in  their  true  colours,  were  hut 
 the  false  varnish  off,  the  society  of  the  Gospel  would 
 seem  an  assembly  of  angels,  and  that  of  the  world  a  con- 
 gregation of  devils :  but  it  is  the  best  way  not  to  reason 
 with  the  Tempter.  I  have  a  Talisman,  which  at  once 
 puts  to  flight  all  his  arguments  ;  it  is  the  name  of  my 
 Saviour,  and  against  that  the  gates  of  hell  shall  not  pre- 
 vail. That  is  my  anchor  and  my  confidence ;  I  can  go 
 with  that  to  the  bed  of  death,  and  lift  up  the  eyes  of  the 
 dying  and  despairing  wretch  to  the  great  Intercessor ;  I 
 can  go  with  this  into  the  society  of  the  cheerful,  and 
 come  away  with  lightness  of  heart,  and  entertainment  of 
 spirit.  In  every  circumstance  of  life  I  can  join  with 
 Job,  who,  above  fourteen  hundred  years  before  Jesus 
 Christ,  exclaims,  in  the  fervour  of  holy  anticipation,  "  I 
 know  that  my  Redeemer  liveth,  and  that  he  shall  stand 
 at  the  latter  day  upon  the  earth;  and  though  after  my 
 
 N  2 
 
180 
 
 skin  worms  destroy  this  body,  yet  in  my  flesh  shall  I  see 
 God." 
 
 The  power  of  the  Gospel  was  never  more  strongly  illus- 
 trated than  in  the  late  mission  to  Greenland.  These  poor 
 and  unlettered  tribes,  who  inhabit  nearly  the  extremest 
 verge  of  animal  existence,  heard  the  discourses  of  the 
 Danish  missionaries  on  the  being  of  a  God  with  stupid 
 unconcern,  expressed  their  assent  to  every  thing  that  was 
 proposed  to  them,  and  then  hoped  to  extort  some  present 
 for  their  complacency.  For  ten  years  did  a  very  learned 
 and  pious  man  labour  among  them  without  the  conversion 
 of  a  single  soul.  He  thought  that  he  must  prove  to  them 
 the  existence  of  a  God,  and  the  original  stain  of  our 
 natures,  before  he  could  preach  the  peculiar  doctrines  of 
 the  Gospel,  and  he  could  never  get  over  this  first  step ; 
 for  they  either  could  not  understand  it  or  would  not,  and 
 when  no  presents  were  to  be  had,  turned  away  in  disgust. 
 At  length  he  saw  his  error,  and  the  plan  of  operations 
 was  altered.  Jesus  Christ  was  preached  in  simplicity, 
 without  any  preparation.  The  Greenlanders  seemed 
 thoughtful,  amazed,  and  confounded ;  their  eyes  were 
 opened  to  their  depraved  and  lost  slate.  The  Gospel  was 
 received  every  where  with  ardent  attention.  The  flame 
 spread  like  wild-fire  over  the  icy  wastes  of  Greenland  ; 
 numbers  came  from  the  remotest  recesses  of  the  Northern 
 Ocean  to  hear  the  word  of  life ;  and  the  greater  part  of 
 the  population  of  that  extensive  country  has  in  time  been 
 baptized  in  the  name  of  the  Father,  and  the  Son,  and  the 
 Holy  Ghost. 
 
181 
 
 I  have  now  filled  my  sheet.  —  Pardon  my  prolixity,  and 
 believe  me,  my  prayers  are  offered  up,  frequently,  for 
 your  continuance  of  the  path  you  have  chosen.  For  my- 
 self, I  need  your  prayers  —  may  we  be  a  mutual  assistance 
 to  each  other,  and  to  all  our  fellow-labourers  in  the  Lord 
 Jesus* 
 
 Believe  me 
 
 Your  sincere  friend, 
 
 ;  H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham,  6th  July,  1805, 
 DEAR    CHARLESWORTH, 
 
 I  BEG  you  will  admire  the  elegance  of  texture  and  shape 
 of  the  sheet  on  which  I  have  the  honour  to  write  to  you, 
 and  beware  lest,  in  drawing  your  conclusions,  you  con- 
 ceive that  I  am  turned  exciseman ;  —  for  I  assure  you  I 
 write  altogether  in  character ;  —  a  poor  Cambridge  scholar, 
 with  a  patrimony  of  a  few  old  books,  an  ink-horn,  and 
 some  sundry  quires  of  paper,    manufactured   as  the  en- 
 
 N    3 
 
182 
 
 velopes  of  pounds  of  tea,  but  converted  into  repositories 
 of  learning  and  taste. 
 
 The  classics  are  certainly  in  disrepute.  The  ladies 
 have  no  more  reverence  for  Greek  and  Latin,  than  they 
 have  for  an  old  peruke,  or  the  ruffles  of  Queen  Anne. 
 I  verily  believe  that  they  would  hear  Homer's  Greek 
 without  evidencing  one  mark  of  terror  and  awe,  even 
 though  spouted  by  an  university  orator,  or  a  Westminster 
 Stentor.  O  temporal  o  mores!  the  rural  elegance  of 
 the  twanging  French  horn,  and  the  vile  squeak  of  the 
 Italian  Jiddle,  are  more  preferred  than  all  the  energy,  and 
 all  the  sublimity  of  all  the  Greek  and  Roman  orators, 
 historians,  poets,  and  philosophers,  put  together.  Now, 
 Sir,  as  a  classic,  I  cannot  bear  to  have  the  honourable 
 fame  of  the  ancients  thus  despised  and  contemned,  and 
 therefore  I  have  a  controversy  with  all  the  beaux  and 
 belles,  Frenchmen  and  Italians.  When  they  tell  me 
 that  I  walk  by  rule  and  compass,  that  I  balance  my  body 
 with  strict  regard  to  the  centre  of  gravity,  and  that  I 
 have  more  Greek  in  my  pate  than  grace  in  my  Hmbs, 
 I  can  bear  it  all  in  sullen  silence,  for  you  know  it  must 
 be  a  libel,  since  I  am  no  mathematician,  and  therefore 
 cannot  have  learned  to  walk  ill  by  system.  As  for  grace, 
 I  do  believe,  since  I  read  Xenophon,  I  am  become  a 
 very  elegant  man,  and  in  due  time  shall  be  able  to  spout 
 Pindar,  dancing  in  due  gradation  the  advancing,  retro- 
 grade, and  medium  steps,  according  to  the  regular  pro- 
 gress of  the  strophe,  antistrophe,  and  epode.  You  and 
 I  will  be  very  fashionable  men,  after  the  manner  of  the 
 
183 
 
 Greeks:  we  will  institute  an  orchestra  for  the  exercise 
 of  the  ars  salta?idi,  and  will  recline  at  our  meals  on  the 
 legitimate  Triclinium  of  the  ancients  —  only  banish  all 
 modern  beaux  and  belles,  to  whom  I  am  a  professed  and 
 declared  enemy. 
 
 So  much  for  flippancy  — 
 
 Vale  !  S.  R.  V.  B.  E.  E.  Q.  V. 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  MR.  SERJEANT  ROUGH. 
 
 Brigg,  near  Winteringham,  July,  1805. 
 MY  DEAR  SIR, 
 
 I  HAVE  just  missed  you  at  Lincoln,  where  I  had  some 
 expectations  of  seeing  you,  and  had  not  circumstances 
 prevented,  I  had  certainly  waited  there  till  to-morrow 
 morning  for  that  purpose.  This  letter,  which  I  wrote  at 
 Brigg,  I  shall  convey  to  you  at  Kirton,  by  some  person 
 going  to  the  session ;  many  of  whom,  I  have  no  doubt, 
 are  to  be  found  in  this  litigious  little  town. 
 
 Your  mis-directed  epistle,  to  my  great  sorrow,  never 
 reached  my  hands.     As    I  was   very  anxious   to  get  it,   I 
 
 N   4 
 
184 
 
 made  many  enquiries  at  the  post-offices  round ;  but  they 
 were  all  in  vain.  I  consider  this  as  a  real  loss,  and  I  hope 
 you  will  regard  me  as  still  under  the  pressure  of  vexation, 
 until  I  receive  some  substitute  from  your  hands. 
 
 Had  I  any  certain  expectation  of  hearing  you  address 
 the  Courts  or  Jury  sworn,  at  Kirton,  no  circumstances 
 should  prevent  me  from  being  present ;  so  do  I  long  to 
 mark  the  dawnings  of  that  eloquence  which  will  one  day 
 ring  through  every  court  in  the  Midland  Circuit.  I  think 
 the  noise  of  ***,  the  overbearing  petulance  of  ***, 
 and  the  decent  assurance  of  ***,  will  readily  yield  to 
 that  pure,  chaste,  and  manly  eloquence,  which,  I  have 
 no  doubt,  you  chiefly  cultivate.  It  seems  to  me,  who 
 am  certainly  no  very  competent  judge,  that  there  is  an 
 uniform  mode,  or  art,  of  pleading  in  our  courts,  which  is 
 in  itself  faulty,  and  is,  moreover,  a  bar  to  the  higher  ex- 
 cellencies. You  know,  before  a  barrister  begins,  in  what 
 manner  he  will  treat  the  subject ;  you  anticipate  his  post' 
 tiveness,  his  complete  confidence  in  the  stability  of  his 
 case,  his  contempt  of  his  opponent,  his  voluble  exagge- 
 ration, and  the  vehemence  of  his  indignation.  All  these 
 are  as  of  course.  It  is  no  matter  what  sort  of  a  face  the 
 business  assume:  if  Mr. be  all  impetuosity,  asto- 
 nishment, and  indignation  on  one  side,  we  know  he  would 
 not  have  been  a  whit  less  impetuous,  less  astonished,  or 
 less  indignant,  on  the  other,  had  he  happened  to  have 
 been  retained.  It  is  true,  this  assurance  of  success,  this 
 contempt  of  an  opponent,  and  dictatorial  decision  in 
 speaking,  are  calculated  to  have  effect  on  the  minds  of  a 
 
185 
 
 jury ;  and  if  it  be  the  business  of  a  counsel  to  obtain  his 
 ends  by  any  means,  he  is  right  to  adopt  them ;  but  the 
 misfortune  is,  that  all  these  things  are  mechanical,  and  as 
 much  in  the  power  of  the  opposite  counsel  as  in  your 
 own ;  so  that  it  is  not  so  much  who  argues  best,  as  who 
 speaks  last,  loudest,  or  longest.  True  eloquence,  on  the 
 other  hand,  is  confident  only  where  there  is  real  ground 
 for  confidence,  trusts  more  to  reason  and  facts  than  to 
 imposing  declamation,  and  seeks  rather  to  convince  than 
 dazzle.  The  obstreperous  rant  of  a  pleader  may,  for  a 
 while,  intimidate  a  jury;  but  plain  and  manly  argument, 
 delivered  in  a  candid  and  ingenuous  manner,  will  more 
 effectually  work  upon  their  understandings,  and  will 
 make  an  impression  on  which  the  froth  of  declamation 
 will  be  lost.  I  think  a  man,  who  would  plead  in  this 
 manner,  would  gain  the  confidence  of  a  jury,  and  would 
 find  the  avenues  of  their  hearts  much  more  open,  than  a 
 man  of  more  assurance,  who,  by  too  much  confidence 
 where  there  is  much  doubt,  and  too  much  vehemence 
 where  there  is  greater  need  of  coolness,  puts  his  hearers 
 continually  in  mind  that  he  is  pleading  for  hire.  There 
 seems  to  me  so  much  beauty  in  truth,  that  I  could  wish 
 our  barristers  would  make  a  distinction  between  cases,  in 
 their  opinion  well  or  ill-founded,  embarking  their  whole 
 heart  and  soul  in  the  one,  and  contenting  themselves  with 
 a  perspicuous  and  forcible  statement  of  their  client's  case 
 in  the  other.   , 
 
 Pardon  my  rambling.     The  cacoethes  scribendi  can  only 
 
186 
 
 be  used  by  indulgence,  and  we  have  all  a  propensity  to 
 talk  about  things  we  do  not  understand. 
 
 TO   HIS    BROTHER   NEVILLE. 
 
 Winteringham,  August  20tli,  1 805. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 * 
 
 I  AM  very  sensible  of  all  your  affection,  in  your  anxiety 
 that  I  should  not  diminish  my  books ;  but  I  am  by  no 
 means  relieved  from  the  anxiety  which,  on  more  accounts 
 than  one,  I  am  under,  as  to  my  present  situation,  so  great 
 a  burthen  to  the  family,  when  I  ought  to  be  a  support. 
 My  father  made  some  heavy  complaints  when  I  was  at 
 home;  and  though  I  am  induced  to  believe  that  he  is 
 enough  harassed  to  render  it  very  excusable,  yet  I  cannot 
 but  feel  strongly  the  peculiarity  of  my  situation  ;  and,  at 
 my  age,  feel  ashamed  that  I  should  add  to  his  burthens. 
 At  present  I  have  my  hands  completely  tied  behind  me. 
 When  I  get  to  college,  I  hope  to  have  more  opportunities 
 of  advantage,  and,  if  I  am  fortunate,  I  shall  probably  re- 
 lieve my  father  and  mother  from  the  weight  which  I  now 
 
187 
 
 lay  upon  them.     I  wish  you,  if  you  read  this  letter  to  niy 
 mother,  to  omit  this  part. 
 
 TO  CAPEL  LOFFT,  ESQ. 
 
 Winteringham,  Sept.  lOth,  1805. 
 DEAR   SIR, 
 
 Your  letter  has  at  length  reached  me  at  this  place, 
 where  I  have  been  for  the  last  ten  months  employed 
 in  classical  reading  with  Mr.  Grainger.  It  gives  me 
 pleasure  to  hear  of  you,  and  of  poetry :  for,  since  I  came 
 here,  I  have  not  only  been  utterly  shut  out  from  all  in- 
 tercourse with  the  lettered  world,  but  have  totally  laid 
 aside  the  pen  of  inspiration.  I  have  been  actuated  to 
 this  by  a  sense  of  duty ;  for  I  wish  to  prove  that  I  have 
 not  coveted  the  ministerial  office  through  the  desire  of 
 learned  leisure,  but  with  an  ardent  wish  to  do  my  duty  as 
 a  teacher  of  the  truth,  I  should  blush  to  present  myself 
 as  a  candidate  for  that  office  in  an  unqualified  and  un- 
 prepared state ;  and  as  I  have  placed  my  idea  of  the 
 necessary  qualifications  very  high,  all  the  time  between 
 now  and  my  taking  my  degree  will  be  little  enough  for 
 these  purposes  alone.  I  often,  however,  cast  a  look  of 
 fond  regret   to    the    darling    occupations  of  my  younger 
 
188 
 
 hours,  and  the  tears  rush  into  my  eyes,  as  I  fancy  I  see 
 the  few  wild  flowers  of  poetic  genius,  with  which  I  have 
 been  blessed,  withering  with  neglect.  Poetry  has  been  to 
 me  something  more  than  amusement ;  it  has  been  a  cheer- 
 ing companion  when  I  have  had  no  other  to  fly  to,  and 
 a  delightful  solace  when  consolation  has  been  in  some 
 measure  needful.  I  cannot,  therefore,  discard  so  old  and 
 faithful  a  friend  without  deep  regret,  especially  when  I 
 reflect  that,  stung  by  my  ingratitude,  he  may  desert  me 
 for  ever ! 
 
 With  regard  to  your  intended  publication,  you  do  me 
 too  much  honour  by  inserting  my  puerilities  along  with 
 such  good  company  as  I  know  I  shall  meet  there.  I  wish 
 I  could  present  you  with  some  sonnets  worthy  of  your 
 work.  I  have  looked  back  amongst  my  old  papers,  and 
 find  a  few  verses  under  that  name,  which  were  written 
 between  the  time  when  "  Clifton  Grove"  was  sent  to  the 
 press,  and  its  final  appearance.  The  looking  over  these 
 papers  has  recalled  a  little  of  my  old  warmth,  and  I  have 
 scribbled  some  lines,  which,  as  they  owe  their  rise  to  your 
 letter,  I  may  fairly  (if  I  have  room)  present  to  you.  I 
 cannot  read  the  sonnets  which  I  have  found  amongst  my 
 papers  with  pleasure,  and  therefore  I  shall  not  presume  to 
 show  them  to  you.  I  shall  anxiously  expect  the  publica- 
 tion of  your  work. 
 
 I  shall  be  in  Cambridge  next  month,  being  admitted  a 
 
189 
 
 Sizar  at  St.  John's.     Trinity  would  have  suited  my  plans 
 better,  but  the  expences  of  that  college  are  greater. 
 
 With   thanks   for    your  kind   remembrance  of  me,    I 
 remain. 
 
 Dear  Sir, 
 Very  respectfully  and  thankfully  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 Yes,  my  stray  steps  have  wanderM,  wander'd  far 
 From  thee,  and  long,  heart-soothing  Poesy  ! 
 And  many  a  flower,  which  in  the  passing  time 
 My  heart  hath  register' d,  nipp'd  by  the  chill 
 Of  undeserved  neglect,  hath  shrunk  and  died. 
 Heart-soothing  Poesy  !  —  Though  thou  hast  ceased 
 To  hover  o'er  the  many-voiced  strings 
 Of  my  long  silent  lyre,  yet  thou  canst  still 
 Call  the  warm  tear  from  its  thrice  hallow' d  cell. 
 And  with  recalled  images  of  bliss 
 Warm  my  reluctant  heart.  —  Yes,  I  would  throw, 
 Once  more  would  throw,  a  quick  and  hurried  hand 
 O'er  the  responding  chords.  —  It  hath  not  ceas'd  — 
 It  cannot,  will  not  cease ;  the  heavenly  warmth 
 Plays  round  my  heart,  and  mantles  o'er  my  cheek ; 
 Still,  though  unbidden,  plays.  —  Fair  Poesy  ! 
 The  summer  and  the  spring,  the  wind  and  rain. 
 Sunshine  and  storm,  with  various  interchange. 
 Have  mark'd  full  many  a  day,  and  week,  and  month. 
 Since  by  dark  wood,  or  hamlet  far  retir'd, 
 Spell-struck,  with  thee  I  loiter'd.  —  Sorceress  ! 
 I  cannot  burst  thy  bonds  !  —  It  is  but  lift 
 Thy  blue  eyes  to  that  deep-bespangled  vault. 
 Wreathe  thy  enchanted  tresses  round  thine  ari«. 
 
190 
 
 And  mutter  some  obscure  and  charmed  rhyme, 
 
 And  I  could  follow  thee,  on  thy  night's  work, 
 
 Up  to  the  regions  of  thrice-chastened  fire. 
 
 Or  in  the  caverns  of  the  ocean  flood, 
 
 Thrid  the  light  mazes  of  thy  volant  foot. 
 
 Yet  other  duties  call  me,  and  mine  ear 
 
 Must  turn  away  from  the  high  minstrelsy. 
 
 Of  thy  soul-trancing  harp,  unwillingly 
 
 Must  turn  away ;  there  are  severer  strains, 
 
 (And  surely  they  are  sweet  as  ever  smote 
 
 The  ear  of  spirit,  from  this  mortal  coil 
 
 Releas'd  and  disembodied,)  there  are  strains, 
 
 Forbid  to  all,  save  those  whom  solemn  thought. 
 
 Through  the  probation  of  revolving  years, 
 
 And  mighty  converse  with  the  spirit  of  truth, 
 
 Have  purged  and  purified.  —  To  these  my  soul 
 
 Aspireth  ;  and  to  this  sublimer  end 
 
 I  gird  myself,  and  climb  the  toilsome  steep 
 
 With  patient  expectation.  —  Yea,  sometimes 
 
 Foretaste  of  bliss  rewards  me ;  and  sometimes 
 
 Spirits  unseen  upon  my  footsteps  wait. 
 
 And  minister  strange  music,  which  doth  seem 
 
 Now  near,  now  distant,  now  on  high,  now  low. 
 
 Then  swelling  from  all  sides,  with  bliss  complete. 
 
 And  full  fruition  filling  all  the  soul. 
 
 Surely  such  ministry,  though  rare,  may  soothe 
 
 The  steep  ascent,  and  cheat  the  lassitude 
 
 Of  toil ;  and  but  that  my  fond  heart 
 
 Reverts  to  day-dreams  of  the  summer  gone, 
 
 When  by  clear  fountain,  or  embowered  brake, 
 
 I  lay  a  listless  muser,  prizing,  far 
 
 Above  all  other  lore,  the  poet's  theme  ; 
 
 But  for  such  recollections  I  coidd  brace 
 
 My  stubborn  spirit  for  the  arduous  path 
 
 Of  science  unregretting ;  eye  afar 
 
191 
 
 Philosophy  upon  her  steepest  height. 
 
 And  with  bold  step,  and  resolute  attempt,  f 
 
 Pursue  her  to  the  innermost  recess, 
 
 Where  thron'd  in  light  she  sits,  the  Queen  of  Truth. 
 
 These  verses  form  nearly  the  only  poetical  effort  of  this 
 year.     Pardon  their  imperfections. 
 
 TO   MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's,  Oct.  18th,  1805. 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 I  AM  at  length  finally  settled  in  my  rooms,  and, 
 according  to  my  promise,  I  write  to  you  to  tell  you  so.  I 
 did  not  feel  quite  comfortable  at  first  here;  but  I  now 
 begin  to  feel  at  home,  and  relish  my  silent  and  thought- 
 ful cup  of  tea  more  than  ever.  Amongst  our  various 
 occupations,  that  of  attending  chapel  is  to  me  not  the  least 
 irksome,  for  the  service  is  read  in  general  below  the  span 
 of  my  auditory  nerve ;  but  when  they  chaunt,  I  am  quite 
 charmed,  for  our  organ  is  fine,  and  the  voices  are  good. 
 This  is,  however,  only  on  high  days  and  festivals,  in 
 which  number  the  present  day  is  to  be  reckoned  (St. 
 Luke^s). 
 
 My  mathematical  studies  do  not  agree  with  me,    and 
 
192 
 
 you  may  satisfy  yourself  I  shall  never  be  a  senior  wrang- 
 ler. Many  men  come  up  with  knowledge  enough  for  the 
 highest  honours,  and  how  can  a  man  be  expected  to  keep 
 up  with  them  who  starts  without  any  previous  fund  ?  Our 
 lectures  begin  on  Monday,  and  then  I  shall  know  more  of 
 college  difficulties. 
 
 My  rooms  are  in  the  top  story  of  the  farthest  court  of 
 St.  John's  (which  you  perhaps  remember)  near  the  clois- 
 ters. They  are  light,  and  tolerably  pleasant ;  though,  as 
 there  was  no  furniture  in  them,  and  I  have  not  yet  bought 
 many  necessary  articles,  they  look  very  bare.  Your  phiz 
 over  the  chimney-piece  has  been  recognized  by  two  of 
 my  fellow  students ;  the  one  recollected  its  likeness  to  Mr. 
 Maddock  of  Magdalene ;  and  the  other  said  it  was  like  a 
 young  man  whom  he  had  seen  with  Mr.  Maddock,  and 
 whom  he  supposed  to  be  his  brother. 
 
 Of  my  new  acquaintances,  I  have  become  intimate 
 with  a  Mr.  *  *  *,  who,  I  hope,  will  be  senior  wrangler. 
 He  is  a  very  serious  and  friendly  man,  and  a  man  of  no 
 common  mathematical  talents.  He  lives  in  the  same  court 
 with  me.  Besides  him,  I  know  of  none  whose  friendship 
 I  should  value ;  and,  including  him,  no  one  whose  hand  I 
 would  take  in  preference  to  that  of  my  old  friend,  so 
 long  as  I  see  my  old  friend  with  his  old  face.  When  you 
 have  learned  to  be  other  than  what  you  are,  I  shall  not 
 regret  that  B.  M.  is  no  longer  my  friend,  but  that  my 
 former  friend  is  now  no  more. 
 
193 
 
 I  walked  through  Magdalene  the  other  da}^  and  I  could 
 not  help  anticipating  the  time  when  I  should  come  to 
 drink  your  tea,  and  swallow  your  bread  and  butter,  within 
 the  sacred  walls.  You  must  know  our  college  was  origi- 
 nally a  convent  for  Black  Friars ;  and  if  a  man  of  the 
 reign  of  Henry  the  Sixth  were  to  peep  out  of  his  grave, 
 in  the  adjoining  church-yard,  and  look  into  our  portals, 
 judging  by  our  dress  and  appearance,  he  might  deem  us 
 a  convent  of  Black  Friars  still.  Some  of  our  brethren,  it 
 is  true,  would  seem  of  very  unsightly  bulk ;  but  many  of 
 them,  with  eyes  sunk  into  their  heads,  from  poring  over 
 the  mathematics,  might  pass  very  well  for  the  fasting  and 
 mortified  shadows  of  penitent  monks. 
 
 With  regard  to  the  expenses  of  our  college,  I  can  now 
 speak  decisively;  and  I  can  tell  you,  that  I  shall  be  here 
 an  independent  man.  I  am  a  Senior  Sizar,  under  very 
 favourable  circumstances,  and,  I  believe,  the  profits  of 
 my  situation  will  nearly  equal  the  actual  expenses  of  the 
 college.  But  this  is  no  rule  for  other  colleges.  I  am 
 on  the  best  side  (there  are  two  divisions)  of  St.  John's, 
 and  the  expenses  here  are  less  than  any  where  else  in  the 
 university. 
 
 I  have  this  week  written  some  very  elaborate  verses 
 for  a  college  prize,  and  I  have  at  length  learned  that  I 
 am  not  qualified  for  a  competitor,  not  being  a  Lady 
 Margaret's  scholar :  so  that  I  have  lost  my  labour.  — 
 Compared  with  the  other  men  of  this  large  college,  I 
 find  I  am  a  respectable  classic,  and  if  I  had  time  to  give 
 
 VOL.  I.  o 
 
194 
 
 to  the  languages,  I  think  I  should  ultimately  succeed  in 
 them  in  no  small  degree;  but  the  fates  forbid;  mathe- 
 matics I  must  read,  and  in  mathematics  I  know  I  never 
 shall  excel.  These  are  harassing  reflections  for  a  poor 
 young  man  gaping  for  a  fellowship  ! 
 
 If  I  choose  I  could  find  a  good  deal  of  religious  society 
 here,  but  I  must  not  indulge  myself  with  it  too  much, 
 Mr.  Simeon's  preaching  strikes  me  much. 
 
 I  beg  you  will  answer  a  thousand  such  questions  as  these 
 without  my  asking  them. 
 
 This  is  a  letter  of  intelligence :  —  next  shall  be  senti- 
 ment, (or  Gothic  arch,  for  they  are  synonymous  according 
 to  Mr.  M.) 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 St.  John's,  October  26th,  1805. 
 
 DEAR   MOTHER, 
 
 #  #  #  * 
 
 You  seem  to  repose  so  little  confidence  in  what  I  say 
 with  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  that  I  am  not  en- 
 
195 
 
 couraged  to  hope  you  will  give  me  much  credit  for  what 
 I  am  about  to  say,  namely,  that  had  I  no  money  at  all, 
 either  from  my  friends  or  Mr.  Simeon,  I  could  manage  to 
 live  here.  My  situation  is  so  very  favourable,  and  the  ne- 
 cessary expenses  so  very  few,  that  I  shall  want  very  little 
 more  than  will  suffice  for  clothes  and  books.  I  have  got 
 the  bills  of  Mr.  *  *,  a  Sizar  of  this  college,  now  before  me, 
 and  from  them,  and  his  own  account,  I  will  give  you  a 
 statement  of  what  my  college  bills  will  amount  to. 
 
 Thus  my  college  expenses  will  not  be  more  than  121,  or 
 151.  a-year  at  the  most.  I  shall  not  have  any  occasion 
 for  the  whole  sum  I  have  a  claim  upon  Mr.  Simeon  for ; 
 and  if  things  go  well,  I  shall  be  able  to  live  without  being 
 dependent  on  any  one.  The  Mr.  *  %  whose  bills  I  have 
 borrowed,  has  been  at  college  three  years.  He  came 
 over  from  *  *,  with  lOl.  in  his  pocket,  and  has  no 
 friends,  or  any  income  or  emolument  whatever,  except 
 what  he  receives  for  his  Sizarship ;  yet  he  does  support 
 himself,  and  that,  too,  very  genteelly.  It  is  only  men's  ex- 
 travagance that  makes  college  life  so  expensive.  There  are 
 Sizars  at  St.  John's  who  spend  1501.  a-year:  but  they 
 are  gay,  dissipated  men,  who  choose  to  be  Sizars  in  order 
 that  they  may  have  more  money  to  lavish  on  their 
 pleasures.  Our  dinners  and  suppers  cost  us  nothing- 
 and  if  a  man  choose  to  eat  milk-breakfasts,  and  go  without 
 tea,  he  may  live  absolutely  for   nothing;  for  his  college 
 
 o  2 
 
196 
 
 emoluments  will  cover  the  rest  of  his  expenses.  Tea  is  in- 
 deed almost  superfluous,  since  we  do  not  rise  from  dinner 
 till  half  past  three,  and  the  supper  bell  rings  a  quarter  before 
 nine.  Our  mode  of  living  is  not  to  be  complained  of,  for 
 the  table  is  covered  with  all  possible  variety  ;  and  on  feast- 
 days,  which  our  fellows  take  care  are  pretty  frequent,  we 
 have  wine. 
 
 You  will  now,  I  trust,  feel  satisfied  on  this  subject,  and 
 will  no  longer  give  yourself  unnecessary  uneasiness  on  my 
 account. 
 
 I  was  unfortunate  enough  to  be  put  into  unfurnished 
 rooms,  so  that  my  furniture  will  cost  me  a  little  more  than 
 I  expected ;  I  suppose  about  1 5l.,  or  perhaps  not  quite  so 
 much.  I  sleep  on  a  hair  mattrass,  which  I  find  just  as 
 comfortable  as  a  bed;  it  only  cost  me  4<1.,  along  with 
 blankets,  counterpane,  and  pillows,  &c.  I  have  three 
 rooms  —  a  sitting-room,  a  bed-room,  and  a  kind  of  scul- 
 lery or  pantry.  My  sitting-room  is  very  light  and  plea- 
 sant, and  what  does  not  often  happen,  the  walls  are  in 
 good  case,  having  been  lately  stained  green. 
 
 I  must  commission  my  sister  to  make  me  a  pair  of 
 letter  racks,  but  they  must  not  be  fine,  because  my  fur- 
 niture is  not  very  fine.  I  think  the  old  shape  (or  octa- 
 gons, one  upon  another)  is  the  neatest,  and  white  the  best 
 colour.  I  wish  Maria  would  paint  vignettes  in  the  squares, 
 because  then  I  should   see  how  her   drawing   proceeds. 
 
197 
 
 You  must  know  that  these  are  not  intended  as  mere 
 matters  of  show,  but  are  intended  to  answer  some  purpose ; 
 there  are  so  many  particular  places  to  attend  on  particular 
 days,  that  unless  a  man  is  very  cautious,  he  has  nothing 
 else  to  do  than  to  pay  forfeits  for  non-attendance.  A  few 
 cards,  and  a  little  rack,  will  be  a  short  way  of  helping 
 the  memory. 
 
 I  think  I  must  get  a  supply  of  sugar  from  London ;  for 
 if  I  buy  it  here,  it  will  cost  me  Is.  6d.  per  pound,  which 
 is  rather  too  much.  I  have  got  tea  enough  to  last  the 
 term  out. 
 
 Although  you  may  be  quite  easy  on  the  subject  of  my 
 future  support,  yet  you  must  not  form  splendid  ideas  of  my 
 success  at  the  university,  for  the  lecturers  all  speak  so  low, 
 and  we  sit  at  such  a  distance,  that  I  cannot  hear  a  syllable. 
 I  have,  therefore,  no  more  advantage  than  if  I  were 
 studying  at  home. 
 
 I  beg  we  may  have  no  more  doubts  and  fears,  at  least 
 on  my  score.  I  think  I  am  now  very  near  being  off  your 
 hands ;  and,  since  my  education  at  the  university  is  quite 
 secure,  you  need  not  entertain  gloomy  apprehensions  for 
 the  future :  my  maintenance  will,  at  all  events,  be  decent 
 and  respectable :  and  you  must  not  grieve  yourself  because 
 I  cannot  be  as  rich  as  an  alderman. 
 
 o  3 
 
198 
 
 Do  not  show  this  letter  to  all  comers,  nor  leave  it 
 about,  for  people  will  have  a  very  mean  idea  of  university 
 education,  when  they  find  it  costs  so  little;  but  if  they 
 are  saucy  on  the  subject,  tell  them  —  I  have  a  Lord  just 
 under  me. 
 
 TO  THE  REV.  JOHN  DASHWOOD. 
 
 St.  John's,  Oct.  26th,  1805. 
 DEAR   SIRj 
 
 It  is  now  many  months  since  I  wrote  to  you,  and  I 
 have  not  received  any  answer.  I  should  not  have 
 troubled  you  with  this  letter,  but  that,  considering  how 
 much  I  owe  to  you,  I  thought  the  rules  and  observances 
 of  strict  etiquette  might  with  moral  propriety  be  dis- 
 pensed with. 
 
 Suffer  me  therefore  to  tell  you,  that  I  am  quietly  and 
 comfortably  settled  at  St.  John's,  silently  conforming 
 myself  to  the  habits  of  college  life,  and  pursuing  my 
 studies  with  such  moderation  as  I  think  necessary  for  my 
 health.  I  feel  very  much  at  home,  and  tolerably  happy ; 
 although  the  pecuHar  advantages  of  university  education 
 
199 
 
 will  in  a  great  measure  be  lost  to  me,  since  there  is  not 
 one  of  the  lecturers  whom  I  am  able  to  hear. 
 
 My  literary  ambition  is,  I  think,  now  fast  subsiding, 
 and  a  better  emulation  springing  up  in  its  room.  I  con- 
 ceive that,  considering  the  disadvantages  under  which  I 
 labour,  very  little  can  be  expected  from  me  in  the  Senate 
 House.  I  shall  not,  however,  remit  my  exertions,  but  shall 
 at  least  strive  to  acquit  myself  with  credit,  though  I  cannot 
 hope  for  the  more  splendid  honours. 
 
 With  regard  to  my  college  expenses,  I  have  the  plea- 
 sure to  inform  you,  that  my  situation  is  so  favourable, 
 that  I  shall  be  obliged,  in  strict  rectitude,  to  wave  the 
 offers  of  many  of  my  friends.  I  shall  not  even  need 
 the  sum  Mr.  Simeon  mentioned  after  the  first  year ;  and 
 it  is  not  impossible  that  I  may  be  able  to  live  without 
 any  assistance  at  all.  I  confess  I  feel  pleasure  in  the 
 thought  of  this,  not  through  any  vain  pride  of  independ- 
 ence, but  because  I  shall  then  give  a  more  unbiassed 
 testimony  to  the  Truth,  than  if  I  were  supposed  to  be 
 bound  to  it  by  any  ties  of  obligation  or  gratitude.  I  shall 
 always  feel  as  much  indebted  for  intended,  as  for  actually 
 afforded  assistance;  and  though  I  should  never  think  a 
 sense  of  thankfulness  an  oppressive  burthen,  yet  I  shall  be 
 happy  to  evince  it,  when,  in  the  eyes  of  the  world,  the  obli- 
 gation to  it  has  been  discharged. 
 
 o  4 
 
200 
 
 I  hope  you  will  ere  long  relieve  me  from  the  painful 
 thought  that  I  lie  under  your  displeasure;  and  believe 
 ine, 
 
 Dear  Sir, 
 Most  sincerely  and  affectionately  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  MR.  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Cum  diutius  a  te  frustra  litteras  expect^ssem  memet^ 
 in  animum  tuum  revocare  aut  iterum  otio  obtrudere 
 nolebam. 
 
 Penes  te  erat  aut  nobiscum  denuo  per  litteras  colloqui 
 aut  familiaritatem  et  necessitatem  nostram  silentio  dimit- 
 tere.  Hoc  te  praetulisse  jam  diu  putaveram,  cum  epistola 
 tua  mihi  in  manus  venit. 
 
 Has  litteras  scribebam  intra  sanctos  Sanctissimi  Johan- 
 nis  Collegii  muros,  in  celeberrima  hac  nostra  academia 
 Cantabrigas. 
 
201 
 
 Hie  tranquillitate  denique  litterarum  propria,  summa 
 cum  voluptate  conjuncta,  fruor.  Hie  omnes  diseendi  vias, 
 omnes  scientise  rationes  indago  et  persequor :  nescio  quid 
 tandem  evasurus.  Certe  si  parum  profieio,  mihi  culpae 
 jure  datum  erit;  modo  valetudo  me  sinat. 
 
 Haud  tamen  vereor,  si  verum  dicere  cogorj  ut  satis  pro- 
 ficiam  :  quanquam  infirmis  auribus  aliorum  lecturas  vix 
 unquam  audire  queam.  In  Mathematicis  parum  adhuc 
 profeci :  utpote  qui  perarduum  certamen  cum  eruditissi- 
 mis  quibusque  in  veterum  linguis  et  moribus  versatis  jam- 
 jam  sim  initurus. 
 
 His  in  studiis  pro  mea  perbrevi  sane  et  tanquam  hesterna 
 consuetudine  haud  mediocriter  sum  versatus. 
 
 Latine  minus  eleganter  scribere  videor  quam  Graece ; 
 neque  vero  eadem  voluptate  scriptores  Latinos  lectito 
 quam  Graecos :  cum  autem  omnem  industriae  meae  vim 
 Romanis  litteris  contulerim,  haud  dubito  quin  faciles  mihi 
 et  propitias  eas  faciam. 
 
 Te  etiam  revocatum  velim  ad  hsec  elegantia  deliciasque 
 litterarum.  Quid  enim  accommodatius  videri  potest  aut 
 ad  animum  quotidianis  curis  laboribusque  oppress um  refi- 
 ciendum  et  recreandum,  aut  ad  mentem  et  facultates 
 ingenii  acuendas,  quam  exquisita  et  expolita  summaque  vi 
 et  acumine  ingenii  elaborata  veterum  scriptorum  opera  ? 
 
202 
 
 TO   HIS   BROTHER  JAMES. 
 
 St.  John's,  Nov.  1805. 
 MY  DEAR  JAMES, 
 
 You  do  not  know  how  anxious  I  am  to  hear  how  you 
 go  on  in  all  things ;  and  whether  you  still  persist  in  sted- 
 fastness  and  seriousness.  I  know,  my  dear  lad,  that  your 
 heart  is  too  good  to  run  into  actual  vice^  yet  I  fear  the 
 example  of  gay  and  wicked  persons  may  lead  you  to 
 think  lightly  of  religion,  and  then  who  knows  where  it 
 may  end  ?  Neville,  however,  will  always  be  your  director, 
 and  I  trust  you  conceal  none,  even  of  your  very  thoughts, 
 from  him.  Continue,  James,  to  solicit  the  fatherly  su- 
 perintendence of  your  Maker,  night  and  morning.  I 
 shall  not  fear  for  you,  while  I  am  assured  you  do  this 
 fervently,  and  not  in  a  hurried  or  slovenly  manner. 
 With  constant  prayer,  we  have  nothing  to  fear  from  the 
 temptations  of  the  world,  the  flesh,  and  the  devil:  God 
 will  bring  us  through  it,  and  will  save  us  in  the  midst  of 
 peril.  If  we  consider  the  common  condition  of  man's 
 life,  and  the  evils  and  misfortunes  to  which  we  are  daily 
 exposed,  we  have  need  to  bless  God  every  moment  for 
 sparing  us,  and  to  beg  of  him,  that  when  the  day  of  mis- 
 fortune comes,  (and  come  it  must,  sooner  or  later,  to  all,) 
 we  may  be  prepared  with  Christian  fortitude  to  endure 
 the  shock.  What  a  treasure  does  the  religious  man 
 possess  in  this,  that  when  every  thing  else  fails,  he  has 
 God  for  his  refuge ;    and  can  look  to  a  world  where  he  is 
 
203 
 
 sure,    through    Christ  Jesus,    that  he  will  not  be  disap- 
 pointed ! 
 
 I  do  not  much  heed  to  what  place  of  worship  you  may 
 go,  so  as  you  are  but  a  serious  and  regular  attendant. 
 Permit  me,  however,  to  explain  the  true  nature  of  the  ques- 
 tion with  regard  to  the  church  liturgy,  in  order  that  you 
 may  be  the  better  able  to  judge. 
 
 You  know  from  the  epistles  of  St.  Paul,  that  soon  after 
 the  death  of  Jesus  Christ,  there  were  regular  churches 
 established  in  various  places,  as  at  Corinth,  Galatia, 
 Thessalonica,  &c.  &c.  Now,  we  are  not  certain  that  they 
 used  forms  of  prayer  at  all  in  these  churches,  much  more 
 that  any  part  of  ours  was  used  in  their  time ;  but  it  is 
 certain,  that  in  the  year  of  our  Lord  286  there  was  a 
 general  liturgy  in  use  throughout  all  the  churches  of  Christ. 
 Now,  if  in  that  early  time,  when  Christians  were  much 
 more  hke  the  apostles  than  they  are  now,  they  used  a  form 
 of  prayer  in  the  churches,  it  is  fair  to  conclude  that  the 
 practice  was  not  unscriptural ;  besides,  at  this  very  time, 
 St.  John  the  Evangelist  had  not  been  dead  above  100 
 years,  and  one  of  his  disciples,  though  at  a  very  great  age, 
 was  actually  living.  St.  Chrysostom,  who  lived  above  354> 
 years  after  Christ,  wrote  some  of  our  prayers,  and  the 
 greater  part  of  them  have  been  in  general  use  for  a  thou^ 
 sand  years.  About  the  year  286,  about  one  thousand  five 
 hundred  years  ago,  immense  multitudes  of  savages,  the 
 Goths  and  Vandals,  bemg  enticed,  by  the  fertiHty  of  the 
 Italian   country,    and  the  riches  of  its  possessors,    came 
 
204 
 
 down  from  Germany,  Hungary,  and  all  the  nordiern  parts 
 of  Europe,  upon  the  Roman  empire,  then  enfeebled  with 
 luxury,  and  endeavoured  to  gain  possession  of  the  south. 
 They  were  at  first  repulsed  ;  but  as  fast  as  they  were 
 defeated  or  slain,  new  hordes,  allured  by  the  accounts 
 which  their  countrjoiien  gave  of  its  opulence  and  abun- 
 dance, succeeded  in  their  stead,  till  the  forces  of  the 
 Romans  grew  unequal  to  the  contest,  and  gradually  gave 
 way  to  the  invaders,  who,  wherever  they  came,  reduced 
 every  thing  to  a  state  of  barbarism.  The  Christians, 
 about  this  time,  were  beginning  to  prevail  in  the  Roman 
 territories,  and  under  the  Emperor  Constantine,  who  was 
 the  first  Christian  king,  were  giving  the  blow  to  idolatry. 
 But  the  savage  intolerance  of  the  invaders,  who  reduced 
 the  conquered  to  abject  slavery,  burned  books  wherever 
 they  found  them,  and  even  forbade  the  cultivation  of 
 learning,  reduced  them  to  the  utmost  distress.  At  this 
 time  they  wrote  and  used  in  their  churches,  all  that  part 
 of  the  Litany  which  begins  with  the  Lord's  prayer,  and 
 ends  with  the  prayer  of  St.  Chrysostom.  Thus  you  see 
 how  venerably  ancient  are  many  of  our  forms,  and  how 
 little  they  merit  that  contempt  which  ignorant  people 
 pour  upon  them.  Very  holy  men  (men  now^,  we  have 
 every  reason  to  beheve,  in  heaven)  composed  them,  and 
 they  have  been  used  from  age  to  age  ever  since,  in  our 
 churches,  with  but  few  alterations.  But  you  will  say 
 they  were  used  by  the  Roman  Catholics,  who  are  a  very 
 superstitious  and  bigotted  set  of  people.  This  is  no 
 objection  at  all,  because  the  Roman  Catholics  were  not 
 always  so  bad,  and  what  is  a  proof  of  this  is,    that  there 
 
205 
 
 once  was  no  other  religion  in  tlie  world ;  and  we  cannot 
 think  that  church  very  wicked,  which  God  chose,  once, 
 to  make  the  sole  guardian  of  his  truth.  There  have  been 
 many  excellent  and  pious  men  among  the  Roman  Catho- 
 lics, even  at  the  time  their  public  faith  was  corrupted. 
 
 You  may  have  heard  of  the  Reformation ;  you  know 
 it  was  brought  about  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  the  six- 
 teenth century,  about  1536.  Now,  Calvin  is  the  founder 
 of  the  sect  of  Independents,  such  as  those  who  meet  at 
 Castlegate,  yet  he  had  a  hand  in  framing  the  liturgy, 
 which,  with  alterations,  we  now  use,  and  he  selected  it 
 in  part  from  the  liturgy  of  the  Roman  church ;  because 
 they  had  received  it  from  the  primitive  Christians,  who  were 
 more  immediately  taught  by  the  apostles.  The  B.eform- 
 ation  means  that  change  in  religion,  which  was  brought 
 about,  as  said  before,  by  Luther  and  Calvin,  in  conse- 
 quence of  the  abuses  and  errors  which  had  crept  into  the 
 Romish  Church. 
 
 You  may  possibly  think  the  responses,  or  answers  of 
 the  clerk  and  people,  rather  ridiculous.  This  absurdity, 
 however,  generally  consists  more  in  the  manner  than  in 
 the  thing.  They  were  intended  to  be  pronounced  aloud 
 by  the  people,  and  v/ere  used  as  a  means  to  keep  their 
 attention  awake,  and  show  their  sincerity.  At  the  time 
 this  form  was  invented,  not  one  man  in  five  or  six  hun- 
 dred could  read ;  and  these  repetitions  answered  another 
 purpose,  of  fixing  important  ejaculations  and  sentences 
 in  their  minds.     In  these  days  the  same  necessity  does  not 
 
206 
 
 exist;  but  we  still  retain  the  form  on  account  of  its  other 
 advantages,  and  through  reverence  of  such  an  antiquity, 
 as  almost  vouches  for  its  being  acceptable  to  God,  who 
 has  permitted  it  to  be  used  by  the  wisest  and  best  of  men 
 for  so  long  a  period. 
 
 I  think  I  have  now  nearly  tired  you.     Pray  write  to  me 
 soon,  and  believe  me. 
 
 My  dear  James, 
 
 Your  very  affectionate  brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO   MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's  College,  Cambridge,  Nov.  10.  1805. 
 MY    DEAR   BEN, 
 
 The  reasons  why  I  said  mathematical  studies  did  not 
 agree  with  me,  were  these  —  that  I  am  more  inclined  to 
 classical  pursuits,  and  that,  considering  what  disadvan- 
 tages I  lie  under  in  being  deaf,  I  am  afraid  I  cannot  ex- 
 cel in  them.  I  have  at  present  entirely  laid  them  aside, 
 as  I  am  reading  for  the  university  scholarship,  which 
 will  soon  be  vacant:  there  are  expected  to  be  IS  or  14 
 3 
 
207 
 
 candidates,  some  of  whom  are  of  great  note  from  Eton ; 
 and  I  have  as  much  expectation  of  gaining  it,  as  of  being 
 elected  supreme  magus  over  the  mysteries  of  Mithra. 
 The  scholarship  is  of  no  value  in  itself  adequate  to  the  la- 
 bour of  reading  for  it,  but  it  is  the  greatest  classical  ho- 
 nour in  the  university,  and  is  a  pretty  sure  road  to  a  fel- 
 lowship. My  classical  abilities  here  have  attracted  some 
 attention,  and  my  Latin  Themes,  in  particular,  have  drawn 
 forth  enquiries  from  the  tutors  as  to  the  place  of  my  edu- 
 cation. The  reason  why  I  have  determined  to  sit  for  the 
 scholarship  is  this,  that  to  have  simply  been  a  candidate 
 for  it  establishes  a  man's  character,  as  many  of  the  first 
 classics  in  the  university  have  failed  of  it. 
 
 I  begin  now  to  feel  at  home  in  my  little  room,  and  I 
 wish  you  were  here  to  see  how  snugly  I  sit  by  my  blazing 
 fire  in  the  cold  evenings.  College  certainly  has  charms, 
 though  I  have  a  few  things  rankling  at  my  heart  which 
 will  not  let  me  be  quite  happy.  —  Ora,  Ora,  pro  me. 
 
 This  last  sentence  of  mine  is  of  a  very  curious  tendency, 
 to  be  sure :  for  who  is  there  of  mortals  who  has  not  some- 
 thing rankling  at  his  heart,  which  will  not  let  him  be 
 happy? 
 
 It  is  curious  to  observe  the  different  estimations  two 
 men  make  of  one  another's  happiness.  Each  of  them 
 surveys  the  external  appearance  of  the  other's  situation, 
 
208 
 
 and,  comparing  them  with  the  secret  disquieting  circum- 
 stances of  his  own,  thinks  him  happier ;  and  so  it  is  that 
 all  the  world  over,  be  we  favoured  as  we  may,  there  is 
 always  something  which  others  have,  and  which  we  our- 
 selves have  not,  necessary  to  the  completion  of  our  feli- 
 city. I  think,  therefore,  upon  the  whole,  there  is  no  such 
 thing  as  positive  happiness  in  this  world  ;  and  a  man  can 
 only  be  deemed  felicitous,  as  he  is  in  comparison  less  af- 
 fected with  positive  evil.  It  is  our  business,  therefore,  to 
 support  ourselves  under  existing  ills,  with  the  anticipation 
 of  future  blessings.  Life,  with  all  its  bitters,  is  a  draught 
 soon  drunk ;  and  though  we  have  many  changes  to  fear 
 on  this  side  the  grave,  beyond  it  we  know  of  none. 
 
 Your  life  and  mine  are  now  marked  out;  and  our  call- 
 ing is  of  such  a  nature,  that  it  ill  becomes  us  to  be  too 
 much  affected  with  circumstances  of  an  external  nature. 
 It  is  our  duty  to  bear  our  evils  with  dignified  silence.  Con- 
 sidering our  superior  consolations,  they  are  small  in  com- 
 parison with  those  of  others ;  and  though  they  may  cast  a 
 sadness  both  over  our  hearts  and  countenances,  which 
 time  may  not  easily  remove,  yet  they  must  not  interfere 
 with  our  active  duties,  nor  affect  our  conduct  towards 
 others,  except  by  opening  our  heart  with  warmer  sympathy 
 to  their  woes,  their  wants,  and  miseries. 
 
 As  you  have  begun  in  your  religious  path,  my  beloved 
 friend,  persevere.  Let  your  love  to  the  Crucified  con- 
 tinue as  pure  as  it  was  at  first,  while  your  zeal  is  more  tem- 
 pered, and  your  piety  more  rational  and  mature.     I  hope 
 
209 
 
 yet  to  live  to  see  you  a  pious  and  respected  parish  priest ; 
 as  for  me  —  I  hope  I  shall  do  my  duty  as  I  have  strength 
 and  ability,  and  I  hope  I  shall  always  continue,  what  I 
 now  profess  myself. 
 
 Your  friend  and  brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  Cambridge,  10th  Dec.  1805. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  AM  so  truly  hurt  that  you  should  again  complain  of 
 my  long  silence,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  sending  this 
 by  the  post,  although  I  shall  send  you  a  parcel  to-morrow\ 
 The  reason  of  my  not  having  sent  you  the  cravats  sooner, 
 is  the  difficulty  I  have  found  in  getting  them  together, 
 since  part  were  in  the  hands  of  my  laundress,  and  part 
 dirty.  I  do  not  know  whether  you  will  find  them  right, 
 as  my  linen  is  in  other  respects  deficient,  and  I  have  a 
 cause  at  issue  with  my  washerwoman  on  that  score.  This 
 place  is  literally  a  den  of  thieves ;  my  bed-maker,  whom 
 we  call  a  gyp,  from  a  Greek  word  signifying  a  vulture, 
 runs  away  with  every  thing  he  can  lay  his  hands  on,  and 
 when  he  is  caught,  says  he  only  borrows  them.  He  stole 
 a  sack  of  coals  a- week,  as  regularly  as  the  week  came, 
 when  first  I  had  fires ;  but  I  have  stopped  the  run  of  this 
 
 VOL.  I.  p 
 
210 
 
 business,  by  a  monstrous  large  padlock,  which  is  hung  to 
 the  staple  of  the  bin.  His  next  trick  was  to  bring  me 
 four  candles  for  a  pound  instead  of  six;  and  this  trade 
 he  carried  on  for  some  time,  until  I  accidentally  disco- 
 vered the  trick :  he  then  said  he  had  always  brought  me 
 right  until  that  time,  and  that  then  he  had  brought  me 
 Jives^  but  had  given  Mr.  H.  (a  man  on  the  same  stair- 
 case) one,  because  he  thought  he  understood  I  had  bor- 
 rowed one  of  him ;  on  enquiring  of  Mr.  H.  he  had  not 
 given  him  one  according  to  his  pretence :  but  the  gentle- 
 man was  not  caught  yet,  for  he  declared  he  had  lent  one 
 to  the  bed-maker  of  Lord  B.  in  the  rooms  below.  His 
 neatest  trick  is  going  to  the  grocer  every  now  and  then 
 for  articles  in  your  name,  which  he  converts  to  his  own 
 use.  I  have  stopped  him  here  too,  by  keeping  a  check- 
 book. Tea,  sugar,  and  pocket-handkerchiefs,  are  his 
 natural  perquisites,  and  I  verily  believe  he  will  soon  be 
 filling  his  cannister  out  of  mine  before  my  face.  There  is 
 no  redress  for  all  this;  for  if  you  change,  you  are  no 
 better  off:  they  are  all  alike.  They  know  you  regard  them 
 as  a  pack  of  thieves,  and  their  only  concern  is  to  steal  so 
 dexterously  that  they  may  not  be  confronted  with  direct 
 proof. 
 
 Do  not  be  surprised  at  any  apparent  negligence  in  my 
 letters :  my  time  has  so  many  calls  for  it,  that  half  my 
 duties  are  neglected.  Our  college  examination  comes 
 on  next  Tuesdav»  and  it  is  of  the  utmost  moment  that  I 
 
211 
 
 acquit  myself  well  there.  A  month  after  will  follow  the 
 scholarship  examination.  My  time,  therefore,  at  present, 
 will  scarcely  permit  the  performance  of  my  promise  with 
 respect  to  the  historical  papers,  but  I  have  them  in  mind, 
 and  I  am  much  bent  on  perfecting  them  in  a  manner  su- 
 perior to  their  commencement, 
 
 I  would  fain  write  to  my  brother  James,  who  must 
 by  no  means  think  I  forget  him ;  but  I  fear  I  shall  see 
 him  before  I  write  to  him,  on  the  accounts  above  stated. 
 The  examination  for  the  scholarship  is  distinct  from  that 
 of  our  college,  which  is  a  very  important  one  ;  and  while 
 I  am  preparing  for  the  one,  I  necessarily  neglect  the 
 other. 
 
 I  wish  very  much  to  hear  from  you  on  religious  topics ; 
 and  remember,  that  although  my  leisure  at  present  will 
 not  allow  me  to  write  to  you  all  I  wish,  yet  it  will  be  the 
 highest  gratification  to  me  to  read  your  letters,  especially 
 when  they  relate  to  your  Christian  progress.  I  beseech 
 you  not  to  relax,  as  you  value  your  peace  of  mind,  and 
 the  repose  of  a  dying  bed.  I  wish  you  would  take  in  the 
 Christian  Observer,  which  is  a  cheap  work,  and  will  yield 
 you  much  profitable  amusement.  I  have  it  here  for 
 nothing,  and  can  send  you  up  some  of  the  numbers,  if  you 
 like. 
 
 Remember,  and  let  my  mother  know,  that  I  have  no 
 chance  for  the  university  scholarship,  and  that  I  only  sit 
 
 r  2 
 
212 
 
 for  the  purpose  of  letting  the  university  know  that  I  am  a 
 decent  proficient  in  the  languages. 
 
 There  is  one  just  vacant  which  I  can  certainly  get,  but 
 I  should  be  obliged  to  go  to  Peter-house  in  consequence, 
 which  will  not  be  advisable,  —  but  I  must  make  enquiries 
 about  it.  I  speak  with  certainty  on  this  subject,  because 
 it  is  restricted  to  candidates  who  are  in  their  first  year, 
 amongst  whom  I  should  probably  be  equal  to  any.  The 
 others  are  open  to  bachelors. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  December  16th,  1805. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 In  consequence  of  an  alteration  in  my  plans,  I  shall 
 have  the  pleasure  of  seeing  you  at  the  latter  end  of  this 
 week,  and  I  wish  you  so  to  inform  my  aunt.  The  reason 
 of  this  change  is  this,  that  I  have  over-read  myself,  and 
 I  find  it  absolutely  necessary  to  take  some  relaxation,  and 
 to  give  up  study  entirely,  for  a  short  time,  in  order  that  I 
 may  go  on  better  hereafter. 
 
 This    has    been    occasioned    by   our    college  lectures, 
 
213 
 
 which  I  had  driven  too  late,  on  account  of  my  being 
 occupied  in  preparations  for  the  university  scholarship 
 examination,  and  then  I  w^as  obliged  to  fag  so  hard  for  the 
 college  lectures,  as  the  time  drew  on,  that  I  could  take  no 
 exercise.  Thus  I  soon  knocked  myself  up,  and  I  now 
 labour  under  a  great  general  relaxation,  and  much  nervous 
 weakness. 
 
 Change  of  air  and  place  will  speedily  remove  these 
 symptoms,  and  I  shall  certainly  give  up  the  university 
 scholarship,  rather  than  injure  my  health. 
 
 Do  not  mention  these  things  to  my  mother,  as  she  will 
 make  it  a  cause  of  unnecessary  uneasiness. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  December  1 9th,  1805. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  WAS  sorry  to  receive  your  letter,  desiring  me  to 
 defer  my  journey ;  and  I  am  sorry  to  be  forced  to  tell  you 
 the  reason  of  my  coming  to  town  sooner  than  you  wish 
 me.  I  have  had  an  attack  of  my  old  nerVbus  complaint, 
 and  my  spirits  have  been  so  wretchedly  shattered,  that  my 
 
 p  3 
 
214 
 
 surgeon  says  I  shall  never  be  well  till  I  have  removed 
 somewhere,  where  I  can  have  society  and  amusement. 
 It  is  a  very  distressing  thing  to  be  ill  in  college,  where 
 you  have  no  attendance,  and  very  little  society.  Mr. 
 Catton,  my  tutor,  has  prevailed  upon  me,  by  pressing 
 wishes,  to  go  into  the  hall  to  be  examined  with  the  men 
 of  my  year :  —  I  have  gone  through  two  examinations,  and 
 I  have  one  to  come ;  after  that  is  over,  he  told  me  I  had 
 better  go  to  my  friends  directly,  and  relieve  myself  with 
 complete  relaxation  from  study.  Under  these  circum- 
 stances, the  object  of  my  journey  to  London  will  be  an- 
 swered, by  the  mere  residence  in  my  aunt's  family,  and 
 by  a  cessation  fi'om  reading.  While  I  am  here,  I  am 
 wretched;  I  cannot  read,  the  slightest  application  makes 
 me  faint ;  I  have  veiy  little  society,  and  that  is  quite  a 
 force  upon  my  friends.  I  am  determined,  therefore,  to 
 leave  this  place  on  Saturday  morning,  and  you  may  rest 
 satisfied  that  the  purpose  of  my  journey  will  be  fully  ac- 
 complished by  the  prattle  of  my  aunf  s  Httle  ones,  and  her 
 care.  I  am  not  an  invalid,  since  I  have  no  sickness  or 
 ailment,  but  I  am  weak  and  low-spirited^  and  unable  to 
 read.  The  last  is  the  greatest  calamity  I  can  experience 
 of  a  worldly  nature.  My  mind  preys  upon  itself.  Had 
 it  not  been  for  Leeson,  of  Clare  Hall,  I  could  not  have 
 trone  through  this  week.  I  have  been  examined  twice, 
 and  almost  without  looking  over  the  subjects,  and  I  have 
 given  satisfaction;  but  I  am  obliged  to  be  kept  up  by 
 strong  medicines  to  endure  this  exertion,  which  is  very 
 q;reat. 
 
215 
 
 I  am  happy,  however,  to  tell  you,  I  am  better ;  and  Mr. 
 Parish,  the  surgeon,  says,  a  few  days  will  re-establish  me 
 when  I  get  into  another  scene,  and  into  society. 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER, 
 
 London,  December  24th,  1805. 
 MY    DEAR    MOTHER, 
 
 You  will,  no  doubt,  have  been  surprised  at  not  having 
 heard  from  me  for  so  long  a  time,  and  you  will  be  no  less 
 so  to  find  that  I  am  writing  this  at  my  aunt's  in  this  far- 
 famed  city.  I  have  been  so  much  taken  up  with  our  col- 
 lege examinations  of  late,  that  I  could  not  find  time  to 
 write  even  to  you,  and  I  am  now  come  to  town,  in  order 
 to  give  myself  every  relaxation  and  amusement  I  can ; 
 for  I  had  read  so  much  at  Cambridge,  that  my  health  was 
 rather  affected,  and  I  was  advised  to  give  myself  the 
 respite  of  a  week  or  a  fortnight,  in  order  to  recover 
 strength.  I  arrived  in  town  on  Saturday  night,  and  should 
 have  written  yesterday,  in  order  to  remove  any  uneasiness 
 you  might  feel  on  my  account,  but  there  is  no  post  on 
 Sunday. 
 
 I  have  now  to  communicate  some  agreeable  intelli- 
 gence to  you.      Last  week  being  the  close  of  the  Mi- 
 
 p  4? 
 
216 
 
 chaelmas  terai,  unci  our  college  examination,  our  tutor, 
 who  is   a  very  great  man,  sent  for  me,  and  told  me  he 
 was  sorry  to  hear  I  had  been  ill :    he  understood  I  was 
 low-spirited,    and  wished  to    know   whether  I  frightened 
 myself  about  college    expenses.      I    told   him,    that   they 
 did  contribute  some  little   to  harass  me,   because    I  was 
 as  yet  uncertain  what  the  bills  of  my  first  year  would 
 amount  to.      His   answer  was  to  this  purpose:  — "  Mr. 
 White,  I  beg  you  will  not  trouble  yourself  on  this  sub- 
 ject :    your  emoluments  will    be   very   great,    very  great 
 mdeed,  and  I  will  take  care  your  expenses  are  not  very 
 buthensome.  —  Leave  that  to  me  !"     He  advised  me  to 
 go  to  my  friends,  and  amuse  myself  with  a  total  cessa- 
 tion from  reading.     After  our  college  examination  (which 
 lasted  six  days)  was  over,   he  sent  for  me  again,  and  re- 
 ])eated  what  he    had  said   before  about  the  expenses  of 
 the   college ;    and  he  added,  that  if  I  went  on  as  I  had 
 begun,  and  made  myself  a  good  scholar,  I  might  rely  on 
 being    provided   for    by   the    college;    for   if   the  county 
 should  be  full,    and    they  could    not   elect   me   a   fellow, 
 they  would    recommend   me   to   another   college,    where 
 they  would  be  glad  to  receive  a  clever  man  from  their 
 hands ;  or,  at  all  events,  they  could  alisoai/s  get  a  young 
 man  a  situation  as  a  private  tutor  in  a  nobleman's  family : 
 or  could  put  him  in  some  handsome  way  of  preferment. 
 "  We  make  it  a  rule  (he  said)  of  providing  for  a  clever 
 man,    whose  fortune    is    small;    and    you   may  therefore 
 rest  assured,  Mr.  White,  that,  after  you  have  taken  your 
 degree,  you  will  be  provided  with  a  genteel  competency 
 bij  the  college,'     He  begged  I  would   be  under  no  appre- 
 
217 
 
 hensions  on  these  accounts :  he  shook  hands  with  me  very 
 affectionately,  and  wished  me  a  speedy  recovery.  These 
 attentions  from  a  man  like  the  tutor  of  St.  John's  are  very 
 marked;  and  Mr.  Catton  is  well  known  for  doing  more 
 than  he  says.  I  am  sure,  after  these  assurances  from  a 
 principal  of  so  respectable  a  society  as  St.  John's,  I  have 
 nothing  more  to  fear ;  and  I  hope  you  will  never  repine 
 on  my  account  again:  —  according  to  every  appearance,  my 
 lot  in  life  is  certain. 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 London,  Xmas,  1805- 
 MY    DEAR    BEN, 
 
 You  would  have  had  no  reason  to  complain  of  my 
 long  silence,  had  I  preferred  my  self-justification  to  your 
 ease.  I  wrote  you  a  letter,  which  now  lies  in  my  drawer 
 at  St.  John's,  but  in  such  a  weak  state  of  body,  and  in 
 so  desponding  and  comfortless  a  tone  of  mind,  that  I 
 knew  it  would  give  you  pain,  and  therefore  I  chose  not 
 to  send  it.  I  have  indeed  been  ill ;  but,  thanks  to  God,  I 
 am  recovered.  My  nerves  were  miserably  shattered  by 
 over-application,  and  the  absence  of  all  that  could  amuse. 
 
218 
 
 and  the  presence  of  many  things  which  weighed  heavy 
 upon  my  spirits.  When  I  found  myself  too  ill  to  read, 
 and  too  desponding  to  endure  my  own  reflections,  I  dis- 
 covered that  it  is  really  a  miserable  thing  to  be  destitute 
 of  the  soothing  and  supporting  hand  when  nature  most 
 needs  it.  I  wandered  up  and  down  from  one  man's 
 room  to  another,  and  from  one  college  to  another, 
 imploring  society,  a  little  conversation,  and  a  little  relief  of 
 the  burthen  which  pressed  upon  my  spirits ;  and  I  am 
 sorry  to  say,  that  those  who,  when  I  was  cheerful  and 
 lively,  sought  my  society  with  avidity,  now,  when  I  actually 
 needed  conversation,  were  too  busy  to  grant  it.  Our 
 college  examination  was  then  approaching,  and  I  per- 
 ceived with  anguish  that  I  had  read  for  the  university 
 scholarship,  until  I  had  barely  time  to  get  up  our  private 
 subjects,  and  that  as  I  was  now  too  ill  to  read,  all  hope 
 of  getting  through  the  examination  with  decent  respect- 
 ability was  at  an  end.  This  was  an  additional  grief.  I 
 went  to  our  tutor,  with  tears  in  my  eyes,  and  told  him  I 
 must  absent  myself  from  the  examination,  —  a  step  which 
 would  have  precluded  me  from  a  station  amongst  the 
 prize-men  until  the  second  year.  He  earnestly  entreated 
 me  to  run  the  risk.  My  surgeon  gave  me  strong  stimu- 
 lants and  supporting  medicines  during  the  examination 
 week,  and  I  passed,  1  believe,  one  of  the  most  respect- 
 able examinations  amongst  them.  As  soon  as  ever  it 
 was  over,  I  left  Cambridge,  by  the  advice  of  my  surgeon 
 and  tutor,  and  I  feel  myself  now  pretty  strong.  I  have 
 given  up  the  thought  of  sitting  for  the  university  scholar- 
 ship in  consequence  of  my  illness,  as  the  course  of  my 
 
219 
 
 reading  was  effectually  broken.  In  this  place  I  have  been 
 much  amused,  and  have  been  received  with  an  attention 
 in  the  literary  circles  which  I  neither  expected  nor  de- 
 served. But  this  does  not  affect  me  as  it  once  would  have 
 done :  my  views  are  widely  altered ;  and  I  hope  that  I 
 shall  in  time  learn  to  lay  my  whole  heart  at  the  foot  of 
 the  cross. 
 
 I  have  only  one  thing  more  to  tell  you  of  about  my 
 illness :  it  is,  that  I  have  found  in  a  young  man,  with 
 whom  I  had  little  acquaintance,  that  kind  care  and  at- 
 tention, which  I  looked  for  in  vain  from  those  who  pro- 
 fessed themselves  my  nearest  friends.  At  a  time  when 
 *  *  *  could  not  find  leisure  to  devote  a  single 
 evening  to  his  sick  friend,  even  when  he  earnestly  im- 
 plored it,  William  Leeson  constantly,  and  even  against 
 my  wishes,  devoted  every  evening  to  the  relieving  of  my 
 melancholy,  and  the  enlivening  of  my  solitary  hours. 
 With  the  most  constant  and  affectionate  assiduity,  he 
 gave  me  my  medicines,  administered  consolation  to  my 
 broken  spirits,  and  even  put  me  to  bed. 
 
 ♦  *  #  #      . 
 
 #  •  #  # 
 
220 
 TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON. 
 
 London,  1st  January,  1806, 
 SIR, 
 
 I  OWE  it  both  to  my  feelings  and  my  duty,  that  I  should 
 thank  you  for  the  kind  enquiries  you  have  thought  it 
 worth  while  to  make  concerning  me  and  my  affairs.  I 
 have  just  learned  the  purport  of  a  letter  received  from 
 you  by  Mr.  Robinson,  the  bookseller ;  and  it  is  a  pleasing 
 task  to  me,  at  the  same  time  that  I  express  my  sense  of 
 your  benevolent  concern  in  my  behalf,  to  give  you,  myself, 
 the  information  you  require. 
 
 The  little  volume  which,  considered  as  the  production 
 of  a  very  young  man,  may  have  interested  you,  has  not 
 had  a  very  great  sale,  although  it  may  have  had  as  much 
 countenance  as  it  deserved.  The  last  report  I  received 
 from  the  publishers,  was  450  sold.  So  far  it  has  an- 
 swered the  expectations  I  had  formed  from  it,  that  it  has 
 procured  me  the  acquaintance,  and,  perhaps,  I  may  say, 
 the  friendship  of  men  equally  estimable  for  their  talents  and 
 their  virtues.  Rewarded  by  their  countenance,  I  am  by 
 no  means  dissatisfied  with  my  little  book ;  indeed  I  think 
 its  merits  have,  on  the  whole,  rather  been  over-rated  than 
 otherwise,  which  I  attribute  to  the  lenity  so  readily  afforded 
 to  the  faults  of  youth,  and  to  the  promptitude  with  which 
 benevolent  minds  give  encouragement  where  encourage- 
 ment seems  to  be  wanted. 
 
221 
 
 With  regard  to  my  personal  concerns,  I  have  succeeded 
 in  placing  myself  at  Cambridge,  and  have  already  kept 
 one  term.  My  college  is  St.  John's,  where,  in  the  rank 
 of  Sizar,  I  shall  probably  be  enabled  to  live  almost  inde- 
 pendently of  external  support :  but  should  I  need  that 
 support,  I  have  it  in  my  power  to  draw  on  a  friend,  whose 
 name  I  am  not  permitted  to  mention,  for  any  sum  not  ex- 
 ceeding 30l.  per  annum.  With  habits  of  frugality,  I  shall 
 never  need  this  sum :  so  that  I  am  quite  at  ease  with  re- 
 spect to  my  college  expenses,  and  am  at  full  leisure  to 
 pursue  my  studies  with  a  free  and  vacant  mind. 
 
 I  am  at  present  in  the  great  city,  where  I  have  come, 
 in  consequence  of  a  little  injudicious  application,  a  suitor 
 to  health,  variety,  and  amusement.  In  a  few  days  I  shall 
 return  to  Cambridge,  where  (should  you  ever  pass  that 
 way)  I  hope  you  will  not  forget  that  I  reside  there  three- 
 fourths  of  the  year.  It  would,  indeed,  give  me  pleasure  to 
 say  personally  how  much  I  am  obliged  by  your  enquiries. 
 
 I  hope  you  will  put  a  favourable  construction  both  on 
 the  minuteness  and  the  length  of  this  letter,  and  permit  me 
 to  subscribe  myself, 
 
 Sir, 
 Very  thankfully  and  obediently, 
 Yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
222 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's,  February  17th,  1806. 
 
 DEAR    BEN, 
 
 Do  not  think  I  am  reading  hard :  I  believe  it  is  all 
 over  with  that.  I  have  had  a  recurrence  of  my  old  com- 
 plaint within  this  last  four  or  five  days,  which  has  half 
 unnerved  me  for  every  thing.  The  state  of  my  health  is 
 really  miserable ;  I  am  well  and  lively  in  the  morning, 
 and  overwhelmed  with  nervous  horrors  in  the  evening.  I 
 do  not  know  how  to  proceed  with  regard  to  my  studies  :  — 
 a  very  slight  over-stretch  of  the  mind  in  the  daytime  oc- 
 casions me  not  only  a  sleepless  night,  but  a  night  of  gloom 
 and  horror.  The  systole  and  diastole  of  my  heart  seem 
 to  be  playing  at  ball  —  the  stake,  my  life.  I  can  only 
 say  the  game  is  not  yet  decided :  —  I  allude  to  the  violence 
 of  the  palpitation. 
 
 I  am  going  to  mount  the  Gog-magog  hills  this  morn- 
 ing, in  quest  of  a  good  night's  sleep.  The  Gog-magog 
 hills  for  my  body,  and  the  Bible  for  my  mind,  are  my 
 only  medicines.     I  am  sorry  to  say,  that  neither  are  quite 
 
223 
 
 adequate.  Cw/,  igitur ;  daiidmn  est  vitio  F  Mihi  prorsus,  I 
 hope,  as  the  summer  comes,  my  spirits  (which  have  been 
 with  the  swallows  a  winter's  journey)  will  come  with  it. 
 When  my  spirits  are  restored,  my  health  will  be  restored : 
 —  the^W5  mali  lies  there.  Give  me  serenity  and  equabi- 
 lity of  mind,  and  all  will  be  well  there. 
 
 *  #  #         * 
 
 *  *         *  * 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  nth  March,  1806. 
 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 *  *  *  » 
 
 *  *  *  % 
 
 I  HOPE  you  read  Mason  on  Self-knowledge  now  and 
 then.  It  is  a  usefiil  book ;  and  it  will  help  you  greatly 
 in  framing  your  spirit  to  the  ways  of  humility,  piety,  and 
 peace.  Reading,  occasional  meditation,  and  constant 
 prayer,  will  infallibly  guide  you  to  happiness,  as  far  as 
 we  can  be  happy  here ;  and  will  help  you  on  your  way  to 
 that  blessed  abode,  where  I  hope,  ardently  hope,  we  shall 
 all  meet  hereafter  in  the  assembly  of  the  saints.  Go 
 coolly  and  deliberately,  but  determinately,  to  the  work  of 
 your  salvation.  Do  nothing  here  in  a  hurry;  deUberate 
 upon  every  thing ;  take  your  steps  cautiously,  yet  with  a 
 
 3 
 
224 
 
 simple  reliance  on  the '  mercy  of  your  God  and  Saviour ; 
 and  wherever  you  see  your  duty  lie,  lose  no  time  in  act- 
 ing up  to  it.  This  is  the  only  way  to  arrive  at  comfort  in 
 your  Christian  career ;  and  the  constant  observance  of  this 
 maxim  will,  with  the  assistance  of  God,  smooth  your  way 
 with  quietness  and  repose,  even  to  the  brink  of  eternity, 
 and  beyond  the  gulph  that  bounds  it. 
 
 I  had  almost  dropped  the  idea  of  seeing  Nottingham 
 this  next  long  vacation,  as  my  stay  in  Cambridge  may  be 
 importantly  useful;  but  I  think  now,  I  shall  go  down 
 for  my  health's,  and  more  particularly  for  my  mother's 
 sake,  whom  my  presence  will  comfort,  and  perhaps  help. 
 I  shall  be  glad  to  moor  all  my  family  in  the  harbour  of 
 religious  trust,  and  in  the  calm  seas  of  religious  peace. 
 These  concerns  are  apt,  at  times,  to  escape  me ;  but  they 
 now  press  much  upon  my  heart;  and  I  think  it  is  my 
 first  duty  to  see  that  my  family  are  safe  in  the  most  im- 
 portant of  all  aifairs. 
 
225 
 
 TO  THE  REV.  J.  PLUMBTRE. 
 
 St.  John's,  March  12th,  1806. 
 DEAR    SIR, 
 
 I  HOPE  you  will  excuse  the  long  delay  which  I  have 
 made  in  sending  the  song.  I  am  afraid  I  have  trespassed 
 on  your  patience,  if  indeed  so  unimportant  a  subject  can 
 have  given  you  any  thought  at  all.  If  you  think  it  worth 
 while  to  send  the  song  to  your  publisher,  I  should  prefer 
 the  omission  of  the  writer's  name,  as  the  insertion  of  it 
 would  only  be  a  piece  of  idle  ostentation,  and  answer  no 
 end.  My  name  will  neither  give  credit  to  the  verses,  nor 
 the  verses  confer  honour  on  my  name. 
 
 It  will  give  me  great  pleasure  to  hear  that  your  la- 
 bours have  b^en  successful  in  the  town  of  *  *  *, 
 where,  I  fear,  much  is  to  be  done.  I  am  one  of  those  who 
 think  that  the  love  of  virtue  is  not  sufficient  to  make  a  vir- 
 tuous man;  for  the  love  of  virtue  is  a  mere  mental  preference 
 of  the  beautiful  to  the  deformed ;  and  we  see  but  too  often 
 that  immediate  gratification  outweighs  the  dictates  of  our 
 judgment.  If  men  could  always  perform  their  duty  as  well 
 as  they  can  discern  it,  or  if  they  would  attend  to  their  real 
 interests  as  well  as  they  can  see  them,  there  would  be  little 
 
 VOL.  I.  ^ 
 
226 
 
 occasion  for  moral  instruction.  Sir  Richard  Steele,  who 
 wrote  like  a  saint,  and  who,  in  his  Christian  Hero,  shows 
 the  strongest  marks  of  a  religious  and  devout  heart,  lived, 
 notwithstanding  all  this,  a  drunkard  and  a  debauchee. 
 And  what  can  be  the  cause  of  this  apparent  contradic- 
 tion ?  Was  it  that  he  had  not  strength  of  mind  to  act  up 
 to  his  views?  Then  a  man's  salvation  may  depend  on 
 strenofth  of  intellect !  !  Or  does  not  this  rather  show  that 
 superior  motives  are  wanting  ?  That  assistance  is  yet  ne- 
 cessary, when  the  ablest  of  men  has  done  his  utmost  ?  If 
 then  such  aid  be  necessary,  how  can  it  be  obtained  ?  —  by 
 a  virtuous  life  ?  —  Surely  not :  because,  to  live  really  a  vir- 
 tuous life,  implies  this  aid  to  have  been  first  given.  We 
 are  told  in  Scripture  how  it  may  be  attained,  namely,  by 
 humble  trust  in  the  Lord  Jesus  Christ,  as  our  atoning  sa- 
 crifice. This,  therefore,  is  the  foundation  of  religious  life, 
 and  as  such,  ought  to  be  the  fundamental  principle  of 
 i-elio-ious  instruction.  This  is  the  test  of  our  obedience, 
 the  indispensable  preliminary  before  we  can  enjoy  the  favour 
 of  God.  What,  therefore,  can  we  urge  with  more  pro- 
 priety from  the  pulpit  than  faith  ?  —  to  preach  morality 
 does  not  include  the  principle  of  faith  —  to  preach  faith 
 includes  every  branch  of  morality,  at  the  same  time  that 
 it  affords  it  its  present  sanctions  and  its  strongest  in- 
 citements. 
 
 I  am  afraid  I  have  trespassed  on  your  patience,  and  I 
 must  beg  of  you  to  excuse  the  badness  of  the  writing,  for 
 which  I  have  the  plea  of  illness.     I  hope  your  health  is  yet 
 
 .    7 
 
227 
 
 firm,  and  that  God  will  in  mercy  prosper  your  endeavors 
 for  the  good  of  your  flock. 
 
 I  am,  dear  Sir, 
 
 Very  respectfully  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 St.  John's,  Cambridge,  April,  180G. 
 
 DEAR    MOTHER, 
 
 * 
 
 I  AM  quite  unhappy  to  see  you  so  anxious  on  my  ac- 
 count, and  also  that  you  should  think  me  neglectful  of 
 you.  Believe  me,  my  dear  mother,  my  thoughts  are 
 often  with  you.  Never  do  I  lay  myself  on  my  bed, 
 before  you  have  all  passed  before  me  in  my  prayers ;  and 
 one  of  my  first  earthly  wishes  is  to  make  you  comfort- 
 able, and  provide  that  rest  and  quiet  for  your  mind 
 which  you  so  much  need:  and  never  fear  but  I  shall 
 have  it  in  my  power  some  time  or  other.  My  prospects 
 wear  a  flattering  appearance.  I  shall  be  almost  sure  of 
 a  fellowship  somewhere  or  other,  and  then,  if  I  get  a 
 curacy  in  Cambridge,  I  shall  have  a  clear  income  of 
 I70I.  per  annum,  besides  my  board  and  lodging,  perhaps 
 
 Q  2 
 
228 
 
 more.  If  I  do  not  reside  in  Cambridge,  I  shall  have  some 
 quiet  parsonage,  where  you  may  come  and  spend  the  summer 
 months.  Maria  and  Kate  will  then  be  older,  and  you  will 
 be  less  missed.  On  all  accounts  3/0M  have  much  reason  to  in- 
 dulge happier  dreams.  My  health  is  considerably  better. 
 Only  do  you  take  as  much  care  of  your's  as  I  do  of  mine, 
 and  all  will  be  well.  I  exhort,  and  entreat,  and  beseech 
 you,  as  you  love  me,  and  all  your  children,  that  you  will 
 take  your  bitters  mthout  ceasing.  As  you  wish  me  to  pay 
 regard  to  your  exhortations,  attend  to  this. 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 St.  John's,  April,  1806. 
 
 DEAR    MOTHER, 
 
 I  AM  a  good  deal  surprised  at  not  having  heard  from 
 you  in  answer  to  my  last.  You  will  be  surprised  to  hear 
 the  purport  of  my  present  letter,  which  is  no  less  than 
 that  I  shall  spend  the  ensuing  Easter  vacation  in  Notting- 
 ham. The  reasons  which  have  induced  me  to  make  tliis 
 so  wide  an  alteration  in  my  plan,  are  these :  I  have  had 
 some  symptoms  of  the  return  of  my  old  complaint,  and 
 both  my  doctor  and  tutor  think  I  had  better  take  a  fort- 
 night's relaxation  at  home.     I  hope  you  will  not  tliink  I 
 
229 
 
 have  neglected  exercise,  since  I  have  taken  more  this  term 
 than  I  ever  did  before ;  but  I  shall  enlarge  my  hours  of 
 recreation  still  more,  since  I  find  it  necessary,  for  my 
 health^s  sake,  so  to  do. 
 
 You  need  not  give  yourself  any  uneasiness  as  to  my 
 health,  for  I  am  quite  recovered.  I  was  chiefly  afflicted 
 with  sleeplessness  and  palpitations  of  the  heart,  which 
 symptoms  have  now  disappeared,  and  I  am  quite  restored 
 to  my  former  good  health.  My  journey  will  re-establish 
 me  completely,  and  it  will  give  me  no  small  pleasure  to 
 see  you  after  so  long  an  absence  from  home.  I  shall  be 
 very  idle  while  1  am  at  Nottingham ;  I  shall  only  amuse 
 myself  with  teaching  Maria  and  Kate. 
 
 (supposed  to  be  addressed) 
 TO  MRS.  WEST. 
 
 1  MAVE  stolen  your  first  volume  of  Letters  from  the 
 chimney-piece  of  a  college  friend,  and  I  have  been  so 
 much  pleased  both  with  the  spirit,  conduct,  and  style  of 
 the  work,  that  I  cannot  refrain  from  writing  to  tell  you 
 so.  I  shall  read  the  remaining  volumes  immediately ; 
 but  as  I  am  at  this  moment  just  in  that  desultory  mood 
 when  a  man  can  best  write  a  letter,   I  have  determined 
 
 8  ^ 
 
230 
 
 not  to  delay  what,  if  I  defer  at  all,  I  shall  probably  not  do 
 at  all. 
 
 Well,  then,  my  dear  Madam,  although  I  have  insi- 
 diously given  you  to  understand,  that  I  write  to  tell  you 
 how  much  I  approve  your  work,  I  will  be  frank  enough 
 to  tell  you  likewise,  that  I  think,  in  one  point,  it  is 
 faulty :  and  that,  if  I  had  not  discovered  what  I  consider 
 to  be  a  defect  in  the  book,  I  should  probably  not  have 
 written  for  the  mere  purpose  of  declaiming  on  its  excel- 
 lencies. 
 
 Start  not,  Madam ;  it  is  in  that  very  point  whereon  you 
 have  bestowed  most  pains,  that  I  think  the  work  is  faulty 
 —  Religion,  If  I  mistake  not,  there  will  be  some  little 
 confusion  of  idea  detected,  if  we  examine  this  part  nar- 
 rowly ;  and  as  I  am  not  quite  idle  enough  to  write  my 
 opinions  without  giving  the  reasons  for  them,  I  will  en- 
 deavour to  explain  why  I  think  so. 
 
 Religion,  then.  Madam,  I  conceive  to  be  the  service  a 
 creature  owes  to  his  Creator;  and  I  take  it  for  granted, 
 that  service  implies  some  self-denial,  and  some  labour; 
 for  if  it  did  not  involve  something  unpleasing  to  our- 
 selves, it  would  be  a  duty  we  should  all  of  necessity  per- 
 form. Well,  then,  if  religion  call  for  self-denial,  there 
 must  be  some  motive  to  induce  men  voluntarily  to  undergo 
 such  privations  as  may  be  consequent  on  a  religious 
 life,  and  those  motives  must  be  such  as  affect  either  the 
 present  state  of  existence,  or   some  other  future  state  of 
 
231 
 
 existence.  Certainly,  then,  those  motives  whicli  arise 
 from  the  expectation  of  a  future  state  of  existence,  must, 
 in  reahty,  be  infinitely  more  important  than  those  which 
 are  founded  in  temporal  concerns,  although,  to  mankind, 
 the  immediate  presence  of  temporal  things  may  outweigh 
 the  distant  apprehension  of  the  future.  Granting,  there- 
 fore, that  the  future  world  is  the  main  object  of  our  reli- 
 gious exercises,  it  will  follow  that  they  are  the  most  im- 
 portant concerns  of  a  man's  life,  and  that  every  other 
 consideration  is  light  and  trifling  in  the  comparison.  For 
 the  world  to  come  is  everlasting,  while  the  present  world 
 is  but  very  short.  Foolish,  then,  indeed,  and  short- 
 sighted must  that  creature  be,  which  can  prefer  the 
 conveniencies  and  accommodations  of  the  present  to  tlie 
 happiness  of  the  eternal  future. 
 
 All  Christians,  therefore,  who  undertake  to  lay  down  a 
 chart  for  the  young  and  inexperienced,  by  which  they 
 may  steer  with  security  through  the  ocean  of  life,  will  be 
 expected  to  make  rehgion  a  prominent  feature  on  the  can- 
 vass ;  and  that,  too,  not  only  by  giving  it  a  larger  space,  but 
 by  enforcing  the  superiority  of  this  consideration  to  every 
 other.  Now  this  is  what  I  humbly  conceive  you  have  not 
 altogether  done ;  and  I  think,  indeed,  if  I  be  competent 
 to  judge,  you  have  failed  in  two  points  ;  —  in  making  reli- 
 gion only  a  subordinate  consideration  to  a  young  man,  and 
 in  not  defining  distinctly  the  essentials  of  religion. 
 
 I  would  ask  you,  then,  in  what  way  you  so  impress 
 religion   on  the  mind  of  your   son,  as  one  would  expect 
 
 o  4 
 
232 
 
 that  person  would  impress  it  who  was  conscious  that  it 
 was  of  the  first  importance.  Do  you  instruct  him  to  turn 
 occasionally,  when  his  leisure  may  permit,  to  pious  and 
 devout  meditation  ?  Do  you  direct  him  to  make  religion 
 the  one  great  aim  and  end  of  his  being  ?  Do  you  exhort 
 him  to  frequent  private  and  earnest  prayer  to  the  Spirit 
 of  Holiness,  that  he  would  sanctify  all  his  doings  ?  Do 
 you  teach  him  that  the  praise  or  the  censure,  the  admir- 
 ation or  the  contempt  of  the  world,  is  of  little  import- 
 ance, so  as  his  heart  be  right  before  the  Great  Judge  ? 
 Do  you  tell  him  that,  as  his  reason  now  opens,  he  should 
 gradually  withdraw  from  the  gayer  and  occasionally  more 
 unlicensed  diversions  of  the  world  —  the  ball-room,  the 
 theatre,  and  the  public  concert,  in  order  that  he  may 
 abstract  his  mind  more  from  the  too-fascinating  delights 
 of  life,  and  fit  himself  for  the  new  scene  of  existence, 
 which  will,  sooner  or  later,  open  upon  his  view  ?  No,  Ma- 
 dam, I  think  you  do  not  do  this.  You  tell  him  there  is  a 
 deal  of  enthusiasm  in  persons  who,  though  they  mean 
 well,  are  over-strict  in  their  religious  performances.  You 
 tell  him,  that  assemblies,  dances,  theatres,  are  elegant 
 amusements,  though  you  couple  the  fine  arts  with  them, 
 which  I  am  sorry  to  see  in  such  company.  I,  too,  am 
 enthusiastically  attached  to  the  fine  arts.  Poetry,  paint- 
 ino-,  and  music,  are  amongst  my  most  delicious  and 
 chastest  pleasures ;  and  happy,  indeed,  do  I  feel  when  I 
 can  make  even  these  contribute  to  the  great  end,  and  draw 
 my  soul  from  its  sphere,  to  fix  it  on  its  Maker  and  Re- 
 deemer. I  am  fond,  too,  of  tragedy,  and  though  I  do  not 
 find  it  with  so   much   purity  and   chastity  in  Shakspeare 
 
233 
 
 as  In  the  old  Greek  dramatists,  yet  I  know  how  to  appre- 
 ciate its  beauties  in  him  too.  Besides  these,  I  have  a 
 thousand  other  amusements  of  the  most  refined  nature, 
 without  either  theatres,  balls,  or  card-tables.  The  theatre 
 is  not  in  itself  an  immoral  institution,  but  in  its  present 
 state  it  is  :  and  I  feel  much  for  an  uncorrupted,  frank  lad 
 of  fourteen,  who  is  permitted  to  visit  this  stew  of  licentious- 
 ness, impudence,  and  vice.  Your  plan  seems  to  me  this  ; 
 — -  Teach  a  boy  to  lead  an  honest,  upright  life,  and  to  do 
 his  duty,  and  he  will  gain  the  good  will  of  God  by  the 
 very  tenor  of  his  actions.  This  is,  indeed,  an  easy  kind  of 
 religion,  for  it  involves  no  self-denial ;  but  true  religion 
 does  involve  self-denial.  The  inference  is  obvious.  T  say 
 it  involves  no  self-denial ;  because  a  well-educated  sensible 
 lad  will  see  so  many  inconveniences  in  vicious  indulgences, 
 that  he  will  choose  the  virtuous  by  a  natural  effort  of  the 
 understanding ;  and  so,  according  to  this  system,  he  will 
 ensure  heaven  by  the  soundness  of  his  policy  and  the 
 rectitude  of  his  understanding. 
 
 Admitting  this  to  be  a  true  doctrine,  Christianity  has 
 been  of  no  material  service  to  mankind ;  and  the  Son  of 
 God  might  have  spared  his  blood ;  for  the  heathens  knew 
 all  this,  and  not  only  knew  it,  but  many  of  them  put  it 
 into  practice.  What  then  has  Christianity  done  ?  —  But 
 the  Scripture  teaches  us  the  reverse  of  this  :  it  teaches  us 
 to  give  God  our  whole  heart,  to  live  to  him,  to  pray  con- 
 tinually, and  to  fix  our  affections,  not  on  things  temporal, 
 but  on  things  eternal.  Now,  \  ask  you,  whether,  without 
 any  sophistry,  or  any  perversion  of  the  meaning  of  words, 
 
234 
 
 you  can  reconcile  thib«  with  your  religious  instruction  to 
 yoiu-  son  ? 
 
 I  think,  likewise,  that  you  do  not  define  the  essentials 
 of  religion  distinctly.  We  are  either  saved  by  the  atone- 
 ment of  Jesus  Christ,  or  we  are  not ;  and  if  we  are,  then 
 all  men  are  necessarily  saved,  or  some  are  necessarily  not 
 saved  ;  and  if  some  are  not  saved,  it  must  be  from  causes 
 either  existing  in  the  individuals  themselves,  or  from 
 causes  existing  in  the  economy  of  God's  dispensations. 
 Now,  Madam,  we  are  told  that  Jesus  Christ  died  for 
 all ;  but  we  grant  that  all  are  not  saved.  Why  then  are 
 some  not  saved  ?  It  is  because  they  do  not  act  in  a  man- 
 ner worthy  of  God's  favour !  Then  a  man's  salvation  de- 
 pends upon  his  actions.  But  we  are  told  in  Scripture, 
 that  it  does  not  depend  on  his  actions  —  "  By  faith  are 
 "  ye  saved,  without  the  works  of  the  law  ?"  —  therefore  it 
 either  must  depend  on  some  other  effort  of  the  creature, 
 or  on  the  will  of  the  Creator.  I  will  not  dispute  the 
 question  of  Calvinism  with  you;  I  will  grant  that  Cal- 
 vinism is  indefensible ;  but  this  all  must  concede  who  be- 
 lieve the  Scriptures,  that  we  are  to  be  saved  by  faith  only 
 through  Jesus  Christ.  I  ask,  therefore,  w^hether  you 
 have  taught  this  to  your  son ;  and  I  ask  whether  there  is 
 one  trait  in  your  instructions,  in  common  with  the  hum- 
 bling, self-denying  religion  taught  by  the  Apostles,  by 
 the  homilies  of  our  church,  and  by  all  the  reformers? 
 The  chief  argument  of  the  latter  against  the  Romish 
 church,  was  their  asserting  the  validity  of  works.  Now, 
 what  ideas  must  your  son  have  of  Christian  faith  ?     You 
 
235 
 
 say,  that  even  Shakspcare's  debauchees  iverc  believers  y 
 and  he  is  given  to  understand,  that  he  is  a  good  Chris- 
 tian, if  he  do  his  duty  to  his  master  and  fellows,  go  to 
 church  every  Sunday,  and  keep  clear  of  enthusiasm. 
 And  what  has  Jesus  Christ  to  do  with  your  system ;  and 
 where  is  that  Jaith  banished,  of  which  every  page  of 
 Scripture  is  full?  —  Can  this  be  right?  "  Closet  devotion^^ 
 is  the  means  of  attaining  faith;  and  humble  prayer  is  the 
 true  means  of  arriving  at  fervency  in  religion,  without 
 enthusiasm.  You  condemn  Socinianism ;  but  I  ask  you 
 where  Jesus  Christ  appears  in  your  scheme,  and  where 
 the  influences  of  the  Holy  Ghost,  and  even  his  names,  are 
 banished  from  it? 
 
 TO  MR.  P.  THOMPSON, 
 
 Nottingham,  April  8th,  1806". 
 DEAR  SIR, 
 
 I  SINCERELY  beg  your  pardon  for  my  ungrateful 
 disregard  of  your  polite  letter.  The  intervening  period 
 has  been  so  much  taken  up,  on  the  one  hand,  by  il! 
 health,  and  on  the  other  by  occupations  of  the  most 
 indispensable  kind,  that  I  have  neglected  almost  all  my 
 friends,  and  you  amongst  the  rest.      I  am   now  at   Not- 
 
236 
 
 tingham,  a  truant  from  stucW,  and  a  rejected  votary  at  the 
 shrine  of  Health ;  a  few  days  will  bring  me  back  to  the 
 margin  of  the  Cam,  and  bury  me  once  more  in  the  busy 
 routine  of  college  exercises.  Before,  however,  I  am  again 
 a  man  of  bustle  and  occupation,  I  snatch  a  few  moments 
 to  tell  you  how  much  I  shall  be  gratified  by  your  corre- 
 spondence, and  how  greatly  I  think  myself  flattered  by  your 
 esteeming  mine  worth  asking  for. 
 
 The  little  sketch  of  your  past  occupations  and  present 
 pursuits  interested  me.  Cultivate,  with  all  assiduity, 
 the  taste  for  letters  which  you  possess.  It  will  be  a 
 source  of  exquisite  gratification  to  you :  and  if  directed 
 as  it  ought  to  be,  and  I  hope  as  it  will  be  directed,  it  will 
 be  more  than  gratification,  (if  we  understand  pleasure 
 alone  by  that  word,)  since  it  will  combine  with  it  utility 
 of  the  highest  kind.  If  polite  letters  were  merely  instru- 
 mental in  cheering  the  hours  of  elegant  leisure,  in  afford- 
 ing refined  and  polished  pleasures,  uncontaminated  with 
 oTOss  and  sensual  gratifications,  they  would  still  be  va- 
 luable; but  in  a  degree  infinitely  less  than  when  they 
 are  considered  as  the  handmaids  of  the  virtues,  the  cor- 
 rectors as  well  as  the  adorners  of  society.  But  literature 
 has,  of  late  years,  been  prostituted  to  all  the  purposes  of 
 the  bagnio.  Poetry,  in  particular,  arrayed  in  her  most 
 bewitching  colours,  has  been  taught  to  exercise  the  arts 
 of  the  Lcno,  and  to  charm  only  that  she  may  destroy. 
 The  Muse,  who  once  dipped  her  hardy  wing  in  the 
 chastest  dews  of  Castalia,  and  spoke  nothing  but  what 
 had   a  tendency   to   confirm    and    invigorate   the   manly 
 
237 
 
 ardour  of  a  virtuous  mind,  now  breathes  onl}^  the  vokiptuous 
 languishings  of  the  harlot,  and,  hke  the  brood  of  Circe, 
 touches  her  charmed  chords  with  a  grace,  that,  while  it  ra- 
 vishes the  ear,  deludes  and  beguiles  the  sense.  I  call  to 
 witness  Mr.  Moore,  and  the  tribe  of  imitators  which  his 
 success  has  called  forth,  that  my  statement  is  true.  Lord 
 Strangford  has  trodden  faithfully  in  the  steps  of  his  pattern. 
 
 I  hope,  for  the  credit  of  poetry,  that  the  good  sense  of  the 
 age  will  scout  this  insidious  school ;  and  what  may  we  not 
 expect,  if  Moore  and  Lord  Strangford  apply  themselves  to 
 a  chaster  muse  ?  —  They  are  both  men  of  uncommon 
 powers.  You  may  remember  the  reign  of  Darwinian  poetry, 
 and  the  fopperies  of  Delia  Crusca.  To  these  succeeded 
 the  school  pf  Simplicity,  in  which  Wordsworth,  Southey, 
 and  Colei'idge,  are  so  deservedly  eminent.  I  think  that  the 
 new  tribe  of  poets  endeavour  to  combine  these  two  opposite 
 sects,  and  to  unite  richness  of  language,  and  warmth  of 
 colouring,  with  simplicity  and  pathos.  They  have  certainly 
 succeeded ;  but  Moore  unhappily  wished  to  be  a  Catullus, 
 and  from  him  has  sprung  the  licentiousness  of  the  new 
 school,  Moore's  poems  and  his  translations  will,  I  think, 
 have  more  influence  on  the  female  society  of  this  kingdom, 
 than  the  stage  has  had  in  its  isoorst  period,  the  reign  of 
 Charles  II.  Ladies  are  not  ashamed  of  having  the  delec- 
 table Mr.  Little  on  their  toilet,  which  is  a  pretty  good 
 proof  that  his  voluptuousness  is  considered  as  quite  veiled 
 by  the  sentimental  garb  in  which  it  is  clad.     But  voluptu- 
 
238 
 
 ousness  is  not  the  less  dangerous-  for  having  some  shght 
 resemblance  of  the  veil  of  modesty.  On  the  contrary,  her 
 fascinations  are  infinitely  more  powerful  in  this  retiring  ha- 
 bit, than  when  she  boldly  protrudes  herself  on  the  gazer's 
 eye,  and  openly  solicits  his  attention.  The  broad  indecency 
 of  Wycherly,  and  his  contemporaries,  was  not  half  so  dan- 
 gerous as  this  "insinuating  and  half-covered  mocZ -delicacy, 
 which  makes  use  of  the  blush  of  modesty  in  order  to 
 lieighten  the  charms  of  vice. 
 
 I  must  conclude  somewhat  abruptly,  by  begging  you  will 
 not  punish  my  negligence  towards  you,  by  retarding  the 
 pleasure  I  shall  receive  from  your  answer. 
 
 I  am. 
 Very  truly  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 Address  to  me,  St.  John's  College,  Cambridge. 
 
239 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  May,  1806. 
 
 MY    DEAI?    NEVILLE, 
 *  * 
 
 My  long-delayed  and  very  anciently-promised  letter  to 
 Charlesworth  will  reach  him  shortly.  Tell  him  that  I 
 have  written  once  to  him  in  Latin  ;  but  that  having  torn 
 the  paper  in  two  by  a  mistake,  I  could  not  summon  reso- 
 lution to  copy  it. 
 
 I  was  glad  to  hear  of  the  eclat  with  which  he  disputed 
 and  came  off  on  so  difficult  a  subject  as  the  Nerves  ;  and 
 I  beg  him,  if  he  have  made  any  discoveries,  to  communi- 
 cate them  to  me,  who,  being  persecuted  by  these  same 
 nerves,  should  be  glad  to  have  some  better  acquaintance 
 with  my  invisible  enemies. 
 
 *  *  *  # 
 
240 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  June  30th,  1806. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  RECEIVED  your  letter  yesterday ;  and  I  hope  you  will 
 not  think  my  past  silence  at  all  in  need  of  apology,  when 
 you  know  that  our  examination  only  closed  on  Saturday. 
 
 I  have  the  satisfaction  of  informing  you,  that  after  a 
 week's  scrutiny,  I  was  deemed  to  be  the  first  man.  I 
 had  very  httle  hopes  of  arriving  at  so  distinguishing  a 
 station,  on  account  of  my  many  checks  and  interruptions. 
 It  gave  me  great  pleasure  to  observe  how  all  the  men 
 rejoiced  in  my  success.  It  was  on  Monday  that  the  classes 
 were  published.  I  am  a  prize-man  both  in  the  mathema- 
 tical and  logical,  or  general  examination,  and  in  Latin 
 composition. 
 
 Mr.  Catton  has  expressed  his  great  satisfaction  at  my 
 progress ;  and  he  has  offered  to  supply  me  with  a  private 
 tutor  for  the  four  months  of  the  vacation,  free  of  any  ex- 
 pense. This  will  cost  the  college  twelve  or  fifteen  guineas 
 at  least.  My  last  term  bill  amounts  only  to  4l.  5s.  3d. 
 after  my  exhibitions  are  deducted. 
 
 I  had  engaged  to  take  charge  of  a  few  classical  pupils 
 for  a  clergyman   in  Warwickshire,  during  one  month  of 
 
241 
 
 the  vacation,  for  which  I  was  to  receive,  besides  my 
 board,  &c.  &c.  ten  guineas;  but  Mr.  Catton  says  this  is 
 a  piece  of  extreme  folly,  as  it  will  consume  time,  and  do 
 me  no  good.  He  told  me,  therefore,  positively,  that  he 
 would  not  give  me  an  exeat^  without  which  no  man  can 
 leave  his  college  for  the  night 
 
 I  cannot,  therefore,  at  all  events,  visit  Nottingham  with 
 my  aunt,  nor  meet  her  there. 
 
 I  could  now,  if  I  chose,  leave  St.  John's  College,  and  go 
 to  another  with  great  eclat ;  but  it  would  be  an  unadvise- 
 able  step.  I  believe,  however,  it  will  be  impossible  for 
 them  to  elect  me  a  fellow  at  St.  John's,  as  my  county  is 
 under  particular  restrictions.  They  can  give  me  a  fellow- 
 ship of  smaller  value,  but  I  had  rather  get  one  at  another 
 college :  at  all  events,  the  smaller  colleges  will  be  glad  to 
 elect  me  from  St.  John's. 
 
 With  regard  to  cash,  I  manage  pretty  well,  though  my 
 fund  is  at  present  at  its  lowest  ebb.  My  bills,  however, 
 are  paid ;  and  I  have  no  occasion  for  money,  except  as  a 
 private  convenience.  The  question  therefore  is,  whether 
 it  will  be  more  inconvenient  to  you  than  convenient  to  me 
 for  you  to  replenish  my  purse.  Decide  impartially.  I  have 
 not  drawn  upon  my  mother  since  Christmas,  except  for 
 the  expense  of  my  journey  up  from  Nottingham  to  Cam- 
 bridge ;  nor  do  I  mean  to  do  it  till  next  Christmas,  when, 
 
 VOL.  I.  R 
 
242 
 
 as  I  have  ordered  a  suit  of  clothes,  I  shall  have  a  good 
 many  calls  for  money. 
 
 Let  me  have  a  long  letter  from  you  soon. 
 
 TO  HIS  AUNT.  * 
 
 St.  John's,  Cambridge,  Jan.  6th,  1806. 
 MY   DEAR   AUNT, 
 
 I  AM  at  length  once  more  settled  in  my  rooms  at  Cam- 
 bridge ;  but  I  am  grown  so  idle,  and  so  luxurious,  since  I 
 have  been  under  your  hands,  that  I  cannot  read  with  half 
 my  usual  diligence. 
 
 I  hope  you  concluded  the  Christmas  holidays  on  Mon- 
 day evening  with  the  customary  glee;  and  I  hope  my 
 uncle  was  well  enough  to  partake  of  your  merriment. 
 You  must  now  begin  your  penitential  days,  after  so  much 
 riot  and  feasting;  and,  with  your  three  little  prattlers 
 around  you,  I  am  sure  your  evenings  will  flow  pleasantly 
 by  your  own  fire- side.  Visiting  and  gaiety  are  very  well 
 by  way  of  change ;  but  there  is  no  enjoyment  so  lasting  as 
 that  of  one's  own  family.  Elizabeth  will  soon  be  old 
 enough  to  amuse  you  with  her  conversation ;  and,  I  trust, 
 
 *  This  letter  is  misplaced,  not  having  been  received  in  time  to  be 
 inserted  in  risht  order. 
 
24 
 
 Q 
 
 jou  will  take  every  opportunity  of  teaching  her  to  put 
 the  right  value  on  things,  and  to  exercise  her  own  good 
 sense.  It  is  amazing  how  soon  a  child  may  become  a 
 real  comfort  to  its  mother,  and  how  much  even  young 
 minds  will  form  habits  of  affection  towards  those  who 
 treat  them  like  reasonable  beings,  capable  of  seeing  the 
 right  and  the  wrong  of  themselves.  A  very  little  girl  may 
 be  made  to  understand  that  there  are  some  things  which 
 are  pleasant  and  amusing,  which  are  still  less  worthy  of 
 attention  than  others  more  disagreeable  and  painful. 
 Children  are,  in  general,  fond  of  little  ornaments  of  dress, 
 especially  females ;  and  though  we  may  allow  them  to  be 
 elevated  with  their  trifling  splendours,  yet  we  should  not 
 forget  to  remind  them,  that,  although  people  may  admire 
 their  dress,  yet  they  will  admire  them  much  more  for 
 their  good  sense,  sweetness  of  temper,  and  generosity  of 
 disposition.  Children  are  very  quick-sighted  to  discern 
 whether  you  approve  of  them,  and  they  are  very  proud 
 of  your  approbation  when  they  think  you  bestow  it :  we 
 should  therefore  be  careful  how  we  praise  them,  and  for 
 what.  If  we  praise  their  dress,  it  should  be  slightly,  and 
 as  if  it  were  a  matter  of  very  small  importance ;  but  we 
 should  never  let  any  mark  of  consideration,  or  goodness 
 of  heart,  in  a  child,  pass  by,  without  some  token  of  ap- 
 probation. Still  we  must  never  praise  a  child  too  much, 
 nor  too  warmly,  for  that  would  beget  vanity :  and  when 
 praise  is  moderately  yet  judiciously  bestowed,  a  child 
 values  it  more,  because  it  feels  that  it  is  just.  I  don't  like 
 punishments.     You  will  never  torture  a  child  into  duty ; 
 
 R  2 
 
244 
 
 but  a  sensible  child  will  dread  the  frown  of  a  judicious 
 mother,  more  than  all  the  rods,  dark  rooms,  and  scolding 
 school-mistresses  in  the  universe.  We  should  teach  our 
 children  to  make  friends  of  us,  to  communicate  all  their 
 thoughts  to  us ;  and  while  their  innocent  prattle  will 
 amuse  us,  we  shall  find  many  opportunities  of  teaching 
 them  important  truths,  almost  without  knowing  it. 
 
 I  admire  all  your  little  ones,  and  1  hope  to  see  Eliza- 
 beth one  day  an  accomplished  and  sensible  girl.  Give  my 
 love  to  them,  and  tell  them  not  to  forget  their  cousin 
 Henry,  who  wants  a  housekeeper  at  college  ! 
 
 Though  I  have  written  so  long  a  letter,  I  am,  indeed, 
 offended  with  you,  and  I  dare  say  you  know  the  reason 
 very  well. 
 
 P.  S.    Whenever  you  are  disposed  to  write  a  letter, 
 think  of  me. 
 
245 
 
 TO  HIS  SISTER. 
 
 St.  John's,  June  25th,  1806. 
 
 MY    DEAR   SISTER, 
 
 #  #  #  # 
 
 The  intelligence  you  gave  me  of  Mr.  Forest's  illness, 
 &c.  &c.  cannot  affect  me  in  any  way  whatever.  The 
 mastership  of  the  school  must  be  held  by  a  clergyman  ; 
 and  I  very  well  recollect  that  he  is  restrained  from  hold- 
 ing any  curacy,  or  other  ministerial  office.  The  salary  is 
 not  so  large  as  you  mention :  and  if  it  w^ere,  the  place 
 would  scarcely  be  an  object  to  me ;  for  I  am  very  certain, 
 that  if  I  choose,  when  I  have  taken  my  degree,  I  may  have 
 half-a-dozen  pupils  to  prepare  for  the  university,  with  a 
 salary  of  lOOl.  per  annum,  which  would  be  more  respect- 
 able, and  more  consonant  to  my  habits  and  studies,  than 
 drilHng  the  fry  of  a  trading  town,  in  learning  which  they 
 do  not  know  how  to  value.  Latin  and  Greek  are  nothing 
 like  so  much  respected  in  Nottingham  as  Wingate's 
 Arithmetic. 
 
 It  is  well  for  you  that  you  can  still  enjoy  the  privilege 
 of  sitting  under  the  sound  of  the  Gospel ;  and  the  wants 
 of  others,  in  these  respects,  will,  perhaps,  teach  you  how 
 
 R  3 
 
246 
 
 to  value  the  blessing.  All  our  comforts,  and  almost  all 
 our  hopes  here,  lie  at  the  mercy  of  every  succeeding  hour. 
 Death  is  always  at  hand  to  bereave  us  of  some  dear  con- 
 nection, or  to  snatch  us  away  from  those  who  may  need 
 our  counsel  and  protection.  I  do  not  see  how  any  person, 
 capable  of  reflection,  can  live  easily  and  fearlessly  in 
 these  circumstances,  unless  he  have  a  well-grounded  con- 
 fidence in  the  providing  care  of  the  Almighty,  and  a 
 strong  belief  that  his  hand  is  in  every  event,  and  that  it 
 is  a  hand  of  mercy.  Tlie  chances  and  changes  of  mortal 
 life  are  so  many  and  various,  that  a  person  cannot  pos- 
 sibly fortify  himself  against  the  contingencies  of  futurity 
 without  some  such  hold  as  this,  on  which  to  repose  amidst 
 the  contending  gales  of  doubt  and  apprehension.  This 
 I  say  as  affecting  the  present  life :  —  our  views  of  the  fu- 
 ture can  never  be  secure,  they  can  never  be  comfortable 
 or  calm,  without  a  solid  faith  in  the  Redeemer.  Men 
 may  reason  about  the  divine  benevolence,  the  certainty  of 
 a  future  state,  and  the  probable  means  of  propitiating 
 the  Great  Judge,  but  their  speculations  will  only  entangle 
 them  in  the  mazes  of  doubt,  perplexity,  and  alarm,  unless 
 they  found  their  hopes  on  that  basis  which  shall  outstand 
 the  tide  of  ages.  If  we  take  this  away,  the  poor  bark  of 
 mortality  loses  its  only  stay,  and  we  steer  at  random,  we 
 know  not  how,  we  know  not  whither:  the  religion  of 
 Jesus  Christ  is  strength  to  the  weak,  and  wisdom  to  the 
 unwise.  It  requires  no  preparative  of  learning  nor 
 study,  but  is,  if  possible,  more  obvious  and  easy  to  the 
 illiterate  than  to  the  erudite.  No  man,  therefore,  has  any 
 excuse  if  he  neglect  it.     The  way  is  plain  before  him, 
 
247 
 
 and  he  is  invited  to  enter.  He  has  only  to  kneel  at  the 
 foot  of  the  cross,  and  cry,  with  the  poor  publican,  "  Lord 
 have  mercy  upon  me,  a  miserable  sinner."  If  he  do  this, 
 and  examine  his  own  heart,  and  mortify  the  body  of  sin 
 within  him,  as  far  as  he  is  able,  humbly  and  earnestly 
 imploring  the  assistance  of  God's  holy  Spirit,  we  cannot 
 doubt  but  he  will  meet  with  the  approbation  and  assist- 
 ance of  the  Almighty.  In  this  path  we  must  all  tread. 
 In  this  path  I  hope  that  you,  my  dear  sister,  are  now 
 proceeding.  You  have  children  ;  to  whom  can  you  com- 
 mit them,  should  Providence  call  you  hence,  with  more 
 confidence  than  the  meek  and  benevolent  Jesus  ?  What 
 legacy  can  you  leave  them  more  certainly  profitable,  than 
 the  prayers  of  a  pious  mother?  And  if,  taught  by  your 
 example,  as  well  as  by  your  instructions,  they  should  be- 
 come themselves  patterns  of  a  holy  and  religious  life,  how 
 sweetly  will  the  evening  of  your  days  shine  upon  your 
 head,  as  you  behold  them  treading  in  those  ways  which 
 you  know,  by  experience,  to  be  ways  of  pleasantness  and 
 peace  !  I  need  not  press  thi^  subject.  I  know  you  feel 
 all  that  I  say,  and  more  than  I  can  express.  I  only  fear 
 that  the  bustle  of  family  cares,  as  well  as  many  anxieties 
 of  mind  on  other  accounts,  should  too  much  divert  you 
 from  these  important  objects.  Let  me  only  remind  you, 
 that  the  prayers  of  the  afflicted  are  particularly  accept- 
 able to  God.  The  sigh  of  the  penitent  is  not  too  light  to 
 reach  his  ear.  The  eye  of  God  is  fixed  as  intently  upon 
 your  soul  at  all  times,  as  it  is  upon  the  revolution  of  the 
 heavenly  bodies  and  the  regulation  of  systems.  God  sur- 
 veys all  things,  and  he  contemplates  them  with  perfect 
 
 R  4? 
 
248 
 
 attention ;  and,  consequently,  he  is  as  intently  conversant 
 about  the  smallest  as  about  the  greatest  things.  For  if 
 he  were  not  as  perfectly  intent  on  the  soul  of  an  indivi- 
 dual being  as  he  is  about  the  general  concerns  of  the  uni- 
 verse, then  he  would  do  one  thing  less  perfectly  than 
 another :  which  is  impossible  in  God. 
 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 St.  John's,  July  9th,  1806. 
 MY    DEAR    MOTHER, 
 
 I  HAVE  scarcely  time  to  write  you  a  long  letter ;  but 
 the  pleasing  nature  of  my  intelligence  will,  I  hope,  make 
 up  for  its  shortness. 
 
 After  a  week's  examination,  I  am  decided  to  be  the 
 first  man  of  my  year  at  St.  John's :  an  honour  I  had 
 scarcely  hoped  for,  since  my  reading  has  been  so  very 
 broken  and  interrupted.  The  contest  was  very  stiff,  and 
 the  men  all  acquitted  themselves  very  well.  We  had 
 thirteen  men  in  the  Jir%t  class,  though  there  ai'e  seldom 
 more  than  six  or  eight  who  attain  that  rank  in  common. 
 
249 
 
 I  have  learned  also,  that  I  am  a  prize-man  in  classical 
 composition,  though  I  do  not  yet  know  whereabouts  I 
 stand.     It  is  reported  that  here  too  I  am  first. 
 
 Before  it  was  known  that  I  was  the  first  man,  Mr.  Cat- 
 ton,  our  college  tutor,  told  me  that  he  was  so  satisfied 
 with  the  manner  in  which  I  had  passed  through  the  ex- 
 amination, that  if  I  chose  to  stay  up  during  the  summer,  I 
 should  have  a  private  tutor  in  the  mathematics,  and  that 
 it  should  be  no  expense  to  me.  I  could  not  hesitate  at 
 such  a  proposal,  especially  as  he  did  not  limit  the  time 
 for  my  keeping  the  private  tutor,  but  will  probably  con- 
 tinue it  as  long  as  I  like.  You  may  estimate  the  value  of 
 this  favor,  when  I  tell  you  that  a  private  tutor,  for  the 
 whole  vacation,  will  cost  the  college  at  least  twelve  or  four- 
 teen guineas,  and  that  during  term  time  they  receive  ten 
 guineas  the  term. 
 
 I  cannot  of  course  leave  the  college  this  summer  even 
 for  a  week,  and  shall  therefore  miss  the  pleasure  of  see- 
 ing my  aunt  G at  Nottingham.     I  have  written  to 
 
 her. 
 
 It  gave  me  much  pleasure  to  observe  the  joy  all  the 
 men  seemed  to  feel  at  my  success.  I  had  been  on  a 
 water  excursion,  with  a  clergyman  in  the  neighbourhood, 
 and  some  ladies,  and  just  got  home  as  the  men  were  as- 
 sembling for  supper;  you  can  hardly  conceive  with  what 
 pleasure  they  all  flocked  round  me,   with  the  most  hearty 
 
250 
 
 congratulations,  and  I  found  that  many  of  them  had  been 
 seeking  me  all  over  the  college,  in  order  to  be  the  first  to 
 communicate  the  good  tidings. 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's,  July,  1806. 
 MY    DEAR    FRIEND, 
 
 I  HAVE  good  and  very  bad  news  to  communicate  to 
 you.  Good,  that  Mr.  Catton  has  given  me  an  exhibi- 
 tion, which  makes  me  up  a  clear  income  of  ^63  per  an- 
 num, and  that  I  am  consequently  more  than  independ- 
 ent; bad,  that  I  have  been  very  ill,  notwithstanding 
 regular  and  steady  exercise.  Last  Saturday  morning  I 
 rose  early,  and  got  up  some  rather  abstruse  problems  in 
 mechanics  for  my  tutor,  spent  an  hour  with  him,  be- 
 tween eight  and  nine  got  my  breakfast,  and  read  the  Greek 
 History  (at  breakfast)  till  ten,  then  sat  down  to  decypher 
 some  logarithm  tables.  I  think  I  had  not  done  any  thing 
 at  them,  when  I  lost  myself.  At  a  quarter  past  eleven 
 my  laundress  found  me  bleeding  in  four  different  places 
 in  my  face  and  head,  and  insensible.  I  got  up,  and  stag- 
 gered about  the  room,  and  she,  being  frightened,  ran 
 away,  and  told  my  Gyp  to  fetch  a  surgeon.     Before  he 
 
251 
 
 came,  I  was  sallying  out  with  my  flannel  gown  on,  and  my 
 academical  gown  over  it :  he  made  me  put  on  my  coat, 
 and  then  I  went  to  Mr.  Parish's :  he  opened  a  vein,  and 
 my  recollection  returned.  My  own  idea  was,  that  I  had 
 fallen  out  of  bed,  and  so  I  told  Mr.  Farish  at  first ;  but  I 
 afterwards  remembered  that  I  had  been  to  Mr.  Fiske,  and 
 breakfasted. 
 
 Mr.  Catton  has  insisted  on  my  consulting  Sir  Isaac  Pen- 
 nington, and  the  consequence  is,  that  I  am  to  go  through 
 a  course  of  blistering,  &c.  which,  after  the  bleeding,  will 
 leave  me  weak  enough. 
 
 I  am,  however,  very  well,  except  as  regards  the  doc- 
 tors ;  and  yesterday  I  drove  into  the  country  to  Saffron 
 Walden  in  a  gig.  My  tongue  is  in  a  bad  condition,  from 
 a  bite  which  I  gave  it  either  in  my  fall,  or  in  the  mo- 
 ments of  convulsion.  My  nose  has  also  come  badly  off.  I 
 believe  I  fell  against  my  reading  desk.  My  other  wounds 
 are  only  rubs  and  scratches  on  the  carpet. 
 
 I  am  ordered  to  remit  my  studies  for  a  while,  by  the 
 common  advice  both  of  doctors  and  tutors.  Dr.  Penning- 
 ton hopes  to  prevent  any  recurrence  of  the  fit.  He  thinks 
 it  looks  towards  epilepsy,  of  the  horrors  of  which  malady 
 I  have  a  very  full  and  precise  idea  ;  and  I  only  pray  that 
 God  will  spare  me  as  respects  my  faculties,  however  else 
 it  may  seem  good  to  him  to  afflict  me.  Were  I  my  own 
 master,  I  know  how  I  should  act ;  but  I  am  tied  here  by- 
 bands  which  I  cannot  burst.      I  know  that  change  of  place 
 
252 
 
 is  needful ;  but  I  must  not  indulge  in  the  idea.  The  col- 
 lege must  not  pay  my  tutor  for  nothing.  Dr.  Pennington 
 and  Mr.  Farish  attribute  the  attack  to  a  too  continued 
 tension  of  the  faculties.  As  I  am  much  alone  now,  I 
 never  get  quite  off  study,  and  I  think  incessantly.  I  know- 
 nature  will  not  endure  this.  They  both  proposed  my  going 
 home,  but  Mr.  *  *  did  not  hint  at  it,  although  much  con- 
 cerned ;  and,  indeed,  I  know  home  would  be  a  bad  place 
 for  me  in  my  present  situation.  I  look  round  for  a  resting 
 place,  and  I  find  none.  Yet  there  is  one,  which  I  have 
 long  tgp,  too  much  disregarded,  and  thither  I  must  now 
 betake  myself.  There  are  many  situations  worse  than 
 mine,  and  I  have  no  business  to  complain.  If  these  af- 
 flictions should  draw  the  bonds  tighter  which  hold  me  to 
 my  Redeemer,  it  will  be  well. 
 
 You  may  be  assured  that  you  have  here  a  plain  state- 
 ment of  my  case,  in  its  true  colours,  without  any  pallia- 
 tion. I  am  now  well  again,  and  have  only  to  fear  a 
 relapse,  which  I  shall  do  all  I  can  to  prevent,  by  a-  relax- 
 ation in  study. 
 
 I  have  now  written  too  much. 
 
 I  am,  very  sincerely,  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE, 
 
 P.  S.  1  charge  you,  as  you  value  my  peace,  not  to  let 
 my  friends  hear,  either  directly  or  indirectly,  of  my  ill- 
 ness. 
 
253 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  30th  July,  1806. 
 MY   DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  HAD  deferred  sitting  down  to  write  to  you  until  I 
 should  have  leisure  to  send  you  a  very  long  letter ;  but  as 
 that  time  seems  every  day  farther  off,  I  shall  beg  your 
 patience  no  longer,  but  fill  my  sheet  as  well  as  I  can. 
 
 I  must  first  reply  to  your  queries.  I  beg  pardon  for 
 having  omitted  to  mention  the  receipt  of  the  *  *  *, 
 but,  as  I  acknowledged  the  receipt  of  the  parcel,  I  con- 
 cluded that  you  would  understand  me  to  mean  its  con- 
 tents as  specified  in  your  letter.  But  I  know  the  accu- 
 racy of  a  man  of  business  too  well  to  think  your  caution 
 strange.  As  to  the  college  prizes,  I  have  the  satisfaction 
 of  telling  you  that  I  am  entitled  to  two,  viz.  the  first  for 
 the  general  examination,  and  one  of  the  first  for  the  clas- 
 sical composition.  I  say  one  of  the  first  on  this  account  — 
 I  am  put  equal  with  two  others  at  the  top  of  the  list.  In 
 this  contest  I  had  all  the  men  of  the  three  years  to  con- 
 tend with,  and,  as  both  my  equals  are  my  seniors  in  stand- 
 ing, I  have  no  reason  to  be  dissatisfied. 
 
 The  Rhetoric  Lecturer  sent  me  one  of  my  Latin  Essays 
 to  copy,  for  the  purpose  of  inspection ;  a  compliment 
 which  was  paid  to  none  of  the  rest. 
 
254 
 
 *  *  * 
 
 We  three  are  the  only  men  who  are  honoured  with 
 prizes,  so  that  we  have  cut  four  or  five  Eton  men,  who  are 
 always  boasting  of  their  classical  ability. 
 
 With  regard  to  your  visit  here,  I  think  you  had  better 
 come  in  term  time,  as  the  university  is  quite  empty,  and 
 starers  have  nothing  but  the  buildings  to  gaze  at.  If, 
 however,  you  can  come  more  conveniently  now  than 
 hereafter,  I  would  advise  you  not  to  let  this  circum- 
 stance prevent  you.  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  Mr.  *  *  with 
 you.  You  may  spend  a  few  days  very  pleasantly  here, 
 even  in  vacation  time,  though  you  will  scarcely  meet  a 
 gownsman  in  the  streets. 
 
 I  thought  the  matter  over  about  *  *  *  *,  but  I  do  not 
 think  I  have  any  influence  here.  Being  myself  a  young 
 man,  I  cannot,  with  any  chance  of  success,  attempt  to 
 direct  even  that  interest  which  I  may  claim  with  others. 
 
 The  university  is  the  worst  place  in  the  world  for  making 
 interest.  The  great  mass  of  men  are  themselves  busily 
 employed  in  wriggling  themselves  into  places  and  livings  : 
 and  there  is,  in  general,  too  much  anxiety  for  No.  1.  to 
 permit  any  interference  for  a  neighbour.  No.  2. 
 
255 
 TO  HIS  MOTHER. 
 
 St,  John's,  Aug.  1806. 
 MY    DEAR   MOTHER, 
 
 I  HAVE  no  hesitation  in  declining  the  free-school,  on 
 the  ground  of  its  precluding  the  exercise  of  the  ministe- 
 rial duties.     I  shall  take  the  liberty  of  writing  Mr. 
 
 to  thank  him  for  having  thought  of  me,  and  to  recom- 
 mend to  his  notice  Mr. . 
 
 But  do  not  fret  yourself,  my  dear  mother;  in  a  few 
 years  we  shall,  I  hope,  be  in  happier  circumstances,  I 
 am  not  too  sanguine  in  my  expectations,  but  I  shall  cer- 
 tainly be  able  to  assist  you,  and  my  sisters,  in  a  few  years. 
 *  *  *  *.  As  for  Maria  and  Kate,  if  they  succeed  well 
 in  their  education,  they  may,  perhaps,  be  able  to  keep 
 a  school  of  a  superior  kind,  where  the  profits  will  be 
 greater,  and  the  labour  less.  I  even  hope  that  this  may 
 not  be  necessary,  and  that  you,  my  father  and  they,  may 
 come  and  live  with  me  when  I  get  a  parsonage.      You 
 
 would  be  pleased  to  see  how  comfortably  Mr. lives 
 
 with  his  mother  and  sisters,  at  a  snug  little  rectory 
 about  ten  miles  from  Cambridge.  So  much  for  castle- 
 building. 
 
256 
 
 TO  MR.  *  *  *. 
 
 St.  John's,  Aug.  15.  180G. 
 MY    GOOD    FRIEND, 
 
 I   HAVE  deferred  writing  to  you  until  my  return  from 
 
 Mr. 's,  knowing  how  much  you  would  like  to  hear 
 
 from  me  in  respect  to  that  dear  family.  I  am  afraid 
 your  patience  has  been  tried  by  this  delay,  and  I  trust  to 
 this  circumstance  alone  as  my  excuse. 
 
 My  hours    have   seldom  flowed    so   agreeably  as   they 
 
 did   at    S ,    nor  perhaps   have   I   made   many  visits 
 
 which  have    been   more  profitable   to  me  in  a    religious 
 
 sense.     The  example  of  Mr. will,  I  hope,  stimulate 
 
 me  to  a  faithful  preparation  for  the  sacred  office  to  which 
 I  am  destined.  I  say  ajaitliful  preparation,  because  I 
 fear  I  am  apt  to  deceive  mj^self  with  respect  to  my  pre- 
 sent pursuits,  and  to  think  I  am  only  labouring  for  the 
 honour  of  God,  when  I  am  urging  literary  labours  to  a 
 degree  inconsistent  with  duty  and  my  real  interests.     Mr. 
 
 is  a  good  and  careful  pastor ;  my  heart  has  seldom 
 
 been  so  full  as  when  I  have  accompanied  him  to  the 
 chambers  of  the  sick,  or  have  heard  his  affectionate  ad- 
 dresses to  the  attentive  crowd,  which  fills  his  school-room 
 on  Sunday  evening.  —  He  is  so  earnest,  and  yet  so  sober, 
 
 so  wise,  and  yet  so  simple !     You,  my  dear  R ,  are 
 
 now  very  nearly  approaching  to  the  sacred  office,  and  1 
 
 17 
 
257 
 
 sincerely  pray  that  you  may  be  stimulated  to  follow  alter 
 the  pattern  of  our  excellent  li'iend.  You  may  have  Mr. 
 's  zeal,  but  you  will  need  his  learning  and  his  judg- 
 ment to  temper  it.  Remember,  that  it  is  a  work  of 
 much  more  self-denial,  for  a  man  of  active  habits  to  sub- 
 mit to  a  course  of  patient  study,  than  to  suffer  many 
 privations  for  Christ's  sake.  In  the  latter  the  heart  is 
 warmly  interested :  the  other  is  the  slow  and  unsatisfac- 
 tory labour  of  the  head,  tedious  in  its  progress,  and  uncer- 
 tain in  its  produce.  Yet  there  is  a  pleasure,  great  and 
 indescribable  pleasure,  in  sanctified  study  :  the  more  weari- 
 some the  toil,  the  sweeter  will  it  be  to  those  who  sit  down 
 with  a  subdued  and  patient  spirit,  content  to  undergo 
 much  tedium  and  fatigue,  for  the  honour  of  God's  minis- 
 try. Reading,  however  dry,  soon  becomes  interesting,  if 
 we  pursue  it  with  a  resolute  spirit  of  investigation,  and 
 a  determinate  purpose  of  thoroughly  mastering  what  we 
 are  about.  You  cannot  take  up  the  most  tiresome  book, 
 on  the  most  tiresome  subject,  and  read  it  with  fixed  at- 
 tention for  an  hour,  but  you  feel  a  desire  to  go  on :  and 
 here  I  would  exhort  you,  whatever  you  read,  read  it  ac- 
 curately and  thoroughly,  and  never  to  pass  over  any 
 thing,  however  minute,  which  you  do  not  quite  compre- 
 hend. This  is  the  only  way  to  become  really  learned, 
 and  to  make  your  studies  satisfactory  and  productive.  If 
 I  were  capable  of  directing  your  course  of  reading,  I 
 should  recommend  you  to  peruse  Butler's  Analogy, 
 Warburton's  Divine  Legation,  Prideaux  and  Shuckford's 
 Connections,  and  Milner's  Church  History,  century  for 
 century,    along    with    Mosheim's    Ecclesiastical    History. 
 
 VOL.  I.  s 
 
258 
 
 The  latter  is  learned,  concise,  clear,  and  written  in  good 
 scholastic  Latin.  Study  the  Chronology  of  the  Old  Tes- 
 tament, and  as  a  mean  of  making  it  interesting,  trace 
 out  the  completion  of  the  prophecies.  Read  your  Greek 
 Testament  with  the  nicest  accuracy,  tracing  every  word 
 to  its  root,  and  seeking  out  the  full  force  of  particular 
 expressions,  by  reference  both  to  Parkhurst  and  Scapula, 
 The  derivation  of  words  will  throw  great  light  on  many 
 parts  of  the  New  Testament :  thus,  if  we  know  that  the 
 word  lidKovoc,  a  deacon,  comes  from  dice  and  xovio,  to 
 bustle  about  in  the  dust,  we  shall  have  a  fuller  notion 
 of  the  humility  of  those  who  held  the  office  in  the  primi- 
 tive church.  In  reading  the  Old  Testament,  wherever 
 you  find  a  passage  obscure,  turn  to  the  Septuagint,  which 
 will  often  clear  up  a  place,  better  than  fifty  commenta- 
 tors. Thus,  in  Joel,  the  day  of  the  Lord  is  called  "  a  day 
 of  gloominess,  a  day  of  darkness,  and  of  clouds,  like  the 
 morning  sp^ead  upon  the  mountains"  which  is  a  con- 
 tradiction. Looking  at  the  Septuagint,  we  find  that  the 
 passage  is  mispointed,  and  that  the  latter  metaphor  is 
 applied  to  the  'people  :  "  A  people  great  and  strong,  like 
 the  morning  spread  vipon  the  mountains."  The  Septua- 
 gint is  very  easy  Greek,  quite  as  much  so  as  the  Greek 
 Testament;  and  a  little  practice  of  this  kind  will  help 
 you  in  your  knowledge  of  the  language,  and  make  you 
 a  good  critic.  I  perceive  your  English  style  is  very  un- 
 polished, and  I  think  this  a  matter  of  great  moment.  I 
 should  recommend  you  to  read,  and  imitate  as  nearly  as 
 you  can,  the  serious  papers  in  the  eighth  volume  of  the 
 Spectator,  particularly  those  on  the  Ubiquity  of  the  Deity, 
 
 14 
 
259 
 
 Accustom  yourself  to  write  down  your  thoughts,  and  to 
 polish  the  style  some  time  after  composition,  when  you 
 have  forgotten  the  expression.  Aim  at  conciseness,  neat- 
 ness, and  clearness ;  never  make  use  of  Jine  or  vulgar 
 words.  Avoid  every  epithet  which  does  not  add  greatly 
 to  the  idea,  for  every  addition  of  this  kind,  if  it  do  not 
 strengthen,  weakens  the  sentiment ;  and  be  cautious  never 
 to  express  by  two  words,  what  you  can  do  as  well  by  one  ? 
 a  multiplicity  of  words  only  hides  the  sense,  just  as  a 
 superabundance  of  clothes  does  the  shape.  Thus  much 
 for  studies. 
 
 I  recommend  you  to  pause,  and  consider  much  and 
 well  on  the  subject  of  matrimony.  You  have  heard  my 
 sentiments  with  regard  to  a  rich  wife;  but  I  am  much 
 too  young,  and  too  great  an  enthusiast,  to  be  even  a  to- 
 lerable counsellor  'on  a  point  like  this.  You  must  think 
 for  yourself,  and  consult  with  prudent  and  pious  people, 
 whose  years  have  taught  them  the  wisdom  of  the  present 
 world,  and  whose  experience  has  instructed  them  in  that 
 of  the  world  to  come.  But  a  little  sober  thought  is  worth 
 a  world  of  advice;  You  have,  however,  an  infallible  ad- 
 viser, and  to  his  directions  you  may  safely  look.  To  him 
 I  commend  all  your  ways. 
 
 I  have  one  observation  to  make,  which  I  hope  you  will 
 forgive  in  me ;  it  is,  that  you  fall  in  love  too  readily.  I 
 have   no   notion   of  a  man's   having  a   certain   species   of 
 
 s   2 
 
260 
 
 affection  for  two  women  at  once.  I  am  afraid  you  let 
 your  admiration  outrun  your  judgment  in  the  outset,  and 
 then  comes  the  denouement  and  its  attendant,  disappoint- 
 ment and  disgust.  Take  good  heed  you  do  not  do  this  in 
 marriage ;  for  if  you  do,  there  will  be  great  risk  of  your 
 making  shipwreck  of  your  hopes.  Be  content  to  learn  a 
 woman's  good  qualities  as  they  gradually  reveal  them- 
 selves ;  and  do  not  let  your  imagination  adorn  her  with 
 virtues  and  charms  to  which  she  has  no  pretension.  I  think 
 there  is  often  a  little  disappointment  after  marriage  —  our 
 angels  turn  out  to  be  mere  Eves  —  but  the  true  way  of 
 avoiding,  or,  at  least,  lessening  this  inconvenience,  is  to 
 estimate  the  object  of  our  affections  really  as  she  is,  with- 
 out deceiving  ourselves,  and  injuring  her,  by  elevating  her 
 above  her  sphere.  This  is  the  way  to  be  happy  in  mar- 
 riage ;  for  upon  this  plan  our  partners  will  be  continually 
 breaking  in  upon  us,  and  delighting  us  with  some  new 
 discovery  of  excellence ;  while,  upon  the  other  plan,  we 
 shall  always  be  finding  that  the  reality  falls  short  of  what 
 we  had  so  fondly  and  so  foolishly  imagined. 
 
 Be  very  sedulous  and  very  patient  in  your  studies.  You 
 would  shudder  at  the  idea  of  obtruding  yourself  on  the 
 sacred  office  in  a  condition  rather  to  disgrace  than  to 
 adorn  it.  St.  Paul  is  earnest  in  admonishing  Timothy  to 
 give  attention  to  reading:  and  that  holy  apostle  himself 
 quotes  from  several  of  the  best  authors  among  the 
 Greeks.  His  style  is  also  very  elegant,  and  polished  on 
 occasion.  He,  therefore,  did  not  think  the  graces  of 
 composition  beneath  his  attention,    as    some  foolish   and 
 
261 
 
 ignorant  preachers  of  the  present  day  are  apt  to  do.  I 
 have  written  a  longer  letter  to  you  than  I  expected,  and  I 
 must  now  therefore  say,  good  bye. 
 
 I  am 
 Very  affectionately  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  August  1 2,  1 806. 
 DEAR  NEVILLE, 
 
 I  CAN  but  just  manage  to  tell  you,  by  this  post,  what  I 
 am  sure  you  will  be  glad  to  learn,  even  at  the  expense  of 
 seven-pence  for  an  empty  sheet,  that  Mr.  Catton  has  given 
 me  an  exhibition,  which  makes  my  whole  income  sixty 
 guineas  a  year.  My  last  term's  bill  was  13l.  1 3s.,  and  I 
 had  71.  12s,  to  receive;  but  the  expenses  of  this  vacation 
 will  leave  me  bare  until  Christmas. 
 
 I  have  the  pleasure  of  not  having  solicited  either  this  or 
 any  other  of  the  favours  which  Mr.  Catton  has  so  liberally 
 bestowed  upon  me :  and  though  I  have  been  the  possessor 
 of  this  exhibition  ever  since  March  last,  yet  Mr.  Catton  did 
 not  hint  it  to  me  until  this  morning,  when  he  gave  me  my 
 bill. 
 
 s  3 
 
262 
 
 1  have,  of  course,  signified  to  Mr.  Simeon,  that  I  shall 
 have  no  need  vi^hatever  of  the  stipend  which  I  have  hitherto 
 received  through  his  hands.  He  was  extremely  kind  on 
 the  occasion,  and  indeed  his  conduct  towards  me  has  ever 
 heQnfatherlij,  It  was  Mr.  *  *  *  who  allowed  me  20l.  per 
 annum,  and  Mr.  Simeon  added  lOl.  He  told  me,  that  my 
 conduct  gave  him  the  most  heartfelt  joy  ;  that  I  was  so 
 generally  respected,  without  having  made  any  compliances, 
 as  he  understood,  or  having,  in  any  instance,  concealed  my 
 principles.  Indeed,  this  is  a  praise  which  I  may  claim, 
 though  I  never  conceived  that  it  was  at  all  an  object  of 
 praise.  I  have  always  taken  some  pains  to  let  those  around 
 me  know  my  religious  sentiments,  as  a  saving  of  trouble^ 
 and  as  a  mark  of  that  independence  of  opinion,  which,  I 
 think,  every  one  ought  to  assert :  and  as  I  have  produced 
 my  opinions  with  frankness  and  modesty,  and  supported 
 them  (if  attacked)  with  coolness  and  candour,  I  have  never 
 found  them  any  impediment  to  my  acquaintance  with  any 
 person  whose  acquaintance  I  coveted. 
 
263 
 
 TO  MR.  R.  W.  A. 
 
 St.  John's,  Aug.  18th,  1806. 
 DEAR   A. 
 
 I  AM  glad  to  hear  of  your  voyages  and  travels  through 
 various  regions,  and  various  seas ,  both  of  this  island,  and 
 its  little  suckling  the  Isle  of  Wight. 
 
 Many  hair's  breadth  'scapes  and  perilous  adventures 
 you  must  needs  have  had,  and  many  a  time,  on  the  ex- 
 treme shores  of  the  south,  must  you  have  looked  up  with 
 the.  eye  of  intelligent  curiosity,  to  see  whether  the  same 
 moon  shone  there  as  in  the  pleasant,  but  now  far  distant 
 groves  of  Colwick.  And  now,  my  very  wise  and  tra- 
 velled friend,  seeing  that  your  head  is  yet  upon  your 
 shoulders,  and  your  neck  in  its  right  natural  position, 
 and  seeing  that,  after  all  the  changes  and  chances  of  a 
 long  journey,  and  after  being  banged  from  post  to  pillar, 
 and  from  pillar  to  post;  seeing,  I  say,  that  after  all  this, 
 you  are  safely  housed  once  more  under  your  paternal 
 roof,  what  think  you,  if  you  were  to  indulge  your  mind 
 as  much  as  you  have  done  your  eyes  and  gaping  muscles  ? 
 A  few  trips  to  the  fountains  of  light  and  colour,  or  to  the 
 regions  of  the  good  lady  who  x^go'tv  aSaXo*^  S/=7re<  a(poppov 
 -KQVToy,  a  ramble  down  the  Galaxy,  and  a  few  peeps  on 
 the  uncoTifined  confines  [ttotij^ov  olttotij.ov,  vttvov  uuttvov,  piov 
 H    /SiwTovaX)   of  infinite    space,    would   prove,   perhaps,  as 
 
 s  4 
 
264 
 
 delectable  to  your  immaterial  part,  as  the  delicious  see- 
 saw of  a  post-chaise  was  to  your  corporeal ;  or,  if  these 
 aetherial,  aeronautical,  mathematical  volutations  should 
 displease  you,  perhaps  it  would  not  be  amiss  to  saunter  a 
 few  weeks  on  the  site  of  Troy,  or  to  lay  out  plans  of  an- 
 cient history  on  the  debatable  ground  of  the  Peloponne- 
 sians  and  Athenians.  There  is  one  Thucydides,  who  lives 
 near,  who  will  tell  you  all  about  the  places  you  visit,  and 
 the  great  events  connected  with  them  :  he  is  a  sententious 
 old  fellow,  very  shrewd  in  his  remarks,  and  speaks, 
 moreover,  very  excellent  Greek  at  your  service.  I  know 
 not  whether  you  have  met  with  any  guide  in  the  course 
 of  your  bodily  travels  who  can  be  compared  to  him.  If 
 you  should  make  Rome  in  your  way,  either  there  or 
 back,  I  should  like  to  give  you  a  letter  of  introduction  to 
 an  old  friend  of  mine,  whose  name  is  Livy,  who,  as  far 
 as  his  memory  extends,  will  amuse  you  with  pretty 
 stories,  and  some  true  history.  There  is  another  honest 
 fellow  enough,  to  whom  I  dare  not  recommend  you,  he 
 is  so  very  crabbed  and  tart,  and  speaks  so  much  in  epi- 
 grams and  enigmas,  that  I  am  afraid  he  would  teach  you 
 to  talk  as  unintelligibly  as  himself.  I  do  not  mean  to 
 give  you  any  more  advice^  but  I  have  one  exhortation, 
 which  I  hope  you  will  take  in  good  part ;  it  is  this,  that  if 
 you  set  out  on  this  journey,  you  would  please  to  proceed 
 to  its  end :  for  I  have  been  acquainted  with  some  young 
 men,  who  have  turned  their  faces  towards  Athens  or 
 Rome,  and  trudged  on  manfully  for  a  few  miles,  but 
 when  they  had  travelled  till  they  grew  weary,  and  worn 
 out   a   good   pair  of  shoes,   have  suddenly   become   dis- 
 
265 
 
 heartened,  and  returned  without  any  reconipence  for  their 
 pains. 
 
 And  now  let  me  assume  a  more  serious  strain,  and  ex- 
 hort you  to  cultivate  your  mind  with  the  utmost  assiduity. 
 You  are  at  a  critical  period  of  your  life,  and  the  habits 
 which  you  now  form  will,  most  probably,  adhere  to  you 
 through  life.     If  they  be  idle  habits,  I  am  sure  they  will. 
 
 But  even  the  cultivation  of  your  mind  is  of  minor  im- 
 portance to  that  of  your  heart,  your  temper,  and  disposi- 
 tion. Here  I  have  need  not  to  preach  but  to  learn.  You 
 have  had  less  to  encounter  in  your  religious  progress  than 
 /  have,  and  your  progress  has  been  therefore  greater, 
 greater  even  than  your  superior  faculties  would  have  war- 
 ranted. I  have  had  to  fight  hard  with  vanity  at  home, 
 and  applause  abroad :  no  wonder  that  my  vessel  has  been 
 tossed  about ;  but  greater  wonder  that  it  is  yet  upon  the 
 waves.  I  exhort  you  to  pray  with  me,  (and  I  entreat  you 
 to  prayer  me,)  that  we  may  both  weather  out  the  storm, 
 and  arrive  in  the  haven  of  sound  tranquillity,  even  on  this 
 side  the  grave. 
 
 We  have  all  particular  reason  to  watch  and  pray,  lest 
 self  too  much  predominate.  We  should  accustom  our- 
 selves to  hold  our  own  comforts  and  conveniencies  as  sub- 
 ordinate to  the  comforts  and  conveniencies  of  others  in  all 
 things  :  and  a  habit  thus  begun  in  little  matters,  might 
 probably  be  extended  without  difficulty  to  those  of  a 
 higher  nature. 
 
266 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  HADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's,  14th  Sept.  1806^. 
 MY  DEAR  BEN, 
 
 I  CAN  scarcely  write  more  to  you  now  than  just  to  calm 
 your  uneasiness  on  my  account.  I  am  perfectly  well  again, 
 and  have  experienced  no  recurrence  of  the  fit :  my  spirits 
 too  are  better,  and  I  read  very  moderately.  I  hope  that 
 God  will  be  pleased  to  spare  his  rebellious  child;  this 
 stroke  has  brought  me  nearer  to  Him :  whom  indeed  have 
 I  for  my  comforter  but  Him  ? 
 
 I  am  still  reading,  but  with  moderation,  as  I  have  been 
 during  the  whole  vacation,  whatever  you  may  persist  in 
 thinking. 
 
 My  heart  turns  with  more  fondness  towards  the  consol- 
 ations of  religion  than  it  did,  and  in  some  degree  I  have 
 found  consolation.  I  still,  however,  conceive  that  it  is  my 
 duty  to  pursue  my  studies  temperately,  and  to  fortify  my- 
 self with  Christian  resignation  and  calmness  for  the  worst, 
 I  am  much  wanting  in  these  virtues,  and,  indeed,  in  all 
 Christian  virtues ;  but  I  know  how  desirable  they  are,  and 
 I  long  for  them.  Pray  that  I  may  be  strengthened  and 
 enlightened,  and  that  I  may  be  enabled  to  go  where  duty 
 bids,  wherever  that  be. 
 
267 
 
 TO  MR.  B.  MADDOCK. 
 
 St.  John's,  Cambridge,  22d  Sept.  1806. 
 
 MY    DEAR    FRIEND 
 
 *  *  *  * 
 
 You  charge  me  with  an  accession  of  gallantry  of  late  ; 
 I  plead  guilty.  I  really  began  to  think  of  marriage  (very 
 prematurely,  you'll  say) ;  but  if  I  experience  any  repeti- 
 tion oithejit^  I  shall  drop  the  idea  of  it  for  ever.  It  would 
 be  folly  and  cruelty  to  involve  another  in  all  the  horrors  of 
 such  a  calamity. 
 
 I  thank  you  for  your  kind  exhortations  to  a  complete 
 surrender  of  my  heart  to  God,  which  are  contained  in 
 your  letter.  In  this  respect  I  have  betrayed  the  most  de- 
 plorable weakness  and  indecision  of  character.  I  know 
 what  the  truth  is,  and  I  love  it ;  but  I  still  go  on  giving 
 myself  half  to  God,  and  half  to  the  world,  as  if  I  expected 
 to  enjoy  the  comforts  of  religion  along  with  the  vanities  of 
 life.  If,  for  a  short  time,  I  keep  up  a  closer  communion 
 with  God,  and  feel  my  whole  bosom  bursting  with  sor- 
 row and  tenderness  as  I  approach  the  footstool  of  my 
 Saviour,  I  soon  relapse  into  indifference,  worldly-mind- 
 edness,  and  sin;  my  devotions  become  listless  and  per- 
 functory :  I  dote  on  the  world,  its  toys,  and  its  corrup- 
 
268 
 
 tions,  and  am  mad  enough  to  be  willing  to  sacrifice  the 
 happiness   of  eternity   to   the  deceitful   pleasures   of  the 
 passing   moment.     My  heart  is  indeed  a  lamentable  sink 
 of  loathsome  corruption  and  hypocrisy.     In  consistency 
 with  my  professed  opinions,  I  am  often  obliged  to  talk  on 
 subjects  of  which  I  know  but  litde  in  experience,  and  to 
 rank  myself  with  those  who  have  felt,  what  I  only  ap- 
 prove from  my  head,  and,  perhaps,  esteem  from  my  heart. 
 I  often  start  with  horror  and  disgust  from  m3^self,  when  I 
 consider  how  deeply  I  have  imperceptibly  gone  into  this 
 species  of  simulation.     Yet  I  think  my  love  for  the  Gos- 
 pel,  and  its  professors,  is  sincere ;  only  I  am  insincere  in 
 suffering  persons  to  entertain  an  high  opinion  of  me  as  a 
 child  of  God,  when  indeed  I  am  an  alien  from  him.     On 
 looking   over    some   private   memorandums,    which   were 
 written  at  various    times   in   the   course  of  the  two  last 
 years,  I  beheld,  with  inexpressible  anguish,  that  my  pro- 
 gress has,   if  any  thing,   been  retrograde.     I  am  still  as 
 dark,  still  as  cold,   still  as  ignorant,  still  as  fond  of  the 
 world,  and  have  still  fewer   desires  after  holiness.     I  am 
 very,    very  dissatisfied  with    myself,    and   yet   I    am  not 
 prompted  to  earnest  prayer.     I  have  been  so  often  ear- 
 nest, and  always  have  fallen  away,  that  I  go  to  God  with- 
 out hope,  without   faith.      Yet  I  am  not  totally  without 
 hope;  I   know  God  will   have  my  whole   heart,    and   I 
 know,  when  I  give  him  that^  I  shall  experience  the  Hght 
 of  his   countenance  with  a  permanency.     I  pray  that  he 
 would  assist  my  weakness,  and  grant  me  some  portion  of 
 his  grace,  in  order  that  I  may  overcome  the  world,  the 
 flesh,  and  the  devil,  to  which  I  have  long,  very  long,  beeii 
 
269 
 
 a  willing,  though  an  unhappy  slave.  Do  you  pray  earnest- 
 ly with  me,  and  for  me,  in  these  respects ;  I  know  the 
 prayers  of  the  faithful  avail  much ;  and  when  you  consi- 
 der with  what  great  temptations  I  am  surrounded,  and 
 how  very  little  strength  I  have  wherewith  to  resist  them, 
 you  will  feel  with  me  the  necessity  of  earnest  supplication, 
 and  fervent  intercession,  lest  I  should  be  lost,  and  cast 
 away  for  ever. 
 
 1  shall  gladly  receive  your  spiritual  advice  and  direc- 
 tions. I  have  ffone  on  too  lonij  in  coldness  and  uncon- 
 cern ;  who  knows  whether,  if  I  neglect  the  present  hour, 
 the  day  of  salvation  may  not  be  gone  by  for  ever  !  ! 
 
 TO  MR.  JOHN  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 St.  John's,  22d  Sept.  1806. 
 MY  DEAR  CHARLESWORTH, 
 
 Thank  you  for  taking  the  blame  of  our  neglected  cor- 
 respondence on  your  own  shoulders.  I  thought  it  rested 
 elsewhere.  Thrice  have  I  begun  to  write  to  you ;  once  in 
 Latin,  and  twice  in  English ;  and  each  time  have  the  fates 
 opposed  themselves  to  the  completion  of  my  design.  But, 
 however,  pax  sit  rebus,  we  are  naturally  disposed   to  for- 
 
270 
 
 give,    because  we  are,    as  far  as  intention  goes,    mutual 
 offenders. 
 
 I  thank  you  for  your  invitation  to  Clapham,  which 
 came  at  a  fortunate  juncture,  since  I  had  just  settled  with 
 my  tutor  that  I  should  pay  a  visit  to  my  brother  in  Lon- 
 don this  week.  I  shall  of  course  see  you ;  and  shall  be 
 happy  to  spend  a  few  days  with  you  at  Clapham  and  to 
 rhapsodize  on  your  common.  It  gives  me  pleasure  to 
 hear  you  are  settled,  and  I  give  you  many  hearty  good 
 wishes  for  practice  and  prosperity.  I  hope  you  will  soon 
 find  that  a  wife  is  a  very  necessary  article  of  enjoyment  in 
 a  domesticated  state ;  for  how  indeed  should  it  be  other- 
 wise ?  A  man  cannot  cook  his  dinner  while  he  is  em- 
 ployed in  earning  it.  Housekeepers  are  complete  hel- 
 luones  rei  familiaris,  and  not  only  pick  your  pockets,  but 
 abuse  you  into  the  bargain.  While  a  wife,  on  the  con- 
 trary, both  cooks  your  dinner,  and  enlivens  it  with  her 
 society;  receives  you  after  the  toils  of  the  day  with 
 cheerfulness  and  smiles,  and  is  not  only  the  faithful 
 guardian  of  your  treasury,  but  the  soother  of  your  cares, 
 and  the  alleviator  of  your  calamities.  Now,  am  I  not 
 very  poetical  ?  But  on  such  a  subject  who  woidd  not  be 
 poetical  ?  A  wife  !  —  a  domestic  fire-side ;  —  the  cheerfiil 
 assiduities  of  love  and  tenderness  !  It  would  inspire  a 
 Dutch  burgomaster  !  and  if,  with  all  this  in  your  grasp, 
 you  shall  still  choose  the  pulsare  terrain  pede  lihero, 
 still  avoid  the  irrupta  copula^  still  deem  it  a  matter  of 
 light  regard  to  be  an  object  of  affection  and  fondness  to 
 an  amiable  and  sensible  woman,  why  then  you  deserve 
 
271 
 
 to  be  a  fellow  of  a  college  all  your  clays ;  to  be  kicked 
 about  in  your  last  illness  by  a  saucy  and  careless  bed- 
 maker;  and,  lastly,  to  be  put  in  the  ground  in  your 
 college  chapel,  followed  only  by  the  man  who  is  to  be 
 your  successor.  Why,  man,  I  dare  no  more  dream  that  I 
 shall  ever  have  it  in  my  power  to  have  a  wife,  than  that  I 
 shall  be  Archbishop  of  Canterbury,  and  Primate  of  all 
 England.  A  suite  of  rooms  in  a  still  and  quiet  corner 
 of  old  St.  John's,  which  was  once  occupied  by  a  crazy 
 monk,  or  by  one  of  the  translators  of  the  Bible  in  the 
 days  of  good  King  James,  must  form  the  boundary  of 
 my  ambition.  I  must  be  content  to  inhabit  walls  which 
 never  echoed  with  a  female  voice,  to  be  buried  in  glooms 
 which  were  never  cheered  with  a  female  smile.  It  is 
 said,  indeed,  that  women  were  sometimes  permitted  to 
 visit  St.  John's,  when  it  was  a  monastery  of  White-Friars, 
 in  order  to  be  present  at  particular  religious  ceremonies ; 
 but  the  good  monks  were  careful  to  sprinkle  holy  water 
 wherever  their  profane  footsteps  had  carried  contagion 
 and  pollution. 
 
 It  is  well  that  you  are  free  from  the  restrictions  of  mo- 
 nastic austerity,  and  that,  while  I  sleep  under  the  shadow 
 of  towers  and  lofty  walls,  and  the  safeguard  of  a  vigilant 
 porter,  you  are  permitted  to  inhabit  your  own  cottage, 
 under  your  own  guardianship,  and  to  listen  to  the  sweet 
 accents  of  domestic  affection. 
 
 Yes,  my  very  Platonic,  or  rather  Stoical  friend,  I  must 
 see  you  safely  bound  in  the  matrimonial  noose,  and  then, 
 
272 
 
 like  a  confirmed  bachelor,  ten  years  hence,  I  shall  have 
 the  satisfaction  of  pretending  to  laugh  at,  while,  in  my 
 heart,  I  envy  you.  So  much  for  rhapsody.  I  am  coming 
 to  London  for  relaxation's  sake,  and  shall  take  it  pretty 
 freely ;  that  is,  I  shall  seek  after  fine  sights  —  stare  at  fine 
 people  —  be  cheerful  with  the  gay  —  foohsh  with  the  simple 
 —  and  leave  as  little  room  to  suspect  as  possible  that  I  am 
 (any  thing  of)  a  philosopher  and  mathematician.  I  shall 
 probably  talk  a  little  Greek,  but  it  will  be  by  stealth,  in 
 order  to  excite  no  suspicion. 
 
 I  shall  be  in  town  on  Friday  or  Saturday.  I  am  in  a 
 very  idle  mood,  and  have  written  you  a  very  idle  letter, 
 for  which  I  entreat  your  pardon :  and  I  am, 
 
 Dear  C , 
 
 Very  sincerely  yours, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 (found  in  his  pocket  after  his  decease.) 
 
 St.  John's  College,  Saturday,  Oct.  11.  18061. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  AM  safely  arrived,  and  in  college,  but  my  illness  has 
 increased  upon  me  much.     The  cough  continues,  and  is 
 
273 
 
 attended  with  a  good  deal  of  fever.  I  am  under  the  care 
 of  Mr.  Parish,  and  entertain  very  little  apprehension  about 
 the  cough;  but  my  over-exertions  in  town  have  reduced 
 me  to  a  state  of  much  debility;  and,  until  the  cough 
 be  gone,  I  cannot  be  permitted  to  take  any  strengthening 
 medicines.  This  places  me  in  an  awkward  predicament ; 
 but  I  think  I  perceive  a  degree  of  expectoration  this 
 morning,  which  will  soon  relieve  me,  and  then  I  shall 
 mend  apace. 
 
 Under  these  circumstances,  I  must  not  expect  to  see  you 
 here  at  present :  when  I  am  a  little  recovered,  it  will  be  a 
 pleasant  relaxation  to  me. 
 
 Our  lectures  began  on  Friday,  but  I  do  not  attend  them 
 until  I  am  better.  I  have  not  written  to  my  mother,  nor 
 shall  I  while  I  remain  unwell.  You  will  tell  her,  as  a 
 reason,  that  our  lectures  began  on  Friday.  I  know  she 
 will  be  uneasy,  if  she  do  not  hear  from  me,  and  still  more 
 so,  if  I  tell  her  I  am  ill. 
 
 I  cannot  write  more  at  present,  than  that  I  am 
 Your  truly  affectionate  brother, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 VOL.  I.  T 
 
274 
 
 HINTS,  &c. 
 
 Why  will  not  men  be  contented  with  appearing  what 
 they  are?  As  sure  as  we  attempt  to  pass  for  what  we  are 
 not,  we  make  ourselves  ridiculous.  With  religious  profes- 
 sors, this  ought  to  be  a  consideration  of  importance ;  for 
 when  we  assume  credit  for  what  we  do  not  possess,  we 
 break  the  laws  of  God  in  more  ways  than  we  are  aware  of: 
 vanity  and  deceit  are  both  implicated. 
 
 Why  art  thou  so  disquieted,  O  my  soul,  and  why  so 
 full  of  heaviness  ?  O  put  thy  trust  in  God  ;  for  I  will 
 yet  thank  him  which  is  the  help  of  my  countenance,  and 
 my  God.     Ps,  42. 
 
 Domine  Jesu  !  in  te  speravi,  miserere  mei  !  Ne  sperne 
 animum  miserrimi  peccatoris. 
 
 The  love  of  Christ  is  the  only  source  from  whence  a 
 Christian  can  hope  to  derive  spiritual  happiness  and  peace. 
 Now  the  love  of  Christ  will  not  reside  in  the  bosom 
 already  pre-occupied  with  the  love  of  the  world,  or  any 
 other  predominating  affection.  We  must  give  up  every 
 thing  for  it,  and  we  know  it  deserves  that  distinction ;  j^et, 
 upon  this  principle,  unless  the  energy  of  Divine  grace  were 
 what  it  is,  mighty  and  irresistible,  who  would  be  saved  ? 
 
275 
 
 The  excellence  of  our  liturgy,  and  our  establishment,  is 
 more  and  more  impressed  upon  my  mind :  how  admirable 
 do  her  confessions,  her  penitentiary  offerings,  her  inter- 
 cessions, her  prayers,  suit  with  the  case  of  the  Christian  ! 
 It  is  a  sign  that  a  man's  heart  is  not  right  with  God,  when 
 he  finds  fault  with  the  liturgy. 
 
 Contempt  of  religion  is  distinct  from  unbelief :  unbelief 
 may  be  the  result  of  proud  reasonings,  and  independent 
 research ;  but  contempt  of  the  Christian  doctrine  must 
 proceed  from  profound  ignorance. 
 
 Lord,  give  me  a  heart  to  turn  all  knowledge  to  thy 
 glory,  and  not  to  mine :  keep  me  from  being  deluded  with 
 the  lights  of  vain  philosophy;  keep  me  from  the  pride  of 
 human  reason ;  let  me  not  think  my  own  thoughts,  nor 
 dream  my  own  imaginations ;  but,  in  all  things  acting 
 under  the  good  guidance  of  the  Holy  Spirit,  may  I  live  in 
 all  simplicity,  humility,  and  singleness  of  heart,  unto  the 
 Lord  Jesus  Christ,  now  and  for  ever  more.     Amen. 
 
 [The  above  prayer  was  prefixed  to  a  manual,  or  memorandum-book.] 
 
 T  2 
 
27G 
 
 A  PRAYER. 
 
 Almighty  Father,  at  the  close  of  another  day  I  kneel 
 before  thee  in  supplication,  and  ere  I  compose  my  body 
 to  sleep,  I  would  steal  a  few  moments  from  weariness,  to 
 lift  up  my  thoughts  to  thy  perfections,  to  meditate  on  th}" 
 wonderful  dispensations,  and  to  make  my  request  known 
 unto  thee. 
 
 Although  the  hours  of  this  day  have  not  been  spent  in 
 the  busy  haunts  of  society,  but  in  the  pursuit  of  need- 
 ful and  godly  knowledge,  yet  I  am  conscious  that  my 
 thoughts  and  actions  have  been  far  from  pure ;  and  many 
 vain  and  foolish  speculations,  many  sinful  thoughts  and 
 ambitious  anticipations,  have  obtruded  themselves  on  my 
 mind.  I  know  that  I  have  felt  pleasure  in  what  I  ought 
 to  have  abhorred,  and  that  I  have  not  had  thy  presence 
 continually  in  mind  ;  so  that  my  ghostly  enemy  has  mixed 
 poison  with  my  best  food,  and  sowed  tares  with  the  good 
 seed  of  instruction.  Sometimes,  too,  the  world  has  had 
 too  much  to  do  with  my  thoughts  :  I  have  longed  for  its 
 pleasures,  its  splendours,  its  honours,  and  have  forgotten 
 that  1  am  a  poor  follower  of  Jesus  Christ,  whose  inherit- 
 ance is  not  in  this  land,  but  in  the  fields  above.  I  do 
 therefore  supplicate  and  beseech  thee.  Oh  !  thou  my 
 God  and  Father,  that  thou  wilt  not  only  forgive  these  my 
 wanderings,  but  that  thou  wilt  chasten  my  heart,  and 
 establish  my  affections,  so  that  they  may  not  be  shaken 
 by  the  light  suggestions  of  the  tempter  Satan ;  and  since 
 I  am  of  myself  very  weak,  I  implore  thy  restraining  hand 
 
27 
 
 upon  my  understanding,  that  I  may  not  reason  in  the  pride 
 of  worldly  wisdom,  nor  flatter  myself  on  my  attainments, 
 but  ever  hold  my  judgment  in  subordination  to  thy  word, 
 and  see  myself  as  what  I  am,  an  helpless  dependant  on 
 thy  bounty.  If  a  spirit  of  indolence  and  lassitude  have 
 at  times  crept  on  me,  I  pray  thy  forgiveness  for  it ;  and  if 
 I  have  felt  rather  inclined  to  prosecute  studies  which  pro- 
 cure respect  from  the  world,  than  the  humble  knowledge 
 which  becomes  a  servant  of  Christ,  do  thou  check  this 
 growing  propensity,  and  only  bless  my  studies  so  far  as 
 they  conduce  to  thy  glory,  and  as  thy  glory  is  their  chief 
 end.  My  heart,  O  Lord !  is  but  too  fond  of  this  vain 
 and  deceitful  world,  and  I  have  many  fears  lest  I  should 
 make  shipwreck  of  my  hope  on  the  rocks  of  ambition  and 
 vanity.  Give  me,  I  pray  thee,  thy  grace  to  repress  these 
 propensities :  illumine  more  completely  my  wandering 
 mind,  rectify  my  understanding,  and  give  me  a  simple, 
 humble,  and  affectionate  heart,  to  love  thee  and  thy  sheep 
 with  all  sincerity.  As  I  increase  in  learning,  let  me  increase 
 in  lowness  of  spirit :  and  inasmuch  as  the  habits  of  studious 
 life,  unless  tempered  by  preventing  grace,  but  too  much  tend 
 to  produce  formality  and  lifelessness  in  devotion,  do  thou, 
 O  heavenly  Father,  preserve  me  from  all  cold  and  specula- 
 tive views  of  thy  blessed  Gospel;  and  while  with  regular 
 constancy  I  kneel  down  daily  before  thee,  do  not  fail  to 
 light  up  the  fire  of  heavenly  love  in  my  bosom,  and  to  draw 
 my  heart  heavenward  with  earnest  longing  [to  thyself]. 
 
 And  now,  O  Blessed  Redeemer !  my  rock,  my  hope, 
 and  only  sure  defence,  to  thee  do  I  cheerfully  commit 
 both  my  soul  and  my  body.     If  thy  wise  Providence  see 
 
 T  3 
 
278 
 
 fit,  grant  that  I  may  rise  in  the  morning,  refreshed  with 
 sleep,  and  with  a  spirit  of  cheerful  activity  for  the  duties 
 of  the  day :  but  whether  I  wake  here  or  in  eternity;  grant 
 that  my  trust  in  thee  may  remain  sure,  and  my  hope  un- 
 shaken.    Our  Father,  &c. 
 
 [This  prayer  was  discovered  amongst    some  dirtv  loose  papers  of 
 H.  K.  W.'s.l 
 
 Mem. 
 
 SEPTEMBER  22.  1806. 
 
 On  running  over  the  pages  of  this  book,  I  am  con- 
 strained to  observe,  with  sorrow  and  shame,  that  my  pro- 
 gress in  divine  light  has  been  little  or  none. 
 
 I  have  made  a  few  conquests  over  my  corrupt  inclina- 
 tions, but  my  heart  still  hankers  after  its  old  delights; 
 still  lingers  half  willing,  half  unwilling,  in  the  ways  of 
 worldly-mindedne  ss. 
 
 My  knowledge  of  divine  things  is  very  little  improved. 
 I  have  read  less  of  the  Scriptures  than  1  did  last  year.  In 
 reading  the  Fathers,  I  have  consulted  rather  the  pride  of 
 my  heart  than  my  spiritual  good. 
 
 I  now  turn  to  the  cause  of  these  evils,  and  I  find  that 
 the  great  root,  the  main-spring,  is  —  love  of  the  world ; 
 next  to  that,  pride ;  next  to  that,  spiritual  sloth. 
 
 [This  Memorandum  was  written  a  very  lew  weeks  before  hij. 
 death.] 
 
219 
 
 LINES    AND   NOTE 
 
 BY  LORD  BYRON. 
 
 Unhappy  White  !  *  while  life  was  in  its  spring, 
 And  thy  young  muse  just  waved  her  joyous  wing, 
 The  spoiler  came ;  and  all  thy  promise  fair 
 Has'  sought  the  grave,  to  sleep  for  ever  there. 
 Oh  !  what  a  noble  heart  was  here  undone. 
 When  science  'self  destroyed  her  favourite  son  ! 
 Yes  !  she  too  much  indulged  thy  fond  pursuit, 
 She  sowed  the  seeds,  but  death  has  reaped  the  fruit. 
 'Twas  thine  own  genius  gave  the  final  blow, 
 And  helped  t6  plant  the  wound  that  laid  thee  low. 
 So  the  struck  eagle,  stretched  upon  the  plain, 
 No  more  through  rolling  clouds  to  soar  again, 
 Viewed  his  own  feather  on  the  fatal  dart. 
 And  winged  the  shaft  that  quivered  in  his  heart. 
 Keen  were  his  pangs,  but  keener  far  to  feel. 
 He  nursed  the  pinion  which  impelled  the  steel ; 
 While  the  same  plumage  that  had  warmed  his  nest. 
 Drank  the  last  life-drop  of  his  bleeding  breast. 
 
 *  Henry  Kirke  White  clied  at  Cambridge  in  October,  1 806,  in  conse- 
 quence of  too  much  exertion  in  the  pursuit  of  studies  that  would  have 
 matured  a  mind  which  disease  and  poverty  could  not  impair,  and  which 
 death  itself  destroyed  rather  than  subdued.  His  poems  abound  in  such 
 beauties  as  must  impress  the  reader  with  the  liveliest  regret  that  so 
 short  a  period  was  allotted  to  talents,  which  would  have  dignified  even 
 the  sacred  functions  he  was  destined  to  assume. 
 
 T  4 
 
280 
 
 LINES 
 
 BY    PROFESSOR    SMYTH    OF    CAMBRIDGE. 
 
 A   MONUMENT*, 
 
 Erected  by  an  American  Gentleman^  in  All  Saints'  Churchy  Cambridge, 
 
 TO  THE  MEMORY  OF 
 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE. 
 
 Warm  with  fond  hope,  and  learning's  sacred  flame. 
 To  Granta's  bowers,  the  youthful  poet  came ; 
 Unconquer'd  powers  th'  immortal  mind  displayed, 
 But  worn  with  anxious  thought,  the  frame  decay'd : 
 Pale  o'er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retir'd, 
 The  martyr  student  faded,  and  expired. 
 Oh  !  genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere, 
 Too  early  lost,  'midst  studies  too  severe  ! 
 Foremost  to  mourn,  was  gen'rous  Southey  seen, 
 He  told  the  tale,  and  shew'd  what  White  had  been, 
 Nor  told  in  vain  —  Far  o'er  th'  Atlantic  wave 
 A  wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  poet's  grave ; 
 On  yon  low  stone,  he  saw  his  lonely  name. 
 And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 
 
 The  Monument  is  executed  by  S.  Chantry,  Esq.  R.A. 
 4 
 
POEMS, 
 
 WRITTEN    BEFORE    THE    PUBLICATION    OF 
 
 CLIFTON  GROVE. 
 
POEMS. 
 
 CHILDHOOD  : 
 
 A  POEM. 
 
 This  is  one  of  Henry's  earliest  productions,  and  appears,  by  the  hand- 
 writing, to  have  been  written  when  he  was  between  fourteen  and 
 fifteen      The  picture  of  the  school-mistress  is  from  nature. 
 
 PART  L 
 
 X  ictur'd  in  memory's  mellowing  glass  how  sweet 
 
 Our  infant  days,  our  infant  joys  to  greet ; 
 
 To  roam  in  fancy  in  each  cherish'd  scene, 
 
 The  village  church-yard,  and  the  village-green, 
 
 The  woodland  walk  remote,  the  greenwood  glade,  5 
 
 The  mossy  seat  beneath  the  hawthorn's  vshade, 
 
 The  white-wash'd  cottage,  where  the  woodbine  grew, 
 
 And  all  the  favourite  haunts  our  childhood  knew  ! 
 
 How  sweet,  while  all  the  evil  shuns  the  gaze. 
 
 To  view  th'  vmclouded  skies  of  former  days  !  10 
 
 Beloved  age  of  innocence  and  smiles, 
 
 When  each  wing'd  hour  some  new  delight  beguiles. 
 
284 
 
 When  the  gay  heart,  to  hfe's  sweet  day-spring  true, 
 
 Still  finds  some  insect  pleasure  to  pursue. 
 
 Blest  Childhood,  hail  !  —  Thee  simply  will  I  sing,  1  g 
 
 And  from  myself  the  artless  picture  bring ; 
 
 These  long-lost  scenes  to  me  the  past  restore, 
 
 Each  humble  friend,  each  pleasure  now  no  more, 
 
 And  every  stump  famiUar  to  my  sight 
 
 Recalls  some  fond  idea  of  delight.  20 
 
 This  shrubby  knoll  was  once  my  favourite  seat  ; 
 
 Here  did  I  love  at  evening  to  retreat. 
 
 And  muse  alone,  till  in  the  vault  of  night, 
 
 Hesper,  aspiring,  shew'd  his  golden  light. 
 
 Here  once  again,  remote  from  human  noise,  25 
 
 I  sit  me  down  to  think  of  former  joys  ; 
 
 Pause  on  each  scene,  each  treasur'd  scene,  once  more. 
 
 And  once  again  each  infant  walk  explore. 
 
 While  as  each  grove  and  lawn  I  recognize, 
 
 My  melted  soul  suffuses  in  my  eyes.  30 
 
 And  oh  !  thou  Power,  whose  myriad  trains  resort 
 
 To  distant  scenes,  and  picture  them  to  thought ; 
 
 Whose  mirror,  held  unto  the  mourner's  eye, 
 
 Flings  to  his  soul  a  borrrow'd  gleam  of  joy ; 
 
 Blest  memory,  guide,  with  finger  nicely  true,  35 
 
 Back  to  my  youth  my  retrospective  view ; 
 
 Recall  with  faithful  vigour  to  my  mind, 
 
 Each  face  familiar,  each  relation  kind ; 
 
 And  all  the  finer  traits  of  them  afford, 
 
 Whose  general  outHne  in  my  heart  is  stored.  40 
 
285 
 
 In  yonder  cot,  along  whose  mouldering  walls. 
 
 In  many  a  fold  the  mantling  woodbine  falls, 
 
 The  village  matron  kept  her  Httle  school, 
 
 Gentle  of  heart,  yet  knowing  well  to  rule ; 
 
 Staid  was  the  dame,  and  modest  was  her  mien ;  45 
 
 Her  garb  was  coarse,  yet  whole,  and  nicely  clean  : 
 
 Her  neatly  border'd  cap,  as  lily  fair, 
 
 Beneath  her  chin  was  pinn'd  with  decent  care ; 
 
 And  pendent  ruffles,  of  the  whitest  lawn. 
 
 Of  ancient  make,  her  elbows  did  adorn,  50 
 
 Faint  with  old  age,  and  dim  were  grown  her  eyes, 
 
 A  pair  of  spectacles  their  want  supplies; 
 
 These  does  she  guard  secure  in  leathern  case. 
 
 From  thoughtless  wights,  in  some  unweeted  place. 
 
 Here  first  I  enter' d,  though  with  toil  and  pain,  55 
 
 The  low  vestibule  of  learning's  fane ; 
 
 Enter'd  with  pain,  yet  soon  I  found  the  way, 
 
 Though  sometimes  toilsome,  many  a  sweet  display. 
 
 Much  did  I  grieve,  on  that  ill-fated  morn. 
 
 While  I  was  first  to  school  reluctant  borne :  60 
 
 Severe  I  thought  the  dame,  though  oft  she  try'd 
 
 To  soothe  my  swelling  spirits  when  I  sigh'd  ; 
 
 And  oft,  when  harshly  she  reprov'd,  I  wept. 
 
 To  my  lone  corner  broken-hearted  crept. 
 
 And  thought  of  tender  home,  where  anger  never  kept.    65 
 
 But  soon  inur'd  to  alphabetic  toils. 
 Alert  I  met  the  dame  with  jocimd  smiles ; 
 
286 
 
 First  at  the  form,  my  task  for  ever  true, 
 
 A  little  favourite  rapidly  I  grew  : 
 
 And  oft  she  stroked  my  head  with  fond  delight,  70 
 
 Held  me  a  pattern  to  the  dunce's  sight ; 
 
 And  as  she  gave  my  diligence  its  praise, 
 
 Talk'd  of  the  honours  of  my  future  days. 
 
 Oh  !   had  the  venerable  matron  thought 
 
 Of  all  the  ills  by  talent  often  brought ;  75 
 
 Could  she  have  seen  me  when  revolving  years 
 
 Had  brought  me  deeper  in  the  vale  of  tears. 
 
 Then  had  she  wept,  and  wish'd  my  wayward  fate 
 
 Had  been  a  lowlier,  an  unletter'd  state ; 
 
 Wish'd  that,  remote  from  worldly  woes  and  strife,  80 
 
 Unknown,  unheard,  I  might  have  pass'd  through  life. 
 
 Where,  in  the  busy  scene,  by  peace  unblest. 
 
 Shall  the  poor  wanderer  find  a  place  of  rest  ? 
 
 A  lonely  mariner  on  the  stormy  main. 
 
 Without  a  hope,  the  calms  of  peace  to  gain ;  S5 
 
 Long  toss'd  by  tempest  o'er  the  world's  wide  shore, 
 
 When  shall  his  spirit  rest  to  toil  no  more  ? 
 
 Not  till  the  light  foam  of  the  sea  shall  lave 
 
 The  sandy  surface  of  his  unwept  grave. 
 
 Childhood,  to  thee  I  turn,  from  life's  alarms,  90 
 
 Serenest  season  of  perpetual  calms,  — 
 
 Turn  with  delight,  and  bid  the  passions  cease. 
 
 And  joy  to  think  with  thee  I  tasted  peace. 
 
 Sweet  reign  of  innocence  when  no  crime  defiles, 
 
 But  each  new  object  brings  attendant  smiles ;  95 
 
287   . 
 
 When  future  evils  never  haunt  the  siglit, 
 But  all  is  pregnant  with  unmixt  delight ; 
 To  thee  I  turn,  from  riot  and  from  noise, 
 Turn  to  partake  of  more  congenial  joys. 
 
 'Neath  yonder  elm,  that  stands  upon  the  moor,  100 
 
 When  the  clock  spoke  the  hour  of  labour  o'er, 
 
 W^hat  clamorous  throngs,  what  happy  groupes  were  seen. 
 
 In  various  postures  scattering  o'er  the  green  T 
 
 Some  shoot  the  marble,  others  join  the  chase 
 
 Of  self-made  stag,  or  run  the  emulous  race;  105 
 
 While  others,  seated  on  the  dappled  grass, 
 
 With  doleful  tales  the  light-wing'd  minutes  pass. 
 
 Well  I  remember  how,  with  gesture  starch'd, 
 
 A  band  of  soldiers,  oft  widi  pride  we  marcli'd  ; 
 
 For  banners,  to  a  tall  sash  we  did  bind  110 
 
 Our  handkerchiefs,  flapping  to  the  whistling  wind  ; 
 
 And  for  our  warlike  arms  we  sought  the  mead. 
 
 And  guns  and  spears  we  made  of  brittle  reed ; 
 
 Then,  in  uncouth  array,  our  feats  to  crown, 
 
 We  storm'd  some  ruin'd  pig-stye  for  a  town.  1 1 5 
 
 Pleas'd  with  our  gay  disports,  the  dame  was  wont 
 
 To  set  her  wheel  before  the  cottage  front. 
 
 And  o'er  her  spectacles  would  often  peer, 
 
 To  view  our  gambols,  and  our  boyish  geer. 
 
 Still  as  she  look'd,  her  wheel  kept  turning  round,  120 
 
 With  its  belov'd  monotony  of  sound. 
 
 WTien  tir'd  with  play,  we'd  set  us  by  her  side, 
 
 (For  out  of  school  she  never  knew  to  chide)  — 
 
288 
 
 And  wonder  at  her  skill  —  well  known  to  fame  — 
 
 For  who  could  match  in  spinning  with  the  dame  ?  125 
 
 Her  sheets,  her  linen,  which  she  shew'd  with  pride 
 
 To  strangers,  still  her  thriftness  testified ; 
 
 Though  we  poor  wights  did  wonder  much  in  troth, 
 
 How  'twas  her  spinning  manufactured  cloth. 
 
 Oft  would  we  leave,  though  well-belov'd,  our  play,  1 30 
 
 To  chat  at  home  the  vacant  hour  away. 
 
 Many's  the  time  I've  scamper'd  down  the  glade, 
 
 To  ask  the  promis'd  ditty  from  the  maid, 
 
 Which  well  she  loved,  as  well  she  knew  to  sing, 
 
 While  we  around  her  form'd  a  little  ring :  1 35 
 
 She  told  of  innocence  foredoom'd  to  bleed, 
 
 Of  Mdcked  guardians  bent  on  bloody  deed, 
 
 Or  little  children  murder'd  as  they  slept ; 
 
 While  at  each  pause  we  wrung  our  hands  and  wept. 
 
 Sad  was  such  tale,  and  wonder  much  did  we,  140 
 
 Such  hearts  of  stone  there  in  the  world  could  be. 
 
 Poor  simple  wights,  ah  !   little  did  we  ween 
 
 The  ills  that  wait  on  man  in  life's  sad  scene ! 
 
 Ah,  little  thought  that  we  ourselves  should  know, 
 
 This  world's  a  world  of  weeping  and  of  woe  !  145 
 
 Beloved  moment !    then  'twas  first  I  caught 
 
 The  first  foundation  of  romantic  thought ; 
 
 Then  first  I  shed  bold  Fancy's  thrilling  tear, 
 
 Then  first  that  poesy  charm'd  mine  infant  ear. 
 
 Soon  stor'd  with  much  of  legendary  lore,  1 50 
 
 The  sports  of  Childhood  charm'd  my  soul  ho  more. 
 
289 
 
 Far  from  the  scene  of  gaiety  and  noise, 
 
 Far,  far  from  turbulent  and  empty  joys, 
 
 I  hied  me  to  the  thick  o'er-arching  shade, 
 
 And  there,  on  mossy  carpet,  listless  laid,  155 
 
 While  at  my  feet  the  rippling  runnel  ran, 
 
 The  days  of  wild  romance  antique  I'd  scan  ; 
 
 Soar  on  the  wings  of  fancy  through  the  air, 
 
 To  realms  of  light,  and  pierce  the  radiance  there.  159 
 
 PART  JI. 
 
 There  are,  who  thmk  that  childhood  does  not  share 
 With  age  the  cup,  the  bitter  cup  of  care  : 
 Alas  !  they  know  not  this  unhappy  truth, 
 That  every  age,  and  rank,  is  born  to  ruth. 
 
 From  the  first  dawn  of  reason  in  the  mind,  5 
 
 Man  is  foredoomed  the  thorns  of  grief  to  find  ; 
 
 At  every  step  has  further  cause  to  know, 
 
 The  draught  of  pleasure  still  is  dash'd  with  woe. 
 
 Yet  in  the  youthful  breast  for  ever  caught 
 
 With  some  new  object  for  romantic  thought,  10 
 
 The  impression  of  the  moment  quickly  flies, 
 
 And  with  the  morrow  every  sorrow  dies. 
 
 VOL.  I.  u 
 
29(J 
 
 How  different  manhood  !  —  then  does  Thought\s  control 
 
 Sink  everj  pang  still  deeper  in  the  soul  ; 
 
 Then  keen  Affliction's  sad  unceasing  smart  15 
 
 Becomes  a  painful  resident  in  the  heart ; 
 
 And  Care,  whom  not  the  gayest  can  out-brave, 
 
 Pursues  its  feeble  victim  to  the  grave. 
 
 Then,  as  each  long-known  friend  is  summon'd  hence, 
 
 We  feel  a  void  no  joy  can  recompense,  20 
 
 And  as  we  weep  o*er  every  new-made  tomb, 
 
 Wish  that  ourselves  the  next  may  meet  our  doom. 
 
 Yes,  Childhood,  thee  no  rankling  woes  pursue, 
 
 No  forms  of  future  ill  salute  thy  view, 
 
 No  pangs  repentant  bid  thee  wake  to  weep,  25 
 
 But  halcyon  peace  protects  thy  downy  sleep, 
 
 And  sanguine  Hope,  through  every  storm  of  life. 
 
 Shoots  her  bright  beams,  and  calms  the  internal  strife. 
 
 Yet  e'en  round  childhood's  heart,  a  thoughtless  shrine, 
 
 Affection's  little  thread  will  ever  twine ;  30 
 
 And  though  but  frail  may  seem  each  tender  tie. 
 
 The  soul  foregoes  them  but  with  many  a  sigh. 
 
 Thus,  when  the  long-expected  moment  came. 
 
 When  forc'd  to  leave  the  gentle-hearted  dame, 
 
 Reluctant  throbbings  rose  within  my  breast,  55 
 
 And  a  still  tear  my  silent  grief  express'd. 
 
 When  to  the  public  school  compeli'd  to  go. 
 
 What  novel  scenes  did  on  my  senses  flow  I 
 
 There  in  each  breast  each  active  power  dilates, 
 
 Which  broils  whole  nations,  and  convulses  states ;  40 
 
291 
 
 There  reigns  by  turns  alternate,  love  and  hate, 
 
 Ambition  burns,  and  factious  rebels  prate ; 
 
 And  in  a  smaller  range,  a  smaller  sphere, 
 
 The  dark  deformities  of  man  appear. 
 
 Yet  there  the  gentler  virtues  kindred  claim,  45 
 
 There  Friendship  lights  her  pure  untainted  flame, 
 
 There  mild  Benevolence  delights  to  dwell, 
 
 And  sweet  Contentment  rests  without  her  cell ; 
 
 And  there,  'mid  many  a  stormy  soul,  we  find 
 
 The  good  of  heart,  the  intelligent  of  mind.  50 
 
 'Twas  there.  Oh,  George !   with  thee  I  learned  to  join 
 In  Friendship's  bands  —  in  amity  divine. 
 Oh,  mournful  thought !  —  Where  is  thy  spirit  now  ? 
 As  here  I  sit  on  fav'rite  Logar's  brow, 
 And  trace  below  each  well- remember' d  glade,  55^ 
 
 Where  arm  in  arm,  erewhile  with  thee  I  stray 'd. 
 Where  art  thou  laid  —  on  what  untrodden  shore. 
 Where  nought  is  heard  save  ocean's  sullen  roar  ? 
 Dost  thou  in  lowly,  unlamented  state, 
 
 At  last  repose  from  all  the  storms  of  fate  ?  60 
 
 Methinks  I  see  thee  struggling  with  the  wave. 
 Without  one  aiding  hand  stretch'd  out  to  save ; 
 See  thee  convuls'd,  thy  looks  to  heaven  bend, 
 And  send  thy  parting  sigh  unto  thy  friend  ; 
 Or  where  immeasurable  wilds  dismay,  €5 
 
 Forlorn  and  sad  thou  bend'st  thy  weary  way^ 
 While  sorrow  and  disease  with  anguish  rife, 
 Consume  apace  the  ebbing  springs  of  life. 
 
 u  2 
 
292 
 
 Again  I  see  his  door  against  thee  sliut, 
 
 The  unfeeHng  native  turn  thee  from  his  hut :  70 
 
 I  see  thee  spent  with  toil  and  worn  with  gi*ief, 
 
 Sit  on  the  grass,  and  wish  the  long'd  relief; 
 
 Then  He  thee  down,  the  stormy  struggle  o'er, 
 
 Think  on  thy  native  land  —  and  rise  no  morel 
 
 Oh!  that  thou  could'st,  from  thine  august  abode,  75 
 
 Survey  thy  friend  in  life's  dismaying  road, 
 
 That  thou  could'st  see  him  at  this  moment  here, 
 
 Embalm  thy  memory  with  a  pious  tear, 
 
 And  hover  o'er  him  as  he  gazes  round, 
 
 Where  all  the  scenes  of  infant  joys  surround.  80 
 
 Yes  !  yes  !  his  spirit's  near  !  —  The  whispering  breeze 
 
 Conveys  his  voice  sad  sighing  on  the  trees : 
 
 And  lo  !  his  form  transparent  I  perceive, 
 
 Borne  on  the  grey  mist  of  the  sullen  eve  : 
 
 He  hovers  near,  clad  in  the  night's  dim  robe,  85 
 
 While  deathly  silence  reigns  upon  the  globe. 
 
 Yet  ah  !   whence  comes  this  visionary  scene  ? 
 
 *Tis  Fancy's  wild  aerial  dream  I  ween ; 
 
 By  her  inspir'd,  when  reason  takes  its  flight, 
 
 What  fond  illusions  beam  upon  the  sight !  90 
 
 She  waves  her  hand,  and  lo  !  what  forms  appear  1 
 
 What  magic  sounds  salute  the  wondering  ear ! 
 
 Once  more  o'er  distant  regions  do  we  tread, 
 
 And  the  cold  grave  yields  up  its  cherish'd  dead  ,* 
 
293 
 
 While  present  sorrow's  banished  far  away,  95 
 
 Unclouded  azure  gilds  the  placid  day, 
 
 Or  in  the  future's  cloud -encircled  face, 
 
 Fair  scenes  of  bliss  to  come  we  fondly  trace, 
 
 And  draw  minutely  every  little  wile, 
 
 Which  shall  the  feathery  hours  of  time  beguile.  100 
 
 So  when  forlorn,  and  lonesome  at  her  gate, 
 
 The  Royal  Mary  solitary  sate, 
 
 And  view'd  the  moon-beam  trembling  on  die  wave, 
 
 And  heard  the  hollow  surge  her  prison  lave, 
 
 Towards  France's  distant  coast  she  bent  her  sight,         105 
 
 For  there  her  soul  had  wing'd  its  longing  flight ; 
 
 There  did  she  form  full  many  a  scheme  of  joy. 
 
 Visions  of  bliss  unclouded  with  alloy, 
 
 Which  bright  through  Hope's  deceitftil  optics  beam'd, 
 
 And  all  became  the  surety  which  it  seem'd ;  110 
 
 She  wept,  yet  felt,  while  all  within  was  calm, 
 
 In  every  tear  a  melancholy  charm. 
 
 To  yonder  hill,  whose  sides,  deform'd  and  steep. 
 Just  yield  a  scanty  sust'nance  to  the  sheep. 
 With  thee,  my  friend,  I  oftentimes  have  sped,  1 1 5 
 
 To  see  the  sun  rise  from  his  healthy  bed  ; 
 To  watch  the  aspect  of  the  summer  morn, 
 Smiling  upon  the  golden  fields  of  corn. 
 And  taste  delighted  of  superior  joys, 
 
 Beheld  through  Sympathy's  enchanted  eyes  :  I'-^O 
 
 With  silent  admiration  oft  we  view'd 
 The  myriad  hues  o'er  heaven's  blue  concave  strew'd ; 
 
 u  S 
 
294 
 
 The  fleecy  clouds,  of  every  tint  and  shade, 
 
 Round  which  the  silvery  sun-beam  glancing  play'd. 
 
 And  the  round  orb  itself,  in  azure  throne,  125 
 
 Just  peeping  o'er  the  blue  hill's  ridgy  zone; 
 
 We  mark'd  delighted,  how  with  aspect  gay. 
 
 Reviving  Nature  hail'd  returning  day  ; 
 
 Mark'd  how  the  flowerets  rear'd  their  drooping  heads, 
 
 And  the  wild  lambkins  bounded  o'er  the  meads,  130 
 
 While  from  each  tree,  in  tones  of  sweet  delight, 
 
 The  birds  sung  poeans  to  the  source  of  light : 
 
 Oft  have  we  watch'd  the  speckled  lark  arise. 
 
 Leave  his  grass  bed,  and  soar  to  kindred  skies. 
 
 And  rise,  and  rise,  till  the  pain'd  sight  no  more  135 
 
 Could  trace  him  in  his  high  aerial  tour ; 
 
 Though  on  the  ear,  at  intervals,  his  song 
 
 Came  w^afled  slow  the  wavy  breeze  along ; 
 
 And  we  have  thought  how  happy  were  our  lot, 
 
 Bless'd  with  some  sweet,  some  solitary  cot,  1 40 
 
 Where,  from  the  peep  of  day,  till  russet  eve 
 
 Began  in  every  dell  her  forms  to  weave. 
 
 We  might  pursue  our  sports  from  day  to  day, 
 
 And  in  each  other's  arms  wear  life  away. 
 
 At  sultry  noon  too,  when  our  toils  were  done,  1 45 
 
 We  to  the  gloomy  glen  were  wont  to  run  : 
 
 There  on  the  turf  we  lay,  while  at  our  feet 
 
 The  cooling  rivulet  rippled  softly  sweet  : 
 
 And  mus'd  on  holy  theme,  and  ancient  lore, 
 
 Of  deeds,  and  days,  and  heroes  now  no  more ;  150 
 
 Heard,  as  his  solemn  harp  Isaiah  swept. 
 
 Sung  woe  unto  the  wicked  land  —  and  wept ; 
 
295 
 
 Or,  fancy-led  —  saw  Jeremiah  mount 
 
 In  solemn  sorrow  o'er  Judea*s  urn. 
 
 Then  to  another  shore  perhaps  would  rove,  155 
 
 With  Plato  talk  in  his  Hessian  grove ; 
 
 Or,  wand'ring  where  the  Thespian  palace  rose. 
 
 Weep  once  again  o'er  fair  Jocasta's  woes. 
 
 Sweet  then  to  us  was  that  romantic  band, 
 
 The  ancient  legends  of  our  native  land  —  160 
 
 Chivalric  Britomart,  and  Una  fair, 
 
 And  courteous  Constance,  doom'd  to  dark  despair, 
 
 By  turns  our  thoughts  engag'd ;  and  oft  we  talk'd, 
 
 Of  times  when  monarch  superstition  stalk'd. 
 
 And  when  the  blood-fraught  galliots  of  Rome  165 
 
 Brought  the  grand  Druid  fabric  to  its  doom : 
 
 While,  where  the  wood-hung  Meinai's  waters  flow. 
 
 The  hoary  harpers  pour'd  the  strain  of  woe. 
 
 While  thus  employ'd,  to  us  how  sad  the  bell 
 
 Which  summon'd  us  to  school !  'Twas  Fancy's  knell,   170 
 
 And,  sadly  sounding  on  the  sullen  ear. 
 
 It  spoke  of  study  pale,  and  chilling  fear. 
 
 Yet  even  then,  (for  oh  1  what  chains  can  bind. 
 
 What  powers  control,  the  energies  of  mind  !) 
 
 E'en  then  we  soar'd  to  many  a  height  sublime,  1 75 
 
 And  many  a  day-dream  charm'd  the  lazy  time. 
 
 At  evening  too,  how  pleasing  was  our  walk, 
 Endear'd  by  Friendship's  unrestrained  talk, 
 
 u   1 
 
290' 
 
 When  to  the  upland  heights  we  bent  our  way, 
 To  view  the  last  beam  of  departing  day ;  180 
 
 How  calm  was  all  around  !  no  playful  breeze 
 Sigh'd  'mid  the  wavy  foliage  of  the  trees, 
 But  all  was  still,  save  when,  with  drowsy  song, 
 The  grey-fly  wound  his  sullen  horn  along ; 
 And  save  when,  heard  in  soft,  yet  merry  glee,  185 
 
 The  distant  church-bells'  mellow  harmony; 
 I'he  silver  mirror  of  the  lucid  brook, 
 That  'mid  the  tufted  broom  its  still  course  took  ; 
 The  rugged  arch,  that  clasp'd  its  silent  tides. 
 With  moss  and  rank  weeds  hanging  down  its  sides:      190 
 The  craggy  rock,  that  jutted  on  the  sight; 
 The  shrieking  bat,  that  took  its  heavy  flight ; 
 All,  all  was  pregnant  with  divine  delight. 
 We  lov'd  to  watch  the  swallow  swimming  high. 
 In  the  bright  azure  of  the  vaulted  sky  ;  1 95 
 
 Or  gaze  upon  the  clouds,  whose  colour'd  pride 
 Was  scatter'd  thuily  o'er  the  welkin  wide. 
 And  ting'd  with  such  variety  of  shade. 
 To  the  charm'd  soul  sublimest  thoughts  convey'd. 
 In  these  what  forms  romantic  did  we  trace,  200 
 
 While  Fancy  led  us  o'er  the  realms  of  space ! 
 Now  we  espied  the  Thunderer  in  his  car, 
 Leading  the  embattled  seraphim  to  war, 
 Then  stately  towers  descried,  sublimely  high, 
 In  Gothic  grandeur  frowning  on  the  sky  —  205 
 
 Or  saw,  wide  stretching  o'er  the  azure  height, 
 A  ridge  of  glaciers  in  mural  white, 
 
 7 
 
297 
 
 tliigely  terrific.  —  But  those  times  are  o'er, 
 
 And  the  fond  scene  can  charm  mine  eyes  no  more ; 
 
 For  thou  art  gone,  and  I  am  left  below,  2 !  0 
 
 Alone  to  struggle  through  this  world  of  woe. 
 
 The  scene  is  o'er  —  still  seasons  onward  roll, 
 
 And  each  revolve  conducts  me  toward  the  goal  ; 
 
 Yet  all  is  blank,  without  one  soft  relief, 
 
 One  endless  continuity  of  grief;  215 
 
 And  the  tired  soul,  now  led  to  thoughts  sublime. 
 
 Looks  but  for  rest  beyond  the  bounds  of  time. 
 
 Toil  on,  toil  on,  ye  busy  crowds,  that  pant 
 
 For  hoards  of  wealth  which  ye  will  never  want : 
 
 And,  lost  to  all  but  gain,  with  ease  resign  220 
 
 The  calms  of  peace  and  happiness  divine  ! 
 
 Far  other  cares  be  mine  —  Men  little  crave 
 
 In  this  short  journey  to  the  silent  grave ; 
 
 And  the  poor  peasant,  bless'd  with  peace  and  healtli, 
 
 I  envy  more  than  Croesus  with  his  wealth.  225 
 
 Yet  grieve  not  I,  that  Fate  did  not  decree 
 
 Paternal  acres  to  await  on  me ; 
 
 She  gave  me  more,  she  placed  within  my  breast 
 
 A  heart  with  little  pleas'd  —  with  little  blest : 
 
 I  look  around  me,  where,  on  every  side,  230 
 
 Extensive  manors  spread  in  wealthy  pride  ; 
 
 And  could  my  sight  be  borne  to  either  zone, 
 
 I  should  not  find  one  foot  of  land  my  own. 
 
 But  whither  do  I  wander?  shall  the  muse. 
 
 For  golden  baits,  her  simple  theme  refuse  ?  235 
 
298 
 
 Oh,  no  !  but  while  the  weary  spirit  greets 
 
 The  fading  scenes  of  childhood's  far-gone  sweets, 
 
 It  catches  all  the  infant's  wandering  tongue, 
 
 And  prattles  on  in  desultory  song. 
 
 That  song  must  close  —  the  gloomy  mists  of  night         240 
 
 Obscure  the  pale  stars'  visionary  light. 
 
 And  ebon  darkness,  clad  in  vapoury  wet, 
 
 Steals  on  the  welkin  in  primaeval  jet. 
 
 ! 
 The  song  must  close.  —  Once  more  my  adverse  lot 
 Leads  me  reluctant  from  this  cherish'd  spot :  245 
 
 Again  compels  to  plunge  in  busy  life. 
 And  brave  the  hateful  turbulence  of  strife. 
 
 Scenes  of  my  youth  —  ere  my  unwilling  feet 
 
 Are  turn'd  for  ever  from  this  lov'd  retreat, 
 
 Ere  on  these  fields,  with  plenty  cover'd  o'er,  250 
 
 My  eyes  are  clos'd  to  ope  on  them  no  more. 
 
 Let  me  ejaculate,  to  feeling  due. 
 
 One  long,  one  last  affectionate  adieu. 
 
 Grant  that,  if  ever  Providence  should  please 
 
 To  give  me  an  old  age  of  peace  and  ease,  255 
 
 Grant  that,  in  these  sequester'd  shades,  my  days 
 
 May  wear  away  in  gradual  decays ; 
 
 And  oh  !    ye  spirits,  who  unbodied  play. 
 
 Unseen  upon  the  pinions  of  the  day, 
 
 Kind  genii  of  my  native  fields  benign,  260 
 
 Who  were  *  *  *  * 
 
FRAGMENT 
 
 or    AN 
 
 ECCENTRIC  DRAMA 
 
 Written  at  a  very  early  age. 
 
 In  a  little  volume  which  Henry  had  copied  out,  apparently  for  the 
 press,  before  the  publication  of  Clifton  Grove,  the  Song  with 
 which  this  fragment  commences  was  inserted,  under  the  title  of 
 "  The  Dance  of  the  Consumptives,  in  imitation  of  Shakspeare, 
 taken  from  an  eccentric  Drama,  written  by  H.  K.  W.  when  very 
 young."  The  rest  was  discovered  among  his  loose  papers,  in  the 
 first  rude  draught,  having,  to  all  appearance,  never  been  tran- 
 scribed. The  song  was  extracted  when  he  was  sixteen,  and  must 
 have  been  written  at  least  a  year  before,  probably  more,  by  the 
 hand-writing.  There  is  something  strikingly  wild  and  original  in  the 
 fragment. 
 
 THE  DANCE  OF  THE  CONSUMPTIVES. 
 
 1. 
 Ding-dong  1   ding-dong ! 
 Merry,  merry,  go  the  bells. 
 Ding-dong  !   ding-dong ! 
 Over  the  heath,  over  the  moor,  and  over  the  dale, 
 
 "  Swinging  slow  with  sullen  roar," 
 Dance,  dance  away  the  jocund  roundelay  ! 
 Ding-dong,  ding-dong,  calls  us  away. 
 
300 
 
 2. 
 Round  the  oak,  and  round  the  ehn, 
 
 Merrily  foot  it  o'er  the  ground  ! 
 The  sentry  ghost  it  stands  aloof. 
 So  merrily,  merrily  foot  it  round. 
 Ding-dong  !   ding-dong  ! 
 Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
 Swelling  in  the  nightly  gale, 
 The  sentry  ghost. 
 It  keeps  its  post. 
 And  soon,  and  soon,  our  sports  must  fail 
 But  let  us  trip  the  nightly  ground. 
 While  the  merry,  merry  bells  ring  round. 
 
 3. 
 Hark  !    hark  !   the  death-watch  ticks  ! 
 See,  see,  the  winding-sheet  ! 
 
 Our  dance  is  done, 
 
 Our  race  is  run, 
 And  we  must  lie  at  the  alder's  feet  ! 
 
 Ding-dong,  ding-dong, 
 
 Merry,  merry  go  the  bells, 
 Swinging  o'er  the  weltering  wave  ! 
 
 And  we  must  seek 
 
 Our  death-beds  bleak, 
 Where  the  green  sod  grows  upon  the  grave. 
 
301 
 
 Thei^  vanish  —  The  Goddess  of' Consumption  descends^  habited 
 in  a  sky-blue  Bobe,  attended  by  mournful  Music, 
 
 Come,  Melancholy,  sister  mine  ! 
 
 Cold  the  dews,  and  chill  the  night  ! 
 Come  from  thy  dreary  shrine  ! 
 The  wan  moon  climbs  the  heavenly  height. 
 And  underneath  the  sickly  ray, 
 Troops  of  squalid  spectres  play, 
 And  the  dying  mortals*  groan 
 Startles  the  night  on  her  dusky  throne. 
 Come,  come,  sister  mine  ! 
 Gliding  on  the  pale  moon-shine : 
 We'll  ride  at  ease, 
 On  the  tainted  breeze, 
 And  oh  !   our  sport  will  be  divine. 
 
 The  Goddess  of  Melancholy  advances  out  of  a  deep  Glen 
 in  the  rea)\  habited  in  Blacky  and  covered  with  a  thick 
 Veil  —  She  speaks. 
 
 Sister,  from  my  dark  abode. 
 Where  nests  the  raven,  sits  the  toad. 
 Hither  I  come,  at  thy  command : 
 Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
 Sister,  sister,  join  thy  hand  ! 
 I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee, 
 Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me. 
 Come,  let  us  speed  our  way 
 Where  the  troops  of  spectres  play. 
 
302 
 
 To  charnel-houses,  church-yards  drear, 
 Where  Death  sits  with  a  horrible  leer, 
 A  lasting  grin  on  a  throne  of  bones. 
 And  skim  along  the  blue  tomb-stones. 
 Come,  let  us  speed  away, 
 Lay  our  snares,  and  spread  our  tether  ! 
 I  will  smooth  the  way  for  thee. 
 Thou  shalt  furnish  food  for  me  ; 
 And  the  grass  shall  wave 
 O'er  many  a  grave. 
 Where  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 Come,  let  us  speed  our  way  ! 
 Join  our  hands,  and  spread  our  tether  ! 
 I  will  furnish  food  for  thee, 
 Thou  shalt  smooth  the  way  for  me ; 
 And  the  grass  shall  wave 
 O'er  many  a  grave, 
 W^here  youth  and  beauty  sleep  together. 
 
 MELANCHOLY. 
 
 Hist,  sister,  hist !  who  comes  here  ? 
 Oh  !  I  know  her  by  that  tear, 
 By  that  blue  eye's  languid  glare, 
 By  her  skin,  and  by  her  hair  : 
 
 She  is  mine, 
 
 And  she  is  thine, 
 Now  the  deadliest  draught  prepare. 
 
308 
 
 CONSUMPTION. 
 
 In  the  dismal  night  air  drest, 
 I  will  creep  into  her  breast : 
 Flush  her  cheek,  and  bleach  her  skin. 
 And  feed  on  the  vital  fire  within. 
 Lover,  do  not  trust  her  eyes,  — 
 When  they  sparkle  most,  she  dies  I 
 Mother,  do  not  trust  her  breath,  — 
 Comfort  she  will  breathe  in  death  f 
 Father,  do  not  strive  to  save  her,  — 
 She  is  mine,  and  I  must  have  her  ! 
 The  coffin  must  be  her  bridal  bed  ; 
 The  winding-sheet  must  wrap  her  head ; 
 The  whispering  winds  must  o'er  her  sighy 
 For  soon  in  the  grave  the  maid  must  lie, 
 
 The  worm  it  will  riot 
 
 On  heavenly  diet. 
 When  death  has  deflower' d  her  eye. 
 
 [They  vanish. 
 
 While  Consu7nption  speaks^  Angelina  enters. 
 
 ANGELINA. 
 
 With  *  what  a  silent  and  dejected  pace 
 Dost  thou,  wan  Moon  !   upon  thy  way  advance 
 In  the  blue  welkin's  vault !  —  Pale  wanderer  ! 
 Hast  thou  too  felt  the  pangs  of  hopeless  love, 
 
 *  With  how  sad  steps,  O  moon  !   thou  climb'st  the  skies, 
 How  silently  and  with  how  wan  a  face  ! 
 
 SIR    p.  SIDNEY. 
 
304 
 
 That  thus,  with  such  a  melancholy  grace, 
 
 Thou  dost  pursue  thy  solitary  course  ? 
 
 Has  thy  Endymion,  smooth-faced  boy,  forsook 
 
 Thy  widow'd  breast  —  on  which  the  spoiler  oft 
 
 Has  nestled  fondly,  while  the  silver  clouds 
 
 Fantastic  pillow'd  thee,  and  the  dim  night, 
 
 Obsequious  to  thy  will,  encurtain'd  round 
 
 With  its  thick  fringe  thy  couch  ? —  Wan  traveller. 
 
 How  like  thy  fate  to  mine  !  —  Yet  I  have  still 
 
 One  heavenly  hope  remaining,  which  thou  lack'st  ; 
 
 My  woes  will  soon  be  buried  in  the  grave 
 
 Of  kind  forgetfulness  :  —  my  journey  here, 
 
 Though  it  be  darksome,  joyless,  and  forlorn. 
 
 Is  yet  but  short,  and  soon  my  weary  feet 
 
 Will  greet  the  peaceful  inn  of  lasting  rest. 
 
 But  thou,  unhappy  Queen  !  art  doom'd  to  trace 
 
 Thy  lonely  walk  in  the  drear  realms  of  night, 
 
 While  many  a  lagging  age  shall  sweep  beneath 
 
 The  leaden  pinions  of  unshaken  time  ; 
 
 Though  not  a  hope  shall  spread  its  glittering  hue 
 
 To  cheat  thy  steps  along  the  weary  way. 
 
 O  that  the  sum  of  human  happiness 
 Should  be  so  trifling,  and  so  fi-ail  withal, 
 That  when  possessed,  it  is  but  lessen'd  grief; 
 And  even  then  there's  scarce  a  sudden  gust 
 That  blows  across  the  dismal  waste  of  life, 
 But  bears  it  from  the  view.  —  O  1  who  would  shun 
 The  hour  that  cuts  from  earth,  and  fear  to  press 
 The  calm  and  peaceful  pillows  of  the  grave. 
 
And  yet  endure  tlie  various  ills  of  life, 
 
 And  dark  vicissitudes  !  —  Soon,  I  hope,  I  feel. 
 
 And  am  assur'd,  diat  I  shall  lay  my  head, 
 
 My  weary  aching  head,  on  its  last  rest, 
 
 And  on  my  lowly  bed  the  grass-green  sod 
 
 Will  flourish  sweetly.  —  And  then  they  will  weep 
 
 That  one  so  young,  and  what  they're  pleas'd  to  call 
 
 80  beautiful,  should  die  so  soon  —  And  tell 
 
 How  painful  Disappointment's  canker'd  fang 
 
 Wither'd  the  rose  upon  my  maiden  cheek, 
 
 Oh,  foohsh  ones  !   why,  I  shall  sleep  so  sweetly, 
 
 Laid  in  my  darksome  grave,  that  they  themselves 
 
 Might  envy  me  my  rest !  —  And  as  for  them. 
 
 Who,  on  the  score  of  former  intimacy, 
 
 May  thus  remembrance  me  —  they  must  themselves 
 
 Successive  fall. 
 
 Around  the  winter  fire 
 (When  out-a-doors  the  biting  frost  congeals, 
 And  shrill  the  skater's  irons  on  the  pool 
 Ring  loud,  as  by  the  moonlight  he  performs 
 His  graceful  evolutions)  they  not  long 
 Shall  sit  and  chat  of  older  times,  and  feats 
 Of  early  youth,  but  silent,  one  by  one, 
 Shall  drop  into  tlieir  shrouds.  —  Some,  in  their  age. 
 Ripe  for  the  sickle ;  others  young,  like  me, 
 And  iallino;  oreen  beneath  th'  untimely  stroke. 
 Thus,  in  short  time,  in  the  church-yard  forlorn, 
 Where  I  shall  he,  my  friends  will  lay  them  down, 
 And  dwell  with  me,  a  happy  family. 
 And  oh  !   thou  cruel,  yet  beloved  youth, 
 VOL.  J,  "^ 
 
306 
 
 Who  now  hast  left  me  hopeless  here  to  mourn, 
 
 Do  thou  but  shed  one  tear  upon  my  corse, 
 
 And  say  that  I  was  gentle,  and  deserv'd 
 
 A  better  lover,  and  I  shall  forgive 
 
 All,  all  thy  wrongs  ;  —  and  then  do  thou  forget 
 
 The  hapless  Margaret,  and  be  as  blest 
 
 As  wish  can  make  thee  —  Laugh,  and  play,  and  sing. 
 
 With  thy  dear  choice,  and  never  think  of  me. 
 
 Yet  hist,  I  hear  a  step.  —  In  this  dark  wood  — 
 
 TO  A  FRIEND. 
 
 WRI'n^EN    AT    A    VERY    EARLY    AGE. 
 
 I've  read,  my  friend,  of  Dioclesian, 
 And  many  other  noble  Grecian, 
 Who  wealth  and  palaces  resign'd, 
 In  cots  the  joys  of  peace  to  find  ; 
 Maximian's  meal  of  turnip-tops, 
 (Disgusting  food  to  dainty  chops,) 
 I've  also  read  of,  without  wonder  ; 
 But  such  a  cursed  egregious  blunder. 
 As  that  a  man  of  wit  and  sense, 
 Should  leave  his  books  to  hoard  up  pence. 
 Forsake  the  loved  Aonian  maids. 
 For  all  the  petty  tricks  of  trades. 
 
307 
 
 I  never,  either  now,  or  long  since, 
 
 Have  heard  of  such  a  piece  of  nonsense ; 
 
 That  one  who  learning's  joys  hath  felt, 
 
 And  at  the  Muse's  altar  knelt. 
 
 Should  leave  a  life  of  sacred  leisure. 
 
 To  taste  the  accumulating  pleasure ; 
 
 And,  metamorphos'd  to  an  alley  duck, 
 
 Grovel  in  loads  of  kindred  muck. 
 
 Oh  !   'tis  beyond  my  comprehension  ! 
 
 A  courtier  throwing  up  his  pension,  — 
 
 A  lawyer  working  without  a  fee,  — 
 
 A  parson  giving  charity,  — 
 
 A  truly  pious  methodist  preacher,  — 
 
 Are  not,  egad,  so  out  of  nature. 
 
 Had  nature  made  thee  half  a  fool. 
 
 But  given  thee  wit  to  keep  a  school, 
 
 I  had  not  star'd  at  thy  backsliding : 
 
 But  when  thy  wit  I  can  confide  in. 
 
 When  well  I  know  thy  just  pretence 
 
 To  solid  and  exalted  sense ; 
 
 When  well  I  know  that  on  tliy  head 
 
 Philosophy  her  lights  hath  shed, 
 
 I  stand  aghast !  thy  virtues  sum  too. 
 
 And  wonder  what  this  world  world  will  come  to  ! 
 
 Yet,  whence  this  strain  ?  shall  I  repine 
 That  thou  alone  dost  singly  shine? 
 Shall  I  lament  that  thou  alone. 
 Of  men  of  parts,  hast  prudence  known? 
 X  2 
 
308 
 LINES 
 
 ON    READING    THE    POEMS    OF    WARTON. 
 
 AGE    FOURTEEN, 
 
 Oh,  Warton  !   to  thy  soothing  shell, 
 Stretch'd  remote  in  hermit  cell, 
 Where  the  brook  runs  babbling  by, 
 For  ever  I  could  listening  lie ; 
 And,  catching  all  the  Muse's  fire. 
 Hold  converse  with  the  tuneful  quire. 
 
 "What  pleasing  themes  thy  page  adorn. 
 The  ruddy  streaks  of  cheerful  morn. 
 The  pastoral  pipe,  the  ode  sublime, 
 And  Melancholy's  mournful  chime  ! 
 Each  with  unwonted  graces  shines 
 In  thy  ever  lovely  lines. 
 
 Thy  Muse  deserves  the  lasting  meed  ; 
 Attuning  sweet  the  Dorian  reed, 
 Now  the  love-lorn  swain  complahis, 
 And  sings  his  sorrows  to  the  plains : 
 Now  the  Sylvan  scenes  appear 
 Through  all  the  changes  of  the  year ; 
 Or  the  elegiac  strain 
 Softly  sings  of  mental  pain, 
 And  maurnful  diapasons  sail 
 On  the  faintly-dying  gale. 
 
 6 
 
309 
 
 But,  ah  !   the  soothing  scene  is  o'er  ! 
 
 On  middle  flight  we  cease  to  soar. 
 For  now  the  muse  assumes  a  bolder  sweep, 
 Strikes  on  the  lyric  string  her  sorrows  deep, 
 
 In  strains  unheard  before. 
 Now,  now  the  rising  fire  thrills  high, 
 Now,  now  to  heav'n's  high  realms  we  fly. 
 
 And  every  throne  explore  ; 
 The  soul  entranc'd,  on  mighty  wings 
 With  all  the  poet's  heat  up  springs, 
 
 And  loses  earthly  woes  ; 
 Till  all  alarm'd  at  the  giddy  height, 
 The  Muse  descends  on  gentler  flight, 
 
 And  lulls  the  wearied  soul  to  soft  repose, 
 
 TO   THE   MUSE. 
 
 WRITTEN    AT    THE    AGE    OF    FOURTEEN. 
 I. 
 
 Ill-fated  maid,  in  whose  unhappy  train 
 Chill  poverty  and  misery  are  seen. 
 
 Anguish  and  discontent,  the  unhappy  bane 
 Of  life,  and  blackener  of  each  brighter  scene. 
 
 Why  to  thy  votaries  dost  thou  give  to  feel 
 So  keenly  all  the  scorns  —  the  jeers  of  life  ? 
 Why  not  endow  them  to  endure  the  strife 
 
 With  apathy's  invulnerable  steel. 
 
 Of  self-content  and  ease,  each  torturing  wound  to  heah 
 X  5 
 
310 
 II. 
 
 Ah  !  who  would  taste  your  self-deluding  joys, 
 That  lure  the  unwary  to  a  wretched  doom, 
 
 That  bid  fair  views  and  flattering  hopes  arise^ 
 Then  hurl  them  headlong  to  a  lasting  tomb  ? 
 
 What  is  the  charm  which  leads  thy  victims  on 
 To  persevere  in  paths  that  lead  to  woe  ? 
 What  can  induce  them  in  that  route  to  go. 
 
 In  which  innumerous  before  have  gone, 
 
 And  died  in  misery,  poor  and  woe-begone. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet  can  I  ask  what  charms  in  thee  are  found ; 
 I,  who  have  drank  from  thine  ethereal  rill. 
 
 And  tasted  all  the  pleasures  that  abound 
 Upon  Parnassus'  lov'd  Aonian  hill  ? 
 
 I,  through  whose  soul  the  Muses'  strains  aye  thrill ! 
 Oh  !    I  do  feel  the  spell  with  which  I'm  tied ; 
 
 And  though  our  annals  fearful  stories  tell, 
 How  Savage  languish'd,  and  how  Otway  died, 
 Yet  must  I  persevere,  let  whate'er  will  betide. 
 
311 
 
 TO  LOVE. 
 
 I. 
 
 Why  should  I  blush  to  own  I  love  ? 
 'Tis  Love  that  rules  the  realms  above. 
 Why  should  I  blush  to  say  to  all, 
 That  Virtue  holds  my  heart  in  thrall  ? 
 
 IL 
 
 Why  should  I  seek  the  thickest  shade, 
 Lest  Love's  dear  secret  be  betray'd  ? 
 Why  the  stern  brow  deceitful  move, 
 When  I  am  languishing  with  love  ? 
 
 in. 
 
 Is  it  weakness  thus  to  dwell 
 On  passion  that  I  dare  not  tell  ? 
 Such  weakness  I  would  ever  prove : 
 'Tis  painful,  though  'tis  sweet,  to  love. 
 
 X  4 
 
312 
 
 THE  WANDERING  BOY. 
 
 A  SONG. 
 I. 
 
 When  the  winter  wind  whistles  along  the  wild  moor, 
 And  the  cottager  shuts  on  the  beggar  his  door  ; 
 When  the  chilling  tear  stands  in  my  comfortless  eye, 
 Oh,  how  hard  is  the  lot  of  the  W^andering  Boy  ! 
 
 II. 
 
 The  winter  is  cold,  and  I  have  no  vest. 
 And  my  heart  it  is  cold  as  it  beats  in  my  breast  ; 
 No  father,  no  mother,  no  kindred  have  I, 
 For  I  am  a  parentless  Wandering  Boy. 
 
 III. 
 
 Yet  I  had  a  home,  and  I  once  had  a  sire, 
 A  mother  who  granted  each  infant  desire ; 
 Our  cottage  it  stood  in  a  wood-embower'd  vale, 
 WTiere  the  ring-dove  would  warble  its  sorrowful  taJe. 
 
 IV, 
 
 But  my  father  and  mother  were  summon'd  away, 
 And  they  left  me  to  hard-hearted  strangers  a  prey ; 
 I  fled  from  their  rigour  with  many  a  sigh. 
 And  now  I'm  a  poor  little  W^andering  Boy. 
 
313 
 
 The  wind  it  is  keen,  and  the  snow  loads  the  gale. 
 And  no  one  will  list  to  my  innocent  tale ; 
 I'll  go  to  the  grave  where  my  parents  both  lie, 
 And  death  shall  befriend  the  poor  Wandering  Boy. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 The  western  gale, 
 
 Mild  as  the  kisses  of  connubial  love, 
 
 Plays  romid  my  languid  limbs,  as  all  dissolv'd, 
 
 Beneath  the  ancient  elm's  fantastic  shade 
 
 I  lie,  exhausted  with  the  noontide  heat : 
 
 While  rippling  o'er  his  deep-worn  pebble  bed. 
 
 The  rapid  rivulet  rushes  at  my  feet, 
 
 Dispensing  coolness.  —  On  the  fringed  marge 
 
 Full  many  a  flow'ret  rears  its  head,  —  or  pink, 
 
 Or  gaudy  daffodil.  —  'Tis  here,  at  noon. 
 
 The  buskin'd  wood-nymphs  from,  the  heat  retire, 
 
 And  lave  them  in  the  fountain ;  here  secure 
 
 From  Pan,  or  savage  satyr,  they  disport ; 
 
 Or  stretch'd  supinely  on  the  velvet  turf, 
 
 Lull'd  by  the  laden  bee,  or  sultry  fly, 
 
 Invoke  the  God  of  slumber.     *     *     * 
 
314 
 
 And,  hark  !  how  merrily,  from  distant  towV, 
 Ring  round  the  village  bells  !  now  on  the  gale 
 They  rise  with  gradual  swell,  distinct  and  loud : 
 Anon  they  die  upon  the  pensive  ear, 
 Melting  in  faintest  music.  —  They  bespeak 
 A  day  of  jubilee,  and  oft  they  bear, 
 Commixt  along  the  unfi'equented  shore, 
 The  sound  of  village  dance  and  tabor  loud. 
 Startling  the  musing  ear  of  Solitude. 
 
 Such  is  the  jocund  wake  of  Whitsuntide, 
 When  happy  Superstition,  gabbling  eld  ! 
 Holds  her  unhurtful  gambols.  —  All  the  day 
 The  rustic  revellers  ply  the  mazy  dance 
 On  the  smooth-shaven  green,  and  then  at  eve 
 Commence  the  harmless  rites  and  auguries ; 
 And  many  a  tale  of  ancient  days  goes  round. 
 They  tell  of  wizard  seer,  whose  potent  spells 
 Could  hold  in  dreadful  thrall  the  labouring  moon. 
 Or  draw  the  fix'd  stars  from  their  eminence, 
 And  still  the  midnight  tempest.  —  Then  anon 
 Tell  of  uncharnell'd  spectres,  seen  to  glide 
 Along  the  lone  wood's  unfrequented  path. 
 Startling  the  'nighted  traveller ;  while  the  sound 
 Of  undistinguish'd  murmurs,  heard  to  come 
 From  the  dark  centre  of  the  deep'ning  glen, 
 Struck  on  his  frozen  ear. 
 
 Oh,  Ignorance  ! 
 Thou  art  fall'n  man's  V)est  friend  !     With  thee  he  ^peed& 
 
31 
 
 111  frigid  apathy  along  his  way, 
 
 And  never  does  the  tear  of  agony 
 
 Burn  down  his  scorching  cheek ;  or  the  keen  steel 
 
 Of  wounded  feeling  penetrate  his  breast. 
 
 E'en  now,  as  leaning  on  this  fragrant  bank, 
 
 I  taste  of  all  the  keener  happiness 
 
 Which  sense  refin'd  affords  —  Ev'n  now  my  heart 
 
 Would  fain  induce  me  to  forsake  the  world, 
 
 Throw  off  these  garments,  and  in  shepherd's  weeds, 
 
 With  a  small  flock,  and  short  suspended  reed, 
 
 To  sojourn  in  the  woodland.  —  Then  my  thought 
 
 Draws  such  gay  pictures  of  ideal  bliss. 
 
 That  I  could  almost  err  in  reason's  spite, 
 
 And  trespass  on  my  judgment. 
 
 Such  is  life : 
 The  distant  prospect  aWays  seems  more  fair. 
 And  when  attain'd,  another  still  succeeds, 
 Far  fairer  than  before,  —  yet  compass'd  round 
 With  the  same  dangers,  and  the  same  dismay. 
 And  we  poor  pilgrims  in  this  dreary  maze. 
 Still  discontented,  chase  the  fairy  form 
 Of  unsubstantial  Happiness,  to  find. 
 When  life  itself  is  sinking  in  the  strife, 
 'Tis  but  an  airy  bubble  and  a  cheat. 
 
316 
 
 ODE, 
 
 WRITTEN    ON    WHIT-MONDAY. 
 
 Hark  !  how  the  merry  bells  ring  jocund  roundj 
 And  now  they  die  upon  the  veering  breeze , 
 
 Anon  they  thunder  loud 
 
 Full  on  the  musing  ear. 
 
 Wafted  in  varying  cadence,  by  the  shore 
 Of  the  still  twinkling  river,  they  bespeak 
 
 A  day  of  Jubilee, 
 
 An  ancient  holiday. 
 
 And,  lo  !   the  rural  revels  are  begun. 
 And  gaily  echoing  to  the  laughing  sky, 
 On  the  smooth-shaven  green. 
 Resounds  the  voice  of  Mirth. 
 
 Alas  !  regardless  of  the  tongue  of  Fate, 
 That  tells  them  'tis  but  as  an  hour  since  they, 
 Who  now  are  in  their  graves, 
 Kept  up  the  Whitsun  dance. 
 
31 
 
 And  that  another  hour,  and  they  must  fall 
 Like  those  who  went  before,  and  sleep  as  still 
 
 Beneath  the  silent  sod, 
 
 A  cold  and  cheerless  sleep. 
 
 Yet  why  should  thoughts  like  these  intrude  to  scare 
 The  vagrant  Happiness,  when  she  will  deign 
 
 To  smile  upon  us  here, 
 
 A  transient  visitor  ? 
 
 Mortals  !  be  gladsome  while  ye  liave  the  power, 
 And  laugh  and  seize  the  glittering  lapse  of  joy ; 
 
 In  time  the  bell  will  toll 
 
 That  wai'ns  ye  to  your  graves. 
 
 I  to  the  woodland  solitude  will  bend 
 
 My  lonesome  way  —  where  Mirth's  obstreperous  shout 
 
 Shall  not  intrude  to  break 
 
 The  meditative  hour. 
 
 There  will  I  ponder  on  the  state  of  man, 
 Joyless  and  sad  of  heart,  and  consecrate 
 
 This  day  of  jubilee 
 
 To  sad  reflection's  shrine ; 
 
 And  I  will  cast  my  fond  eye  far  beyond 
 This  world  of  care,  to  where  the  steeple  loud 
 Shall  rock  above  the  sod, 
 .     Where  I  shall  sleep  in  peace. 
 
318 
 
 CANZONET. 
 
 I. 
 
 Maiden  !  wrap  thy  mantle  round  thee, 
 
 Cold  the  rain  beats  on  thy  breast : 
 Why  should  Horror's  voice  astound  thee  ? 
 Death  can  bid  the  wretched  rest ! 
 All  under  the  tree 
 Thy  bed  may  be. 
 And  thou  mayst  slumber  peacefully. 
 
 II. 
 
 Maiden  !   once  gay  Pleasure  knew  thee ; 
 
 Now  thy  cheeks  are  pale  and  deep : 
 Love  has  been  a  felon  to  thee, 
 Yet,  poor  maiden,  do  not  weep  : 
 There's  rest  for  thee 
 All  under  the  tree, 
 Where  thou  wilt  sleep  most  peacefully. 
 
 COMMENCEMENT    OF    A    POEM 
 
 ON  DESPAIR. 
 
 Some  to  Aonian  lyres  of  silver  sound 
 With  winning  elegance  attune  their  song, 
 Form'd  to  sink  lightly  on  the  soothed  sense. 
 And  chann  the  soul  with  softest  harmony  : 
 
319 
 
 'Tis  then  that  Hope  with  sanguine  eye  is  seen 
 
 Roving  through  Fancy's  gay  futurity ; 
 
 Her  heart  hght  dancing  to  the  sounds  of  pleasure, 
 
 Pleasure  of  days  to  come.  —  Memory,  too,  then 
 
 Comes  with  her  sister.  Melancholy  sad. 
 
 Pensively  musing  on  the  scenes  of  youth, 
 
 Scenes  never  to  return.  * 
 
 Such  subjects  merit  poets  us'd  to  raise 
 
 The  attic  verse  harmonious  ;  but  for  me 
 
 A  dreadlier  theme  demands  my  backward  hand, 
 
 And  bids  me  strike  the  strings  of  dissonance 
 
 With  frantic  energy. 
 
 'Tis  wan  Despair  I  sing ;  if  sing  I  can 
 
 Of  him  before  whose  blast  the  voice  of  Song, 
 
 And  Mirth,  and  Hope,  and  Happiness  all  fly, 
 
 Nor  ever  dare  return.     His  notes  are  heard 
 
 At  noon  of  night,  where  on  the  coast  of  blood. 
 
 The  lacerated  son  of  Angola 
 
 Howls  forth  his  sufferings  to  the  moaning  wind ; 
 
 And,  when  the  awful  silence  of  the  night 
 
 Strikes  the  chill  death-dew  to  the  murd'rer's  heart, 
 
 He  speaks  in  every  conscience-prompted  word 
 
 Half  utter'd,  half  suppress'd  — 
 
 'Tis  him  I  sing  —  Despair  —  terrific  name, 
 
 Striking  unsteadily  the  tremulous  chord 
 
 Of  timorous  terror  —  discord  in  the  sound : 
 
 For  to  a  theme  revolting  as  is  this. 
 
 *  Alluding  to  the  two  pleasino;  poems,  the  Pleasures  of  Hope  and  of 
 Memory. 
 
o>; 
 
 20 
 
 Dare  not  I  woo  tlie  maids  of  harmony, 
 Who  love  to  sit  and  catch  the  sootliing  sound 
 Of  lyre  aliolian,  or  the  martial  bugle, 
 Calling  the  hero  to  the  field  of  glory, 
 And  firing  him  with  deeds  of  high  emprise, 
 And  warlike  triumph  :  but  from  scenes  like  mine 
 Shrink  they  affrighted,  and  detest  the  bard 
 Who  dares  to  sound  the  hollow  tones  of  horror. 
 
 Hence,  then,  soft  maids, 
 And  woo  the  silken  zephyr  in  the  bowers 
 By  Heliconia's  sleep-inviting  stream  : 
 For  aid  hke  yours  I  seek  not ;  'tis  for  powers 
 Of  darker  hue  to  inspire  a  verse  like  mine  ! 
 'Tis  work  for  wizards,  sorcerers,  and  fiends  ! 
 
 Hither,  ye  furious  imps  of  Acheron, 
 Nurslings  of  hell,  and  beings  shunning  light, 
 And  all  the  myriads  of  the  burning  concave ; 
 Souls  of  the  damned  :  —  Hither,  oh  !   come  and  join 
 Th'  infernal  chorus.     'Tis  Despair  1  sing  ! 
 He,  whose  sole  tooth  inflicts  a  deadlier  pang 
 Than  all  your  tortures  join'd.     Sing,  sing  Despair  I 
 Repeat  the  sound,  and  celebrate  his  power ; 
 Unite  shouts,  screams,  and  agonizing  shrieks, 
 Till  the  loud  peean  ring  through  hell's  high  vault. 
 And  the  remotest  spirits  of  the  deep 
 Leap  from  the  lake,  and  join  the  dreadful  song. 
 
321 
 TO  THE  WIND, 
 
 AT   MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Not  unfamiliar  to  mine  ear, 
 
 Blasts  of  the  night !  ye  howl  as  now 
 
 My  shudd'ring  casement  loud 
 With  fitful  force  ye  beat. 
 
 Mine  ear  has  dwelt  in  silent  awe. 
 The  howling  sweep,  the  sudden  rush ; 
 And  when  the  passing  gale 
 Pour'd  deep  the  hollow  dirge. 
 
 THE  EVE  OF  DEATH.  ^ 
 
 IRREGULAR. 
 I. 
 
 Silence  of  Death  —  portentous  calm, 
 
 Those  airy  forms  that  yonder  fly, 
 Denote  that  your  void  fore-runs  a  storm. 
 
 That  the  hour  of  fate  is  nigh. 
 I  see,  I  see,  on  the  dim  mist  borne. 
 
 The  Spirit  of  battles  rear  his  crest ! 
 I  see,  I  see,  that  ere  the  morn. 
 
 His  spear  will  forsake  its  hated  rest. 
 And  the  widow'd  wife  of  Larrendill  will  beat  her  naked 
 breast. 
 
 VOL.  I.  Y 
 
322 
 11. 
 
 O'er  the  smooth  bosom  of  the  sullen  deep. 
 
 No  softly  ruffling  zephyrs  fly  ; 
 But  Nature  sleeps  a  deathless  sleep, 
 
 For  the  hour  of  battle  is  nigh. 
 Not  a  loose  leaf  waves  on  the  dusky  oak, 
 
 But  a  creeping  stillness  reigns  around ; 
 Except  when  the  raven,  with  ominous  croak. 
 
 On  the  ear  does  unwelcomely  sound. 
 I  know,  I  know,  what  this  silence  means ; 
 
 I  know  what  the  raven  saith  — 
 Strike,  oh,  ye  bards  I  the  melancholy  harp. 
 
 For  this  is  the  eve  of  death. 
 
 III. 
 
 Behold,  how  along  the  twilight  air 
 
 The  shades  of  our  fathers  glide  ! 
 There  Morven  fled,  with  the  blood-drench'd  hair. 
 
 And  Colma  with  grey  side. 
 No  gale  around  its  coolness  flings. 
 
 Yet  sadly  sigh  the  gloomy  trees ; 
 And,  hark  !  how  the  harp's  unvisited  strings 
 
 Sound  sweet,  as  if  swept  by  a  whispering  breeze  ! 
 'Tis  done  !  the  sun  he  has  set  in  blood  ! 
 
 He  will  never  set  more  to  the  brave ; 
 Let  us  pour  to  the  hero  the  dirge  of  death  — 
 
 For  to-morrow  he  hies  to  the  grave. 
 
mz 
 
 THANATOS. 
 
 Oh  !  who  would  cherish  Hfe, 
 And  cHng  unto  this  heavy  clog  of  clay. 
 
 Love  this  rude  world  of  strife, 
 Where  glooms  and  tempests  cloud  the  fairest  day ; 
 And  where,  'neath  outward  smiles, 
 Conceal'd,  the  snake  lies  feeding  on  its  prey, 
 Where  pit-falls  lie  in  ev'ry  flowery  way, 
 
 And  syrens  lure  the  wanderer  to  their  wiles  ! 
 Hateful  it  is  to  me. 
 Its  riotous  railings  and  revengeful  strife ; 
 
 I'm  tir'd  with  all  its  screams  and  brutal  shouts 
 Dinning  the  ear ;  —  away  —  away  with  life  ! 
 And  welcome,  oh  !   thou  silent  maid. 
 Who  in  some  foggy  vault  art  laid, 
 WTiere  never  day-light's  dazzling  ray 
 Comes  to  disturb  thy  dismal  sway ; 
 And  there  amid  unwholesome  damps  dost  sleep. 
 In  such  forgetful  slumbers  deep, 
 That  all  thy  senses  stupified, 
 Are  to  marble  petrified. 
 Sleepy  Death,  I  welcome  thee  I 
 Sweet  are  thy  calms  to  misery. 
 Poppies  I  will  ask  no  more, 
 Nor  the  fatal  hellebore ; 
 Death  is  the  best,  the  only  cure, 
 His  are  slumbers  ever  sure. 
 Lay  me  in  the  Gothic  tomb, 
 In  whose  solemn  fretted  gloom 
 Y  2 
 
324 
 
 I  may  lie  in  mouldering  state, 
 
 With  all  the  grandeur  of  the  great  : 
 
 Over  me,  magnificent, 
 
 Carve  a  stately  monument : 
 
 Then  thereon  my  statue  lay. 
 
 With  hands  in  attitude  to  pray, 
 
 And  angels  serve  to  hold  my  head, 
 
 Weeping  o'er  the  father  dead. 
 
 Duly  too  at  close  of  day. 
 
 Let  the  pealing  organ  play ; 
 
 And  while  the  harmonious  thunders  roll, 
 
 Chaunt  a  vesper  to  my  soul : 
 
 Thus  how  sweet  my  sleep  will  be. 
 
 Shut  out  from  thoughtful  misery  ! 
 
 ATHANATOS. 
 
 Away  with  Death  —  away 
 With  all  her  sluggish  sleeps  and  chilling  damps. 
 
 Impervious  to  the  day. 
 Where  Nature  sinks  into  inanity. 
 
 How  can  the  soul  desire       * 
 Such  hateful  nothingness  to  crave, 
 And  yield  with  joy  the  vital  fire. 
 To'  moulder  in  the  grave  ! 
 
 Yet  mortal  life  is  sad. 
 Eternal  storms  molest  its  sullen  sky ; 
 
 And  sorrows  ever  rife 
 Drain  the  sacred  fountain  dry  — 
 Away  with  mortal  life  ! 
 
325 
 
 But,  hail  the  calm  reality, 
 
 The  seraph  Immortality  ! 
 
 Hail  the  Heavenly  bowers  of  peace  ! 
 
 Where  all  the  storms  of  passion  cease. 
 
 Wild  Life's  dismaying  struggle  o'er, 
 
 The  wearied  spirit  weeps  no  more ; 
 
 But  wears  the  eternal  smile  of  joy, 
 
 Tasting  bliss  without  alloy. 
 
 Welcome,  welcome,  happy  bowers. 
 
 Where  no  passing  tempest  lowers ; 
 
 But  the  azure  heavens  display 
 
 The  everlasting  smile  of  day ; 
 
 Where  the  choral  seraph  choir. 
 
 Strike  to  praise  the  harmonious  lyre ; 
 
 And  the  spirit  sinks  to  ease, 
 
 Luird  by  distant  symphonies. 
 
 Oh  !  to  think  of  meeting  there 
 
 The  friends  whose  graves  received  our  tear, 
 
 The  daughter  lov'd,  the  wife  ador'd. 
 
 To  our  widow'd  arms  restor'd ; 
 
 And  all  the  joys  which  death  did  sever, 
 
 Given  to  us  again  for  ever  ! 
 
 Who  would  cling  to  wretched  life. 
 
 And  hug  the  poison'd  thorn  of  strife  ; 
 
 Who  would  not  long  from  earth  to  fly, 
 
 A  sluggish  senseless  lump  to  lie. 
 
 When  the  glorious  prospect  lies 
 
 Full  before  his  raptur'd  eyes  ? 
 
326 
 
 MUSIC. 
 
 Written  between  the  Ages  of  Fourteen  and  Fifteen,  with  a  few 
 subsequent  verbal  .\lterations. 
 
 Music,  all  powerful  o'er  the  human  mind, 
 
 Can  still  each  mental  storm,  each  tumult  calm. 
 
 Sooth  anxious  Care  on  sleepless  couch  reclin'd, 
 And  e'en  fierce  Anger's  furious  rage  disarm. 
 
 At  her  command  the  various  passions  lie ; 
 
 She  stirs  to  battle,  or  she  lulls  to  peace ; 
 Melts  tlie  charm'd  soul  to  thrilling  ecstacy, 
 
 And  bids  the  jarnng  world's  harsh  clangour  cease. 
 
 Her  martial  sounds  can  fainting  troops  inspire 
 With  strength  unwonted,  and  enthusiasm  raise ; 
 
 Infuse  new  ardour,  and  with  youthful  fire 
 
 Urge  on  the  warrior  grey  with  length  of  days. 
 
 Far  better  she  when  with  her  soothing  lyre 
 
 She  charms  the  falchion  from  the  savage  grasp. 
 
 And  melting  into  pity  vengeful  Ire, 
 
 Looses  the  bloody  breast-plate's  iron  clasp. 
 
 With  her  in  pensive  mood  I  long  to  roam. 
 At  midnight's  hour,  or  evening's  calm  decline. 
 
 And  thoughtful  o'er  the  falling  streamlet's  foam. 
 In  calm  Seclusion's  hermit-walks  recline. 
 
327 
 
 Whilst  mellow  sounds  from  distant  copse  arise, 
 Of  softest  flute  or  reeds  harmonic  join'd, 
 
 With  rapture  thrill'd  each  worldly  passion  dies. 
 And  pleas'd  Attention  claims  the  passive  mind. 
 
 Soft  through  the  dell  the  dying  strains  retire, 
 Then  burst  majestic  in  the  varied  swell; 
 
 Now  breathe  melodious  as  the  Grecian  lyre, 
 Or  on  the  ear  in  sinking  cadence  dwell. 
 
 Romantic  sounds  !  such  is  the  bliss  ye  give, 
 
 That  heaven's  bright  scenes  seem  bursting  on  the  soulj 
 
 With  joy  I'd  yield  each  sensual  wish,  to  live 
 For  ever  'neath  your  undefil'd  control. 
 
 Oh  !  surely  melody  from  heaven'was  sent. 
 
 To  cheer  the  soul  when  tir'd  with  human  strife. 
 
 To  sooth  the  wayward  heart  by  sorrow  rent. 
 And  soften  down  the  rugged  road  of  life. 
 
 Y  4 
 
328 
 
 ODE, 
 
 TO   THE    HARVEST   MOOK. 
 
 Cum  ruit  imbriferum  ver : 
 
 Spicea  jam  campis  cum  messis  inhorruit,  et  cum 
 Frumenta  in  viridi  stipula  lactentia  turgent : 
 
 Cuncta  tibi  Cererem  pubes  agrestis  adoret. 
 
 Virgil. 
 
 Moon  of  Harvest,  herald  mild 
 Of  plenty,  rustic  labour's  child. 
 Hail  !  oh  hail !    I  greet  thy  beam. 
 As  soft  it  trembles  o'er  the  stream. 
 And  gilds  the  straw-thatch' d  hamlet  wide. 
 Where  Innocence  and  Peace  reside : 
 'Tis  thou  that  glad'st  with  joy  the  rustic  throng. 
 Promptest  the  tripping  dance,  th'  exhilarating  song. 
 
 Moon  of  Harvest,  I  do  love 
 
 O'er  the  uplands  now  to  rove, 
 
 While  thy  modest  ray  serene 
 
 Gilds  the  wide  surrounding  scene  r 
 
 And  to  watch  thee  riding  high 
 
 In  the  blue  vault  of  the  sky, 
 Where  no  thin  vapour  intercepts  thy  ray, 
 But  in  unclouded  majesty  thou  walkest  on  thy  way. 
 
329 
 
 Pleasing  'tis,  oh  !   modest  Moon  ! 
 Now  the  Night  is  at  her  noon, 
 'Neath  thy  sway  to  musing  lie, 
 While  around  the  zephyrs  sigh. 
 Fanning  soft  the  sun-tann'd  wheat, 
 Ripen'd  by  the  summer's  heat ; 
 Picturing  all  the  rustic's  joy 
 When  boundless  plenty  greets  his  eye. 
 
 And  thinking  soon. 
 
 Oh,  modest  Moon  ! 
 How  many  a  female  eye  will  roam 
 
 Along  the  road, 
 
 To  see  the  load. 
 The  last  dear  load  of  harvest-home. 
 
 Storms  and  tempests,  floods  and  rains, 
 
 Stern  despoilers  of  the  plains, 
 
 Hence  away,  the  season  flee. 
 
 Foes  to  light-heart  jollity : 
 
 May  no  winds  careering  high, 
 
 Drive  the  clouds  along  the  sky. 
 But  may  all  nature  smile  with  aspect  boon, 
 When  in  the  heavens  thou  show'st  thy  face,  oh.  Harvest 
 Moon  ! 
 
 'Neath  yon  lowly  roof  he  lies. 
 The  husbandman,  with  sleep-seal'd  eyes ; 
 He  dreams  of  crowded  barns,  and  round 
 The  yard  he  hears  the  flail  resound  j 
 
330 
 
 Oh  !    may  no  hurricane  destroy 
 
 His  visionary  views  of  joy  ! 
 God  of  the  Winds  !   oh,  hear  his  humble  pray'r, 
 And  while  the   moon    of    harvest   shines,  thy   blustering 
 whirlwind  spare. 
 
 Sons  of  luxury,  to  you 
 
 Leave  I  Sleep's  dull  pow'r  to  woo : 
 
 Press  ye  still  the  downy  bed, 
 
 While  fev'rish  dreams  surround  your  head ; 
 
 I  will  seek  the  woodland  glade. 
 
 Penetrate  the  thickest  shade, 
 
 Wrapt  in  Contemplation's  dreams, 
 
 Musing  high  on  holy  themes, 
 
 While  on  the  gale 
 
 Shall  softly  sail 
 The  nightingale's  enchanting  tune, 
 
 And  oft  my  eyes 
 
 Shall  grateful  rise 
 To  thee,  the  modest  Harvest  Moon  ! 
 
331 
 SONG. 
 
 WRITTEN  AT  THE  AGE  OF  FOURTEEN. 
 I. 
 
 Softly,  softly  blow,  ye  breezes, 
 
 Gently  o'er  my  Edwy  fly  ! 
 Lo  !  he  slumbers,  slumbers  sweetly ; 
 Softly,  zephyrs,  pass  him  by  ! 
 My  love  is  asleep. 
 He  lies  by  the  deep, 
 All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 
 
 II. 
 
 I  have  covered  him  with  rushes, 
 
 Water-flags,  and  branches  dry. 
 Edwy,  long  have  been  thy  slumbers ; 
 Edwy,  Edwy,  ope  thine  eye  ! 
 My  love  is  asleep, 
 He  lies  by  the  deep, 
 All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 
 
 IIL 
 
 Still  he  sleeps ;  he  will  not  waken, 
 
 Fastly  closed  is  his  eye ; 
 Paler  is  his  cheek,  and  chiller 
 Than  the  icy  moon  on  high. 
 Alas  !  he  is  dead, 
 He  has  chose  his  death-bed 
 All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 
 
QC2C 
 
 32 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is  it,  is  it  so,  my  Edwy  ? 
 
 Will  thy  slumbers  never  fly  ? 
 Could'st  thou  think  I  would  survive  thee  ? 
 No,  my  love,  thou  bid'st  me  die. 
 Thou  bid'st  me  seek 
 Thy  death-bed  bleak 
 All  along  where  the  salt  waves  sigh. 
 
 V. 
 
 I  will  gently  kiss  thy  cold  lips, 
 
 On  thy  breast  I'll  lay  my  head, 
 And  the  whids  shall  sing  our  death-dirge. 
 And  our  shroud  the  waters  spread ;      . 
 The  moon  will  smile  sweet, 
 And  the  wild  wave  will  beat, 
 Oh  !  so  softly  o'er  our  lonely  bed. 
 
3?''^' 
 
 JO 
 
 THE  SHIPWRECKED  SOLITARY'S  SONG 
 TO  THE  NIGHT. 
 
 Thou,  spirit  of  the  spangled  night ! 
 I  woo  thee  from  the  watch-tow'r  high, 
 Where  thou  dost  sit  to  guide  the  bark 
 Of  lonely  mariner. 
 
 The  winds  are  whistling  o'er  the  wolds, 
 The  distant  main  is  moaning  low ; 
 Come,  let  us  sit  and  weave  a  song  — 
 A  melancholy  song  ! 
 
 Sweet  is  the  scented  gale  of  morn. 
 And  sweet  the  noontide's  fervid  beam, 
 But  sweeter  far  the  solemn  calm, 
 
 That  marks  thy  mournful  reign. 
 
 I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year, 
 And  never  human  voice  have  heard ; 
 I've  pass'd  here  many  a  lonely  year 
 A  soUtary  man. 
 
 And  I  have  linger'd  in  the  shade, 
 From  sultry  noon's  hot  beam ;  and  I 
 Have  knelt  before  my  wicker  door, 
 
 To  sing  my  ev'ning  song. 
 
334 
 
 And  I  have  hail'd  the  grey  morn  high, 
 On  the  blue  mountain's  misty  brow, 
 And  tried  to  tune  my  httle  reed 
 
 To  hymns  of  harmony. 
 
 But  never  could  I  tune  my  reed, 
 At  morn,  or  noon,  or  eve,  so  sweet, 
 As  when  upon  the  ocean  shore 
 
 I  hail'd  thy  star-beam  mild. 
 
 The  day-spring  brings  not  joy  to  me, 
 The  moon  it  whispers  not  of  peace  ; 
 But  oh  !  when  darkness  robes  the  heav'ns, 
 My  woes  are  mix'd  with  joy. 
 
 And  then  I  talk,  and  often  think 
 Aerial  voices  answer  me ; 
 And  oh  !  I  am  not  then  alone  — 
 A  solitary  man. 
 
 And  when  the  blust'ring  winter  winds 
 Howl  in  the  woods  that  clothe  my  cave, 
 I  lay  me  on  my  lonely  mat. 
 
 And  pleasant  are  my  dreams. 
 
 And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  wife ; 
 And  Fancy  gives  me  back  my  child ; 
 She  gives  me  back  my  little  home. 
 
 And  all  its  placid  joys. 
 
335 
 
 Then  hateful  is  the  morning  hour, 
 That  calls  me  from  the  dream  of  bliss, 
 To  find  myself  still  lone,  and  hear 
 
 The  same  dull  sounds  again. 
 
 The  deep-ton'd  winds,  the  moaning  sea, 
 The  whisp'ring  of  the  boding  trees. 
 The  brook's  eternal  flow,  and  oft 
 
 The  Condor's  hollow  scream, 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 Sweet  to  the  gay  of  heart  is  Summer's  smile, 
 
 Sweet  the  wild  music  of  the  laughing  Spring  ; 
 But  ah  !  my  soul  far  other  scenes  beguile. 
 
 Where  gloomy  storms  their  sullen  shadows  fling. 
 Is  it  for  me  to  strike  the  Idalian  string  — 
 
 Raise  the  soft  music  of  the  warbling  wire, 
 While  in  my  ears  the  howls  of  fairies  ring. 
 
 And  melancholy  wastes  the  vital  fire  ? 
 
336 
 
 Away  with  thoughts  like  these  —  To  some  lone  cave 
 Where  howls  the  shrill  blast,  and  where  sweeps  the  wave, 
 
 Direct  my  steps ;  there,  in  the  lonely  drear, 
 I'll  sit  remote  from  worldly  noise,  and  muse 
 Till  through  my  soul  shall  Peace  her  balm  infuse. 
 
 And  whisper  sounds  of  comfort  in  mine  ear. 
 
 END    OF    THE    FIRST    VOLUME. 
 
 Printed  by  A.  and  II.  Spottiswoodp, 
 Piinters-5}treet,  London. 
 
THK 
 
 REMAINS 
 
 OF 
 
 HENRY    KIRKE    WHITE, 
 
 OF  NOTTINGHAM, 
 
 LATE  OF  ST.  JOHN'S  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE, 
 WITH    AN    ACCOUNT    OF    HIS 
 
 LIFE, 
 
 BY    ROBERT    SOUTHEY. 
 
 IN    TWO   VOLUMES. 
 
 VOL.  11. 
 
 THE    NINTH   EDITION. 
 
 LONDON : 
 
 PRINTED    FOR 
 
 LONGMAN,  HURST,  REES,  ORME,  AND   BROWN, 
 
 FATERNOSTER-BOW. 
 
 182L 
 
Printed  by  A.  and  R.  Spottiswoodc, 
 Printers- Street,  London. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE   SEC(3ND   VOLUME. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Original  Preface  to  Clifton  Grove    5 
 
 To  my  Lyre * 9 
 
 Clifton  Grove H 
 
 Gondoline,  a  Ballad   * ^^ 
 
 Written  on  a  Survey  of  the  Heavens,  in  the  Morning  before  Day- 
 break     43 
 
 Lines  supposed  to  be  spoken  by  a  Lover  at  the  Grave  of  his  Mis- 
 tress  ••  46 
 
 My  Study    48 
 
 To  an  early  Primrose      52 
 
 Sonnet  1.    To  the  Trent    53 
 
 2.  Give  me  a  Cottage  on  some  Cambrian  Wild 53 
 
 3.  Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  Female  Lunatic 
 
 to  a  Lady    54 
 
 4.  In  the  Character  of  Dermody    55 
 
 5.  The  Winter  Traveller 56 
 
 6.   By  Capel  Lofft,  Esq 57 
 
 7.  Recantatory  in  Reply  58 
 
 8.   On  hearing  an  yEolian  Harp   58 
 
 9.  "  What  art  thou,  Mighty  One  ?" 59 
 
 «  Be  hush'd,  be  hush' d,  ye  bitter  Winds"    60 
 
 The  Lullaby  of  a  Female  Convict  to  her  Child   63 
 
 A   2 
 
IV  CONTENTS. 
 
 POEMS  WRITTEN    DURING  OR  SHORTLY  AFTER  THE 
 PUBLICATION  OF  CLIFTON  GROVE. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ode  to  H.  Fuseli,  Esq.  R.  A 65 
 
 to  the  Earl  of  Carlisle 69 
 
 Description  of  a  Summer's  Eve "^1 
 
 To  Contemplation "5 
 
 To  the  Genius  of  Romance.     Fragment 79 
 
 The  Savoyard's  Return 80 
 
 «*  Go  to  the  raging  Sea,  and  say,  Be  still  !"     8- 
 
 Written  in  the  Prospect  of  Death    84 
 
 Pastoral  Song,  "  Come,  Anna,  come" 86 
 
 Verses « 87 
 
 Epigram  on  Robert  Bloomfield 88 
 
 To  Midnight  89 
 
 To  Thought.     Written  at  Midnight     90 
 
 Genius      92 
 
 Fragment  of  an  Ode  to  the  Moon    96 
 
 "  Loud  rage  the  Winds  without"    98 
 
 «0h,  thou  most  fotal  of  Pandora's  Train"    99 
 
 Sonnet.    To  Capel  Loffi,  Esq 103 
 
 To  the  Moon 104 
 
 Written  at  the  Grave  of  a  Friend 105 
 
 To  Misfortune    106 
 
 "  As  thus  oppressed  with  many  a  heavy  Care"     107 
 
 To  April  108 
 
 «  Ye  unseen  Spirits" 109 
 
 To  a  Taper 110 
 
 To  my  Mother    Hi 
 
 "  Yes  'twill  be  over  soon"    112 
 
CONTENTS.  V 
 
 PAGf. 
 
 Sonnet.     To  Consumption    113 
 
 «  Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just"    114 
 
 POEMS  OF  A  LATER  DATE. 
 
 To  a  Friend   in  Distress,   who,   when  Henry  reasoned  with  him 
 
 cahnly,  asked.  If  he  did  not  feel  for  him?    117 
 
 Christmas  Day    119 
 
 Nelsoni  Mors     121 
 
 Hymn,  "  Awake,  sweet  Harp  of  Judah,  wake"  125 
 
 Hymn  for  Family  Worship  125 
 
 The  Star  of  Bethlehem 126 
 
 Hymn,  "O  Lord,  my  God,  in  Mercy  turn" 128 
 
 Melody,  "  Yes,  once  more  that  dying  Strain"     129 
 
 Song,  by  Waller,  with  an  additional  Stanza    130 
 
 "  I  am  pleasM,  and  yet  I'm  sad"  13i 
 
 Solitude 135 
 
 "  If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove" 134 
 
 "  Fanny,  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie" 135 
 
 FRAGMENTS. 
 
 I.  "  Saw'st  thou  that  Light"  139 
 
 IL  "  The  pious  Man  in  this  bad  World"   140 
 
 III.  "  Lo  !  on  the  eastern  Summit" 140 
 
 IV.  "  There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  Pile" 141 
 
 V.  "  O  pale  art  thou,  my  Lamp" 141 
 
 VI."  O  give  me  music"    142 
 
 VII.  "  Ah  !  who  can  say,  how  ever  fair  his  View" 143 
 
 VIII.  «  And  must  thou  go  ?"  144 
 
 IX.  "  When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequer' d  Past"  144 
 
 X.  "  When  high  Romance,  o'er  every  Wood  and  Stream" 145 
 
 XL  «  Hush'd  is  the  Lyre"    145 
 
VI  CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 XII.  "  Once  more,  and  yet  once  more" 146 
 
 Time    147 
 
 The  Christiad ' 1"' 
 
 PROSE   COMPOSITIONS. 
 
 Remarks  on  the  English  Poets 197 
 
 Sternhold  andHopkins 202 
 
 Remarks  on  the  English  Poets.     Warton    207 
 
 Cursory  Remarks  on  Tragedy  213 
 
 Melancholy  Hours,  No.  1 220 
 
 II 224 
 
 III 2.30 
 
 IV 2.38 
 
 V 244 
 
 VI 255 
 
 VII 260 
 
 VIII 266 
 
 IX 274 
 
 X 286 
 
 XI 290 
 
 XII 295 
 
 REFLECTIONS. 
 
 I.  On  Prayer  505 
 
 II 510 
 
 III 515 
 
CLIFrON  GROVE. 
 
 Vol.  11 
 
This,  and  the  following  Poems,  are  reprinted  from  the  little  Volume 
 which  Henry  published  in  1805. 
 
TO 
 
 HER  GRACE 
 
 THE 
 
 DUCHESS    OF   DEVONSHIRE, 
 
 THE    FOLLOWING 
 
 TRIFLING  EFFUSIONS 
 
 OF 
 
 A    VERY    YOUTHFUL    MUSE, 
 
 ARE 
 BY    PERMISSION    DEDICATED, 
 
 Biy  Her  Grace  s 
 
 MUCH    OBLIGED 
 AND    GRATEFUL    SERVANT, 
 
 HENRY  KIBKE  WHITE, 
 
 NOTTINGHAM. 
 
 B    2 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 1.  HE  following  attempts  in  Verse  are  laid  before  the  Pub^ 
 lie  "with  extreme  diffidence.  The  Author  is  very  conscious 
 that  the  juvenile  efforts  of  a  youth^  who  has  not  received  the 
 polish  of  Academical  discipline,  and  who  has  been  but  sparingly 
 blessed  with  opportunities  for  the  prosecution  of  scholastic 
 pursuits,  must  necessarily  be  defective  in  the  accuracy  and 
 €nished  elegance  which  mark  the  works  of  the  man  who  has 
 passed  his  life  in  the  retirement  of  his  study,  furnishing  his 
 mind  with  images,  and  at  the  same  time  attaining  the  power 
 of  disposing  those  images  to  the  best  advantage. 
 
 The  unpremeditated  effusions  of  a  Boy,  from  his  thirteenth 
 year,  employed,  not  in  the  acquisition  of  literary  information, 
 bid  in  the  more  active  business  of  life,  must  not  be  expected 
 to  exhibit  any  considerable  portion  of  the  correctness  of  a 
 Virgil,  or  the  vigorous  compression  of  a  Horace.  Men  are 
 not,  I  believe,  frequently  known  to  bestow  much  labour  on 
 their  amusements:  and  these  Poems  were,  most  of  them, 
 written  merely  to  beguile  a  leisure  hour,  or  to  Jill  up  the 
 languid  intervals  of  studies  of  a  severer  nature. 
 
 B    o 
 
Tlag  TO  oiKBios  spyov  uycntciM,  "  Every  one  loves  his  own 
 *mork^''  says  the  Stagyrite  ;  hut  it  was  no  over-weening  affection 
 of  this  kind  which  induced  this  publication.  Had  the  Author 
 relied  on  his  own  judgment  only,  these  Poems  woidd  not,  in 
 all  probability i  ever  have  seen  the  Ught, 
 
 / 
 
 Perhaps  it  may  be  asked  of  him,  what  are  his  motives  for 
 
 this  publication  F  He  answers  —  simply  these :  The  focili" 
 tation,  through  its  means,  of  those  studies  which,  from  ?tis  ear- 
 liest irfancy,  have  been  the  principal  objects  of  his  ambition ; 
 and  the  increase  of  the  capacity  to  pursue  those  inclinations 
 *which  may  one  day  place  him  in  an  honourable  station  in  the 
 scale  of  society. 
 
 The pri7icipal  Poem  in  this  little  collection  [Clifton  Grove) 
 is,  he  fears,  deficient  in  numbers  and  harmonious  coherency 
 of  parts.  It  is,  however,  merely  to  be  regarded  as  a  descrip- 
 tion of  a  nocturnal  ramble  in  that  charming  retreat,  accom- 
 panied with  such  refections  as  the  scene  naturally  suggested. 
 It  was  written  twelve  months  ago,  when  the  Author  was  in  his 
 sixteenth  year,  —  The  Miscellanies  are  some  of  them  the  pro- 
 ductions of  a  very  early  age.  —  Of  the  Odes,  that  "  To  an 
 early  Primeose'^  was  written  at  thirteen  —  the  others  are  of 
 a  later  date.  —  The  Sonnets  are  chiefy  irregular  ;  they  have, 
 perhaps,  no  other  claim  to  that  specific  denomination,  than 
 that  they  consist  only  of  fourteen  lines. 
 
Such  are  the  Poems  towards  which  I  enh^eai  the  lenity  of 
 the  Public.  The  Critic  will  doubtless  Jlnd  in  them  viuch  to 
 condemn;  he  may  likewise  possibly  discover  something  to 
 commend.  Let  him  scan  my  faults  with  an  indulgent  eye^ 
 and  in  the  worh  of  that  correction  which  I  invite,  let  him 
 remember  he  is  holding  the  iron  Mace  of  Criticism  over  the 
 fimsy  superstructure  of  a  youth  of  seventeen,  and,  i^emember- 
 ing  that,  may  he  forbear  from  crushing,  by  too  mm:h  rigour, 
 the  painted  butterfy  whose  transient  colours  may  otherwise  be 
 capable  of  affording  a  moments  innocent  amusement. 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 NOTTINGHAM. 
 
 15    4 
 
TO  MY  LYRE. 
 AN  ODE. 
 
 I. 
 1  Hou  simple  Lyre  !  —  Thy  music  wild 
 
 Has  serv'd  to  charm  the  weary  hour, 
 And  many  a  lonely  night  has  'guil'd, 
 When  even  pain  has  own'd  and  smil'd, 
 
 Its  fascinating  power. 
 
 II. 
 
 Yet,  oh  my  Lyre  !   the  busy  crowd 
 
 Will  little  heed  thy  simple  tones : 
 Them  mightier  minstrels  harping  loud 
 Engross,  —  and  thou  and  I  must  shroud 
 Where  dark  oblivion  ^thrones. 
 
 III. 
 
 No  hand,  thy  diapason  o'er, 
 
 Well  skill'd,  I  throw  with  sweep  sublime  ? 
 For  me,  no  academic  lore 
 Has  taught  the  solemn  strain  to  pour. 
 
 Or  build  the  polish 'd  rhyme. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Yet  thou  to  Sylvan  themes  canst  soar; 
 
 Thon  know'st  to  charm  the  iwodland  train 
 The  rustic  swains  believe  thy  power 
 Can  hush  the  wild  winds  when  they  roar. 
 
 And  still  the  billowy  main. 
 
10 
 
 V. 
 
 These  honours,  Lyre,  we  yet  may  keep, 
 
 I,  still  unknown,  may  live  with  thee, 
 And  gentle  zephyr's  wing  will  sweep 
 Thy  solemn  string,  where  low  I  sleep, 
 
 Beneath  the  alder  tree. 
 
 VI. 
 This  little  dirge  will  please  me  more 
 
 Than  the  full  requiem's  swelling  peal ; 
 I'd  rather  than  that  crowds  should  sigh 
 For  me,  that  from  some  kindred  eye 
 
 The  trickling  tear  should  steal. 
 VII. 
 Yet  dear  to  me  the  wreath  of  bay. 
 
 Perhaps  from  me  debarr'd : 
 And  dear  to  me  the  classic  zone, 
 Which,  snatch'd  from  learning's  labour'd  throne, 
 
 Adorns  the  accepted  bard. 
 VIII. 
 And  O  !  if  yet  'twere  mine  to  dwell 
 
 Where  Cam  or  Isis  winds  along, 
 Perchance,  inspir'd  with  ardour  chaste, 
 I  yet  might  call  the  ear  of  taste 
 
 To  listen  to  my  song. 
 
 IX. 
 Oh  !  then,  my  little  friend,  thy  style 
 
 I'd  change  to  happier  lays, 
 Oh  !  then,  the  cloister'd  glooms  should  smile, 
 And  through  the  long,  the  fretted  aisle 
 
 Should  swell  the  note  of  praise. 
 
CLIFTON  GROVE. 
 
 A   SKETCH    IN    VERSE. 
 
 Lo  !  in  the  west,  fast  fades  the  ligering  light, 
 And  day's  last  vestige  takes  its  silent  flight. 
 No  more  is  heard  the  woodman's  measur'd  stroke 
 Which,  with  the  dawn,  from  yonder  dingle  broke  ,i 
 No  more  hoarse  clamouring  o'er  the  uplifted  head. 
 The  crows  assembling,  seek  their  wind-rock'd  bed  5 
 Still'd  is  the  village  hum  —  the  woodland  sounds 
 Have  ceas'd  to  echo  o'er  the  dewy  grounds. 
 And  general  silence  reigns,  save  v/hen  below. 
 The  murmuring  Trent  is  scarcely  heard  to  flow ; 
 And  save  when,  swung  by  'nighted  rustic  late. 
 Oft,  on  its  hinge,  rebounds  the  jarring  gate  ; 
 Or  when  the  sheep-bell,  in  the  distant  vale. 
 Breathes  its  wild  music  on  the  downy  gale. 
 
 Now,  when  the  rustic  wears  the  social  smile, 
 
 Releas'd  from  day  and  its  attendant  toil. 
 
 And  draws  his  household  round  their  evening  fire. 
 
 And  tells  the  oft-told  tales  that  never  tire ; 
 
 Or  where  the  town's  blue  turrets  dimly  rise, 
 
 And  manufacture  taints  the  ambient  skies. 
 
 The  pale  mechanic  leaves  the  labouring  loom. 
 
 The  air-pent  hold,  the  pestilential  room. 
 
 And  rushes  out,  impatient  to  begin 
 
 The  stated  course  of  customary  sin  ; 
 
12 
 
 Now,  now  my  solitary  way  I  bend 
 Where  solenni  groves  in  awful  state  impend 
 And  cliffs,  tliat  boldly  rise  above  the  plain, 
 Bespeak,  blest  Clifton  !  thy  sublime  domain. 
 Here  lonely  wandering  o'er  the  sylvan  bower, 
 I  come  to  pass  the  meditative  hour ; 
 To  bid  awhile  the  strife  of  passion  cease. 
 And  woo  the  calms  of  solitude  and  peace. 
 And  oh  !   thou  sacred  Power,  who  rear'st  on  high 
 Thy  leafy  throne  where  waving  poplars  sigh  ! 
 Genius  of  woodland  shades  !  whose  mild  controul 
 Steals  with  resistless  witchery  to  the  soul, 
 Come  with  thy  wonted  ardour,  and  inspire 
 
 My  glowing  bosom  with  thy  hallowed  fire. 
 
 And  thou  too.  Fancy,  from  thy  starry  sphere, 
 
 Where  to  the  hymning  orbs  thou  lend'st  thine  ear. 
 
 Do  thou  descend,  and  bless  my  ravish'd  sight, 
 
 VeiPd  in  soft  visions  of  serene  deliofht. 
 
 At  thy  command  the  gale  that  passes  by 
 
 Bears  in  its  whispers  mystic  harmony. 
 
 Thou  wav'st  thy  wand,  and  lo  !   what  forms  appear  ! 
 
 On  the  dark  cloud  what  giant  shapes  career  ! 
 
 The  ghosts  of  Ossian  skim  the  misty  vale. 
 
 And  hosts  of  Sylphids  on  the  moon-beams  sail. 
 
 This  gloomy  alcove,  darkling  to  the  sight, 
 Where  meeting  trees  create  eternal  night  ; 
 Save,  when  from  yonder  stream,  the  sunny  ray. 
 Reflected,  gives  a  dubious  gleam  of  day  ; 
 
13 
 
 Recalls,  endearing  to  my  alter'd  mind, 
 
 Times,  when  beneath  the  boxen  hedge  reclin'd, 
 
 I  watch'd  the  lapwing  to  her  clamorous  brood ; 
 
 Or  lur'd  the  robin  to  its  scatter'd  food ; 
 
 Or  woke  with  song  the  woodland  echo  wild, 
 
 And  at  each  gay  response  delighted  smil'd. 
 
 How  oft,  when  childhood  threw  its  golden  ray 
 
 Of  gay  romance  o'er  every  happy  day, 
 
 Here  would  I  run,  a  visionary  boy. 
 
 When  the  hoarse  tempest  shook  the  vaulted  sky, 
 
 And,  fancy-led,  beheld  the  Almighty's  form 
 
 Sternly  careering  on  the  eddying  storm ; 
 
 And  heard,  while  awe  congeal'd  my  inmost  soul, 
 
 His  voice  terrific  in  the  thunders  roll. 
 
 With  secret  joy,  I  view'd  with  vivid  glare 
 
 The  volley'd  lightnings  cleave  the  sullen  air ; 
 
 And,  as  the  warring  winds  around  revil'd. 
 
 With  awful  pleasure  big,  —  I  heard  and  smil'tl. 
 
 Belov'd  remembrance  !  —  Memory  which  endears 
 
 This  silent  spot  to  my  advancing  years. 
 
 Here  dwells  eternal  peace,  eternal  rest. 
 
 In  shades  like  these  to  live  is  to  be  blest. 
 
 While  happiness  evades  the  busy  crowd. 
 
 In  rural  coverts  loves  the  maid  to  shroud. 
 
 And  thou  too.  Inspiration,  whose  wild  flame 
 
 Shoots  with  electric  swiftness  through  the  frame, 
 
 Thou  here  dost  love  to  sit  with  up-turn'd  eye. 
 
 And  listen  to  the  stream  that  murmurs  by, 
 
 The  woods  that  wave,  the  grey  owl's  silken  flight. 
 
 The  mellow  music  of  the  listening  night. 
 
14 
 
 Concfcnial  calms  more  welcome  to  my  breast 
 
 Than  maddening  joy  in  dazzling  lustre  drest, 
 
 To  Heaven  my  prayers,  my  daily  prayers,  I  raise, 
 
 That  ye  may  bless  my  unambitious  days, 
 
 Withdrawn,  remote,  from  all  the  haunts  of  strife, 
 
 May  trace  with  me  the  lowly  vale  of  life, 
 
 And  when  her  banner  Death  shall  o'er  me  wave, 
 
 May  keep  your  peaceful  vigils  on  my  grave. 
 
 Now  as  I  rove,  where  wide  the  prospect  grows, 
 
 A  livelier  light  upon  my  vision  flows. 
 
 No  more  above  the  embracing  branches  meet. 
 
 No  more  the  river  gurgles  at  my  feet. 
 
 But  seen  deep,  down  the  cliff's  impending  side. 
 
 Through  hanging  woods,  now  gleams  its  silver  tide. 
 
 Dim  is  my  upland  path,  —  across  the  Green 
 
 Fantastic  shadows  fling,  yet  oft  between 
 
 The  chequer'd  glooms,  the  moon  her  chaste  ray  sheds, 
 
 Wliere  knots  of  blue-bells  droop  their  graceful  heads, 
 
 And  beds  of  violets  blooming  'mid  the  trees. 
 
 Load  with  waste  fragrance  the  nocturnal  breeze. 
 
 Say,  why  does  Man,  while  to  his  opening  sight 
 Each  shrub  presents  a  source  of  chaste  delight, 
 And  Nature  bids  for  him  her  treasures  flow. 
 And  gives  to  him  alone  his  bliss  to  know, 
 Why  does  he  pant  for  Vice's  deadly  charms  ? 
 Why  clasp  the  syren  Pleasure  to  his  arms  ? 
 And  suck  deep  draughts  of  her  voluptuous  breath, 
 Though  fraught  v/ith  ruin,  infamy,  and  d-ath? 
 
15 
 
 Could  he  who  thus  to  vile  enjoyment  clings, 
 Know  what  calm  joy  from  purer  sources  springs  ; 
 Could  he  but  feel  how  sweet,  how  free  from  strife, 
 The  harmless  pleasures  of  a  harmless  life, 
 No  more  his  soul  would  pant  for  joys  impure, 
 The  deadly  chalice  would  no  more  allure, 
 But  the  sweet  portion  he  was  wont  to  sip, 
 Would  turn  to  poison  on  his  conscious  lip. 
 
 Fair  Nature  !  thee,  in  all  thy  varied  charms, 
 Fain  would  I  clasp  for  ever  in  my  arms  ! 
 Thine  are  the  sweets  which  never,  never  sate, 
 Thine  still  remain  through  all  the  storms  of  fate. 
 Though  not  for  me,  'twas  Heaven's  divine  command 
 To  roll  in  acres  of  paternal  land. 
 Yet  still  my  lot  is  blest,  while  I  enjoy 
 Thine  opening  beauties  with  a  lover's  eye. 
 
 Happy  is  he,  who,  though  the  cup  of  bliss 
 Has  ever  shunn'd  him  when  lie  thought  to  kiss. 
 Who,  still  in  abject  poverty  or  pain. 
 Can  count  with  pleasure  what  small  joys  remain  : 
 Though  were  his  sight  conveyed  from  zone  to  zone, 
 He  would  not  find  one  spot  of  ground  his  own. 
 Yet,  as  he  looks  around,  he  cries  with  glee, 
 These  bounding  prospects  all  were  made  for  me : 
 For  me  yon  waving  fields  their  burthen  bear, 
 For  me  yon  labourer  guides  the  shining  share, 
 While  happy  I  in  idle  ease  recline. 
 And  mark  the  glorious  visions  as  they  shine. 
 
16 
 
 This  is  the  charm,  by  sages  often  told, 
 Converting  all  it  touches  into  gold. 
 Content  can  soothe,  where'er  by  fortune  plac'd, 
 Can  rear  a  garden  in  the  desart  waste. 
 
 How  lovely,  from  this  hill's  superior  height, 
 Spreads  the  wide  view  before  my  straining  sight  ! 
 O'er  many  a  varied  mile  of  lengthening  ground, 
 E'en  to  the  blue-ridg'd  hill's  remotest  bound, 
 My  ken  is  borne  ;  while  o'er  my  head  serene, 
 The  silver  moon  illumes  the  misty  scene ; 
 Now  shining  clear,  now  darkening  in  the  glade. 
 In  all  the  soft  varieties  of  shade. 
 
 Behind  me,  lo  !  the  peaceful  hamlet  lies. 
 
 The  drowsy  god  has  seal'd  the  cotter's  eyes. 
 
 No  more,  where  late  the  social  fao-aot  blaz'd. 
 
 The  vacant  peal  resounds,  by  little  rais'd  ; 
 
 But  lock'd  in  silence,  o'er  Arion's  *  star 
 
 The  slumbering  Night  rolls  on  her  velvet  car : 
 
 The  church-bell  tolls,  deep -sounding  down  the  glade. 
 
 The  solemn  hour  for  walking  spectres  made  ; 
 
 The  simple  plough-boy,  wakening  with  the  sound, 
 
 Listens  aghast,  and  turns  him  startled  round. 
 
 Then  stops  his  ears,  and  strives  to  close  his  eyes, 
 
 Lest  at  the  sound  some  grisly  ghost  should  rise. 
 
 *  The  Constellation  Deiphinus.     For  authority  for  this  appellation, 
 vide  Ovid's  Fasti.  B.  xi.  ll.>. 
 
17 
 
 Now  ceas'd  the  long,  the  iiionitoiy  toll, 
 
 Returning  silence  stagnates  in  the  soul  ; 
 
 Save  when,  disturb'd  by  dreams,  with  wild  affright, 
 
 The  deep-mouth'd  mastiff  bays  the  troubled  night : 
 
 Or  where  the  village  ale-house  crowns  the  vale, 
 
 The  creeking  sign- post  whistles  to  the  gale. 
 
 A  little  onward  let  me  bend  my  way, 
 
 Where  the  moss'd  seat  invites  the  traveller's  stay. 
 
 That  spot,  oh  !  yet  it  is  the  very  same  ; 
 
 That  hawthorn  gives  it  shade,  and  gave  it  name : 
 
 There  yet  the  primrose  opes  its  earliest  bloom, 
 
 There  yet  the  violet  sheds  its  first  perfume. 
 
 And  in  the  branch  that  rears  above  the  rest 
 
 The  robin  unmolested  builds  its  nest. 
 
 'Twas  here  when  hope,  presiding  o'er  my  breast, 
 
 In  vivid  colours  every  prospect  drest : 
 
 'Twas  here,  reclining,  I  indulg'd  her  dreams, 
 
 And  lost  the  hour  in  visionary  schemes. 
 
 Here,  as  I  press  once  more  the  ancient  seat. 
 
 Why,  bland  deceiver  !  not  renew  the  cheat  ? 
 
 Say,  can  a  few  short  years  this  change  achieve. 
 
 That  thy  illusions  can  no  more  deceive  ! 
 
 Time's  sombrous  tints  have  every  view  o'erspread, 
 
 And  thou  too,  gay  Seducer  ;  art  thou  fled  ? 
 
 Though  vain  thy  promise,  and  the  suit  severe, 
 
 Yet  thou  could'st  guile  Misfortune  of  her  tear. 
 
 And  oft  thy  smiles  across  life's  gloomy  way. 
 
 Could  throw  a  gleam  of  transitory  day. 
 
 How  gay,  in  youth,  the  flattering  future  seems ; 
 
 How  sweet  is  manhood  in  the  infant's  dreams; 
 
 VOL.  II.  c 
 
18 
 
 Tlie  dire  mistake  too  soon  is  brouffht  to  liaht. 
 
 And  all  is  buried  in  redoubled  nisfht. 
 
 Yet  some  can  rise  superior  to  their  pain, 
 
 And  in  their  breasts  the  charmer  Hope  retain  : 
 
 "While  others,  dead  to  feeling,  can  survey, 
 
 Unmov'd,  their  fairest  prospects  fade  away  : 
 
 But  yet  a  few  there  be,  —  too  soon  o'ercast ! 
 
 Who  shrink  unhappy  from  the  adverse  blast, 
 
 And  woo  the  first  bright  gleam,  which  breaks  the  gloom. 
 
 To  gild  the  silent  slumbers  of  the  tomb. 
 
 So  in  these  shades  the  early  primrose  blows, 
 
 Too  soon  deceived  by  suns  and  melting  snows, 
 
 So  falls  untimely  on  the  desert  waste ; 
 
 Its  blossoms  withering  in  the  northern  blast. 
 
 Now  pass'd  whate'er  the  upland  heights  display, 
 
 Down  the  steep  cliff  I  wind  my  devious  way  ; 
 
 Oft  rousing,  as  the  rustling  path  I  beat. 
 
 The  timid  hare  from  its  accustom'd  seat. 
 
 And,  oh  !  how  sweet  this  walk  o'erhung  with  wood. 
 
 That  winds  the  margin  of  the  solemn  flood  ! 
 
 What  rural  objects  steal  upon  the  sight  I 
 
 What  rising  views  prolong  the  calm  delight ; 
 
 The  brooklet  branching  from  the  silver  Trent, 
 
 The  whispering  birch  by  every  zephyr  bent, 
 
 The  woody  island,  and  the  naked  mead, 
 
 The  lowly  hut  half  hid  in  groves  of  reed, 
 
 The  rural  wicket,  and  the  rural  stile. 
 
 And,  frequent  interspersed,  the  woodman's  pile.  ' 
 
19 
 
 Above,  below,  where'er  I  turn  my  eyes. 
 Rocks,  waters,  woods,  in  grand  succession  rise 
 High  up  the  cliflP  the  varied  groves  ascend, 
 And  mournful  larches  o'er  the  wave  impend. 
 Around,  what  sounds,  what  magic  sounds,  arise, 
 What  glimm'ring  scenes  salute  my  ravish'd  eyes  ? 
 Soft  sleep  the  waters  on  their  pebbly  bed, 
 The  woods  wave  gently  o'er  my  drooping  head, 
 And,  swelling  slow,  comes  wafted  on  the  wind, 
 Lorn  Progne's  note  from  distant  copse  behind. 
 Still,  every  rising  sound  of  calm  delight 
 Stamps  but  the  fearful  silence  of  the  night. 
 Save  when  is  heard,  between  each  dreary  rest. 
 Discordant  from  her  solitary  nest, 
 The  owl,  dull-screaming  to  the  wandering  moon ; 
 Now  riding,  cloud-wrapt,  near  her  highest  noon ; 
 Or  when  the  wild-duck,  southering,  hither  rides, 
 And  plunges  sullen  in  the  sounding  tides. 
 
 How  oft,  in  this  sequestered  spot,  when  youth 
 Gave  to  each  tale  the  holy  force  of  truth, 
 Have  I  long  linger'd,  while  the  milk-maid  sung 
 The  tragic  legend,  till  the  woodland  rung  ! 
 That  tale,  so  sad  !  which,  still  to  memory  dear, 
 From  its  sweet  source  can  call  the  sacred  tear. 
 And  (lull'd  to  rest  stern  Reason's  harsh  control) 
 Steal  its  soft  magic  to  the  passive  soul. 
 These  hallow'd  shades,  —  these  trees  that  woo  the  wind, 
 Recall  its  faintest  features  to  my  mind. 
 
 c  2 
 
20 
 
 A  hundred  passing  years,  with  march  subHme, 
 Have  swept  beneath  the  silent  wing  of  time, 
 Since,  in  yon  hamlet's  solitary  shade, 
 Reclusely  dwelt  the  far-famed  Clifton  Maid, 
 The  beauteous  Margaret  ;  for  her  each  swain 
 Confest  in  private  his  peculiar  pain, 
 In  secret  sigh'd,  a  victim  to  despair. 
 Nor  dared  to  hope  to  win  the  peerless  fair. 
 No  more  the  shepherd  on  the  blooming  mead 
 Attun'd  to  gaiety  his  artless  reed, 
 No  more  entwin'd  the  pansied  wreath,  to  deck 
 His  favourite  wether's  unpolluted  neck. 
 But  listless,  by  yon  babbling  stream  reclin'd 
 He  mix'd  his  sobbings  with  the  passing  wind, 
 Bemoan'd  his  helpless  love ;  or,  boldly  bent, 
 Far  from  these  smiling  fields,  a  rover  went, 
 O'er  distant  lands,  in  search  of  ease,  to  roam, 
 A  self-will'd  exile  from  his  native  home. 
 
 Yet  not  to  all  the  maid  express'd  disdain ; 
 
 Her  Bateman  lov'd,  nor  lov'd  the  youth  in  vain. 
 
 Full  oft,  low  whispering  o'er  these  arching  boughs, 
 
 The  echoing  vault  responded  to  their  vows. 
 
 As  here  deep  hidden  from  the  glare  of  day, 
 
 Enamour'd  oft,  they  took  their  secret  way. 
 
 Yon  bosky  dingle,  still  the  rustics  name  ; 
 'Twas  there  the  blushing  maid  confess'd  her  flame. 
 Down  yon  green  lane  they  oft  were  seen  to  hie, 
 When  evening  sliimber'd  on  the  western  sky. 
 
21 
 
 That  blasted  yew,  that  mouldering  walnut  bare, 
 Each  bears  mementos  of  the  fated  pair. 
 
 One  eve,  when  Autumn  loaded  every  breeze 
 With  the  fall'n  honours  of  the  mourning  trees, 
 The  maiden  waited  at  the  accustom'd  bower, 
 And  waited  long  beyond  the  appointed  hour. 
 Yet  Bateman  came  not ;  —  o'er  the  woodland  drear, 
 Howling  portentous,  did  the  winds  career ; 
 And  bleak  and  dismal  on  the  leafless  woods, 
 The  fitful  rains  rush'd  down  in  sullen  floods ; 
 The  night  was  dark ;  as,  now-and-then,  the  gale 
 Paus'd  for  a  moment,  —  Margaret  listen'd,  pale ; 
 But  through  the  covert  to  her  anxious  ear, 
 No  rusthng  footstep  spoke  her  lover  near. 
 Strange  fears  now  fill'd  her  breast,  —  she  knew  not  why, 
 She  sigh'd,  and  Bateman's  name  was  in  each  sigh. 
 She  hears  a  noise,  —  'tis  he,  —  he  comes  at  last ;  — 
 Alas  !  'twas  but  the  gale  which  hurried  past. 
 But  now  she  hears  a  quickening  footstep  sound, 
 Lightly  it  comes,  and  nearer  does  it  bound ; 
 'Tis  Bateman's  self,  —  he  springs  into  her  arms, 
 'Tis  he  that  clasps,  and  chides  her  vain  alarms. 
 "  Yet  why  this  silence  ?  —  I  have  waited  long, 
 "  And  the  cold  storm  has  yell'd  the  trees  among. 
 *'  And  now  thou'rt  here  my  fears  are  fled  —  yet  speak, 
 '*  Why  does  the  salt  tear  moisten  on  thy  cheek  ? 
 "  Say,  what  is  wrong  ?"  —  Now,  through  a  parting  cloud, 
 The  pale  moon  peer'd  from  her  tempestuous  shroud, 
 
 c  3 
 
22 
 
 And  Bateraan's  face  was  seen:  —  'twas  deadly  white. 
 
 And  sorrow  seem'd  to  sicken  in  his  sight. 
 
 "  Oh,  speak,  my  love  !"  again  the  maid  conjur'd, 
 
 "  Why  is  thy  heart  in  sullen  woe  immur'd  ?" 
 
 He  rais'd  his  head,  and  thrice  essay'd  to  tell, 
 
 Thrice  from  his  lips  the  unfinished  accents  fell; 
 
 When  thus  at  last  reluctantly  he  broke 
 
 His  boding  silence,  and  the  maid  bespoke  : 
 
 "  Grieve  not,  my  love,  but  ere  the  morn  advance, 
 
 "  I  on  these  fields  must  cast  my  parting  glance ; 
 
 "  For  three  long  years,  by  cruel  fate's  command, 
 
 "  I  go  to  lanmiish  in  a  foreio^n  land. 
 
 "  Oh,  Margaret !  omens  dire  have  met  my  view, 
 
 "  Say,  when  far  distant,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true  ? 
 
 "  Should  honours  tempt  thee,  and  should  riches  fee, 
 
 "  Wouldst  thou  forget  thine  ardent  vows  to  me, 
 
 "  And,  on  the  silken  couch  of  wealth  reclin'd, 
 
 "  Banish  thy  faithful  Bateman  from  thy  mind  ?'* 
 
 "  Oh  !  why,"  replies  the  maid,  "  my  faith  thus  prove, 
 "  Canst  thou  !  ah,  canst  thou,  then  suspect  my  love? 
 "  Hear  me,  just  God  !  if  from  my  traitorous  heart, 
 <'  My  Bateman's  fond  remembrance  e'er  shall  part, 
 "  If,  when  he  hail  again  his  native  shore, 
 "  He  finds  his  Margaret  true  to  him  no  more, 
 "  May  fiends  of  hell,  and  every  powder  of  dread, 
 "  Conjoin'd,  then  drag  me  from  my  perjur'd  bed, 
 "  And  hurl  me  headlong  down  these  awful  steeps, 
 "  To  find  deserved  death  in  yonder  deeps  !"  * 
 
 *  This  part  of  the  Trent  is  commonly  called  "  The  Clifton  Beeps. 
 
23 
 
 Thus  spake  the  maid,  and  from  her  finger  drew 
 
 A  golden  ring,  and  broke  it  quick  in  two ; 
 
 One  half  she  in  her  lovely  bosom  hides, 
 
 The  other,  trembling,  to  her  love  confides. 
 
 "  This  bind  the  vow,"  she  said,  "  this  mystic  charm, 
 
 "  No  future  recantation  can  disarm, 
 
 ''  The  right  vindictive  does  the  fates  involve, 
 
 "  No  tears  can  move  it,  no  regrets  dissolve." 
 
 She  ceas'd.     The  death-bird  gave  a  dismal  cry. 
 The  river  moan'd,  the  wild  gale  whistled  by. 
 And  once  again  the  lady  of  the  night 
 Behind  a  heavy  cloud  withdrew  her  light. 
 Trembling  she  view'd  these  portents  with  dismay : 
 But  gently  Bateman  kiss'd  her  fears  away  : 
 Yet  still  he  felt  conceal'd  a  secret  smart, 
 Still  melancholy  bodings  fill'd  his  heart. 
 
 When  to  the  distant  land  the  youth  was  sped, 
 A  lonely  life  the  moody  maiden  led. 
 Still  would  she  trace  each  dear,  each  well-known  walk, 
 Still  by  the  moonlight  to  her  love  would  talk, 
 And  fancy,  as  she  paced  among  the  trees, 
 She  heard  his  whispers  in  the  dying  breeze. 
 Thus  two  years  glided  on  in  silent  grief; 
 The  third  her  bosom  own'd  the  kind  relief: 
 Absence  had  cool'd  her  love,  —  the  impoverish'd  flame 
 Was  dwindling  fast,  when  lo  !  the  tempter  came ; 
 He  offer'd  wealth,  and  all  the  joys  of  life. 
 And  the  weak  maid  became  another's  wife  ! 
 
 c  4 
 
24 
 
 Six  guilty  months  had  mark'd  the  false  one's  crime. 
 When  Bateman  hail'd  once  more  his  native  clime. 
 Sure  of  her  constancy,  elate  he  came, 
 The  lovely  partner  of  his  soul  to  claim, 
 Light  was  his  heart,  as  up  the  well-known  way 
 He  bent  his  steps  —  and  all  his  thoughts  were  gay. 
 Oh  !  who  can  paint  his  agonizing  throes. 
 When  on  his  ear  the  fatal  news  arose  ! 
 ChilPd  with  amazement,  —  senseless  with  the  blow. 
 He  stood  a  marble  monument  of  woe ; 
 Till  caird  to  all  the  horrors  of  despair, 
 He  smote  his  brow,  and  tore  his  horrent  hair ; 
 Then  rush'd  impetuous  from  the  dreadful  spot, 
 And  sought  those  scenes,  (by  memory  ne'er  forgot,) 
 Those  scenes,  the  witness  of  their  growing  flame. 
 And  now  like  witnesses  of  Margaret's  shame. 
 'Twas  night  —  he  sought  the  river's  lonely  shore,, 
 And  trac'd  again  their  former  wanderings  o'er. 
 Now  on  the  bank  in  silent  grief  he  stood, 
 And  gaz'd  intently  on  the  stealing  flood. 
 Death  in  his  mien  and  madness  in  his  eye, 
 He  watch'd  the  waters  as  they  murmur'd  by ; 
 Bade  the  base  murderess  triumph  o'er  his  grave — 
 Prepar'd  to  plunge  into  the  whelming  wave. 
 Yet  still  he  stood  irresolutely  bent. 
 Religion  sternly  stay'd  his  rash  intent. 
 He  knelt.  —  Cool  play'd  upon  his  cheek  the  wind. 
 And  fann'd  the  fever  of  his  maddening  mind. 
 The  willows  wav'd,  the  stream  it  sweetly  swept. 
 The  paly  moonbeam  on  its  surface  slept, 
 1 
 
25 
 
 And  all  was  peace ; —  he  felt  the  general  calm 
 O'er  his  rack'd  bosom  shed  a  genial  balm : 
 When  casting  far  behind  his  streaming  eye, 
 He  saw  the  Grove,  —  in  fancy  saw  he?-  lie. 
 His  Margaret,  lull'd  in  Germain's  *  arms  to  rest, 
 And  all  the  demon  rose  within  his  breast. 
 Convulsive  now,  he  clench'd  his  trembling  hand. 
 Cast  his  dark  eye  once  more  upon  the  land. 
 Then,  at  one  spring  he  spurn'd  the  yielding  bank. 
 And  in  the  calni  deceitful  current  sank. 
 
 Sad,  on  the  solitude  of  night,  the  sound, 
 
 As  in  the  stream  he  plung'd,  was  heard  around : 
 
 Then  all  was  still  —  the  wave  was  rough  no  more. 
 
 The  river  swept  as  sweetly  as  before ; 
 
 The  willows  wav'd,  the  moonbeams  shone  serene. 
 
 And  peace  returning  brooded  o'er  the  scene. 
 
 Now,  see  upon  the  perjur'd  fair  one  hang 
 Remorse's  glooms  and  never-ceasing  pang. 
 Full  well  she  knew,  repentant  now  too  late. 
 She  soon  must  bow  beneath  the  stroke  of  fate. 
 But,  for  the  babe  she  bore  beneath  her  breast, 
 The  offended  God  prolong'd  her  life  unblest. 
 But  fast  the  fleeting  moments  roU'd  away, 
 And  near,  and  nearer  drew  the  dreaded  day ; 
 That  day,  foredoom'd  to  give  her  child  the  light, 
 And  hurl  its  mother  to  the  shades  of  night. 
 
 *  Germain  is  the  traditionary  name  of  her  husband. 
 
26 
 
 The  hour  arrived,  and  from  the  wretched  wife     > 
 
 The  guiltless  baby  struggled  into  life.  — 
 
 As  night  drew  on,  around  her  bed,  a  band 
 
 Of  friends  and  kindred  kindly  took  their  stand ; 
 
 In  holy  prayer  they  pass'd  the  creeping  time, 
 
 Intent  to  expiate  her  awful  crime. 
 
 Their  prayers  were  fruitless.  —  As  the  midnight  came, 
 
 A  heavy  sleep  oppress'd  each  weary  frame. 
 
 In  vain  they  strove  against  the  o'erwhelming  load, 
 
 Some  power  unseen  their  drowsy  lids  bestrode. 
 
 They  slept,  till  in  the  blushing  eastern  sky 
 
 The  blooming  Morning  oped  her  dewy  eye ; 
 
 Then  wakening  wide  they  sought  the  ravish'd  bed. 
 
 But  lo  !  the  hapless  Margaret  was  fled  ; 
 
 And  never  more  the  weeping  train  v/ere  doom'd 
 
 To  view  the  false  one,  in  the  deeps  intomb'd. 
 
 The  neighbouring  rustics  told  that  in  the  night 
 They  heard  such  screams  as  froze  them  with  affright; 
 And  many  an  infant,  at  its  mother's  breast, 
 Started  dismayed,  from  its  unthinking  rest. 
 And  even  now,  upon  the  heath  forlorn. 
 They  show  the  path  down  which  the  fair  was  borne. 
 By  the  fell  demons,  to  the  yawning  wave, 
 Her  own,  and  murder'd  lover's,  mutual  grave. 
 
 Such  is  the  tale,  so  sad,  to  memory  dear, 
 Which  oft  in  youth  has  charm'd  my  listening  ear. 
 That  tale,  which  bade  me  find  redoubled  sweets 
 In  the  drear  silence  of  these  dark  retreats, 
 
27 
 
 And  even  now,  with  melancholy  power, 
 
 Adds  a  new  pleasure  to  the  lonely  hour. 
 
 'Mid  all  the  charms  by  magic  Nature  given 
 
 To  this  wild  spot,  this  sublunary  heaven, 
 
 With  double  joy  enthusiast  Fancy  leans 
 
 On  the  attendant  legend  of  the  scenes. 
 
 This  sheds  a  fairy  lustre  on  the  floods, 
 
 And  breathes  a  mellower  gloom  upon  the  woods  ; 
 
 This,  as  the  distant  cataract  swells  around, 
 
 Gives  a  romantic  cadence  to  the  sound ; 
 
 This,  and  the  deepening  glen,  the  alley  green, 
 
 The  silver  stream,  with  sedgy  tufts  between. 
 
 The  massy  rock,  the  wood-encompass'd  leas. 
 
 The  broom-clad  islands,  and  the  nodding  trees. 
 
 The  lengthening  vista,  and  the  present  gloom. 
 
 The  verdant  pathway  breathing  waste  perfume  ; 
 
 These  are  thy  charms,  the  joys  which  these  impart 
 
 Bind  thee,  blest  Clifton  !  close  around  my  heart. 
 
 Dear  Native  Grove  !  where'er  my  devious  track. 
 To  thee  will  Memory  lead  the  wanderer  back. 
 Whether  in  Arno's  polish'd  vales  I  stray. 
 Or  where  "  Oswego's  swamps"  obstruct  the  day ; 
 Or  wander  lone,  where,  wildering  and  wide. 
 The  tumbling  torrent  laves  St.  Gothard's  side; 
 Or  by  old  Tejo's  classic  margent  muse. 
 Or  stand  entranc'd  with  Pyrenean  views  ; 
 Still,  still  to  thee,  where'er  my  footsteps  roam. 
 My  heart  shall  point,  and  lead  the  wanderer  home. 
 
28 
 
 When  Splendour  offers,  and  when  Fame  incites, 
 
 I'll  pause,  and  think  of  all  thy  dear  delights, 
 
 Reject  the  boon,  and,  wearied  with  the  change. 
 
 Renounce  the  wish  which  first  induced  to  range ; 
 
 Turn  to  these  scenes,  these  well-known  scenes  once  more, 
 
 Trace  once  again  old  Trent's  romantic  shore, 
 
 And,  tir'd  with  worlds,  and  all  their  busy  ways, 
 
 Here  waste  the  little  remnant  of  my  days. 
 
 But,  if  the  Fates  should  this  last  wish  deny. 
 
 And  doom  me  on  some  foreign  shore  to  die ; 
 
 Oh  !  should  it  please  the  world's  supernal  King, 
 
 That  weltering  waves  my  funeral  dirge  shall  sing ; 
 
 Or  that  my  corse  should,  on  some  desert  strand. 
 
 Lie  stretch'd  beneath  the  Simoom's  blasting  hand ; 
 
 Still,  though  unwept  I  find  a  stranger  tomb, 
 
 My  sprite  shall  wander  through  this  favourite  gloom. 
 
 Ride  on  the  wind  that  sweeps  the  leafless  grove, 
 
 Sigh  on  the  wood-blast  of  the  dark  alcove. 
 
 Sit,  a  lorn  spectre,  on  yon  well-known  grave. 
 
 And  mix  its  moanings  with  the  desert  wave. 
 
MISCELLANEOUS   POEMS. 
 
GONDOLINE ; 
 
 A    BALLAD. 
 
 The  night  it  was  still,  and  the  moon  it  shone 
 
 Serenely  on  the  sea, 
 And  the  waves  at  the  foot  of  the  rifted  rock 
 
 They  murmur'd  pleasantly. 
 
 When  Gondoline  roam'd  along  the  shore, 
 
 A  maiden  full  fair  to  the  sight ; 
 Though  love  had  made  bleak  the  rose  on  her  cheek, 
 
 And  turn'd  it  to  deadly  white. 
 
 Her  thoughts  they  were  drear,  and  the  silent  tear 
 
 It  fill'd  her  faint  blue  eye, 
 As  oft  she  heard,  in  Fancy's  ear, 
 
 Her  Bertrand's  dying  sigh. 
 
 Her  Bertrand  was  the  bravest  youth 
 
 Of  all  our  good  King's  men, 
 And  he  was  gone  to  the  Holy  Land 
 
 To  fight  the  Saracen. 
 
32 
 
 And  many  a  month  had  passed  away, 
 And  many  a  rolling  year, 
 
 But  nothhig  the  maid  from  Palestine 
 Could  of  her  lover  hear. 
 
 Full  oft  she  vainly  tried  to  pierce 
 
 The  Ocean's  misty  face ; 
 Full  oft  she  thought  her  lover's  bark 
 
 She  on  the  wave  could  trace.  ^ 
 
 And  every  night  she  placed  a  light 
 In  the  high  rock's  lonely  tower, 
 
 To  guide  her  lover  to  the  land, 
 
 Should  the  murky  tempest  lower. 
 
 But  now  despair  had  seiz'd  her  breast, 
 
 And  sunken  in  her  eye : 
 "  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 
 
 "  And  I  in  peace  will  die." 
 
 She  wander'd  o'er  the  lonely  shore. 
 The  Curlew  scream'd  above, 
 
 She  heard  the  scream  with  a  sickening  heart 
 Much  boding  of  her  love. 
 
 Yet  still  she  kept  her  lonely  way, 
 
 And  this  was  all  her  cry, 
 '<  Oh  !  tell  me  but  if  Bertrand  live, 
 
 «  And  I  in  peace  shall  die." 
 
33 
 
 And  now  she  came  to  a  horrible  rift, 
 All  in  the  rock's  hard  side, 
 
 A  bleak  and  blasted  oak  o'erspread 
 The  cavern  yawning  wide. 
 
 And  pendant  from  its  dismal  top 
 The  deadly  nightshade  hung. 
 
 The  hemlock  and  the  aconite 
 
 Across  the  mouth  were  flung. 
 
 And  all  within  was  dark  and  drear. 
 And  all  without  was  calm  ; 
 
 Yet  Gondoline  entered,  her  soul  upheld 
 By  some  deep-working  charm. 
 
 And  as  she  entered  the  cavern  wide, 
 The  moonbeam  gleamed  pale. 
 
 And  she  saw  a  snake  on  the  craggy  rock, 
 It  clung  by  its  slimy  tail. 
 
 Her  foot  it  slipped,  and  she  stood  aghast. 
 She  trod  on  a  bloated  toad  ; 
 
 Yet,  still  upheld  by  the  secret  cliarm, 
 She  kept  upon  her  road. 
 
 And  now  ujwn  her  frozen  ear 
 
 Mysterious  sounds  arose ; 
 So,  on  the  mountain's  piny  top. 
 
 The  blustering  north  wind  blows. 
 
Then  furious  peals  of  laughter  loud 
 
 Were  heard  with  thunderino:  sound. 
 
 Till  they  died  away  in  soft  decay, 
 Low  whispering  o'er  the  ground. 
 
 Yet  still  the  maiden  onward  went, 
 The  charm  yet  onward  led, 
 
 Though  each  big  glaring  ball  of  sight 
 Seem'd  bursting  from  her  head. 
 
 But  now  a  pale  blue  light  she  saw, 
 
 It  from  a  distance  came, 
 She  followed,  till  upon  her  sight, 
 
 Burst  full  a  flood  of  flame. 
 
 She  stood  appall'd ;  yet  still  the  charm 
 
 Upheld  her  sinking  soul ; 
 Yet  each  bent  knee  the  other  smote. 
 
 And  each  wild  eye  did  roll. 
 
 And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 
 
 No  mortal  saw  before. 
 And  such  a  sight  as  she  saw  there, 
 
 No  mortal  shall  see  more. 
 
 A  burning  cauldron  stood  in  the  midst, 
 The  flame  was  fierce  and  high, 
 
 And  all  the  cave  so  wide  and  long, 
 Was  plainly  seen  thereby. 
 
35 
 
 And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
 Twelve  withered  witches  stood  : 
 
 Their  waists  were  bound  with  living  snakes, 
 And  their  hair  was  stiff  with  blood. 
 
 Their  hands  were  gory  too ;  and  red 
 And  fiercely  flamed  their  eyes : 
 
 And  they  were  muttering  indistinct 
 Their  hellish  mysteries. 
 
 And  suddenly  they  join'd  their  hands. 
 
 And  uttered  a  joyous  cry, 
 And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
 
 They  danced  right  merrily. 
 
 And  now  they  stopt ;  and  each  prepared 
 
 To  tell  what  she  had  done, 
 Since  last  the  Lady  of  the  night 
 
 Her  wanhig  course  had  run. 
 
 Behind  a  rock  stood  Gondoline, 
 Thick  weeds  her  face  did  veil, 
 
 And  she  lean'd  fearful  forwarder, 
 To  hear  the  dreadful  tale. 
 
 The  first  arose :  She  said  she'd  seen 
 
 Rare  sport  since  the  blind  cat  mew'd, 
 
 She'd  been  to  sea  in  a  leaky  sieve. 
 And  a  jovial  storm  had  brew'd. 
 D   2 
 
36 
 
 She  call'd  around  the  winged  winds. 
 
 And  rais'd  a  devilish  rout ; 
 And  she  laugh'd  so  loud,  the  peals  were  heard 
 
 Full  fifteen  leagues  about. 
 
 She  said  there  was  a  little  bark 
 
 Upon  the  roaring  wave. 
 And  there  was  a  woman  there  who'd  been 
 
 To  see  her  husband's  grave. 
 
 And  she  had  got  a  child  in  her  arms. 
 
 It  was  her  only  child. 
 And  oft  its  little  infant  pranks 
 
 Her  heavy  heart  beguil'd. 
 
 And  there  was  too  in  that  same  bark, 
 
 A  father  and  his  son; 
 The  lad  was  sickly,  and  the  sire 
 
 Was  old  and  woe-begone. 
 
 And  when  the  tempest  waxed  strong. 
 
 And  the  bark  could  no  more  it  'bide. 
 
 She  said  it  was  jovial  fun  to  hear 
 How  the  poor  devils  cried. 
 
 The  mother  clasp'd  her  orphan  child 
 
 Unto  her  breast,  and  wept ; 
 And  sweetly  folded  in  her  arms 
 
 The  careless  baby  slept. 
 
37 
 
 And  she  told  how,  in  the  shape  o'  the  wind, 
 
 As  manfully  it  roar'd, 
 8he  twisted  her  hand  in  the  infant's  hair 
 
 And  threw  it  overboard. 
 
 And  to  have  seen  the  mother's  pangs, 
 
 'Twas  a  glorious  sight  to  see ; 
 The  crew  could  scarcely  hold  her  down 
 
 From  jumping  in  the  sea. 
 
 The  hag  held  a  lock  of  the  hair  in  her  hand. 
 
 And  it  was  soft  and  fair : 
 It  must  have  been  a  lovely  child. 
 
 To  have  had  such  lovely  hair. 
 
 And  she  said,  the  father  in  his  arms 
 
 He  held  his  sickly  son, 
 And  his  dying  throes  they  fast  arose, 
 
 His  pains  were  nearly  done. 
 
 And  she  throttled  the  youth  with  her  sinewy  hands, 
 
 And  his  face  grew  deadly  blue ; 
 And  his  father  he  tore  his  thin  grey  hair, 
 
 And  kiss'd  the  livid  hue. 
 
 And  then  she  told,  how  she  bored  a  hole 
 
 In  the  bark,  and  it  fill'd  away : 
 And  'twas  rare  to  hear,  how  some  did  swear. 
 
 And  some  did  vow  and  pray. 
 D    S 
 
38 
 
 The  iiian  and  woman  thev  soon  were  dead, 
 The  sailors  their  strength  did  urge; 
 
 But  the  billows  that  beat  were  their  winding-sheet, 
 And  the  winds  sung  their  funeral  dirge. 
 
 She  threw  the  infant's  hair  in  the  fire. 
 
 The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
 And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
 
 They  danced  right  merrily. 
 
 The  second  begun :   She  said  she  had  done 
 The  task  that  Queen  Hecat'  had  set  her, 
 
 And  that  the  devil,  the  father  of  evil, 
 Had  never  accomplished  a  better. 
 
 She  said,  there  was  an  aged  woman, 
 
 And  she  had  a  daughter  fair. 
 Whose  evil  habits  fiU'd  her  heart 
 
 With  misery  and  care. 
 
 The  daughter  had  a  paramour, 
 
 A  wicked  man  was  he, 
 And  oft  the  woman  him  against 
 
 Did  murmur  grievously. 
 
 And  the  hag  had  worked  the  daughter  up 
 
 To  murder  her  old  mother, 
 That  then  she  might  seize  on  all  her  goods, 
 
 And  wanton  with  her  lover. 
 
39 
 
 And  one  night  as  the  old  woman 
 
 Was  sick  and  ill  in  bed, 
 And  pondering  sorely  on  the  life 
 
 Her  wicked  daughter  led, 
 
 She  heard  her  footstep  on  the  floor, 
 
 And  she  rais'd  her  pallid  head, 
 And  she  saw  her  daughter,  with  a  knife, 
 
 Approaching  to  her  bed. 
 
 And  said,  My  child,  I'm  very  ill, 
 
 I  have  not  long  to  live, 
 Now  kiss  my  cheek,  that  ere  I  die 
 
 Thy  sins  I  may  forgive. 
 
 And  the  murderess  bent  to  kiss  her  cheek, 
 And  she  Kfted  the  sharp  bright  knife. 
 
 And  the  mother  saw  her  fell  intent. 
 And  hard  she  begg'd  for  life. 
 
 But  prayers  would  nothing  her  avail. 
 And  she  scream'd  aloud  with  fear, 
 
 But  the  house  was  lone,  and  the  piercing  screams 
 Could  reach  no  human  ear. 
 
 And  though  that  she  was  sick,  and  old, 
 She  struggled  hard,  and  fought  ; 
 
 The  murderess  cut  three  fingers  through 
 Ere  she  could  reach  her  throat. 
 D  4 
 
40 
 
 And  the  hag  she  held  the  fingers  up, 
 The  skin  was  mangled  sore. 
 
 And  they  all  agreed  a  nobler  deed 
 Was  never  done  before. 
 
 And  she  threw  the  fingers  in  the  fire,. 
 
 The  red  flame  flamed  high, 
 And  round  about  the  cauldron  stout 
 
 They  danced  right  merrily. 
 
 The  third  arose  ,•  She  said  she'd  been 
 
 To  Holy  Palestine; 
 And  seen  more  blood  in  one  short  day. 
 
 Than  they  had  all  seen  in  nine. 
 
 Now  Gondoline,  with  fearful  steps. 
 Drew  nearer  to  the  flame, 
 
 For  much  she  dreaded  now  to  hear 
 Her  hapless  lover's  name. 
 
 The  hag  related  then  the  sports. 
 
 Of  that  eventful  day, 
 When  on  the  well-contested  field 
 
 Full  fifteen  thousand  lay. 
 
 She  said  that  she  in  human  gore 
 Above  the  knees  did  wade. 
 
 And  that  no  tongue  could  truly  tell 
 The  tricks  she  there  had  play'd. 
 
41 
 
 There  was  a  gallant-featur'd  youth, 
 
 Who  hke  a  hero  fought ; 
 He  kiss'd  a  bracelet  on  his  wrist, 
 
 And  every  danger  sought. 
 
 And  in  a  vassaPs  garb  disguised, 
 Unto  the  knight  she  sues, 
 
 And  tells  him  she  from  Britain  comes. 
 And  brings  unwelcome  news. 
 
 That  three  days  ere  she  had  embark'd. 
 His  love  had  given  her  hand 
 
 Unto  a  wealthy  Thane :  —  and  thought 
 Him  dead  in  holy  land. 
 
 And  to  have  seen  how  he  did  writhe 
 When  this  her  tale  she  told, 
 
 It  would  have  made  a  wizard's  blood 
 Within  his  heart  run  cold. 
 
 Then  fierce  he  spurr'd  his  warrior  steed. 
 And  sought  the  battle's  bed  : 
 
 And  soon  all  mangled  o'er  with  wounds. 
 He  on  the  cold  turf  bled. 
 
 And  from  his  smoking  corse  she  tore 
 His  head,  half  clove  in  two, 
 
 She  ceas'd,  and  from  beneath  her  garb 
 The  bloody  trophy  drew. 
 
42 
 
 The  eyes  were  starting  from  their  socks, 
 
 The  mouth  it  ghastly  grinn'd, 
 And  there  was  a  gash  across  the  brow, 
 
 The  scalp  was  nearly  skinn'd. 
 
 'Twas  Bertrand's  Head  !  !  With  a  terrible  scream, 
 
 The  maiden  gave  a  spring, 
 And  from  her  fearful  hiding  place 
 
 She  fell  into  the  ring. 
 
 The  lights  they  fled  —  the  cauldron  sunk, 
 
 Deep  thunders  shook  the  dome, 
 And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  came 
 
 Resounding  through  the  gloom. 
 
 Insensible  the  maiden  lay 
 
 Upon  the  hellish  ground. 
 And  still  mysterious  sounds  were  heard 
 
 At  intervals  around. 
 
 She  woke  —  she  half  arose,  —  and  wild. 
 
 She  cast  a  horrid  glare, 
 The  sounds  had  ceas'd,  the  lights  had  fled, 
 
 And  all  was  stillness  there. 
 
 And  through  an  awning  in  the  rock, 
 
 .  The  moon  it  sweetly  shone, 
 And  showed  a  river  in  the  cave 
 Which  dismally  did  moan. 
 
43 
 
 The  stream  was  black,  it  sounded  deep, 
 As  it  rush'd  the  rocks  between, 
 
 It  ofFer'd  well,  for  madness  fired 
 The  breast  of  Gondoline. 
 
 She  plunged  in,  the  torrent  moan'd 
 
 With  its  accustom'd  sound, 
 And  hollow  peals  of  laughter  loud 
 Again  rebellowed  round. 
 
 The  maid  was  seen  no  more.  —  But  oft 
 Her  ghost  is  known  to  glide, 
 
 At  midnight's  silent,  solemn  hour, 
 Along  the  ocean's  side. 
 
 LINES 
 
 WRITTEN    ON    A    SURVEY    OF    THE    HEAVENS, 
 In  the  morning  before  Day-break. 
 
 Ye  many  twinkfing  stars,  who  yet  do  hold 
 Your  brilliant  places  in  the  sable  vault 
 Of  night's  dominions  !  —  Planets,  and  central  orbs 
 Of  other  systems  :  —  big  as  the  burning  sun 
 Which  lights  this  nether  globe,  —  yet  to  our  eye 
 Small  as  the  glow-worm's  lamp  ! —  To  you  I  raise 
 My  lowly  orisons,  while,  all  bewilder'd. 
 My  vision  strays  o'er  your  ethereal  hosts ; 
 
44 
 
 Too  vast,  too  boundless  for  our  narrow  mind, 
 
 Warp'd  with  low  prejudices,  to  unfold, 
 
 And  sagely  comprehend.     Thence  higher  soaring. 
 
 Through  ye  I  raise  my  solemn  thoughts  to  Him, 
 
 The  mighty  Founder  of  this  wond'rous  maze, 
 
 The  great  Creator  !   Him  !  who  now  sublime. 
 
 Wrapt  in  the  solitary  amplitude 
 
 Of  boundless  space,  above  the  rolling  spheres 
 
 Sits  on  his  silent  throne,  and  meditates. 
 
 The  angelic  hosts,  in  their  inferior  Heaven, 
 Hymn  to  the  golden  harps  his  praise  sublime, 
 Repeating  loud,  "  The  Lord  our  God  is  great," 
 In  varied  harmonies.  —  The  glorious  sounds 
 Roll  o'er  the  air  serene  —  The  ^olian  spheres, 
 Harping  along  their  viewless  boundaries, 
 Catch  the  full  note,  and  cry,  "  The  Lord  is  great," 
 Responding  to  the  Seraphim.  —  O'er  all, 
 From  orb  to  orb,  to  the  remotest  verge 
 Of  the  created  world,  the  sound  is  borne. 
 Till  the  whole  universe  is  full  of  Him. 
 
 Oh  !  'tis  this  heavenly  harmony  which  now 
 In  fancy  strikes  upon  my  listening  ear. 
 And  thrills  my  inmost  soul.     It  bids  me  smile 
 On  the  vain  world,  and  all  its  bustling  cares, 
 And  gives  a  shadowy  glimpse  of  future  bliss. 
 Oh  !  what  is  man,  when  at  ambition's  height, 
 What  even  are  kings,  when  balanced  in  the  scale 
 
45 
 
 Of  these  stupencuus  worlds  !  Almighty  God  ! 
 Thou,  the  dread  author  of  these  wond'rous  works  ! 
 Say,  canst  thou  cast  on  me,  poor  passing  worm, 
 One  look  of  kind  benevolence  ?  —  Thou  canst  ; 
 For  Thou  art  full  of  universal  love, 
 And  in  thy  boundless  goodness  wilt  impart 
 Thy  beams  as  well  to  me  as  to  the  proud, 
 The  pageant  insects  of  a  glittering  hour. 
 
 Oh  !   when  reflecting  on  these  truths  sublime, 
 
 How  insignificant  do  all  the  joys, 
 
 The  gaudes,  and  honours  of  the  world  appear  ! 
 
 How  vain  ambition  !  —  Why  has  my  wakeful  lamp 
 
 Outwatch'd  the  slow-pac'd  night  ?  —  Why  on  the  page. 
 
 The  schoolman's  labour'd  page,  have  I  employ'd 
 
 The  hours  devoted  by  the  world  to  rest, 
 
 And  needful  to  recruit  exhausted  nature  ? 
 
 Say,  can  the  voice  of  narrow  Fame  repay 
 
 The  loss  of  health  ?  or  can  the  hope  of  glory 
 
 Lend  a  new  throb  unto  my  languid  heart. 
 
 Cool,  even  now,  my  feverish  aching  brow, 
 
 Relume  the  fires  of  this  deep-sunken  eye. 
 
 Or  paint  new  colours  on  this  pallid  cheek  ? 
 
 Say,  tbohsh  one  —  can  that  unbodied  fame, 
 For  which  thou  barterest  health  and  happiness. 
 Say,  can  it  sooth  the  slumbers  of  the  grave  ? 
 Give  a  new  zest  to  bliss,  or  chase  the  pangs 
 Of  everlasting  punishment  condign  ? 
 Alas  !  how  vain  are  mortal  man's  desires  ! 
 
46 
 
 How  fruitless  his  pursuits  !   Eternal  God  ? 
 Guide  Thou  my  footsteps  in  the  way  of  truth. 
 And  oh  !  assist  me  so  to  Hve  on  earth, 
 That  I  may  die  in  peace,  and  claim  a  place 
 In  thy  high  dwelling.  —  All  but  this  is  folly, 
 The  vain  illusions  of  deceitful  life. 
 
 LINES, 
 
 SUPPOSED    TO    BE   SPOKEN    BY   A   LOVER   AT   THE    GRAVE    OF 
 HIS    MISTRESS. 
 
 Occasioned  by  a  Situation  in  a  Romance. 
 
 Mary,  the  moon  is  sleeping  on  thy  grave, 
 And  on  the  turf  thy  lover  sad  is  kneeling, 
 The  big  tear  in  his  eye.  —  Mary,  awake, 
 From  thy  dark  house  arise,  and  bless  his  sight 
 On  the  pale  moonbeam  gliding.     Soft,  and  low, 
 Pour  on  the  silver  ear  of  night  thy  tale, 
 Thy  whisper'd  tale  of  comfort  and  of  love. 
 To  sooth  thy  Edward's  lorn,  distracted  soul, 
 And  cheer  his  breaking  heart.  —  Come,  as  thou  didst. 
 When  o'er  the  barren  moors  the  night-wind  howl'd. 
 And  the  deep  thunders  shook  the  ebon  throne 
 Of  the  startled  night.  —  O  !  then,  as  lone  reclining, 
 I  listen'd  sadly  to  the  dismal  storm, 
 Thou  on  the  lambent  lightnings  wild  careering 
 Didst  Strike  my  moody  eye ;  —  dead  pale  thou  wert, 
 
 i6 
 
47 
 
 Yet  passing  lovely.  —  Thou  didst  smile  upon  me. 
 And  oh  !  thy  voice  it  rose  so  musical, 
 Betwixt  the  hollow  pauses  of  the  storm, 
 That  at  the  sound  the  winds  forgot  to  rave. 
 And  the  stern  demon  of  the  tempest,  charm'd, 
 Sunk  on  his  rocking  throne  to  still  repose, 
 Lock'd  in  the  arms  of  silence. 
 
 Spirit  of  her  [ 
 My  only  love  !  —  O  !  now  again  arise, 
 And  let  once  more  thine  aery  accents  fall 
 Soft  on  my  listening  ear.     The  night  is  calm, 
 The  gloomy  willows  wave  in  sinking  cadence 
 With  the  stream  that  sweeps  below.     Divinely  swelling 
 On  the  still  air,  the  distant  waterfall 
 Mingles  its  melody ;  —  and,  high  above, 
 The  pensive  empress  of  the  solemn  night, 
 Fitftil,  emerging  from  the  rapid  clouds, 
 Shows  her  chaste  face  in  the  meridian  sky. 
 No  wicked  elves  upon  the  Warlock-hnoll 
 Dare  now  assemble  at  their  mystic  revels  ; 
 It  is  a  night,  when  from  their  primrose  beds, 
 The  gentle  ghosts  of  injur'd  innocents 
 Are  known  to  rise,  and  wander  on  the  breeze, 
 Or  take  their  stand  by  the  oppressor's  couch, 
 And  strike  grim  terror  to  his  guilty  soul. 
 The  spirit  of  my  love  might  now  awake. 
 And  hold  its  customed  converse. 
 
 Mar}^,  lo  \ 
 Thy  Edward  kneels  upon  thy  verdant  grave, 
 And  calls  upon  thy  name.  —  The  breeze  that  blows 
 
48 
 
 On  liis  wan  cheek  will  soon  sweep  over  him 
 
 In  solemn  music,  a  funereal  dirge, 
 
 Wild  and  most  sorrowful.  —  His  cheek  is  pale, 
 
 The  worm  that  play'd  upon  thy  youthful  bloom, 
 
 It  canker'd  green  on  his.  —  Now  lost  he  stands, 
 
 The  ghost  of  what  he  was,  and  the  cold  dew 
 
 Which  bathes  his  aching  temples  gives  sure  omen 
 
 Of  speedy  dissolution. Mary,  soon 
 
 Thy  love  will  lay  his  pallid  cheek  to  thine. 
 And  sweetly  will  he  sleep  with  thee  in  death. 
 
 MY  STUDY, 
 
 A  Letter  in  Hudibrastic  Verse. 
 
 You  bid  me,  Ned,  describe  the  place 
 Wliere  I,  one  of  the  rhyming  race, 
 Pursue  my  studies  con  amore^ 
 And  wanton  with  the  muse  in  glory. 
 
 Well,  figure  to  your  senses  straight, 
 
 Upon  the  house's  topmost  height, 
 
 A  closet,  just  six  feet  by  four. 
 
 With  white-wash'd  walls  and  plaster  floor, 
 
 So  noble  large,  'tis  scarcely  able 
 
 To  admit  a  single  chair  and  table  : 
 
 And  (lest  the  muse  should  die  witli  cold) 
 
 A  smoky  grate. my  fire  to  hold: 
 
49 
 
 Sowonderous  small,  'twould  much  it  post 
 To  melt  the  ice»drop  on  one's  nose ; 
 And  yet  so  big,  it  covers  o'er 
 Full  half  the  spacious  room  and  more. 
 
 A  window  vainly  stufF'd  about, 
 To  keep  November's  breezes  out, 
 So  crazy,  that  the  panes  proclaim, 
 That  soon  they  mean  to  leave  the  frame. 
 
 My  furniture  I  sure  may  crack  — 
 
 A  broken  chair  without  a  back ; 
 
 A  table  wanting  just  two  legs. 
 
 One  end  sustain'd  by  wooden  pegs  ; 
 
 A  desk  —  of  that  I  am  not  fervent. 
 
 The  work  of.  Sir,  your  humble  servant ; 
 
 (Who,  though  I  say't,  am  no  such  fumbler ;) 
 
 A  glass  decanter  and  a  tumbler. 
 
 From  which  my  night-parch'd  throat  I  lave. 
 
 Luxurious,  with  the  limpid  wave. 
 
 A  chest  of  drawers,  in  antique  sections. 
 
 And  saw'd  by  me  in  all  directions ; 
 
 So  small,  Sir,  that  whoever  views  'em 
 
 Swears  nothing  but  a  doll  could  use  'em. 
 
 To  these,  if  you  will  add  a  store 
 
 Of  oddities  upon  the  floor, 
 
 A  pair  of  globes,  electric  balls. 
 
 Scales,  quadrants,  prisms,  and  cobler's  awls, 
 
 And  crowds  of  books,  on  rotten  shelves, 
 
 Octavos,  folios,  quartos,  twelves  ; 
 
 VOL.  II.  E 
 
50 
 
 I  think,  dear  Ned,  you  curious  dog, 
 
 You'll  have  my  earthly  catalogue. 
 
 But  stay,  —  I  nearly  had  left  out 
 
 My  bellows  destitute  of  snout ; 
 
 And  on  the  walls,  —  Good  Heavens  !  why  there 
 
 IVe  such  a  load  of  precious  ware, 
 
 Of  heads,  and  coins,  and  silver  medals. 
 
 And  organ  works,  and  broken  pedals ; 
 
 (For  I  was  once  a-building  music. 
 
 Though  soon  of  that  employ  I  grew  sick;) 
 
 And  skeletons  of  laws  which  shoot 
 
 All  out  of  one  primordial  root ; 
 
 That  you,  at  such  a  sight,  would  swear 
 
 Confusion's  self  had  settled  there. 
 
 There  stands,  just  by  a  broken  sphere, 
 
 A  Cicero  without  an  ear, 
 
 A  neck,  on  which,  by  logic  good, 
 
 I  know  for  sure  a  head  once  stood ; 
 
 But  who  it  was  the  able  master 
 
 Had  moulded  in  the  mimic  plaster. 
 
 Whether  'twas  Pope,  or  Coke,  or  Burn, 
 
 I  never  yet  could  justly  learn : 
 
 But  knowing  well,  that  any  head 
 
 Is  made  to  answer  for  the  dead, 
 
 (And  sculptors  first  their  faces  frame, 
 
 And  after  pitch  upon  a  name. 
 
 Nor  think  it  aught  of  a  misnomer 
 
 To  christen  Chaucer's  busto  Homer, 
 
 Because  they  both  have  beards,  which,  you  know. 
 
 Will  mark  them  well  from  Joan,  and  Juno,) 
 
51 
 
 For  some  great  man,  I  could  not  tell 
 But  Neck  might  answer  just  as  well. 
 So  perch'd  it  up,  all  in  a  row 
 With  Chatham  and  with  Cicero. 
 
 Then  all  around  in  just  degree, 
 A  range  of  portraits  you  may  see, 
 Of  mighty  men,  and  eke  of  women, 
 Who  are  no  whit  inferior  to  men. 
 
 With  these  fair  dames,  and  heroes  round, 
 
 I   call  my  garret  classic  ground. 
 
 For  though  confined,  't  will  well  contain 
 
 The  ideal  flights  of  Madam  Brain. 
 
 No  dungeon's  walls,  no  cell  confined. 
 
 Can  cramp  the  energies  of  mind  ! 
 
 Thus,  though  my  heart  may  seem  so  small 
 
 I've  friends,  and  't  will  contain  them  all ; 
 
 And  should  it  e'er  become  so  cold 
 
 That  these  it  will  no  longer  hold, 
 
 No  more  may  Heaven  her  blessings  give, 
 
 I  shall  not  then  be  fit  to  live. 
 
 E  2 
 
52 
 
 TO  AN  EARLY  PRIMROSE. 
 
 Mild  offspring  of  a  dark  and  sullen  sire  ! 
 Whose  modest  form,  so  delicately  fine, 
 
 Was  nurs'd  in  whirling  storms. 
 
 And  cradled  in  the  winds. 
 
 Thee  when  young  Spring  first  question'd  Winter's  sway, 
 And  dar'd  the  sturdy  blusterer  to  the  fight, 
 
 Thee  on  this  bank  he  threw 
 
 To  mark  his  victory. 
 
 In  this  low  vale,  the  promise  of  the  year, 
 Serene,  thou  open  est  to  the  nipping  gale. 
 
 Unnoticed  and  alone. 
 
 Thy  tender  elegance. 
 
 So  virtue  blooms,  brought  forth  amid  the  storms 
 Of  chill  adversity,  in  some  lone  walk 
 
 Of  life  she  rears  her  head. 
 
 Obscure  and  unobserv'd ; 
 
 While  every  bleaching  breeze  that  on  her  blows. 
 Chastens  her  spotless  purity  of  breast, 
 
 And  hardens  her  to  bear 
 
 Serene  the  ills  of  life. 
 
 17 
 
53 
 
 SONNETS. 
 
 SONNET  I. 
 
 To  the  River  Trent.    Written  on  Recovery  from  Sickness. 
 
 Once  more,  O  Trent  !  along  thy  pebbly  marge 
 
 A  pensive  invalid,  reduced  and  pale, 
 From  the  close  sick-room  newly  let  at  large. 
 Wooes  to  his  wan-worn  cheek  the  pleasant  gale- 
 O  !  to  his  ear  how  musical  the  tale 
 
 Which  fills  with  joy  the  throstle's  little  throat ! 
 And  all  the  sounds  which  on  the  fresh  breeze  sail. 
 
 How  wildly  novel  on  his  senses  float ! 
 It  was  on  this  that  many  a  sleepless  nighty 
 
 As,  lone,  he  watch'd  the  taper's  sickly  gleam, 
 And  at  his  casement  heard,  with  wild  aflPright, 
 
 The  owl's  dull  wing  and  melancholy  scream. 
 On  this  he  thought,  this,  this,  his  sole  desire, 
 Thus  once  again  to  hear  the  warbling  woodland  choir. 
 
 SONNET  II. 
 
 Give  me  a  cottage  on  some  Cambrian  wild. 
 Where,  far  from  cities,  I  may  spend  my  days. 
 
 And,  by  the  beauties  of  the  scene  beguil'd. 
 May  pity  man's  pursuits,  and  shun  his  ways. 
 
 E  3 
 
54 
 
 \Vhile  on  the  rock  I  mark  the  browsing  goat. 
 
 List  to  the  mountain-torrent's  distant  noise, 
 Or  the  hoarse  bittern's  solitary  note, 
 
 I  shall  not  want  the  world's  delusive  joys  ; 
 But  with  my  little  scrip,  my  book,  my  lyre, 
 
 Shall  think  my  lot  complete,  nor  covet  more ; 
 And  when,  with  time,  shall  wane  the  vital  fire^ 
 
 ril  raise  my  pillow  on  the  desert  shore, 
 And  lay  me  down  to  rest  where  the  wild  wave 
 Shall  make  sweet  music  o'er  my  lonely  grave. 
 
 SONNET  III.* 
 
 Supposed  to  have  been  addressed  by  a  female  lunatic  to  a  Lady. 
 
 Lady,  thou  weepest  for  the  Maniac's  woe. 
 
 And  thou  art  fair,  and  thou,  like  me,  art  young ; 
 Oh  !  may  thy  bosom  never,  never  know 
 
 The  pangs  with  which  my  wretched  heart  is  wrung. 
 I  had  a  mother  once  —  a  brother  too  — 
 (Beneath  yon  yew  my  father  rests  his  head :) 
 I  had  a  lover  once,  —  and  kind,  and  true, 
 
 But  mother,  brother,  lover,  all  are  fled  ! 
 Yet,  whence  the  tear  which  dims  thy  lovely  eye  ? 
 
 Oh  !  gentle  lady  —  not  for  me  thus  weep. 
 
 *  This  Quatorzain  had  its  rise  from  an  elegant  Sonnet,  "  occasioned 
 by  seeing  a  young  Female  Lunatic,"  written  by  Mrs.  LoiTt,  and  published 
 in  the  Monthly  Mirror. 
 
55 
 
 The  green  sod  soon  upon  my  breast  will  lie, 
 And  soft  and  sound  will  be  my  peaceful  sleep. 
 
 Go  thou  and  pluck  the  roses  while  they  bloom  — 
 Ml/  hopes  lie  buried  in  the  silent  tomb. 
 
 SONNET  IV. 
 
 Supposed  to  be  written  by  the  unhappy  Poet  Dermody,  in  a  Storm, 
 while  on  board  a  Ship  in  His  Majesty's  Service. 
 
 Lo  !  o'er  the  welkin  the  tempestuous  clouds 
 
 Successive  fly,  and  the  loud-piping  wind 
 Rocks  the  poor  sea-boy  on  the  dripping  shrouds, 
 
 While  the  pale  pilot,  o'er  the  helm  reclin'd, 
 Lists  to  the  changeful  storm :  and  as  he  plies 
 
 His  wakeful  task,  he  oft  bethinks  him  sad, 
 
 Of  wife,  and  little  home,  and  chubby  lad, 
 And  the  half-strangled  tear  bedews  his  eyes; 
 I,  on  the  deck,  musing  on  themes  forlorn. 
 
 View  the  drear  tempest,  and  the  yawning  deep, 
 Nought  dreading  in  the  green  sea's  caves  to  sleep, 
 For  not  for  me  shall  wife  or  children  mourn, 
 And  the  wild  winds  will  ring  my  funeral  knell. 
 Sweetly,  as  solemn  peal  of  pious  passing-bell. 
 
 E  4 
 
56 
 
 SONNET  V. 
 
 THE    WINTER    TRAVELLER. 
 
 God  help  thee,  Traveller,  on  thy  journey  far  ; 
 The  wind  is  bitter  keen,  —  the  snow  overlays 
 The  hidden  pits,  and  dangerous  hollow  ways, 
 And  darkness  will  involve  thee.  —  No  kind  star 
 To-night  will  guide  thee.  Traveller,  —  and  the  war 
 Of  winds  and  elements  on  thy  head  will  break,. 
 And  in  thy  agonizing  ear  the  shriek 
 Of  spirits  howling  on  their  stormy  car, 
 Will  often  ring  appalling  —  I  portend 
 A  dismal  night  —  and  on  my  wakeful  bed 
 Thoughts,  Traveller,  of  thee  will  fill  my  head. 
 And  him  who  rides  where  winds  and  waves  contend, 
 And  strives,  rude  cradled  on  the  seas,  to  guide 
 His  lonely  bark  through  the  tempestuous  tide. 
 
57 
 
 SONNET  Vr. 
 
 BY    CAPEL  LOFFT,    ESg. 
 
 This  Sonnet  was  addressed  to  the  Author  of  this  Volume,  and  was  oc- 
 casioned by  several  little  Quatorzains,  misnomered  Sonnets,  which  he 
 published  in  the  Monthly  Mirror.  He  begs  leave  to  return  his  thanks 
 to  the  much  respected  writer,  for  the  permission  so  politely  granted 
 to  insert  it  here,  and  for  the  good  opinion  he  has  been  pleased  to 
 express  of  his  productions. 
 
 Ye,  whose  aspirings  court  the  muse  of  lays, 
 "  Severest  of  those  orders  which  belong, 
 "  Distinct  and  separate,  to  Delphic  song," 
 Why  shun  the  Sonnef  s  undulating  maze  ? 
 And  why  its  name,  boast  of  Petrarchian  days, 
 
 Assume,  its  rules  disown'd  ?  whom  from  the  throng 
 The  muse  selects,  their  ear  the  charm  obeys 
 Of  its  full  harmony :  —  they  fear  to  wrong 
 The  Sonnet,  by  adorning  with  a  name 
 
 Of  that  distinguished  import,  lays,  though  sweet. 
 Yet  not  in  magic  texture  taught  to  meet 
 Of  that  so  varied  and  peculiar  frame. 
 O  think  !  to  vindicate  its  genuine  praise 
 Those  it  beseems,  whose  Lt/re  a  favouring  impulse  sways. 
 
58 
 
 SONNET  VII. 
 
 Recantatory,  in  reply  to  the  foregoing  elegant  Admonition. 
 
 Let  the  sublimer  muse,  who,  wrapt  in  night, 
 Rides  on  the  raven  pennons  of  the  storm, 
 Or  o'er  the  field,  with  purple  havoc  warm, 
 Lashes  her  steeds,  and  sings  along  the  fight, 
 Let  her,  whom  more  ferocious  strains  delight. 
 Disdain  the  plaintive  Sonnet's  little  form, 
 And  scorn  to  its  wild  cadence  to  conform 
 The  impetuous  tenor  of  her  hardy  flight. 
 But  me,  far  lowest  of  the  sylvan  train. 
 
 Who  wake  the  wood-nymphs  from  the  forest  shade 
 With  wildest  song ;  —  Me,  much  behoves  thy  aid 
 Of  mingled  melody,  to  grace  my  strain. 
 And  give  it  power  to  please,  as  soft  it  flows 
 Through  the  smooth  murmurs  of  thy  frequent  close. 
 
 SONNET  VIIL 
 
 On  hearing  the  Sounds  of  an  yEolian  Harp. 
 
 So  ravishingly  soft  upon  the  tide 
 Of  the  infuriate  gust,  it  did  career, 
 It  might  have  sooth'd  its  rugged  charioteer, 
 
 And  sunk  him  to  a  zephyr ;  —  then  it  died, 
 
59 
 
 Melting  in  melody ;  —  and  I  descried, 
 
 Borne  to  some  wizrard  stream,  the  form  appear 
 Of  druid  sage,  who  on  the  far-off  ear 
 Poured  his  lone  song,  to  which  the  surge  replied : 
 Or  thought  I  heard  the  hapless  pilgrim's  knell, 
 Lost  in  some  wild  enchanted  forest's  bounds. 
 By  unseen  beings  sung ;  or  are  these  sounds 
 Such,  as  'tis  said,  at  night  are  known  to  swell 
 By  startled  shepherd  on  the  lonely  heath, 
 Keeping  his  night-watch  sad,  portending  death  ? 
 
 SONNET  IX. 
 
 What  art  thou.  Mighty  One  !  and  where  thy  seat  ? 
 Thou  broodest  on  the  calm  that  cheers  the  lands. 
 And  thou  dost  bear  within  thine  awful  hands 
 
 The  rolling  thunders  and  the  lightnings  fleet, 
 
 Stern  on  thy  dark-wrought  car  of  cloud,  and  wind, 
 Thou  guid'st  the  northern  storm  at  night's  dead  noon, 
 Or  on  the  red  wing  of  the  fierce  Monsoon, 
 
 Disturb'st  the  sleeping  giant  of  the  Ind. 
 
 In  the  drear  silence  of  the  polar  span 
 Dost  thou  repose  ?  or  in  the  solitude 
 
 Of  sultry  tracts,  where  the  lone  caravan 
 
 Hears  nightly  howl  the  tiger's  hungry  brood  ? 
 
 Vain  thought !  the  confines  of  his  throne  to  trace, 
 
 Who  glows  through  all  the  fields  of  boundleis  space. 
 
60 
 
 A  BALLAD. 
 
 Be  hush'd,  be  hush*d,  ye  bitter  winds, 
 
 Ye  pelting  rains  a  little  rest : 
 Lie  still,  lie  still,  ye  busy  thoughts. 
 
 That  wring  with  grief  my  aching  breasts- 
 
 Oh  !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love, 
 To  triumph  o'er  an  artless  maid ; 
 
 Oh  !  cruel  was  my  faithless  love. 
 To  leave  the  breast  by  him  betray'd. 
 
 When  exil'd  from  my  native  home, 
 He  should  have  wip'd  the  bitter  tear  •- 
 
 Nor  left  me  faint  and  lone  to  roam, 
 A  heart-sick  weary  wand'rer  here. 
 
 My  child  moans  sadly  in  my  arms, 
 The  winds  they  will  not  let  it  sleep : 
 
 Ah,  little  knows  the  hapless  babe 
 
 What  makes  its  wretched  mother  weep  ! 
 
 Now  lie  thee  still,  my  infant  dear, 
 I  cannot  bear  thy  sobs  to  see, 
 
 Harsh  is  thy  father,  little  one. 
 And  never  will  he  shelter  thee. 
 
61 
 
 Oh,  that  I  were  but  in  my  grave, 
 And  winds  were  piping  o*er  me  loud, 
 
 And  thou,  my  poor,  my  orphan  babe. 
 Were  nestling  in  thy  mother's  shroud ! 
 
 THE  LULLABY 
 
 OF  A  FEMALE  CONVICT  TO  HER  CHILD,  THE  NIGHT  PREVIOUS 
 TO  EXECUTION. 
 
 Sleep,  Baby  mine  *,  enkerchieft  on  my  bosom. 
 Thy  cries  they  pierce  again  my  bleeding  breast ; 
 
 Sleep,  baby  mine,  not  long  thou'lt  have  a  mother 
 To  lull  thee  fondly  in  her  arms  to  rest. 
 
 Baby,  why  dost  thou  keep  this  sad  complaining. 
 Long  from  mine  eyes  have  kindly  slumbers  fled ; 
 
 Hush,  hush,  my  babe,  the  night  is  quickly  waning. 
 And  I  would  fain  compose  my  aching  head. 
 
 Poor  wayward  wretch  !  and  who  will  heed  thy  weeping, 
 When  soon  an  outcast  on  the  world  thou'lt  be  : 
 
 Who  then  will  sooth  thee,  when  thy  mother  's  sleeping 
 In  her  low  grave  of  shame  and  infamy  ! 
 
 *  Sir  Philip  Sidney  has  a  poem  beginning,  "  Sleep,  Baby  mine.' 
 
62 
 
 Sleep,  baby  mine  —  To-morrow  I  must  leave  thee. 
 And  I  would  snatch  an  interval  of  rest : 
 
 Sleep  these  last  moments,  ere  the  laws  bereave  thee> 
 For  never  more  thou'lt  press  a  mother's  breast. 
 
POEMS, 
 
 WRITTEN  DURING,  OR  SHORTLY  AFTER,  THE  PUBLICATION  OF 
 
 CLIFTON   GROVE, 
 
65 
 
 O  D  E, 
 
 ADDRESSED  TO  H.  FUSELI,  ESQ.  R.  A, 
 On  seeing  Engravings  from  his  Designs. 
 
 Mighty  magician  1  who  on  Torneo's  brow, 
 
 When  sullen  tempests  wrap  the  throne  of  night. 
 Art  wont  to  sit  and  catch  the  gleam  of  light, 
 
 That  shoots  athwart  the  gloom  opaque  below  ; 
 
 And  listen  to  the  distant  death-shriek  long 
 
 From  lonely  mariner  foundering  in  the  deep, 
 Which  rises  slowly  up  the  rocky  steep, 
 
 While  the  weird  sisters  weave  the  horrid  song : 
 Or  when  along  the  liquid  sky 
 Serenely  chaunt  the  orbs  on  high, 
 Dost  love  to  sit  in  musing  trance, 
 And  mark  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
 (While  far  below  the  fitful  oar 
 Flings  its  faint  pauses  on  the  steepy  shore,) 
 And  list  the  music  of  the  breeze. 
 That  sweeps  by  fits  the  bending  seas ; 
 And  often  bears  with  sudden  swell 
 The  shipwreck'd  sailor's  funeral  knell. 
 By  the  spirits  sung,  who  keep 
 Their  night-watch  on  the  treacherous  deep, 
 
 ^OL,  II.  F 
 
66 
 
 And  guide  the  wakeful  helms-man's  eye 
 To  Helice  in  northern  sky  : 
 And  there  upon  the  rock  inclined 
 With  mighty  visions  fill'st  the  mind, 
 Such  as  bound  in  magic  spell 
 Him  *  who  grasp'd  the  gates  of  Hell, 
 And  bursting  Pluto's  dark  domain, 
 Held  to  the  day  the  terrors  of  his  reign. 
 
 Genius  of  Horror  and  romantic  awe, 
 
 Whose  eye  explores  the  secrets  of  the  deep, 
 Whose  power  can  bid  the  rebel  fluids  creep. 
 
 Can  force  the  inmost  soul  to  own  its  law ; 
 Who  shall  now,  sublimest  spirit, 
 Who  shall  now  thy  wand  inherit. 
 From  him  f  thy  darling  child  who  best 
 Thy  shuddering  images  exprest  ? 
 Sullen  of  soul,  and  stern  and  proud. 
 His  gloomy  spirit  spurn'd  the  crowd. 
 And  now  he  lays  his  aching  head 
 In  the  dark  mansion  of  the  silent  dead. 
 
 Mighty  magician  !  long  thy  wand  has  lain 
 
 Buried  beneath  the  unfathomable  deep ; 
 
 And  oh  !  for  ever  must  its  efforts  sleep. 
 May  none  the  mystic  sceptre  e'er  regain  ? 
 
 Oh  yes,  'tis  his  !  —  Thy  other  son  ; 
 
 He  throws  thy  dark-wrought  tunic  on, 
 
 *  Dante,  t  Ibid. 
 
67 
 
 Fuesslin  waves  thy  wand,  —  again  they  rise, 
 Again  thy  wildering  forms  salute  our  ravish'd  eyes, 
 Him  didst  thou  cradle  on  the  dizzy  steep 
 
 Where  round  his  head  the  volley'd  lightnings  flung, 
 And  the  loud  winds  that  round  his  pillow  rung. 
 Wooed  the  stern  infant  to  the  arms  of  sleep. 
 
 Or  on  the  highest  top  of  Teneriffe 
 Seated  the  fearless  boy,  and  bade  him  look 
 
 Where  far  below  the  weather-beaten  skiiF 
 On  the  gulf  bottom  of  the  ocean  strook. 
 Thou  mark'dst  him  drink  with  ruthless  ear 
 
 The  death-sob,  and,  disdaining  rest. 
 Thou  saw'st  how  danger  fir'd  his  breast, 
 And  in  his  young  hand  couch'd  the  visionary  spear. 
 Then,  Superstition,  at  thy  call, 
 She  bore  the  boy  to  Odin's  Hall, 
 And  set  before  his  awe-struck  sight 
 The  savage  feast  and  spectred  fight ; 
 And  summoned  from  his  mountain  tomb 
 The  ghastly  warrior  son  of  gloom. 
 His  fabled  Runic  rhymes  to  sing, 
 While  fierce  Hresvelger  flapp'd  his  wing ; 
 Thou  show'dst  the  trains  the  shepherd  sees, 
 Laid  on  the  stormy  Hebrides, 
 Which  on  the  mists  of  evening  gleam, 
 Or  crowd  the  foaming  desert  stream ; 
 Lastly  her  storied  hand  she  waves. 
 And  lays  him  in  Florentian  caves ; 
 There  milder  fables,  lovelier  themes, 
 Enwrap  his  soul  in  heavenly  dreams, 
 F  2 
 
68 
 
 There  Pity's  lute  arrests  his  ear, 
 And  draws  the  half-reluctant  tear ; 
 And  now  at  noon  of  night  he  roves 
 Along  the  embowering  moonlight  groves, 
 And  as  from  many  a  cavern'd  dell 
 The  hollow  wind  is  heard  to  swell, 
 He  thinks  some  troubled  spirit  sighs  ; 
 And  as  upon  the  turf  he  lies, 
 Where  sleeps  the  silent  beam  of  night. 
 He  sees  below  the  gliding  sprite. 
 And  hears  in  Fancy's  organs  sound 
 Aerial  music  warbling  round. 
 
 Taste  lastly  comes  and  smoothes  the  whole, 
 And  breathes  her  polish  o*er  his  soul ; 
 Glowing  with  wild,  yet  chasten'd  heat. 
 The  wonderous  work  is  now  complete. 
 
 The  Poet  dreams :  —  The  shadow  flies. 
 And  fainting  fast  its  image  dies. 
 But  lo  !  the  Painter's  magic  force 
 Arrests  the  phantom's  fleeting  course ; 
 It  lives  —  it  lives  —  the  canvass  glows. 
 And  tenfold  vigour  o'er  it  flows. 
 
 The  Bard  beholds  the  work  achiev'd, 
 And  as  he  sees  the  shadow  rise, 
 Sublime  before  his  wondering  eyes, 
 
 Starts  at  the  image  his  own  mind  conceiv'd. 
 
69 
 
 ODE, 
 
 ADDRESSED  TO  THE  EARL  OF  CARLISLE,  K.  G. 
 
 Retired,  remote  from  human  noise, 
 
 A  humble  Poet  dwelt  serene ; 
 His  lot  was  lowly,  yet  his  joys 
 
 Were  manifold,  I  ween. 
 He  laid  him  by  the  brawling  brook 
 
 At  eventide  to  ruminate. 
 
 He  watch'd  the  swallow  skimming  round. 
 And  mused,  in  reverie  profound. 
 On  wayward  man's  unhappy  state. 
 And  ponder'd  much,  and  paused  on  deeds  of  ancient  date. 
 
 IL  1. 
 "  Oh,  'twas  not  always  thus,"  he  cried, 
 
 "  There  was  a  time,  when  Genius  claimed 
 Respect  from  even  towering  Pride, 
 
 Nor  hung  her  head  ashamed : 
 But  now  to  Wealth  alone  we  bow, 
 
 The  titled  and  the  rich  alone 
 Are  honoured,  while  meek  Merit  pines. 
 On  Penury's  wretched  couch  reclines, 
 Unheeded  in  his  dying  moan, 
 As  overwhelmed  with  want  and  woe,  he  sinks  unknown. 
 
 III.   1. 
 
 "  Yet  was  the  muse  not  always  seen 
 In  Poverty's  dejected  mien, 
 
10 
 
 Not  always  did  repining  rue, 
 And  misery  her  steps  pursue. 
 Time  was,  when  nobles  thought  their  titles  graced, 
 By  the  sweet  honours  of  poetic  bays, 
 When  Sidney  sung  his  melting  song. 
 When  Sheffield  joined  the  harmonious  throng, 
 And  Lyttleton  attuned  to  love  his  lays. 
 
 Those  days  are  gone  —  alas,  for  ever  gone  ! 
 
 No  more  our  nobles  love  to  grace 
 Their  brows  with  anadems,  by  genius  won, 
 But  arrogantly  deem  the  muse  as  base ; 
 How  different  thought  the  sires  of  this  degenerate  race  !" 
 
 Thus  sanff  the  minstrel  j  —  still  at  eve 
 
 o 
 
 The  upland's  woody  shades  among 
 In  broken  measures  did  he  grieve, 
 
 With  solitary  song. 
 And  still  his  shame  was  aye  the  same. 
 
 Neglect  had  stung  him  to  the  core; 
 And  he  with  pensive  joy  did  love 
 To  seek  the  still  congenial  grove, 
 
 And  muse  on  all  his  sorrows  o'er. 
 And  vow  that  he  would  join  the  abjured  world  no  more« 
 
 II.  2f. 
 
 But  human  vows,  how  frail  they  be ! 
 
 Fame  brought  Carlisle  unto  his  view. 
 And  all  amaz'd,  he  thought  to  see  '   . 
 
 The  Augustan  age  anew. 
 
71 
 
 Filled  with  wild  rapture,  up  he  rose, 
 No  more  he  ponders  on  the  woes, 
 Which  erst  he  felt  that  forward  goes, 
 Regrets  he'd  sunk  in  impotence, 
 And  hails  the  ideal  day  of  virtuous  eminence« 
 
 III.  2. 
 
 Ah  !  silly  man,  yet  smarting  sore, 
 With  ills  which  in  the  world  he  bore^ 
 Again  on  futile  hope  to  rest. 
 An  unsubstantial  prop  at  best, 
 And  not  to  know  one  swallow  makes  no  summer  I 
 
 Ah  !  soon  he'll  find  the  brilliant  gleam, 
 Which  flashed  across  the  hemisphere, 
 Illumining  the  darkness  there. 
 
 Was  but  a  single  solitary  beam. 
 While  all  around  remained  in  custom'd  night. 
 
 Still  leaden  Ignorance  reigns  serene. 
 In  the  false  court's  delusive  height. 
 
 And  only  one  Carlisle  is  seen. 
 To  illume  the  heavy  gloom  with  pure  and  steady  light. 
 
 DESCRIPTION  OF  A  SUMMER'S  EVE. 
 
 Down  the  sultry  arc  of  day 
 The  burning  wheels  have  urged  their  way, 
 And  eve  along  the  western  skies 
 Spreads  her  intermingling  dyes. 
 F  4? 
 
72^ 
 
 Down  the  deep,  the  miry  lane, 
 Creeking  comes  the  empty  wain^ 
 And  driver  on  the  shaft-horse  sits^ 
 Whistling  now  and  then  by  fits ; 
 And  oft,  with  his  accustom' d  call. 
 Urging  on  the  sluggish  Ball. 
 The  bam  is  still,  the  master's  gone. 
 And  thresher  puts  his  jacket  on, 
 While  Dick,  upon  the  ladder  tall, 
 Nails  the  dead  kite  to  the  wall. 
 Here  comes  shepherd  Jack  at  last. 
 He  has  penn'd  the  sheep-cote  fast. 
 For  'twas  but  two  nights  before, 
 A  lamb  was  eaten  on  the  moor : 
 His  empty  wallet  Rover  carries, 
 Now  for  Jack,  when  near  home,  tarries. 
 With  lolling  tongue  he  runs  to  try, 
 If  the  horse-trough  be  not  dry. 
 The  milk  is  settled  in  the  pans, 
 And  supper  messes  in  the  cans ; 
 In  the  hovel  carts  are  wheeled. 
 And  both  the  colts  are  drove  a- field : 
 The  horses  are  all  bedded  up^ 
 And  the  ewe  is  with  the  tup, 
 The  snare  for  Mister  Fox  is  set. 
 The  leaven  laid,  the  thatching  wet. 
 And  Bess  has  slink'd  away  to  talk 
 With  Roger  in  the  holly-walk. 
 
 Now,  on  the  settle  all,  but  Bess, 
 Are  set  to  eat  their  supper  mess ; 
 
73 
 
 And  little  Tom,  and  roguish  Kate, 
 Are  swinging  on  the  meadow  gate. 
 Now  they  chat  of  various  things, 
 Of  taxes,  ministers,  and  kings. 
 Or  else  tell  all  the  village  news. 
 How  madam  did  the  squire  refuse  ; 
 How  parson  on  his  tithes  was  bent, 
 And  landlord  oft  distrained  for  rent. 
 Thus  do  they  talk,  till  in  the  sky 
 The  pale-ey'd  moon  is  mounted  high, 
 And  from  the  alehouse  drunken  Ned 
 Had  reel'd  —  then  hasten  all  to  bed. 
 The  mistress  sees  that  lazy  Kate 
 The  happing  coal  on  kitchen  grate 
 Has  laid  —  while  master  goes  throughout. 
 Sees  shutters  fast,  the  mastiff  out. 
 The  candles  safe,  the  hearths  all  clear, 
 And  nought  from  thieves  or  fire  to  fear ; 
 Then  both  to  bed  together  creep. 
 And  join  the  general  troop  of  sleep. 
 
 TO  CONTEMPLATION. 
 
 Come,  pensive  sage,  who  lov'st  to  dwell 
 In  some  retir'd  Lapponian  cell. 
 Where,  far  from  noise  and  riot  rude. 
 Resides  sequestered  Solitude. 
 
74 
 
 Come,  and  o'er  my  longing  soul 
 Throw  thy  dark  and  russet  stole^ 
 And  open  to  my  duteous  eyes, 
 The  volume  of  thy  mysteries. 
 
 I  will  meet  thee  on  the  hill, 
 Where,  with  printless  footsteps  still 
 The  morning  in  her  buskin  grey. 
 Springs  upon  her  eastern  way; 
 While  the  frolic  zephyrs  stir, 
 Playing  with  the  gossamer. 
 And,  on  ruder  pinions  borne. 
 Shake  the  dew-drops  from  the  thorn. 
 There,  as  o'er  the  fields  we  pass, 
 Brushing  with  hasty  feet  the  grass, 
 We  will  startle  from  her  nest 
 The  lively  lark  with  speckled  breast, 
 And  hear  the  floating  clouds  among 
 Her  gale-transported  matin  song. 
 Or  on  the  upland  stile  embower'd, 
 With  fragrant  hawthorn  snowy  flower'd, 
 Will  sauntering  sit,  and  listen  still 
 To  the  herdsman's  oaten  quill, 
 Wafted  from  the  plain  below ; 
 Or  the  heifer's  frequent  low ; 
 Or  the  milkmaid  in  the  grove. 
 Singing  of  one  that  died  for  love. 
 Or  when  the  noontide  heats  oppress. 
 We  will  seek  the  dark  recess, 
 
75 
 
 Where,  in  the  embower'd  translucent  stream,- 
 
 The  cattle  shun  the  sultry  beam. 
 
 And  o'er  us  on  the  marge  reclin'd. 
 
 The  drowsy  fly  her  horn  shall  wind, 
 
 While  Echo,  from  her  ancient  oak. 
 
 Shall  answer  to  the  woodman's  stroke ; 
 
 Or  the  little  peasant's  song, 
 
 Wandering  lone  the  glens  among. 
 
 His  artless  lip  with  berries  dyed. 
 
 And  feet  through  ragged  shoes  descried. 
 
 But  oh  !  when  evening's  virgin  queen 
 Sits  on  her  fringed  throne  serene. 
 And  mingling  whispers  rising  near, 
 Still  on  the  still  reposing  ear : 
 While  distant  brooks  decaying  round, 
 Augment  the  mixed  dissolving  sound. 
 And  the  zephyr  flitting  by. 
 Whispers  mystic  harmony. 
 We  will  seek  the  woody  lane, 
 By  the  hamlet,  on  the  plain. 
 Where  the  weary  rustic  nigh, 
 Shall  whistle  his  wild  melody. 
 And  the  croaking  wicket  oft 
 Shall  echo  from  the  neighbouring  croft  i- 
 And  as  we  trace  the  green  path  lone, 
 With  moss  and  rank  weeds  overgrown^ 
 We  will  muse  on  pensive  lore 
 Till  the  full  soul  brimming  o'er, 
 
76 
 
 Shall  in  our  upturn'd  eyes  appear, 
 Embodied  in  a  quivering  tear. 
 Or  else,  serenely  silent,  set 
 By  the  brawling  rivulet, 
 Which  on  its  calm  unruffled  breast. 
 Bears  the  old  mossy  arch  impress'd. 
 That  clasps  its  secret  stream  of  glass 
 Half  hid  in  shrubs  and  waving  grass. 
 The  wood-nymph's  lone  secure  retreat, 
 Unpressed  by  fawn  or  sylvan' s  feet. 
 We'll  watch  in  eve's  ethereal  braid. 
 The  rich  vermilion  slowly  fade ; 
 Or  catch,  faint  twinkling  from  afar, 
 The  first  glimpse  of  the  eastern  star. 
 Fair  Vesper,  mildest  lamp  of  light. 
 That  heralds  in  imperial  night ; 
 Meanwhile,  upon  our  wandermg  ear. 
 Shall  rise,  though  low,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
 The  distant  sounds  of  pastoral  lute. 
 Invoking  soft  the  sober  suit 
 Of  dimmest  darkness  —  fitting  well 
 With  love,  or  sorrow's  pensive  spell, 
 (So  erst  did  music's  silver  tone 
 Wake  slumbering  Chaos  on  his  throne.) 
 And  haply  then,  with  sudden  swell. 
 Shall  roar  the  distant  curfew  bell, 
 While  in  the  castle's  mouldering  tower, 
 The  hooting  owl  is  heard  to  pour 
 Her  melancholy  song,  and  scare 
 Dull  Silence  brooding  in  the  air. 
 
T( 
 
 Meanwhile  her  dusk  and  slumbering  car, 
 Black-suited  Night  drives  on  from  far, 
 And  Cynthia,  'merging  from  her  rear. 
 Arrests  the  waxing  darkness  drear. 
 And  summons  to  her  silent  call, 
 Sweeping,  in  their  airy  pall, 
 The  unshrived  ghosts,  in  fairy  trance. 
 To  join  her  moonshine  morrice-dance ; 
 While  around  the  mystic  ring 
 The  shadowy  shapes  elastic  spring. 
 Then  with  a  passing  shriek  they  fly. 
 Wrapt  in  mists,  along  the  sky. 
 And  oft  are  by  the  shepherd  seen. 
 In  his  lone  night-watch  on  the  green. 
 
 Then,  hermit,  let  us  turn  our  feet 
 
 To  the  low  abbey's  still  retreat. 
 
 Embowered  in  the  distant  glen. 
 
 Far  from  the  haunts  of  busy  men, 
 
 Where,  as  we  sit  upon  the  tomb, 
 
 The  glow-worm's  light  may  gild  the  gloom. 
 
 And  show  to  Fancy's  saddest  eye. 
 
 Where  some  lost  hero's  ashes  lie. 
 
 And  oh,  as  through  the  mouldering  arch. 
 
 With  ivy  fill'd  and  weeping  larch. 
 
 The  night-gale  whispers  sadly  clear, 
 
 Speaking  drear  things  to  Fancy's  ear. 
 
 We'll  hold  communion  with  the  shade 
 
 Of  some  deep-wailing  ruin'd  maid  — 
 
78 
 
 Or  call  the  ghost  of  Spenser  down. 
 
 To  tell  of  woe  and  Fortune's  frown ; 
 
 And  bid  us  cast  the  eye  of  hope 
 
 Beyond  this  bad  world's  narrow  scope. 
 
 Or  if  these  joys,  to  us  denied, 
 
 To  linger  by  the  forest's  side ; 
 
 Or  in  the  meadow,  or  the  wood, 
 
 Or  by  the  lone  romantic  flood ; 
 
 Let  us  in  the  busy  town, 
 
 When  sleep's  dull  streams  the  people  drown, 
 
 Far  from  drowsy  pillows  flee, 
 
 And  turn  the  church's  massy  key ; 
 
 Then,  as  through  the  painted  glass 
 
 The  moon's  faint  beams  obscurely  pass ; 
 
 And  darkly  on  the  trophied  wall. 
 
 Her  faint  ambiguous  shadows  fall ; 
 
 Let  us,  while  the  faint  winds  wail, 
 
 Through  the  long  reluctant  aisle, 
 
 As  we  pace  with  reverence  meet. 
 
 Count  the  echoings  of  our  feet ; 
 
 While  from  the  tombs,  with  confess'd  breath, 
 
 Distinct  responds  the  voice  of  death. 
 
 If  thou,  mild  sage,  wilt  condescend, 
 
 Thus  on  my  footsteps  to  attend, 
 
 To  thee  my  lonely  lamp  shall  burn. 
 
 By  fallen  Genius'  sainted  urn 
 
 As  o'er  the  scroll  of  Time  I  pore, 
 
 And  sagely  spell  of  ancient  lore. 
 
 Till  I  can  rightly  guess  of  all 
 
 That  Plato  could  to  memory  call, 
 
79 
 
 And  scan  tlie  formless  views  of  things, 
 Or  with  old  Egypt's  fetter'd  kings. 
 Arrange  the  mystic  trains  that  shine 
 In  night's  high  philosophic  mine  ; 
 And  to  thy  name  shall  e'er  belong 
 The  honours  of  undying  song. 
 
 ODE 
 
 TO  THE  GENIUS  OF  ROMANCE. 
 
 Oh  !  thou  who,  in  my  early  youth, 
 When  fancy  wore  the  garb  of  truth, 
 Were  wont  to  win  my  infant  feet, 
 To  some  retir'd,  deep-fabled  seat. 
 Where  by  the  brooklet's  secret  tide, 
 The  midnight  ghost  was  known  to  glide ; 
 Or  lay  me  in  some  lonely  glade, 
 In  native  Sherwood's  forest  shade. 
 Where  Robin  Hood,  the  outlaw  bold, 
 Was  wont  his  sylvan  courts  to  hold ; 
 And  there,  as  musing  deep  I  lay. 
 Would  steal  my  little  soul  away. 
 And  all  thy  pictures  represent. 
 Of  siege  and  solemn  tournament  ; 
 Or  bear  me  to  the  magic  scene. 
 Where,  clad  in  greaves  and  gaberdine, 
 The  warrior  knight  of  chivalry 
 Made  many  a  fierce  enchanter  flee; 
 
80 
 
 And  bore  the  liigh-born  dame  away, 
 Long  held  the  fell  magician's  prey ; 
 Or  oft  would  tell  the  shuddering  tale 
 Of  murders,  and  of  goblins  pale. 
 Haunting  the  guilty  baron's  side, 
 (Whose  floors  with  secret  blood  were  dyed. 
 Which  o'er  the  vaulted  corridore, 
 On  stormy  nights  was  heard  to  roar, 
 By  old  domestic,  waken'd  wide 
 By  the  angry  winds  that  chide ; 
 Or  else  the  mystic  tale  would  tell, 
 Of  Green  sleeve,  or  of  Blue-Beard  fell. 
 
 THE   SAVOYARD'S   RETURN. 
 
 I. 
 
 Oh  !  yonder  is  the  well-known  spot. 
 
 My  dear,  my  long-lost  native  home  ! 
 Oh  !  welcome  is  yon  little  cot. 
 
 Where  I  shall  rest,  no  more  to  roam ! 
 Oh  !  I  have  travelled  far  and  wide. 
 
 O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land; 
 Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried. 
 And  sung  and  danc'd  my  saraband. 
 But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail 
 To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale. 
 17 
 
81 
 
 11. 
 
 Of  distant  climes  the  false  report 
 It  lurM  me  from  my  native  land ; 
 bade  me  rove —  my  sole  support 
 My  cymbals  and  my  saraband. 
 
 The  woody  dell,  the  hanging  rock, 
 
 The  chamois  skipping  o'er  the  heights ; 
 
 The  plain  adorn'd  with  many /a  flock, 
 And,  oh  !  a  thousand  more  delights, 
 That  grace  yon  dear  belov'd  retreat, 
 Have  backward  won  my  weary  feet. 
 
 III. 
 
 Now  safe  return'd,  with  wandering  tired, 
 
 No  more  my  little  home  I'll  leave ; 
 And  many  a  tale  of  what  I've  seen 
 
 Shall  while  away  the  winter's  eve. 
 Oh  !  I  have  wander'd  far  and  wide, 
 
 O'er  many  a  distant  foreign  land ; 
 Each  place,  each  province  I  have  tried, 
 
 And  sung  and  danced  my  saraband ; 
 But  all  their  charms  could  not  prevail, 
 To  steal  my  heart  from  yonder  vale, 
 
 VOL.  1 1, 
 
82 
 
 LINES 
 
 Written  impromptu,  on  reading  the  following  passage  in  Mr.  Capel 
 Lofft's  beautiful  and  interesting  Preface  to  Nathaniel  Bloomfield's 
 Poems,  just  published. — "  It  has  a  mixture  of  the  sportive,  which 
 deepens  the  impression  of  its  melancholy  close.  I  could  have  wished 
 as  I  have  said  in  a  short  note,  the  conclusion  had  been  otherwise. 
 The  sours  of  life  less  offend  my  taste  than  its  sweets  delight  it." 
 
 Go  to  the  raging  sea,  and  say,   "  Be  still  !" 
 Bid  the  wild  lawless  winds  obey  thy  will ; 
 Preach  to  the  storm,  and  reason  with  Despair, 
 But  tell  not  Misery's  son  that  life  is  fair. 
 
 Thou,  who  in  Plenty's  lavish  lap  hast  roll'd, 
 And  every  year  with  new  delight  hast  told. 
 Thou,  who  recumbent  on  the  lacquer'd  barge. 
 Hast  dropt  down  joy's  gay  stream  of  pleasant  marge, 
 Thou  may'st  extol  life's  calm,  untroubled  sea, 
 The  storms  of  misery  never  burst  on  thee. 
 
 Go  to  the  mat,  where  squalid  Want  reclines, 
 Go  to  the  shade  obscure,  where  Merit  pines  ; 
 Abide  with  him  whom  Penury's  charms  controul, 
 And  bind  the  rising  yearnings  of  his  soul. 
 Survey  his  sleepless  couch,  and,  standing  there. 
 Tell  the  poor  })jillid  wretch  that  life  isfai?-.' 
 
 Press  thou  the  lonely  pillow  of  his  head. 
 And  ask  why  sleep  his  languid  eyes  has  fled  : 
 
83 
 
 Mark  his  dew'd  temples,  and  his  half-shut  eye, 
 His  trembling  nostrils,  and  his  deep-drawn  sigh, 
 His  muttering  mouth  contorted  with  despair, 
 And  ask  if  Genius  could  inhabit  there. 
 
 Oh,  yes  !   that  sunken  eye  with  fire  once  gleam'd, 
 And  rays  of  light  from  its  full  circlet  stream'd ; 
 But  now  Neglect  has  stung  him  to  the  core, 
 And  Hope's  wild  raptures  thrill  his  breast  no  more  ; 
 Domestic  Anguish  winds  his  vitals  round. 
 And  added  Grief  compels  him  to  the  ground. 
 Lo  !  o'er  his  manly  form,  decay'd  and  wan. 
 The  shades  of  death  with  gradual  steps  steal  on ; 
 And  the  pale  mother,  pining  to  decay. 
 Weeps  for  her  boy  her  wretched  life  away, 
 
 Go,  child  of  Fortune  !  to  his  early  grave. 
 Where  o'er  his  head  obscure  the  rank  weeds  wave; 
 Behold  the  heart-wrung  parent  lay  her  head 
 On  the  cold  turf,  and  ask  to  share  his  bed. 
 Go,  child  of  Fortune,  take  thy  lesson  there. 
 And  tell  us  then  that  life  is  iwndWous  fair ! 
 
 Yet,  Lofft,  in  thee,  whose  hand  is  still  stretch'd  forth, 
 T'  encourage  genius,  and  to  foster  worth  ; 
 On  thee  the  unhappy's  firm,  unfailing  friend, 
 'Tis  just  that  every  blessing  should  descend  ; 
 'Tis  just  that  life  to  thee  should  only  show 
 Her  fairer  side  but  iitlle  niix'd  with  woe. 
 
 G   2 
 
84 
 
 WRITTEN  IN  THE  PROSPECT  OF  DEATH. 
 
 Sad  solitary  Thought,  who  keep.st  thy  vigils, 
 
 Thy  solemn  vigils,  in  the  sick  man's  mind*; 
 
 Communing  lonely  with  his  sinking  soul. 
 
 And  musing  on  the  dubious  glooms  that  lie 
 
 In  dim  obscurity  before  him,  —  thee. 
 
 Wrapt  in  thy  dark  magnificence,  I  call 
 
 At  this  still  midnight  hour,  this  awful  season, 
 
 When  on  my  bed,  in  wakeful  restlessness, 
 
 I  turn  me  wearisome ;  while  all  around, 
 
 All,  all,  save  me,  sink  in  forgetfulness ; 
 
 I  only  wake  to  watch  the  sickly  taper 
 
 Which  lights  me  to  my  tomb.  —  Yes  'tis  the  hand 
 
 Of  Death  I  feel  press  heavy  on  my  vitals, 
 
 Slow  sapping  the  warm  current  of  existence. 
 
 My  moments  now  are  few — the  sand  of  life 
 
 Ebbs  fastly  to  its  finish.  —  Yet  a  little. 
 
 And  the  last  fleeting  particle  will  fall. 
 
 Silent,  unseen,  unnoticed,  unlamented. 
 
 Come  then,  sad  Thought,  and  let  us  meditate 
 
 While  meditate  we  may.  —  We  have  now 
 
 But  a  small  portion  of  what  men  call  time 
 
 To  hold  conununion ;  for  even  now  the  knife. 
 
 The  separating  knife,  I  feel  divide 
 
 The  tender  bond  that  binds  my  soul  to  earth. 
 
 Yes,  I  must  die  —  I  feel  that  I  must  die  ; 
 
 And  though  to  me  has  life  been  dark  and  dreary. 
 
 Though  Hope  for  me  has  smil'd  but  to  deceive, 
 
 And  Disappointment  still  pursued  her  blandishment-;, 
 
85 
 
 Yet  do  I  feel  my  soul  recoil  within  me 
 
 As  I  contemplate  the  dim  gulf  of  death, 
 
 The  shuddering  void,  the  awful  blank  —  futurity. 
 
 Aye,  I  had  plann'd  full  many  a  sanguine  scheme 
 
 Of  earthly  happiness  —  romantic  schemes. 
 
 And  fraught  with  loveliness ;  and  it  is  hard 
 
 To  feel  the  hand  of  Death  arrest  one's  steps. 
 
 Throw  a  chill  blight  o'er  all  one's  budding  hopes. 
 
 And  hurl  one's  soul  untimely  to  the  shades, 
 
 Lost  in  the  gaping  gulf  of  blank  oblivion. 
 
 Fifty  years  hence,  and  who  will  hear  of  Henry  ? 
 
 Oh  !  none ;  —  another  busy  brood  of  beings 
 
 Will  shoot  up  in  the  interim,  and  none 
 
 Will  hold  him  in  remembrance.     I  shall  sink, 
 
 As  sinks  a  stranger  in  the  crowded  streets 
 
 Of  busy  London:  —  Some  short  bustle's  caus'd, 
 
 A  few  enquiries,  and  the  crowds  close  in. 
 
 And  all's  forgotten.—  On  my  grassy  grave 
 
 The  men  of  future  times  will  careless  tread. 
 
 And  read  my  name  upon  the  sculptured  stone ; 
 
 Nor  will  the  sound,  familiar  to  their  ears. 
 
 Recall  my  vanish'd  memory.  —  I  did  hope 
 
 For  better  things  !  —  I  hop'd  I  should  not  leave 
 
 The  earth  without  a  vestige ;  —  Fate  decrees 
 
 It  shall  be  otherwise,  and  I  submit. 
 
 Henceforth,  oh,  world,  no  more  of  thy  desires  ! 
 
 No  more  of  hope  !  the  wanton  vagrant  Hope  ! 
 
 I  abjure  all.  —  Now  other  cares  engross  me, 
 
 And  my  tir'd  soul,  with  emulative  haste. 
 
 Looks  to  its  God,  and  prunes  it  wings  lor  Heaven. 
 
 G     O 
 
S6 
 
 PASTORAL  80NG. 
 
 Come,  Anna  !  come,  the  morning  dawns, 
 
 Faint  streaks  of  radiance  tinge  the  skies  : 
 Come,  let  us  seek  the  dewy  lawns, 
 And  watch  the  early  lark  arise; 
 
 While  Nature,  clad  in  vesture  gay, 
 Hails  the  lov'd  return  of  day, 
 
 Our  flocks,  that  nip  the  scanty  blade 
 
 Upon  the  moor,  shall  seek  the  vale  ; 
 And  then,  secure  beneath  the  shade. 
 We'll  listen  to  the  throstle's  tale; 
 And  watch  the  silver  clouds  above, 
 As  o'er  the  azure  vault  they  rove. 
 
 Come,  Anna  !   come,  and  bring  thy  lute, 
 
 That  with  its  tones,  so  softly  sweet. 
 In  cadence  with  my  mellow  flute, 
 We  may  beguile  the  noontide  heat ; 
 While  near  the  mellow  bee  shall  join, 
 To  raise  a  harmony  divine. 
 
 And  then  at  eve,  when  silence  reigns, 
 
 Except  when  heard  the  beetle's  hum. 
 We'll  leave  the  sober-tinted  plains, 
 
 To  these  sweet  heights  again  we'll  come 
 And  thou  to  thy  soft  lute  shall  play 
 A  solemn  vesper  to  departing  day. 
 
8^ 
 
 VERSES. 
 
 When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 
 
 Of  wealth,  my  heart  with  gall  enibued, 
 I  thought  how  pleasant  were  the  morn 
 
 Of  silence,  in  the  solitude; 
 To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wing, 
 Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring, 
 To  lie  and  muse  alone  —  alone. 
 While  the  tinkling  waters  moan, 
 Or  such  wild  sounds  arise,  as  say, 
 Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 
 
 Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 
 
 To  fill  life's  dusty  way  ; 
 And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 
 
 Or  wonder  where  he  stray : 
 So  to  the  woods  and  waste  I'll  go. 
 
 And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower  ; 
 And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 
 
 The  meditative  hour. 
 
 And  when  the  Autumn's  withering  luuid 
 Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
 I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie : 
 G  4 
 
88 
 
 And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  iiiglit& 
 I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites, 
 Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods, 
 Keep  jubilee,  and  shred  the  woods; 
 Or,  as  it  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
 Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 
 
 EPIGRAM 
 
 ON 
 
 ttOBERT  BLOOmnELD. 
 
 Bloomfield,  thy  happy-omen'd  name 
 Ensures  continuance  to  thy  fame ; 
 Both  sense  and  truth  this  verdict  give, 
 While^Zc?5  shall  bloom^  thy  name  shall  live  f 
 
89 
 
 ODE  TO  MIDNIGHT. 
 
 Season  of  general  rest,  whose  solemn  still 
 Strikes  to  the  trembling  heart  a  fearful  chillj 
 
 But  speaks  to  philosophic  souls  delight, 
 Thee  do  I  hail,  as  at  my  casement  high. 
 My  candle  waning  melancholy  by, 
 
 I  sit  and  taste  the  holy  calm  of  night. 
 
 Yon  pensive  orb,  that  through  the  ether  sails;. 
 And  gilds  the  misty  shadows  of  the  vales, 
 
 Hanging  in  thy  dull  rear  her  vestal  flamCs 
 To  her,  while  all  around  in  sleep  recline, 
 Wakeful  I  raise  my  orisons  divine. 
 
 And  sing  the  gentle  honours  of  her  name ; 
 
 While  Fancy  lone  o'er  me  her  votary  bends, 
 To  lift  my  soul  her  fairy  visions  sends, 
 
 And  pours  upon  my  ear  her  thrilling  song, 
 And  Superstition's  gentle  terrors  come. 
 See,  see  yon  dim  ghost  gliding  through  the  gloom  ! 
 
 See  round  yon  church-yard  elm  what  spectres  throng  I 
 
 Meanwhile  I  tune,  to  some  romantic  lay, 
 My  flageolet  —  and,  as  I  pensive  play, 
 
 The  sweet  notes  echo  o'er  the  mountahi  scene  : 
 
90 
 
 The  Iraveller-iate  journeying  o'er  the  moors 
 Hears  them  aghast,  —  (while  still  the  dull  owl  poiirs^ 
 Her  hollow  screams  each  dreary  pause  between,) 
 
 Till  in  the  lonely  tower  he  spies  the  light 
 Now  faintly  flashing  on  the  glooms  of  night, 
 
 Where  I,  poor  muser,  my  lone  vigils  keep. 
 And,  'mid  the  dreary  solitude  serene, 
 Cast  a  much-meaning  glance  upon  the  scene, 
 
 And  raise  my  mournful  eye  to  Heaven,  and  weep. 
 
 ODE  TO  THOUGHT 
 
 WRITTEN    AT    MIDNIGHT, 
 
 I. 
 
 Henck  away,  vindictive  Thought ! 
 
 Thy  pictures  are  of  pain  ; 
 The  visions  through  thy  dark  eye  caught, 
 They  with  no  gentle  charms  are  fraught, 
 So  pr'ythee  back  again. 
 I  would  not  weep, 
 I  wish  to  sleep, 
 Then  why,  thou  busy  foe,  with  jne  thy  vigils  keep 
 
91 
 
 11. 
 
 Why  dost  o'er  bed  and  couch  recline  ? 
 
 Is  this  thy  new  delight  ? 
 Pale  visitant,  it  is  not  thine 
 To  keep  thy  sentry  through  the  mine, 
 The  dark  vault  of  the  night : 
 'Tis  thine  to  die, 
 While  o'er  the  eye 
 The  dews  of  slumber  press,  and  waking  sorrows  fly. 
 
 III. 
 
 Go  thou,  and  bide  with  him  who  guides 
 
 His  bark  through  lonely  seas  ; 
 And  as  reclining  on  his  helm, 
 Sadly  he  marks  the  starry  realm, 
 To  him  thou  may'st  bring  ease ; 
 But  thou  to  me 
 Art.  misery. 
 So  pr'ythee,pr'ythee,  plume  thy  wings,  and  from  my  pillow  flee. 
 
 IV. 
 
 And,  Memory,  pray  what  art  thou  ? 
 
 Art  thou  of  pleasure  born  ? 
 Does  bliss  untainted  from  thee  flow  ? 
 The  rose  that  gems  thy  pensive  brow. 
 Is  it  without  a  thorn  ? 
 With  all  thy  smiles, 
 And  witching  wiles. 
 Yet  not  unfrequent  bitterness  thy  mournful  sway  defiles. 
 
92 
 
 V. 
 
 The  drowby  night-watch  has  forgot 
 
 To  call  the  solemn  hour ; 
 LuU'd  by  the  winds  he  slumbers  deep. 
 While  I  in  vain,  capricious  Sleep, 
 Invoke  thy  tardy  power ; 
 And  restless  lie. 
 With  unclos'd  eye. 
 And  count  the  tedious  hours  as  slow  they  minute  by, 
 
 GENIUS. 
 
 AN    ODE. 
 
 I.    ]. 
 
 Many  there  be,  who,  through  the  vale  of  lifc^ 
 
 With  velvet  pace,  unnoticed,  softly  go. 
 While  jarring  Discord's  inharmonious  strife 
 
 Awakes  them  not  to  woe. 
 By  them  unheeded,  carking  Care, 
 Green-ey'd  Grief,  and  dull  Despair; 
 Smoothly  they  pursue  their  way. 
 
 With  even  tenor  and  with  equal  breath, 
 Alike  through  cloudy  and  through  sunny  day. 
 
 Then  sink  in  peace  to  death. 
 
93 
 
 II.  1. 
 
 But,  ah  !  a  few  there  be  whom  griefs  devour. 
 
 And  weeping  Woe,  and  Disappointment  kei^n, 
 Repining  Penury,  and  Sorrow  sour. 
 
 And  self-consuming  Spleen. 
 And  these  are  Genius'  favourites  :  these 
 Know  the  thought-thron'd  mind  to  please. 
 And  from  her  fleshy  seat  to  draw 
 
 To  realms  where  Fancy's  golden  orbits  roll, 
 Disdaining  all  but  'wildering  Rapture's  law. 
 
 The  captivated  soul. 
 
 III.  1. 
 Genius,  from  thy  starry  throne, 
 High  above  the  burning  zone, 
 
 In  radiant  robe  of  light  array'd, 
 
 Oh  !  hear  the  plaint  by  thy  sad  favourite  made. 
 
 His  melancholy  moan. 
 He  tells  of  scorn,  he  tells  of  broken  vows. 
 
 Of  sleepless  nights,  of  anguish-ridden  days, 
 Pangs  that  his  sensibility  uprouse 
 
 To  curse  his  being  and  his  thirst  for  praise. 
 Thou  gav'st  to  him  with  treble  force  to  feel 
 
 The  sting  of  keen  neglect,  the  rich  man's  scorn  ; 
 And  what  o'er  all  does  in  his  soul  preside 
 
 Predominant,  and  tempers  him  to  steel. 
 His  high  indignant  pride. 
 
94 
 
 I.  2. 
 
 Lament  not  ye,  who  humbly  steal  through  life, 
 
 That  Genius  visits  not  your  lowly  shed ; 
 For,  ah,  what  woes  and  sorrows  ever  rife 
 
 Distract  his  hapless  head  ! 
 For  him  awaits  no  balmy  sleep, 
 He  wakes  all  night,  and  wakes  to  weep  ; 
 Or  by  his  lonely  lamp  he  sits 
 
 At  solemn  midnight  when  the  peasant  sleeps. 
 In  feverish  study,  and  in  moody  fits 
 
 His  mournful  vigils  keeps. 
 
 II.  2. 
 
 And,  oh  !  for  what  consumes  his  watchful  oil  ? 
 
 For  what  does  thus  he  waste  life's  fleeting  breath  ? 
 'Tis  for  neglect  and  penury  he  doth  toil, 
 
 'Tis  for  untimely  death. 
 Lo  !   where  dejected  pale  he  lies. 
 Despair  depicted  in  his  eyes, 
 He  feels  the  vital  flame  decrease. 
 
 He  sees  the  grave  wide-yawning  for  its  prey, 
 Without  a  friend  to  soothe  his  soul  to  peace, 
 
 And  cheer  the  expiring  ray. 
 
 III.  2. 
 By  Sulmo's  bard  of  mournful  fame, 
 By  gentle  Otway's  magic  name, 
 
95 
 
 By  him,  the  youth,  who  smil'd  at  death, 
 And  rashly  dar'd  to  stop  his  vital  breath, 
 
 Will  I  thy  pangs  proclaim ; 
 For  still  to  misery  closely  thou'rt  allied, 
 Though  gaudy  pageants  glitter  by  thy  side, 
 
 And  far-resounding  Fame. 
 What  though  to  thee  the  dazzled  millions  bow, 
 And  to  thy  posthumous  merit  bend  them  low  ; 
 Though  unto  thee  the  monarch  looks  with  awe, 
 And  thou  at  thy  flash'd  car  dost  nations  draw, 
 Yet,  ah  !  unseen  behind  thee  fly 
 
 Corroding  Anguish,  soul-subduing  Pain, 
 And  Discontent  that  clouds  the  fairest  sky  : 
 A  melancholy  train. 
 Yes,  Genius,  thee  a  thousand  cares  await. 
 Mocking  thy  derided  state  ; 
 Thee  chill  Adversity  will  still  attend. 
 Before  whose  face  flies  fast  the  summer's  friend, 
 
 And  leaves  thee  all  forlorn  ; 
 While  leaden  Ignorance  rears  her  head  and  laughs. 
 
 And  fat  Stupidity  shakes  his  jolly  sides, 
 And  while  the  cup  of  affluence  he  quaffs 
 With  bee-eyed  Wisdom,  Genius  derides. 
 Who  toils,  and  every  hardship  doth  outbrave. 
 To  gain  the  meed  of  praise,  when  he  is  mouldering  in  his 
 grave. 
 
96 
 
 FRAGMENT  OF  AN  ODE  TO  THE  MOON. 
 
 I. 
 
 Mild  orb,  who  floatest  through  the  reahii  of  night, 
 
 A  pathless  wanderer  o'er  a  lonely  wild, 
 Welcome  to  me  thy  soft  and  pensive  light. 
 
 Which  oft  in  childhood  my  lone  thoughts  beguil'd. 
 Now  doubly  dear  has  o'er  my  silent  seat, 
 Nocturnal  Study's  still  retreat, 
 It  casts  a  mournful  melancholy  gleam, 
 And  through  my  lofty  casement  weaves, 
 Dim  through  the  vine's  encircling  leaves, 
 An  intermingled  beam. 
 
 II. 
 
 These  feverish  dews  that  on  my  temples  hang, 
 
 This  quivering  lip,  these  eyes  of  dying  flame: 
 These  the  dread  signs  of  many  a  secret  pang. 
 
 These  are  the  meed  of  him  who  pants  for  fame  ! 
 Pale  Moon,  from  thoughts  like  these  divert  my  soul ; 
 
 Lowly  I  krteel  before  thy  shrine  on  high ; 
 My  lamp  expires  ;  —  beneath  thy  mild  control. 
 
 These  restless  dreams  are  ever  wont  to  fly. 
 
 Come,  kindred  mourner,  in  my  breast 
 Soothe  these  discordant  tones  to  rest, 
 
 And  breathe  the  soul  of  peace ; 
 Mild  visitor,  I  feel  thee  here, 
 It  is  not  })ain  that  brings  this  tear. 
 
 For  thou  hast  bid  it  cease. 
 6 
 
97 
 
 Oh  !  many  a  year  has  pass'd  away 
 Since  I,  beneath  thy  fairy  ray, 
 
 Attun'd  my  infant  reed ; 
 When  wilt  thou,  Time,  those  days  restore. 
 Those  happy  moments  now  no  more  — 
 
 When  on  the  lake's  damp  marge  I  lay, 
 
 And  marked  the  northern  meteor's  dance, 
 Bland  Hope  and  Fancy,  ye  were  there 
 To  inspirate  my  trance. 
 
 Twin  sisters,  faintly  now  ye  deign 
 Your  magic  sweets  on  me  to  shed, 
 In  vain  your  powers  are  now  essay'd 
 To  chase  superior  pain. 
 
 And  art  thou  fled,  thou  welcome  orb  ? 
 
 So  swiftly  pleasure  flies ; 
 So  to  mankind,  in  darkness  lost, 
 
 The  beam  of  ardour  dies. 
 Wan  Moon,  thy  nightly  task  is  done. 
 And  now,  encurtain'd  in  the  main, 
 
 Thou  sinkest  into  rest ; 
 But  I,  in  vain,  on  thorny  bed, 
 
 Shall  woo  the  god  of  soft  repose  — 
 
 VOL.  11.  H 
 
98 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Loud  rage  the  winds  without.  —  The  wintry  cloud 
 O'er  the  cold  north  star  casts  her  flitting  shroud ; 
 And  Silence,  pausing  in  some  snow-clad  dale, 
 Starts  as  she  hears,  by  fits,  the  shrieking  gale ; 
 Where  now,  shut  out  from  every  still  retreat. 
 Her  pine-clad  summit,  and  her  woodland  seat, 
 Shall  Meditation,  in  her  saddest  mood, 
 Retire  o'er  all  her  pensive  stores  to  brood  ? 
 Shivering  and  blue  the  peasant  eyes  askance 
 The  drifted  fleeces  that  around  him  dance. 
 And  hurries  on  his  half-averted  form. 
 Stemming  the  fury  of  the  sidelong  storm. 
 Him  soon  shall  greet  his  snow-topt  [cot  of  thatch,] 
 Soon  shall  his  'numbed  hand  tremble  on  the  latch. 
 Soon  from  his  chimney's  nook  the  cheerful  flame 
 Diffuse  a  genial  warmth  throughout  his  frame ; 
 Round  the  light  fire,  while  roars  the  north  wind  loud. 
 What  merry  groups  of  vacant  faces  crowd ; 
 These  hail  his  coming  —  these  his  meal  prepare, 
 And  boast  in  all  that  cot  no  lurking  care. 
 
 What,  though  the  social  circle  be  denied, 
 Ev'n  Sadness  brightens  at  her  own  fire-side, 
 Loves,  with  fixed  eye,  to  watch  the  fluttering  blaze, 
 While  musing  Memory  dwells  on  former  days; 
 Or  Hope,  blest  spirit !  smiles  —  and  still  forgiv'n, 
 Forgets  the  passport,  while  she  points  to  Heav'n. 
 
99 
 
 Then  heap  the  fire  —  shut  out  the  biting  air, 
 And  from  its  station  wheel  the  easy  chair : 
 Thus  fenced  and  warm,  in  silent  fit,  'tis  sweet 
 To  hear  without  the  bitter  tempest  beat. 
 All,  all  alone  —  to  sit,  and  muse,  and  sigh, 
 The  pensive  tenant  of  obscurity. 
 
 FRAGMENT. 
 
 Oh  !  thou  most  fatal  of  Pandora's  train. 
 Consumption  !  silent  cheater  of  the  eye ,' 
 
 Thou  com'st  not  robed  in  agonizing  pain, 
 
 Nor  mark'st  thy  course  with  Death's  delusive  dye^ 
 But  silent  and  unnoticed  thou  dost  lie ; 
 
 O'er  life's  soft  springs  thy  venom  dost  diffuse. 
 And,  while  thou  giv'st  new  lustre  to  the  eye. 
 
 While  o'er  the  cheek  are  spread  health's  ruddy  hu^Sy 
 
 E'en  then  life's  little  rest  thy  cruel  power  subdues. 
 
 Oft  I've  beheld  thee,  in  the  glow  of  youth 
 
 Hid  'neath  the  blushing  roses  which  there  bloom'd. 
 
 And  dropt  a  tear,  for  then  thy  cankering  tooth 
 I  knew  would  never  stay,  till,  all  consum'd, 
 In  the  cold  vault  of  death  he  were  entomb'd. 
 H  2 
 
100 
 
 But  oh  !  what  sorrow  did  I  feel,  as  swift, 
 
 Insidious  ravager,  I  saw  thee  fly 
 Through  fair  Lucina's  breast  of  whitest  snow. 
 
 Preparing  swift  her  passage  to  the  sky. 
 Though  still  intelligence  beam'd  in  the  glance. 
 
 The  liquid  lustre  of  her  fine  blue  eye ; 
 Yet  soon  did  languid  listlessness  advance. 
 And  soon  she  calmly  sunk  in  death's  repugnant  trance. 
 
 Even  when  her  end  was  swiftly  drawing  near. 
 And  dissolution  hover'd  o'er  her  head : 
 
 Even  then  so  beauteous  did  her  form  appear. 
 That  none  who  saw  her  but  admiring  said. 
 Sure  so  much  beauty  never  could  be  dead. 
 
 Yet  the  dark  lash  of  her  expressive  eye. 
 
 Bent  lowly  down  upon  the  languid 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 H  3 
 
SONNETS. 
 
 TO  CAPEL  LOFTT,  ESQ. 
 
 -LiOFFT,  unto  thee  one  tributary  song 
 
 The  simple  Muse,  admiring,  fain  would  bring ; 
 
 She  longs  to  lisp  thee  to  the  listening  throng, 
 And  with  thy  name  to  bid  the  woodlands  ring. 
 
 Fain  would  she  blazon  all  thy  virtues  forth, 
 Thy  warm  philanthropy,  thy  justice  mild. 
 
 Would  say  how  thou  didst  foster  kindred  worth. 
 And  to  thy  bosom  snatch'd  Misfortune's  child ; 
 
 Firm  she  would  paint  thee,  with  becoming  zeal. 
 Upright,  and  learned,  as  the  Pylian  sire. 
 Would  say  how  sweetly  thou  could'st  sweep  the  lyre, 
 
 And  show  thy  labours  for  the  public  weal. 
 Ten  thousand  virtues  tell  with  joys  supreme. 
 But  ah  !  she  shrinks  abash'd  before  the  arduous  theme. 
 
 H  4 
 
104 
 
 TO  THE  MOON. 
 
 WRITTEN    IN    NOVEMBER. 
 
 Sublime,  emerging  from  the  misty  verge 
 Of  the  horizon  dim,  thee,  Moon,  I  hail. 
 As  sweeping  o'er  the  leafless  grove,  the  gale 
 
 Seems  to  repeat  the  year's  funereal  dirge. 
 
 Now  Autumn  sickens  on  the  languid  sight. 
 And  leaves  bestrew  the  wanderer's  lonely  way, 
 
 Now  unto  thee,  pale  arbitress  of  night. 
 With  double  joy  my  homage  do  I  pay. 
 When  clouds  disguise  the  glories  of  day. 
 
 And  stern  November  sheds  her  boisterous  blight, 
 How  doubly  sweet  to  mark  the  moony  ray 
 
 Shoot  through  the  mist  from  the  ethereal  height. 
 And,  still  unchanged,  back  to  the  memory  bring 
 The  smiles  Favonian  of  life's  earliest  spring. 
 
105 
 
 WRITTEN    AT    THE    GRAVE    OF    A    FRIEND. 
 
 Fast  from  the  West  the  fading  day-streaks  fly, 
 
 And  ebon  Night  assumes  her  solemn  sway, 
 Yet  here  alone,  unheeding  time,  I  lie. 
 
 And  o'er  my  friend  still  pour  the  plaintive  lay. 
 Oh  !  'tis  not  long  since,  George,  with  thee  I  woo'd 
 
 The  maid  of  musings  by  yon  moaning  wave. 
 And  hail'd  the  moon's  mild  beam,  which  now  renew'd. 
 
 Seems  sweetly  sleeping  on  thy  silent  grave  ! 
 The  busy  world  pursues  its  boisterous  way 
 
 The  noise  of  revelry  still  echoes  round. 
 Yet  I  am  sad  while  all  beside  is  gay ; 
 
 Yet  still  I  weep  o'er  thy  deserted  mound. 
 Oh  !  that,  Hke  thee,  I  might  bid  sorrow  cease. 
 And  'neath  the  green-sward  sleep  the  sleep  of  peace. 
 
106 
 
 TO  MISFORTUNE. 
 
 Misfortune,  I  am  young,  my  chin  is  bare, 
 
 And  I  have  wonder'd  much  when  men  have  told. 
 How  youth  was  free  fr-om  sorrow  and  from  care, 
 
 That  thou  should'st  dwell  with  me,  and  leave  the  old. 
 Sure  dost  not  like  me  !  —  Shrivell'd  hag  of  hate, 
 
 My  phiz,  and  thanks  to  thee,  is  sadly  long; 
 
 I  am  not  either.  Beldame,  over  strong ; 
 Nor  do  I  wish  at  all  to  be  thy  mate. 
 For  thou,  sweet  Fury,  art  my  utter  hate. 
 Nay,  shake  not  thus  thy  miserable  pate, 
 I  am  yet  young,  and  do  not  like  thy  face  ; 
 And,  lest  thou  should'st  resume  the  wild-goose  chace, 
 ril  tell  thee  something  all  thy  heat  to  assuage, 
 —  Thou  wilt  not  hit  my  fancy  in  my  age. 
 
107 
 
 As  thus  oppressed  with  many  a  heavy  care, 
 (Though  young  yet  sorrowful,)  I  turn  my  feet 
 To  the  dark  woodland,  longing  much  to  greet 
 The  form  of  Peace,  if  chance  she  sojourn  there ; 
 Deep  thought  and  dismal,  verging  to  despair, 
 
 Fills  my  sad  breast ;  and,  tir'd  with  this  vain  coil, 
 I  shrink  dismay'd  before  life's  upland  toil. 
 And  as  amid  the  leaves  the  evening  air 
 Whispers  still  melody,  —  I  think  ere  long, 
 
 When  I  no  more  can  hear  these  woods  will  speak ; 
 And  then  a  sad  smile  plays  upon  my  cheek. 
 And  mournful  phantasies  upon  me  throng, 
 And  I  do  ponder  with  most  strange  delight, 
 On  the  calm  slumbers  of  the  dead  man's  night. 
 
108 
 
 TO  APRIL. 
 
 Emblem  of  life  !  see  changeful  April  sail 
 In  varying  vest  along  the  shadowy  skies, 
 Now  bidding  Summer's  softest  zephyrs  rise, 
 Anon,  recalling  Winter's  stormy  gale, 
 And  pouring  from  the  cloud  her  sudden  hail ; 
 
 Then,  smiling  through  the  tear  that  dims  her  eyes. 
 While  Iris  with  her  braid  the  welkin  dyes. 
 Promise  of  sunshine,  not  so  prone  to  fail. 
 So,  to  us,  sojourners  in  Life's  low  vale, 
 The  smiles  of  Fortune  flatter  to  deceive. 
 While  still  the  Fates  the  web  of  Misery  weave ; 
 So  Hope  exultant  spreads  her  aery  sail. 
 And  from  the  present  gloom  the  soul  conveys 
 To  distant  summers  and  far  happier  days. 
 
109 
 
 Ye  unseen  spirits,  whose  wild  melodies, 
 At  evening  rising  slow,  yet  sweetly  clear, 
 Steal  on  the  musing  poet's  pensive  ear, 
 
 As  by  the  wood-spring  stretch'd  supine  he  lies. 
 When  he  who  now  invokes  you  low  is  laid. 
 
 His  tir'd  frame  resting  on  the  earth's  cold  bed. 
 
 Hold  ye  your  nightly  vigils  o'er  his  head. 
 And  chaunt  a  dirge  to  his  reposing  shade ! 
 
 For  he  was  wont  to  love  your  madrigals  ; 
 And  often  by  the  haunted  stream  that  laves 
 The  dark  sequester'd  woodland's  inmost  caves. 
 
 Would  sit  and  listen  to  the  dying  falls, 
 
 Till  the  full  tear  would  quiver  in  his  eye, 
 
 And  his  big  heart  would  heave  with  mournful  ecstacy. 
 
110 
 
 TO  A  TAPER. 
 
 'Tis  midnight  —  On  the  globe  dead  slumber  sits^ 
 
 And  all  is  silence  —  in  the  hour  of  sleep ; 
 Save  when  the  hollow  gust,  that  swells  by  fits. 
 
 In  the  dark  wood  roars  fearfldly  and  deep. 
 I  wake  alone  to  listen  and  to  weep. 
 
 To  watch,  my  taper,  thy  pale  beacon  burn; 
 And,  as  still  Memory  does  her  vigils  keep, 
 
 To  think  of  days  that  never  can  return. 
 By  thy  pale  ray  I  raise  my  languid  head. 
 
 My  eye  surveys  the  solitary  gloom ; 
 And  the  sad  meaning  tear,  unmixt  with  dread. 
 
 Tells  thou  dost  light  me  to  the  silent  tomb. 
 Like  thee  I  wane ;  —  like  thine  my  life's  last  ray 
 Will  fade  in  loneliness,  unwept,  away. 
 
Ill 
 
 TO  MY  MOTHER. 
 
 And  canst  thou,  Mother,  for  a  moment  think. 
 That  we,  thy  children,  when  old  age  shall  shed 
 Its  blanching  honours  on  thy  weary  head, 
 
 Could  from  our  best  of  duties  ever  shrink  ? 
 
 Sooner  the  sun  from  his  high  sphere  should  sink 
 Than  we,  ungrateful,  leave  thee  in  that  day. 
 To  pine  in  solitude  thy  life  away, 
 
 Or  shun  thee,  tottering  on  the  grave's  cold  brink. 
 
 Banish  the  thought  I  —  where'er  our  steps  may  roam. 
 O'er  smiling  plains,  or  wastes  without  a  tree, 
 Still  will  fond  memory  point  our  hearts  to  thee. 
 
 And  paint  the  pleasures  of  thy  peaceful  home ; 
 
 While  duty  bids  us  all  thy  griefs  assuage. 
 
 And  smooth  the  pillow  of  thy  sinking  age. 
 
112 
 
 Yes,  'twill  be  over  soon.  —  This  sickly  dream 
 
 Of  life  will  vanish  from  my  feverish  brain ; 
 And  death  my  wearied  spirit  will  redeem 
 
 From  this  wild  region  of  unvary'd  pain. 
 Yon  brook  will  glide  as  softly  as  before,  — 
 
 Yon  landscape  smile,  —  yon  golden  harvest  grow, 
 Yon  sprightly  lark  on  mounting  wing  will  soar 
 
 When  Henry's  name  is  heard  no  more  below. 
 I  sigh  when  all  my  youthful  friends  caress, 
 
 They  laugh  in  health,  and  ftiture  evils  brave ; 
 Them  shall  a  wife  and  smiling  children  bless, 
 
 While  I  am  mouldering  in  my  silent  grave. 
 God  of  the  just  —  Thou  gavest  the  bitter  cup ; 
 I  bow  to  thy  behest,  and  drink  it  up. 
 
113 
 
 TO  CONSUMPTION. 
 
 Gently,  most  gently,  on  thy  victim's  head. 
 Consumption,  lay  thine  hand  !  —  let  me  decay, 
 Like  the  expiring  lamp,  unseen,  away. 
 
 And  softly  go  to  slumber  with  the  dead. 
 
 And  if  'tis  true,  what  holy  men  have  said, 
 That  strains  angelic  oft  foretell  the  day 
 Of  death,  to  those  good  men  who  fall  thy  prey, 
 
 O  let  the  aerial  music  round  my  bed. 
 
 Dissolving  sad  in  dying  symphony. 
 
 Whisper  the  solemn  warning  in  mine  ear : 
 
 That  I  may  bid  my  weeping  friends  good-by 
 Ere  I  depart  upon  my  journey  drear : 
 
 And,  smiling  faintly  on  the  painful  past. 
 
 Compose  my  decent  head,  and  breathe  my  last. 
 
 VOL.  It. 
 
114 
 
 TRANSLATED 
 
 FROM  THE  FRENCH  OF  M.  DESBARREAUX. 
 
 Thy  judgments,  Lord,  are  just ;  thou  lov'st  to  wear 
 
 The  face  of  pity  and  of  love  divine ; 
 But  mine  is  guilt  —  thou  must  not,  canst  not  spare. 
 
 While  heaven  is  true,  and  equity  is  thine. 
 Yes,  oh  my  God  !  —  such  crimes  as  mine,  so  dread, 
 
 Leave  but  the  choice  of  punishment  to  thee ; 
 Thy  interest  calls  for  judgment  on  my  head, 
 
 And  even  thy  mercy  dares  not  plead  for  me  ! 
 Thy  will  be  done  —  since  *tis  thy  glory's  due. 
 
 Did  from  mine  eyes  the  endless  torrents  flow ; 
 Smite  —  it  is  time  —  though  endless  death  ensue, 
 
 I  bless  the  avenging  hand  that  lays  me  low. 
 But  on  what  spot  shall  fall  thine  anger's  flood. 
 That  has  not  first  been  drench'd  in  Christ's  atoning  blood  ? 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF    A    LATER    DATE. 
 
 1  2 
 
TO  A  FRIEND  IN  DISTRESS, 
 
 Who,  when  Henry  reasoned  with  him  calmly,  asked, 
 "  If  he  did  not  feel  for  him  ?  " 
 
 jJO  I  not  feel  F"     The  doubt  is  keen  as  steel. 
 Yea,  I  do  feel  —  most  exquisitely  feel ; 
 My  heart  can  weep,  when  from  my  downcast  eye 
 I  chase  the  tear,  and  stem  the  rising  sigh : 
 Deep  buried  there  I  close  the  rankling  dart. 
 And  smile  the  most  when  heaviest  is  my  heart. 
 On  this  I  act  —  whatever  pangs  surround, 
 '  Tis  magnanimity  to  hide  the  "wound  I 
 When  all  was  new,  and  life  was  in  its  spring, 
 I  liv'd  an  unlov'd  solitary  thing ; 
 Even  then  I  learnt  to  bury  deep  from  day. 
 The  piercing  cares  that  wore  my  youth  away : 
 Even  then  I  learnt  for  others'  cares  to  feel ; 
 Even  then  I  wept  I  had  not  power  to  heal : 
 Even  then,  deep-sounding  through  the  nightly  gloom, 
 I  heard  the  wretched's  groan,  and  mourn'd  the  wretched's 
 
 doom. 
 Who  were  my  friends  in  youth  ?  —  The  midnight  fire  — 
 The  silent  moon-beam,  or  the  starry  choir ; 
 To  these  I  'plained,  or  turn'd  from  outer  sight, 
 To  bless  my  lonely  taper's  friendly  light  ,* 
 
 I  3 
 
118  1 
 
 I  never  yet  could  ask,  howe'er  forlorn, 
 
 For  vulgar  pity  mixt  with  vulgar  scorn ; 
 
 The  sacred  source  of  woe  I  never  ope, 
 
 My  breast's  my  coffer,  and  my  God's  my  hope. 
 
 But  that  I  do  feel,  Time,  my  friend,  will  show, 
 
 Though  the  cold  crowd  the  secret  never  know ; 
 
 With  them  I  laugh  —  yet,  when  no  eye  can  see, 
 
 I  weep  for  nature,  and  I  weep  for  thee. 
 
 Yes,  thou  didst  wrong  me,  *  *  * ;  I  fondly  thought 
 
 In  thee  I'd  found  the  friend  my  heart  had  sought  ! 
 
 I  fondly  thought,  that  thou  could'st  pierce  the  guise, 
 
 And  read  the  truth  that  in  my  bosom  lies ; 
 
 I  fondly  thought  ere  Time's  last  days  were  gone, 
 
 Thy  heart  and  mine  had  mingled  into  one  ! 
 
 Yes  —  and  they  yet  will  mingle.     Days  and  years 
 
 Will  fly,  and  leave  us  partners  in  our  tears : 
 
 We  then  shall  feel  that  friendship  has  a  power 
 
 To  sooth  affliction  in  her  darkest  hour ; 
 
 Time's  trial  o'er,  shall  clasp  each  other's  hand, 
 
 And  wait  the  passport  to  a  better  land. 
 
 Thine, 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 Half  past  Eleven  o'Clock  at  Night. 
 
119 
 
 CHRISTMA8-DAY. 
 
 1804. 
 
 Yet  once  more,  and  once  more,  awake,  my  Harp, 
 From  silence  and  neglect  —  one  lofty  strain. 
 Lofty,  yet  wilder  than  the  winds  of  Heaven, 
 And  speaking  mysteries  more  than  words  can  tell, 
 I  ask  of  thee,  for  I,  with  hymnings  high, 
 Would  join  the  dirge  of  the  departing  year. 
 
 Yet  with  no  wintry  garland  from  the  woods, 
 Wrought  of  the  leafless  branch,  or  ivy  sear, 
 Wreathe  I  thy  tresses,  dark  December  !  now ; 
 Me  higher  quarrel  calls,  with  loudest  song, 
 And  fearful  joy,  to  celebrate  the  day 
 Of  the  Redeemer.  —  Near  two  thousand  suns 
 Have  set  their  seals  upon  the  rolling  lapse 
 Of  generations,  since  the  day-spring  first 
 Beam'd  from  on  high  !  —  Now  to  the  mighty  mass 
 Of  that  increasing  aggregate  we  add 
 One  unit  more.     Space,  in  comparison. 
 How  small,  yet  mark'd  with  how  much  misery ; 
 Wars,  famines,  and  the  fury.  Pestilence, 
 Over  the  nations  hanging  her  dread  scourge ; 
 The  oppress'd,  too,  in  silent  bitterness, 
 Weeping  their  sufferance ;  and  the  arm  of  wrong, 
 Forcing  the  scanty  portion  fi'om  the  weak, 
 And  steeping  the  lone  widow's  couch  with  tears. 
 
 I  4   ' 
 
120 
 
 So  has  the  year  been  charactered  with  woe 
 
 In  Christian  land,  and  mark'd  with  wrongs  and  crimes ; 
 
 Yet  'tw^as  not  thus  He  taught  —  not  thus  He  Hv'd, 
 
 Whose  birth  we  this  day  celebrate  with  prayer 
 
 And  much  thanksgiving.  —  He,  a  man  of  woes, 
 
 Went  on  the  way  appointed,  —  path,  though  rude, 
 
 Yet  borne  with  patience  still :  —  He  came  to  cheer 
 
 The  broken-hearted,  to  raise  up  the  sick, 
 
 And  on  the  wandering  and  benighted  mind 
 
 To  pour  the  light  of  truth.  —  O  task  divine  ! 
 
 O  more  than  angel  teacher  !   He  had  words 
 
 To  soothe  the  barking  waves,  and  hush  the  winds ; 
 
 And  when  the  soul  was  toss'd  in  troubled  seas, 
 
 Wrapt  in  thick  darkness  and  the  howling  storm, 
 
 He,  pointing  to  the  star  of  peace  on  high, 
 
 Arm'd  it  with  holy  fortitude,  and  bade  it  smile 
 
 At  the  surrounding  wreck. 
 
 When  with  deep  agony  his  heart  was  rack'd, 
 Not  for  himself  the  tear-drop  dew'd  his  cheek, 
 For  them  He  wept,  for  them  to  Heaven  He  pray'd, 
 His  persecutors  —  "  Father,  pardon  them. 
 They  know  not  what  they  do." 
 
 Angels  of  Heaven, 
 Ye  who  beheld  Him  fainting  on  the  cross. 
 And  did  him  homage,  say,  may  mortal  join 
 The  hallelujahs  of  the  risen  God  ? 
 Will  the  faint  voice  and  grovelling  song  be  Iieard 
 Amid  the  seraphim  in  light  divine  ? 
 Yes,  He  will  deign,  the  Prince  of  Peace  will  deign. 
 For  mercy,  to  accept  the  hymn  of  faith, 
 
121 
 
 Low  tliough  it  be  and  humble.  —  Lord  of  life, 
 The  Christ,  the  Comforter,  thine  advent  now 
 Fills  my  uprising  soul.  —  1  mount,  I  fly 
 Far  o'er  the  skies,  beyond  the  rolling  orbs ; 
 The  bonds  of  flesh  dissolve,  and  earth  recedes. 
 And  care,  and  pain,  and  sorrow  are  no  more. 
 
 NELSONI  MORS. 
 
 Yet  once  again,  my  Harp,  yet  once  again, 
 
 One  ditty  more,  and  on  the  mountain  ash 
 
 I  will  again  suspend  thee.     I  have  felt 
 
 The  warm  tear  frequent  on  my  cheek,  since  last. 
 
 At  eventide,  when  all  the  winds  were  hush'd, 
 
 I  woke  to  thee  the  melancholy  song. 
 
 Since  then  with  Thoughtfuhiess,  a  maid  severe, 
 
 I've  journey'd,  and  have  learn'd  to  «hape  the  freaks 
 
 Of  frolic  fancy  to  the  line  of  truth  ; 
 
 Not  unrepining,  for  my  froward  heart, 
 
 Still  turns  to  thee,  mine  Harp,  and  to  the  flow 
 
 Of  spring-gales  past— -the  woods  and  storied  haunts 
 
 Of  my  not  songless  boyhood.  —  Yet  once  more, 
 
 Not  fearless,  I  will  wake  thy  tremulous  tones. 
 
 My  long-neglected  Harp.  —  He  must  not  sink  ; 
 
 The  good,  the  brave  —  he  must  not,  shall  not  sink 
 
 Without  the  meed  of  some  melodious  tear. 
 
1^2 
 
 Though  from  the  Muse's  clialice  I  may  pour 
 
 No  precious  dews  of  Aganippe's  well, 
 
 Or  Castaly,  —  though  from  the  morning  cloud 
 
 I  fetch  no  hues  to  scatter  on  his  hearse :  * 
 
 Yet  will  I  wreathe  a  garland  for  his  brows, 
 
 Of  simple  flowers,  such  as  the  hedge-rows  scent 
 
 Of  Britain,  my  lov'd  country  ;  and  with  tears 
 
 Most  eloquent,  yet  silent,  I  will  bathe 
 
 Thy  honor'd  corse,  my  Nelson^  tears  as  warm 
 
 And  honest  as  the  ebbing  blood  that  flow'd 
 
 Fast  from  thy  honest  heart.  —  Thou,  Pity,  too, 
 
 If  ever  I  have  lov'd,  with  faltering  step, 
 
 To  follow  thee  in  the  cold  and  starless  night. 
 
 To  the  top-crag  of  some  rain-beaten  cliff; 
 
 And  as  I  heard  the  deep  gun  bursting  loud 
 
 Amid  the  pauses  of  the  storm,  have  pour'd 
 
 Wild  strains,  and  mournful,  to  the  hurrying  winds, 
 
 The  dying  soul's  viaticum ;  if  oft 
 
 Amid  the  carnage  of  the  field  I've  sate 
 
 With  thee  upon  the  moonlight  tin-one,  and  sung 
 
 To  cheer  the  fainting  soldier's  dying  soul. 
 
 With  mercy  and  forgiveness  —  visitant 
 
 Of  Heaven  —  sit  thou  upon  my  harp. 
 
 And  give  it  feeling,  which  were  else  too  cold 
 
 For  argument  so  great,  for  theme  so  high. 
 
 How  dimly  on  that  morn  the  sun  arose, 
 'Kerchieft  in  mists,  and  tearful,  when 
 
123 
 
 HYMN. 
 
 In  Heaven  we  shall  be  purified,  so  as  to  be  able  to  endure  the  splen- 
 dours of  the  Deity. 
 
 I. 
 
 Awake,  sweet  harp  of  JudaJi,  wake, 
 Retune  thy  strings  for  Jesus'  sake ; 
 We  sing  the  Saviour  of  our  race, 
 The  Lamb,  our  shield,  and  hiding  place. 
 
 II. 
 
 When  God's  right  arm  is  bar'd  for  war, 
 And  thunders  clothe  his  cloudy  car. 
 Where,  where,  oh  where,  shall  man  retire, 
 To  escape  the  horrors  of  his  ire  ? 
 
 III. 
 'Tis  he,  the  Lamb,  to  him  we  fly. 
 While  the  dread  tempest  passes  by  ; 
 God  sees  his  Well-beloved's  face, 
 And  spares  us  in  our  hiding  place. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Thus  while  we  dwell  in  this  low  scene. 
 The  Lamb  is  our  unfailing  screen ; 
 To  him,  though  guilty,  still  we  run, 
 And  God  still  spares  us  for  his  Son. 
 
124 
 V. 
 
 While  yet  we  sojourn  here  below, 
 Pollutions  still  our  hearts  o'erflow ; 
 Fallen,  abject,  mean,  a  sentenced  race. 
 We  deeply  need  a  hiding  place. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Yet  courage  —  days  and  years  will  glide, 
 And  we  shall  lay  these  clods  aside ; 
 Shall  be  baptiz'd  in  Jordan's  flood. 
 And  washed  in  Jesus'  cleansing  blood. 
 
 VII. 
 Then  pure,  immortal,  sinless,  freed, 
 We  through  the  Lamb  shall  be  decreed  ; 
 Shall  meet  the  Father  face  to  face. 
 And  need  no  more  a  hiding  place. 
 
 The  last  stanza  of  this  hymn  was  added  extemporaneously,  by 
 Henry,  one  summer  evening,  when  he  was  with  a  few  friends  on  the 
 Trent,  and  singing  it  as  he  was  used  to  do  on  such  occasions. 
 
125 
 
 A  HYMN 
 
 FOIl    FAMILY    WORSHir. 
 
 I. 
 
 O  Lord,  another  day  is  flown, 
 
 And  we,  a  lonely  band, 
 Are  met  once  more  before  thy  throne, 
 
 To  bless  thy  fostering  hand. 
 
 II. 
 
 And  wilt  thou  bend  a  listening  ear, 
 
 To  praises  low  as  ours  ? 
 Thou  wilt  !  for  Thou  dost  love  to  hear 
 
 The  song  which  meekness  pours. 
 
 III. 
 
 And,  Jesus,  thou  thy  smiles  will  deign, 
 As  we  before  thee  pray ; 
 
 For  thou  didst  bless  the  infant  train. 
 And  we  are  less  than  they. 
 
 IV. 
 
 O  let  thy  grace  perform  its  part, 
 And  let  contention  cease ; 
 
 And  shed  abroad  in  every  heart 
 Thine  everlasting  peace ! 
 
126 
 
 V. 
 
 Thus  chasten'd,  cleans'd,  entirely  thine, 
 
 A  flock  by  Jesus  led ; 
 The  Sun  of  Holiness  shall  shine, 
 
 In  glory  on  our  head. 
 
 YL 
 And  thou  wilt  turn  our  wandering:  feet, 
 
 And  thou  wilt  bless  our  way ; 
 Till  worlds  shall  fade,  and  faith  shall  greet 
 
 The  dawn  of  lasting  day. 
 
 THE  STAR  OF  BETHLEHEM, 
 
 I. 
 When  marshall'd  on  the  nightly  plain, 
 
 The  glittering  host  bestud  the  sky ; 
 One  star  alone,  of  all  the  train, 
 
 Can  fix  the  sinner's  wandering  eye. 
 
 Elark  !  liark  !  to  God  the  chorus  breaks, 
 From  every  host.  iVom  every  gem ; 
 
 But  one  alone  the  Savioiu'  speaks, 
 Jt  is  the  Star  of  Bethlehem, 
 
127 
 III. 
 
 Once  on  the  raging  seas  I  rode, 
 
 The  storm  was  loud,  —  the  night  was  dark. 
 The  ocean  yawn'd  —  and  rudely  blow'd 
 
 The  wind  that  toss'd  my  foundering  bark. 
 
 IV. 
 
 Deep  horror  then  my  vitals  froze. 
 
 Death-struck,  I  ceas'd  the  tide  to  stem ; 
 
 When  suddenly  a  star  arose, 
 
 It  was  the  Star  of  Bethlehem. 
 
 V. 
 
 It  was  my  guide,  my  light,  my  all. 
 
 It  bade  my  dark  forebodings  cease  ; 
 
 And  through  the  storm  and  dangers'  thrall. 
 It  led  me  to  the  port  of  peace. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Now  safely  moor'd  —  my  perils  o'er, 
 I'll  sing,  first  in  night's  diadem, 
 
 For  ever  and  for  evermore, 
 
 The  star  !  —  The  Star  of  Bethlehem  ! 
 
128 
 
 A  HYMN. 
 
 O  Lord,  my  God,  in  mercy  turn, 
 In  mercy  hear  a  sinner  mourn  ! 
 To  thee  I  call,  to  thee  I  cry, 
 
 0  leave  me,  leave  me  not  to  die  ! 
 
 1  strove  against  thee.  Lord,  I  know, 
 
 I  spurn'd  thy  grace,  I  mock'd  thy  law ; 
 The  hour  is  past  —  the  day's  gone  by, 
 And  I  am  left  alone  to  die. 
 
 O  pleasures  past,  what  are  ye  now 
 But  thorns  about  my  bleeding  brow  ! 
 Spectres  that  hover  round  my  brain, 
 And  aggravate  and  mock  my  pain. 
 
 For  pleasure  I  have  given  my  soul  ; 
 Now,  Justice,  let  thy  thunders  roll  ! 
 Now  Vengeance  smile  —  and  with  a  blow. 
 Lay  the  rebellious  ingrate  low. 
 
 Yet  Jesus,  Jesus  !  there  I'll  cling, 
 I'll  crowd  beneath  his  sheltering  wing  ; 
 I'll  clasp  the  cross,  and  holding  there, 
 Even  me,  oh  bliss  I  — -*his  wrath  may  spare. 
 
129 
 
 MELODY. 
 
 Inserted  ia  a  Collection  of  Selected  and  Original  Songs,  published  by 
 the  Rev.  J.  Plumptre,  of  Clare  Hall,  Cambridge. 
 
 I. 
 
 Yes,  once  more  that  dying  strain, 
 
 Anna,  touch  thy  lute  for  me ; 
 Sweet,  when, Pity's  tones  complain, 
 
 Doubly  sweet  is  melody. 
 
 II. 
 
 While  the  Virtues  thus  enweave 
 
 Mildly  soft  the  thrilling  song, 
 Winter*s  long  and  lonesome  eve 
 
 Glides  unfeltj  unseen,  along. 
 
 III. 
 
 Thus  when  life  hath  stolen  away, 
 
 And  the  wintry  night  is  near. 
 Thus  shall  Virtue's  friendly  ray 
 
 Age's  closing  evening  cheer. 
 
 VOL.  n.  K 
 
130 
 
 SONG.  — BY  WALLER. 
 
 A  Lady  of  Cambridge  lent  Waller's  Poems  to  Henry,  and  when  he 
 returned  them  to  her,  she  discovered  an  additional  Stanza  written  by 
 him  at  the  bottom  of  the  Song  here  copied. 
 
 Go,  lovely  rose  ! 
 Tell  her,  that  wastes  her  time  and  me. 
 
 That  now  she  knows, 
 When  I  resemble  her  to  thee, 
 How  sweet  and  fan-  she  seems  to  be. 
 
 Tell  her  that's  young. 
 And  shuns  to  have  her  graces  spied, 
 
 That  hadst  thou  sprung 
 In  deserts,  where  no  men  abide,  ^ 
 Thou  must  have  uncommended  died. 
 
 Small  is  the  worth 
 Of  beauty  from  the  light  retired ; 
 
 Bid  her  come  forth, 
 Suffer  herself  to  be  desired, 
 And  not  blush  so  to  be  admired. 
 
 Then  die,  that  she 
 The  common  fate  of  all  things  rare 
 
 May  read  in  thee; 
 How  small  a  part  of  time  they  share, 
 That  are  so  wondrous  sweet  and  fair. 
 
131 
 
 [Yet,  though  thou  fade, 
 From  thy  dead  leaves  let  fragrance  rise  ; 
 
 And  teach  the  Maid 
 That  Goodness  Time's  rude  hand  defies  ; 
 That  Virtue  lives  when  Beauty  dies.] 
 
 H.  K.  White. 
 
 « I  AM  PLEASED,  AND  YET  I^M  SAD." 
 
 I. 
 
 When  twilight  steals  along  the  ground. 
 And  all  the  bells  are  ringing  round, 
 
 One,  two,  three,  four,  and  five, 
 I  at  my  study-window  sit. 
 And,  wrapt  in  many  a  musing  fit. 
 
 To  bliss  am  all  alive. 
 
 II. 
 
 But  though  impressions  calm  and  sweet 
 Thrill  round  my  heart  a  holy  heat, 
 
 And  I  am  inly  glad. 
 The  tear-drop  stands  in  either  eye. 
 And  yet  I  cannot  tell  thee  why, 
 
 I  am  pleas'd,  and  yet  Fitt  sad. 
 
 K  2 
 
1S2 
 
 III. 
 
 The  silvery  rack  that  flies  away 
 Like  mortal  life  or  pleasure's  ray. 
 
 Does  that  disturb  my  breast  ? 
 Nay,  what  have  I,  a  studious  man^ 
 To  do  with  life's  unstable  plan, 
 
 Or  pleasure's  fading  vest  ? 
 
 IV. 
 
 Is  it  that  here  I  must  not  stop. 
 But  o'er  yon  blue  hill's  woody  top 
 
 Must  bend  my  lonely  way  ? 
 No,  surely  no  !  for  give  but  me 
 My  own  fire-side,  and  I  shall  be 
 
 At  home  where'er  I  stray. 
 
 V. 
 
 Then  is  it  that  yon  steeple  there, 
 With  music  sweet  shall  fill  the  air. 
 
 When  thou  no  more  canst  hear  ? 
 Oh,  no  !  oh,  no  !  for  then  forgiven 
 I  shall  be  with  my  God  in  Heaven^ 
 
 Releas'd  from  every  fear. 
 
 VI. 
 
 Then  whence  it  is  I  cannot  tell. 
 But  there  is  some  mysterious  spell 
 
 That  holds  me  when  I'm  glad : 
 And  so  the  tear-drop  fills  my  eye. 
 When  yet  in  truth  I  know  not  why. 
 
 Or  wherefore  I  am  sad. 
 
SOLITUDE. 
 
 It  is  not  that  my  lot  is  low, 
 That  bids  this  silent  tear  to  flow ; 
 It  is  not  grief  that  bids  me  moan, 
 It  is  that  I  am  all  alone. 
 
 In  woods  and  glens  1  love  to  roam. 
 When  the  tir'd  hedger  hies  him  home ; 
 Or  by  the  woodland  pool  to  rest. 
 When  pale  the  star  looks  on  its  breast. 
 
 Yet  when  the  silent  evening  sighs, 
 With  hallow'd  airs  and  symphonies, 
 My  spirit  takes  another  tone, 
 And  sighs  that  it  is  all  alone. 
 
 The  autumn  leaf  is  sear  and  dead, 
 It  floats  upon  the  water's  bed ; 
 I  would  not  be  a  leaf,  to  die 
 Without  recording  sorrow's  sigh  ! 
 
 The  woods  and  winds,  with  sudden  waiL 
 Tell  all  the  same  unvaried  tale  ; 
 I've  none  to  smile  when  I  am  free. 
 And  when  I  sigh,  to  sigh  with  me. 
 
 Yet  in  my  dreams  a  form  I  view, 
 That  thinks  on  me,  and  loves  me  too ; 
 I  start,  and  when  the  vision's  flown, 
 I  weep  that  1  am  all  alone, 
 K  5 
 
134 
 
 If  far  from  me  the  Fates  remove 
 Domestic  peace,  connubial  love, 
 The  prattling  ring,  the  social  cheer. 
 Affection's  voice,  affection's  tear. 
 Ye  sterner  powers,  that  bind  the  heart* 
 To  me  your  iron  aid  impart ! 
 
 0  teach  me,  when  the  nights  are  chill. 
 And  my  fire-side  is  lone  and  still  ; 
 When  to  the  blaze  that  crackles  near, 
 
 1  turn  a  tir'd  and  pensive  ear, 
 
 And  Nature  conquering  bids  me  sigh, 
 For  love's  soft  accents  whispering  nigh  ; 
 
 0  teach  me,  on  that  heavenly  road. 
 That  leads  to  Truth's  occult  abode. 
 To  wrap  my  soul  in  dreams  divine, 
 Till  earth  and  care  no  more  be  mine. 
 Let  blest  Philosophy  impart 
 
 Her  soothing  measures  to  my  heart ; 
 And  while  with  Plato's  ravish'd  ears 
 
 1  list  the  music  of  the  spheres. 
 Or  on  the  mystic  symbols  pore. 
 That  hide  the  Chald's  sublimer  lore, 
 I  shall  not  brood  on  summers  gone. 
 Nor  think  that  I  am  all  alone* 
 
135 
 
 Fanny  !  upon  thy  breast  I  may  not  lie  ! 
 
 Fanny  !  thou  dost  not  hear  me  when  I  speak  ! 
 Where  art  thou,  love  ?  —  Around  I  turn  my  eye, 
 
 And  as  I  turn,  the  tear  is  on  my  cheek. 
 Was  it  a  dream  ?  or  did  my  love  behold 
 
 Indeed  my  lonely  couch  ?  —  Methought  the  breath 
 Fanned  not  her  bloodless  lip ;  her  eye  was  cold 
 
 And  hollow,  and  the  livery  of  death 
 Invested  her  pale  forehead.  —  Sainted  maid  ! 
 
 My  thoughts  oft  rest  with  thee  in  thy  cold  grave. 
 
 Through  the  long  wintry  night,  when  wind  and  wave 
 Rock  the  dark  house  where  thy  poor  head  is  laid. 
 Yet,  hush  !  my  fond  heart,  hush  !  there  is  a  shore 
 
 Of  better  promise ;  and  I  know  at  last. 
 
 When  the  long  sabbath  of  the  tomb  is  past, 
 We  two  shall  meet  in  Christ  —  to  part  no  more. 
 
 K  4 
 
FRAGMENTS, 
 
These  Fragments  are  Henry's  latest  compositions ;  and  were,  for  the 
 most  part,  written  upon  the  back  of  his  mathematical  papers,  during 
 the  few  moments  of  the  last  year  of  his  life,  in  which  he  suffered 
 himself  to  follow  the  impulse  of  his  genius. 
 
FRAGMENTS. 
 
 Saw'st  thou  that  light  ?  exclaim'd  the  youth,  and  paus'd 
 
 Through  yon  dark  firs  it  glanced,  and  on  the  stream 
 
 That  skirts  the  woods  it  for  a  moment  play'd. 
 
 Again,  more  light  it  gleam'd,  —  or  does  some  sprite 
 
 Delude  mine  eyes  with  shapes  of  wood  and  streams,  ^ 
 
 And  lamp  far  beaming  through  the  thicket's  gloom, 
 
 As  from  some  bosom'd  cabin,  where  the  voice 
 
 Of  revelry,  or  thrifty  watchfulness. 
 
 Keeps  in  the  lights  at  this  unwonted  hour  ? 
 
 No  sprite  deludes  mine  eyes,  — the  beam  now  glows 
 
 With  steady  lustre. —  Can  it  be  the  moon. 
 
 Who,  hidden  long  by  the  invidious  veil 
 
 That  blots  the  Heavens,  now  sets  behind  the  woods  ? 
 
 No  moon  to-night  has  look'd  upon  the  sea 
 
 Of  clouds  beneath  her,  answered  Rudiger, 
 
 She  has  been  sleeping  with  Endymion. 
 
140 
 
 II. 
 
 The  pious  man, 
 In  this  bad  world,  when  mists  and  couchant  storms 
 Hide  Heaven's  fine  circlet,  springs  aloft  in  faith 
 Above  the  clouds  that  threat  him,  to  the  fields 
 Of  ether,  w^here  the  day  is  never  veiPd 
 With  intervening  vapours ;  and  looks  down 
 Serene  upon  the  troublous  sea,  that  hides 
 The  earth's  fair  breast,  that  sea  whose  nether  face 
 To  grovelling  mortals  fi^owns  and  darkens  all ; 
 But  on  whose  billowy  back,  from  man  conceal'djs 
 The  glaring  sunbeam  plays. 
 
 III. 
 
 Lo  !  on  the  eastern  summit,  clad  in  grey^ 
 Morn,  like  a  horseman  girt  for  travel,  comes> 
 
 And  from  his  tower  of  mist. 
 
 Night's  watchman  hurries  down. 
 
141 
 
 IV. 
 
 There  was  a  little  bird  upon  that  pile ; 
 
 It  perch'd  upon  a  ruined  pinnacle, 
 
 And  made  sweet  melody. 
 
 The  song  was  soft,  yet  cheerful,  and  most  clear, 
 
 For  other  note  none  swell'd  the  air  but  his. 
 
 It  seem'd  as  if  the  little  chorister, 
 
 Sole  tenant  of  the  melancholy  pile, 
 
 Were  a  lone  hermit,  outcast  from  his  kind. 
 
 Yet  withal  cheerful.  —  I  have  heard  the  note 
 
 Echoing  so  lonely  o'er  the  aisle  forlorn, 
 
 Much  musing  — 
 
 O  PALE  art  thou,  my  lamp,  and  faint 
 
 Thy  melancholy  ray: 
 When  the  still  night's  unclouded  saint 
 Is  walking  on  her  way. 
 Through  my  lattice  leaf  embower'd, 
 Fair  she  sheds  her  shadowy  beam. 
 And  o'er  my  silent  sacred  room, 
 Casts  a  chequer'd  twilight  gloom  ; 
 I  throw  aside  the  learned  sheet, 
 I  cannot  choose  but  gaze,  she  looks  so  mildly  sweet. 
 
142 
 
 Sad  vestal,  why  art  thou  so  fair, 
 Or  why  am  I  so  frail  ? 
 
 Methinks  thou  lookest  kindly  on  me,  Moon, 
 
 And  cheerest  my  lone  hours  with  sweet  regards  ! 
 Surely  like  me  thou'rt  sad,  but  dost  not  speak 
 Thy  sadness  to  the  cold  unheeding  crowd  ; 
 So  mournfully  compos'd,  o'er  yonder  cloud 
 Thou  shinest,  like  a  cresset,  beaming  far 
 From  the  rude  watch-tower,  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave. 
 
 VI. 
 
 O  GIVE  me  music  —  for  my  soul  doth  faint  ; 
 
 I  am  sick  of  noise  and  care,  and  now  mine  ear 
 Longs  for  some  air  of  peace,  some  dying  plaint. 
 
 That  may  the  spirit  from  its  cell  unsphere. 
 
 Hark  how  it  falls  !  and  now  it  steals  along. 
 Like  distant  bells  upon  the  lake  at  eve. 
 
 When  all  is  still ;  and  now  it  grows  more  strong, 
 As  when  the  choral  train  their  dirges  weave, 
 
 Mellow  and  many- voiced;  where  every  close, 
 
 0*er  the  old  minster  roof,  in  echoing  waves  reflows. 
 
 5 
 
143 
 
 Oh  !  I  am  rapt  aloft.     My  spirit  soars 
 
 Beyond  the  skies,  and  leaves  the  stars  behind. 
 
 Lo  !  angels  lead  me  to  the  happy  shores, 
 And  floating  paeans  fill  the  buoyant  wind. 
 
 Farewell !  base  earth,  farewell !  my  soul  is  freed, 
 
 Far  from  its  clayey  cell  it  springs,  — 
 
 VII. 
 
 Ah  !  who  can  say,  however  fair  his  view, 
 Through  what  sad  scenes  his  path  may  Ue  ? 
 Ah  !  who  can  give  to  others'  woes  his  sigh, 
 
 Secure  hfs  own  will  never  need  it  too  ? 
 
 Let  thoughtless  youth  its  seeming  joys  pursue, 
 Soon  will  they  learn  to  scan  with  thoughtful  eye 
 The  illusive  past  and  dark  futurity ; 
 
 Soon  will  they  know  — 
 
144 
 
 VIII. 
 
 And  must  thou  go,  and  must  we  part  ? 
 
 Yes,  Fate  decrees,  and  I  submit  ; 
 The  pang  that  rends  in  twain  my  heart, 
 
 Oh,  Fanny,  dost  thou  share  in  it  ? 
 
 Thy  sex  is  fickle,  —  when  away. 
 
 Some  happier  youth  may  win  thy  - 
 
 IX. 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 When  I  sit  musing  on  the  chequer'd  past, 
 (A  term  much  darken'd  with  untimely  woes,) 
 My  thoughts  revert  to  her,  for  whom  still  flows 
 The  tear,  though  half  disowned ;  —  and  binding  fast 
 Pride's  stubborn  cheat  to  my  too  yielding  heart, 
 I  say  to  her  she  robb'd  me  of  my  rest. 
 When  that  was  all  my  wealth.  —  'Tis  true  my  breast 
 Receiv'd  from  her  this  wearying,  lingering  smart. 
 Yet,  ah  !  I  cannot  bid  her  form  depart ; 
 
 Though  wrong'd,  I  love  her  —  yet  in  anger  love, 
 For  she  was  most  unworthy.  —  Then  I  prove 
 Vindictive  joy ;  and  on  my  stern  front  gleams, 
 Thron'd  in  dark  clouds,  inflexible     *     *     * 
 The  native  pride  of  my  much  injured  heart. 
 
145 
 
 X. 
 
 When  high  romance  o'er  every  wood  and  stream 
 
 Dark  lustre  shed,  my  infant  mind  to  fire. 
 Spell-struck,  and  fill'd  with  many  a  wondering  dream. 
 
 First  in  the  groves  I  woke  the  pensive  lyre, 
 All  there  was  mystery  then,  the  gust  that  woke 
 
 The  midnight  echo  with  a  spirit's  dirge. 
 And  unseen  fairies  would  the  moon  invoke, 
 
 To  their  light  morrice  by  the  restless  surge. 
 Now  to  my  sober'd  thought  with  life's  false  smiles, 
 
 Too  much     *     * 
 The  vagrant  Fancy  spreads  no  more  her  wiles, 
 
 And  dark  forebodings  now  my  bosom  fill. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Hush'd  is  the  lyre  —  the  hand  that  swept 
 The  low  and  pensive  wires, 
 Robb'd  of  its  cunning,  from  the  task  retires. 
 
 Yes  —  it  is  still  —  the  lyre  is  still ; 
 
 The  spirit  which  its  slumbers  broke 
 
 Hath  pass'd  away,  —  and  that  weak  hand  that  woke 
 Its  forest  melodies  hath  lost  its  skill. 
 
 VOL.  II.  L 
 
146 
 
 Yet  I  would  press  you  to  my  lips  once  more. 
 Ye  wild,  ye  withering  flowers  of  poesy ; 
 
 Y^et  would  I  drink  the  fragrance  which  ye  pour, 
 Mix'd  with  decaying  odours :  for  to  me 
 
 Ye  have  beguil'd  the  hours  of  infancy, 
 As  in  the  wood-paths  of  my  native  — 
 
 XII. 
 
 Once  more,  and  yet  once  more, 
 
 I  give  unto  my  hai-p  a  dark- woven  lay  ; 
 I  heard  the  waters  roar, 
 
 I  heard  the  flood  of  ages  pass  away. 
 O  thou,  stern  spirit,  who  dost  dwell 
 
 In  thine  eternal  cell. 
 Noting,  grey  chronicler  !  the  silent  years ; 
 
 I  saw  thee  rise,  —  I  saw  the  scroll  complete. 
 
 Thou  spakest,  and  at  thy  feet 
 The  universe  gave  way. 
 
T  ].  M  E, 
 
 A    POEM, 
 
 L  *i 
 
This  Poem  was  begun  either  during  the  publication  of  Clifton  Grove, 
 or  shortly  afterwards.  Henry  never  laid  aside  the  intention  of 
 completing  it,  and  some  of  the  detached  parts  were  among  his 
 latest  productions. 
 
TIME, 
 
 A  POEM. 
 
 vfENius  of  musings,  who,  the  midnight  hour 
 
 Wasting  in  woods  or  haunted  forests  wild, 
 
 Dost  watch  Orion  in  his  arctic  tower. 
 
 Thy  dark  eye  fix'd  as  in  some  holy  trance ; 
 
 Or  when  the  voUey'd  lightnings  cleave  the  air. 
 
 And  Ruin  gaunt  bestrides  the  winged  storm, 
 
 Sitt'st  in  some  lonely  watch-tower,  where  thy  lamp. 
 
 Faint-blazing,  strikes  the  fisher's  eye  from  far, 
 
 And,  'mid  the  howl  of  elements,  unmov'd 
 
 Dost  ponder  on  the  awful  scene,  and  trace 
 
 The  vast  effect  to  its  superior  source,  — 
 
 Spirit,  attend  my  lowly  benison  ! 
 
 For  now  I  strike  to  themes  of  import  high 
 
 The  solitary  lyre ;  and,  borne  by  thee 
 
 Above  this  narrow  cell,  I  celebrate 
 
 The  mysteries  of  Time  ! 
 
150 
 
 Him  who,  august, 
 Was  ere  these  worlds  were  fashioned,  —  ere  the  sun 
 Sprang  from  the  east,  or  Lucifer  display'd 
 His  glowing  cresset  in  the  arch  of  morn. 
 Or  Vesper  gilded  the  serener  eve. 
 Yea,  He  had  been  for  an  eternity  ! 
 Had  swept  unvarying  from  eternity  ! 
 The  harp  of  desolation  —  ere  his  tones. 
 At  God's  command,  assum'd  a  milder  strain. 
 And  startled  on  his  watch,  in  the  vast  deep. 
 Chaos's  sluggish  sentry,  and  evok'd 
 From  the  dark  void  the  smiling  universe. 
 
 Chained  to  the  grovelling  frailties  of  the  flesh, 
 Mere  mortal  man,  unpurg'd  from  earthly  dross. 
 Cannot  survey,  with  fix'd  and  steady  eye. 
 The  dim  uncertain  gulf,  which  now  the  muse, 
 Adventurous,  would  explore  ;  —  but  dizzy  grown, 
 He  topples  down  the  abyss.  —  If  he  would  scan 
 The  fearful  chasm,  and  catch  a  transient  glimpse 
 Of  its  unfathomable  depths,  that  so 
 His  mind  may  turn  with  double  joy  to  God, 
 His  only  certainty  and  resting  place ; 
 He  must  put  off  awhile  this  mortal  vest. 
 And  learn  to  follow,  without  giddiness. 
 To  heights  where  all  is  vision,  and  surprise. 
 And  vague  conjecture.  —  He  must  waste  by  night 
 The  studious  taper,  far  from  all  resort 
 Of  crowds  and  folly,  in  some  still  retreat ; 
 High  on  the  beetling  promontory's  crest. 
 
151 
 
 Or  in  the  caves  of  the  vast  wilderness, 
 
 Where,  compassed  round  with  Nature's  wildest  shapes, 
 
 He  may  be  driven  to  centre  all  his  thoughts 
 
 In  the  great  Architect,  who  lives  confest 
 
 In  rocks,  and  seas,  and  solitary  wastes. 
 
 So  has  divine  Philosophy,  with  voice 
 Mild  as  the  murmurs  of  the  moonlight  wave, 
 Tutor'd  the  heart  of  him,  who  now  awakes, 
 Touching  the  chords  of  solemn  minstrelsy, 
 His  faint,  neglected  song  —  intent  to  snatch 
 Some  vagrant  blossom  from  the  dangerous  steep 
 Of  poesy,  a  bloom  of  such  an  hue. 
 So  sober,  as  may  not  unseemly  suit 
 With  Truth's  severer  brow ;  and  one  withal 
 So  hardy  as  shall  brave  the  passing  wind 
 Of  many  winters,  —  rearing  its  meek  head 
 In  loveliness,  when  he  who  gather'd  it 
 Is  number'd  with  the  generations  gone. 
 Yet  not  to  me  hath  God's  good  providence 
 Given  studious  leisure  *,  or  unbroken  thought. 
 Such  as  he  owns,  —  a  meditative  man. 
 Who  from  the  blush  of  morn  to  quiet  eve 
 Ponders,  or  turns  the  page  of  wisdom  o'er. 
 Far  from  the  busy  crowd's  tumultuous  din : 
 From  noise  and  wrangling  far,  and  undisturb'd 
 With  Mirth's  unholy  shouts.     For  me  the  day 
 
 *  The  author  was  then  ir^  an  attorney's  office. 
 L  4 
 
152 
 
 Hath  duties  which  require  the  vigorous  hand 
 
 Of  stedfast  appHcation,  but  which  leave 
 
 No  deep  improving  trace  upon  the  mind. 
 
 But  be  the  day  another's ;  —  let  it  pass  ! 
 
 The  nighf  s  my  own  —  They  cannot  steal  my  night  f 
 
 When  evening  lights  her  folding-stai'  on  high, 
 
 I  live  and  breathe,  and  in  the  sacred  hours 
 
 Of  quiet  and  repose,  my  spirit  flies, 
 
 Free  as  the  morning,  o'er  the  realms  of  space. 
 
 And  mounts  the  skies,  and  imps  her  wing  for  heaven. 
 
 Hence  do  I      ve  the  sober-suited  maid; 
 
 Hence  Night's  my  friend,  my  mistress,  and  my  theme. 
 
 And  she  shall  aid  me  7?ow  to  magnify 
 
 The  night  of  ages,  —  7ioxd  when  the  pale  ray 
 
 Of  star-light  penetrates  the  studious  gloom, 
 
 And,  at  my  window  seated,  while  mankind 
 
 Are  lock'd  in  sleep,  I  feel  the  freshening  breeze 
 
 Of  stillness  blow,  while,  in  her  saddest  stole, 
 
 'Thought,  like  a  wakeful  vestal  at  her  shrine, 
 
 Assumes  her  wonted  sway. 
 
 Behold  the  world 
 Rests,  and  her  tir'd  inhabitants  have  paus'd 
 From  trouble  and  turmoil.     The  widow  now 
 Has  ceas'd  to  weep,  and  her  twin  orphans  lie 
 Lock'd  in  each  arm,  partakers  of  her  rest. 
 The  man  of  sorrow  has  forgot  his  woes  ; 
 The  outcast  that  his  head  is  shelterless. 
 His  griefs  unshar'd.  —  The  mother  tends  no  more 
 Her  daughter's  dying  slumbers,  but,  surprised 
 
153 
 
 With  heaviness,  and  sunk  upon  her  couch, 
 
 Dreams  of  her  bridals.     Even  the  hectic,  luU'd 
 
 On  Death's  lean  arm  to  rest,  in  visions  wrapt. 
 
 Crowning  with  Hope's  bland  wreath  his  shuddering  nurse, 
 
 Poor  victim  !  smiles.  —  Silence  and  deep  repose 
 
 Reign  o'er  the  nations ;  and  the  warning  voice 
 
 Of  Nature  utters  audibly  within 
 
 The  general  moral :  —  tells  us  that  repose, 
 
 Deathlike  as  this,  but  of  far  longer  span, 
 
 Is  coming  on  us  —  that  the  weary  crowds, 
 
 Who  now  enjoy  a  temporary  calm. 
 
 Shall  soon  taste  lasting  quiet,  wrapt  around 
 
 With  srave-clothes :  and  their  achino;  restless  heads 
 
 Mouldering  in  holes  and  corners  unobserv'd. 
 
 Till  the  last  trump  shall  break  their  sullen  sleep. 
 
 Who  needs  a  teacher  to  admonish  him 
 
 That  flesh  is  grass,  that  earthly  things  are  mist  ? 
 
 What  are  our  joys  but  dreams  ?  and  what  our  hopes 
 
 But  goodly  shadows  in  the  summer  cloud  ? 
 
 There's  not  a  wind  that  blows  but  bears  with  it 
 
 Some  rainbow  promise  :  —  Not  a  moment  flies 
 
 But  puts  its  sickle  in  the  fields  of  life. 
 
 And  mows  its  thousands,  with  their  joys  and  cares. 
 
 'Tis  but  as  yesterday  since  on  yon  stars. 
 
 Which  now  I  view,  the  Chaldee  Shepherd  *  gaz'd, 
 
 In  his  mid-watch  observant,  and  dispos'd 
 
 *  Alluding  to  the  first  astronoftiiical  observations  made  by  the  Chal- 
 dean shepherds. 
 
154 
 
 The  twinkling  hosts  as  fancy  gave  them  shape. 
 Yet  in  the  interim  what  mighty  shocks 
 Have  buffeted  mankind  —  whole  nations  raz'd  — 
 Cities  made  desolate,  —  the  polish'd  sunk 
 To  barbarism,  and  once  barbaric  states 
 Swaying  the  wand  of  science  and  of  arts ; 
 Illustrious  deeds  and  memorable  names 
 Blotted  from  record,  and  upon  the  tongue 
 Of  grey  Tradition,  voluble  no  more. 
 
 Where  are  the  heroes  of  the  ages  past  ? 
 
 Where  the  brave  chieftains,  where  the  mighty  ones 
 
 Who  flourish'd  in  the  infancy  of  days  ? 
 
 All  to  the  grave  gone  down.     On  their  fallen  fame 
 
 Exultant,  mocking  at  the  pride  of  man. 
 
 Sits  grim  Forgetfulness,  —  The  warrior's  arm 
 
 Lies  nerveless  on  the  pillow  of  its  shame ; 
 
 Husli'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quench'd  the  blaze 
 
 Of  his  red  eye-ball.  —  Yesterday  his  name 
 
 Was  mighty  on  the  earth  —  To-day  —  'tis  what  ? 
 
 The  meteor  of  the  night  of  distant  years, 
 
 That  flash'd  unnoticed,  save  by  wrinkled  eld, 
 
 Musing  at  midnight  upon  prophecies, 
 
 Who  at  her  lonely  lattice  saw  the  gleam 
 
 Point  to  the  mist-pois'd  shroud,  then  quietly 
 
 Clos'd  her  pale  lips,  and  lock'd  the  secret  up 
 
 Safe  in  the  charners  treasures. 
 
 O  how  weak 
 Is  mortal  man  !  how  trifling  —  how  confin'd 
 His  scope  of  vision  !     Puff'd  with  confidence, 
 
 14 
 
155 
 
 His  phrase  grows  big  with  immortality. 
 And  he,  poor  insect  of  a  summer's  day  ! 
 Dreams  of  eternal  honours  to  his  name ; 
 Of  endless  glory  and  perennial  bays. 
 He  idly  reasons  of  eternity. 
 As  of  the  train  of  ages,  —  when,  alas  ! 
 Ten  thousand  thousand  of  his  centuries 
 Are,  in  comparison,  a  little  point 
 
 Too  trivial  for  accompt. O,  it  is  strange, 
 
 'Tis  passing  strange,  to  mark  his  fallacies ; 
 Behold  him  proudly  view  some  pompous  pile, 
 Whose  high  dome  swells  to  emulate  the  skies. 
 And  smile,  and  say,  my  name  shall  live  with  this 
 Till  Time  shall  be  no  more ;  while  at  his  feet, 
 Yea,  at  his  very  feet,  the  crumbling  dust 
 Of  the  fallen  fabric  of  the  other  day 
 Preaches  the  solemn  lesson.  —  He  should  know 
 That  time  must  conquer ;  that  the  loudest  blast 
 That  ever  fiU'd  Renown's  obstreperous  trump 
 Fades  in  the  lapse  of  ages,  and  expires. 
 Who  lies  inhumed  in  the  terrific  gloom 
 Of  the  gigantic  pyramid  ?  or  who 
 Rear'd  its  huge  walls  ?  Oblivion  laughs,  and  says, 
 The  prey  is  mine.  —  They  sleep,  and  never  more 
 Their  names  shall  strike  upon  the  ear  of  man, 
 Their  memory  burst  its  fetters. 
 
 Where  is  Rome  P 
 She  lives  but  in  the  tale  of  other  times ; 
 Her  proud  pavilions  are  the  hermit's  home, 
 And  her  long  colonnades,  her  public  walks, 
 
156 
 
 Now  faintly  echo  to  the  pilgrim's  feet, 
 Wlio  comes  to  muse  in  solitude,  and  trace, 
 Through  the  rank  moss  reveai'd,  her  honoured  dust. 
 But  not  to  Rome  alone  has  fate  confin'd 
 The  doom  of  ruin ;  cities  numberless. 
 Tyre,  Sidon,  Carthage,  Babylon,  and  Troy, 
 And  rich  Phoenicia  —  they  are  blotted  out, 
 Half-razed  from  memory,  and  their  very  name 
 And  being  in  dispute.  —  Has  Athens  fallen  ? 
 Is  polish'd  Greece  become  the  savage  seat 
 Of  ignorance  and  slotli  ?  and  shall  isoe  dare 
 
 And  empire  seeks  another  hemisphere. 
 
 Where  now  is  Britain  ?  —  Where  her  laurell'd  names, 
 
 Her  palaces  and  halls  ?    Dash'd  in  the  dust, 
 
 Some  second  Vandal  hath  reduc'd  her  pride, 
 
 And  with  one  big  recoil  hath  thrown  her  back 
 
 To  primitive  barbarity. Again, 
 
 Through  her  depopulated  vales,  the  scream 
 
 Of  bloody  Superstition  hollow  rings, 
 
 And  the  scared  native  to  the  tempest  howls 
 
 The  yell  of  deprecation.     O'er  her  marts. 
 
 Her  crowded  ports,  broods  Silence ;  and  the  ciy 
 
 Of  the  low  curlew,  and  the  pensive  dash 
 
 Of  distant  billows,  breaks  alone  the  void. 
 
 Even  as  the  savage  sits  upon  the  stone 
 
 That  marks  where  stood  her  capitols,  and  hears 
 
 The  bittern  booming  in  the  weeds,  he  shrinks 
 
157 
 
 From  the  dismaying  solitude.  —  Her  bards 
 Sing  in  a  language  that  hath  perished  ; 
 And  their  wild  harps,  suspended  o'er  their  graves, 
 Sigh  to  the  desert  winds  a  dying  strain. 
 
 Meanwhile  the  Arts,  in  second  infancy, 
 
 Rise  in  some  distant  clime,  and  then,  perchance, 
 
 Some  bold  adventurer,  fill'd  with  golden  dreams, 
 
 Steering  his  bark  through  trackless  solitudes, 
 
 Where,  to  his  wandering  thoughts,  no  daring  prow 
 
 Hath  ever  plough'd  before,  —  espies  the  cliffs 
 
 Of  fallen  Albion.  —  To  the  land  unknown 
 
 He  journeys  joyful ;  and  perhaps  descries 
 
 Some  vestige  of  her  ancient  stateliness  : 
 
 Then  he,  with  vain  conjecture,  fills  his  mind 
 
 Of  the  unheard-of  race,  which  had  arriv'd 
 
 At  science  in  that  solitary  nook. 
 
 Far  from  the  civil  world ;  and  sagely  sighs. 
 
 And  morahzes  on  the  state  of  man. 
 
 Still  on  its  march,  unnoticed  and  unfelt, 
 Moves  on  our  being.     We  do  live  and  breathe, 
 And  we  are  gone.     The  spoiler  heeds  us  not. 
 We  have  our  spring-time  and  our  rottenness ; 
 And  as  we  fall,  another  race  succeeds. 
 To  perish  likewise.  —  Meanwhile  Nature  smiles  — 
 The  seasons  run  their  round  —  The  Sun  fulfils 
 His  annual  course  —  and  Heaven  and  earth  remain 
 Still  changing,  yet  unchang'd  -—  still  doom'd  to  fed 
 
158 
 
 Endless  mutation  in  perpetual  rest. 
 
 Where  are  conceal'd  the  clays  which  have  elaps'd  ? 
 
 Hid  in  the  mighty  cavern  of  tlie  pasty 
 
 They  rise  upon  us  only  to  appal, 
 
 By  indistinct  and  half-glimps'd  images, 
 
 Misty,  gigantic,  huge,  obscure,  remote. 
 
 Oh,  it  is  fearful,  on  the  midnight  couch. 
 
 When  the  rude  rushing  winds  forget  to  rave, 
 
 And  the  pale  moon,  that  through  the  casement  higli 
 
 Surveys  the  sleepless  muser,  stamps  the  hour 
 
 Of  utter  silence,  it  is  fearful  then 
 
 To  steer  the  mind,  in  deadly  solitude. 
 
 Up  the  vague  stream  of  probability  ; 
 
 To  wind  the  mighty  secrets  of  the  past^ 
 
 And  turn  the  key  of  Time  ?  —  Oh  !  who  can  strive 
 
 To  comprehend  the  vast,  the  awful  truth, 
 
 Of  the  eternity  that  hath  gone  by. 
 
 And  not  recoil  from  the  dismaying  sense 
 
 Of  human  impotence  ?     The  life  of  man 
 
 Is  summ'd  in  birth-days  and  in  sepulchres  : 
 
 But  the  Eternal  God  had  no  beffinnins: : 
 
 He  hath  no  end.     Time  had  been  with  him 
 
 For  everlasting,  ere  the  daedal  world 
 
 Rose  from  the  gulf  in  loveliness.  —  Like  him 
 
 It  knew  no  source,  like  him  'twas  uncreate. 
 
 What  is  it  then  ?     The  past  Eternity  ! 
 
 We  comprehend  a/uture  without  end ; 
 
 We  feel  it  possible  that  even  yon  sun 
 
159 
 
 May  roll  for  ever  :  but  we  sliriiik  amaz'd  — 
 
 We  stand  aghast,  when  we  reflect  that  Time 
 
 Knew  no  commencement,  —  That  heap  age  on  age, 
 
 And  million  upon  million,  without  end. 
 
 And  we  shall  never  span  the  void  of  days 
 
 That  were,  and  are  not  but  in  retrospect. 
 
 The  Past  is  an  unfathomable  depth, 
 
 Beyond  the  span  of  thought ;  'tis  an  elapse 
 
 Which  hath  no  mensuration,  but  hath  been 
 
 For  ever  and  for  ever. 
 
 Change  of  days 
 To  us  is  sensible ;  and  each  revolve 
 Of  the  recording  sun  conducts  us  on 
 Further  in  life,  and  nearer  to  our  goal. 
 Not  so  with  Time,  —  mysterious  chronicler. 
 He  knoweth  not  mutation;  — centuries 
 Are  to  his  being  as  a  day,  and  days 
 As  centuries.  —  Time  past,  and  Time  to  come, 
 Are  always  equal ;  when  the  world  began 
 
 God  had  existed  from  eternity. 
 
 *  *  *  * 
 
 Now  look  on  man 
 Myriads  of  ages  hence.  • — Hath  time  elapsed  ? 
 Is  he  not  standing  in  the  self-same  place 
 Where  once  we  stood  ?  —  The  same  eternity 
 Hath  gone  before  him,  and  is  yet  to  come ; 
 His  past  is  not  of  longer  span  than  ours, 
 Though  myriads  of  ages  intervened  ; 
 For  who  can  add  to  what  has  neither  sum, 
 Nor  bound,  nor  source,  nor  estimate,  nor  end .'' 
 
160 
 
 Oh,  who  can  compass  tlie  Ahnighty  mind? 
 
 Who  can  unlock  the  secrets  of  the  High  ? 
 
 In  speculations  of  an  altitude 
 
 Sublime  as  this,  our  reason  stands  confest 
 
 Foolish,  and  insignificant,  and  mean. 
 
 AVho  can  apply  the  futile  argument 
 
 Of  finite  beings  to  infinity  ? 
 
 He  might  as  well  compress  the  universe 
 
 Into  the  hollow  compass  of  a  gourd, 
 
 Scoop'd  out  by  human  art :  or  bid  the  whale 
 
 Drink  up  the  sea  it  swims  in  !  —  Can  the  less 
 
 Contain  the  greater  ?  or  the  dark  obsctu-e 
 
 Infold  the  glories  of  meridian  day  ? 
 
 AMiat  does  Philosophy  impart  to  man 
 
 But  undiscovered  wonders  ?  —  Let  her  soar 
 
 Even  to  her  proudest  heights  —  to  where  she  caught 
 
 The  soul  of  Xev^ton  and  of  Socrates, 
 
 She  but  extends  the  scope  of  wild  amaze 
 
 And  admiration.     All  her  lessons  end 
 
 In  wider  views  of  God's  unfathom'd  depths. 
 
 Lo  !   the  unletter'd  hind,  who  never  knew 
 To  raise  his  mind  excursive  to  the  heights 
 Of  abstract  contemplation,  as  he  sits 
 On  the  green  hillock  by  the  hedge-row  side, 
 What  time  the  insect  swarms  are  murmuring, 
 And  marks,  in  silent  thought,  the  broken  clouds 
 That  fi'inge  ^ith  lovehest  hues  the  evening  sky. 
 Feels  in  his  soul  the  hand  of  Natm'e  rouse 
 The  thrill  of  gratitude,  to  him  who  form'd 
 
161 
 
 The  goodly  prospect ;  he  beholds  the  God 
 
 Thron'd  in  the  west,  and  his  reposing  ear 
 
 Hears  sounds  angelic  in  the  fitful  breeze 
 
 That  floats  through  neighbouring  copse  or  fairy  brake, 
 
 Or  lingers  playful  on  the  haunted  stream. 
 
 Go  with  the  cotter  to  his  winter  fire, 
 
 Where  o'er  the  moors  the  loud  blast  whistles  shrill, 
 
 And  the  hoarse  ban-dog  bays  the  icy  moon  ; 
 
 Mark  with  what  awe  he  lists  the  wild  uproar, 
 
 Silent,  and  big  with  thought :  and  hear  him  bless 
 
 The  God  that  rides  on  the  tempestuous  clouds 
 
 For  his  snug  hearth,  and  all  his  little  joys : 
 
 Hear  him  compare  his  happier  lot  with  his 
 
 Who  bends  his  way  across  the  wintry  wolds, 
 
 A  poor  night-traveller,  while  the  dismal  snow 
 
 Beats  in  his  face,  and,  dubious  of  his  path. 
 
 He  stops,  and  thinks,  in  every  lengthening  blast, 
 
 He  hears  some  village-mastiff's  distant  howl, 
 
 And  sees,  far-streaming,  some  lone  cottage  light : 
 
 Then,  undeceiv'd,  upturns  his  streaming  eyes, 
 
 And  clasps  his  shivering  hands  ;  or,  overpowered. 
 
 Sinks  on  the  frozen  ground,  weigh'd  down  with  sleep, 
 
 From  which  the  hapless  -wTetch  shall  never  wake. 
 
 Thus  the  poor  rustic  warms  his  heart  with  praise 
 
 And  glowing  gratitude,  —  he  turns  to  bless. 
 
 With  honest  warmth,  his  Maker  and  his  God  ! 
 
 And  shall  it  e'er  be  said,  that  a  poor  hind, 
 
 Nurs'd  in  the  lap  of  Ignorance,  and  bred 
 
 In  want  and  labour,  glows  ^^'ith  nobler  zeal 
 
 To  laud  his  Maker's  attributes,  while  he 
 
 VOL.   II.  M 
 
162 
 
 Whom  starry  Science  in  her  cradle  rock'd, 
 
 And  Castaly  enchasten'd  with  its  dews, 
 
 Closes  his  eyes  upon  the  holy  word, 
 
 And,  blind  to  all  but  arrogance  and  pride, 
 
 Dares  to  declare  his  infidelity, 
 
 And  openly  contemn  the  Lord  of  Hosts  ? 
 
 What  is  philosophy,  if  it  impart 
 
 Irreverence  for  the  Deity,  or  teach 
 
 A  mortal  man  to  set  his  judgment  up 
 
 Against  his  Maker's  will  ?  —  The  Polygar, 
 
 Who  kneels  to  sun  or  moon,  compar'd  with  him 
 
 Who  thus  perverts  the  talents  he  enjoys, 
 
 Is  the  most  bless'd  of  men  !  —  Oh  !   I  would  walk 
 
 A  weary  journey,  to  the  furthest  verge 
 
 Of  the  big  world,  to  kiss  that  good  man's  hand. 
 
 Who,  in  the  blaze  of  wisdom  and  of  art, 
 
 Preserves  a  lowly  mind ;  and  to  his  God, 
 
 Feeling  the  sense  of  his  own  littleness. 
 
 Is  as  a  child  in  meek  simplicity  ! 
 
 What  is  the  pomp  of  learning  ?  the  parade 
 
 Of  letters  and  of  tongues  ?  E'en  as  the  mists 
 
 Of  the  grey  morn  before  the  rising  sun, 
 
 That  pass  away  and  perish. 
 
 Earthly  things 
 Are  but  the  transient  pageants  of  an  hour ; 
 And  earthly  pride  is  like  the  passing  flower, 
 That  springs  to  fall,  and  blossoms  but  to  die. 
 'Tis  as  the  tower  erected  on  a  cloud. 
 Baseless  and  silly  as  the  school-boy's  dream. 
 
163 
 
 Ages  and  epochs  that  destroy  our  pride, 
 
 And  then  record  its  downfall,  what  are  they 
 
 But  the  poor  creatures  of  man's  teeming  brain  ? 
 
 Hath  Heaven  its  ages  ?  or  doth  Heaven  preserve 
 
 Its  stated  aeras  ?     Doth  the  Omnipotent 
 
 Hear  of  to-morrows  or  of  yesterdays  ? 
 
 There  is  to  God  nor  future  nor  a  past ; 
 
 Thron'd  in  his  might,  all  times  to  him  are  present ; 
 
 He  hath  no  lapse,  no  past,  no  time  to  come ; 
 
 He  sees  before  him  one  eternal  noiv. 
 
 Time  moveth  not !  —  our  being  'tis  that  moves  : 
 
 And  we,  swift  gliding  down  life's  rapid  stream. 
 
 Dream  of  swift  ages  and  revolving  years, 
 
 Ordain'd  to  chronicle  our  passing  days  ; 
 
 So  the  young  sailor  in  the  gallant  bark, 
 
 Scudding  before  the  wind,  beholds  the  coast 
 
 Receding  from  his  eyes,  and  thinks  the  while. 
 
 Struck  with  amaze,  that  he  is  motionless, 
 
 And  that  the  land  is  sailing. 
 
 Such,  alas ! 
 Are  the  illusions  of  this  Proteus  life; 
 All,  all  is  false :  through  every  phasis  still 
 'Tis  shadowy  and  deceitful.     It  assumes 
 The  semblances  of  things  and  specious  shapes ; 
 But  the  lost  traveller  might  as  soon  rely 
 On  the  evasive  spirit  of  the  marsh, 
 Whose  lantern  beams,  and  vanishes,  and  flits, 
 O'er  bog,  and  rock,  and  pit,  and  hollow  way. 
 As  we  on  its  appearances. 
 
 On  earth 
 M  2 
 
164 
 
 There  is  nor  certainty  nor  stable  hope. 
 
 As  well  the  weary  mariner,  whose  bark 
 
 Is  toss'd  beyond  Cimmerian  Bosphorus, 
 
 Where  Storm  and  Darkness  hold  their  drear  domain, 
 
 And  sunbeams  never  penetrate,  might  trust 
 
 To  expectation  of  serener  skies, 
 
 And  linger  in  the  very  jaws  of  death, 
 
 Because  some  peevish  cloud  were  opening, 
 
 Or  the  loud  storm  had  bated  in  its  rage : 
 
 As  we  look  forward  in  this  vale  of  tears 
 
 To  permanent  delight  —  from  some  slight  glimpse 
 
 Of  shadowy  unsubstantial  happiness. 
 
 The  good  man's  hope  is  laid  far,  far  beyond 
 
 The  sway  of  tempests,  or  the  furious  sweep 
 
 Of  mortal  desolation.  —  He  beholds, 
 
 Unapprehensive,  the  gigantic  stride 
 
 Of  rampant  Ruin,  or  the  unstable  waves 
 
 Of  dark  Vicissitude.  —  Even  in  death, 
 
 In  that  dread  hour,  when  with  a  giant  pang, 
 
 Tearing  the  tender  fibres  of  the  heart. 
 
 The  immortal  spirit  struggles  to  be  free, 
 
 Then,  even  then,  that  hope  forsakes  him  not. 
 
 For  it  exists  beyond  the  narrow  verge 
 
 Of  the  cold  sepulchre.  —  The  petty  joys 
 
 Of  fleeting  life  indignantly  it  spurn'd, 
 
 And  rested  on  the  bosom  of  its  God. 
 
 This  is  man's  only  reasonable  hope ; 
 
 And  'tis  a  hope  which,  cherish'd  in  the  breast, 
 
 Shall  not  be  disappointed.  —  Even  He, 
 
165 
 
 The  Holy  One  —  Almighty  —  who  elanced 
 
 The  rolHng  world  along  its  airy  way, 
 
 Even  He  will  deign  to  smile  upon  the  good, 
 
 And  welcome  him  to  these  celestial  seats, 
 
 Where  joy  and  gladness  hold  their  changeless  reign. 
 
 Thou,  proud  man,  look  upon  yon  starry  vault, 
 
 Survey  the  countless  gems  which  richly  stud 
 
 The  Night's  imperial  chariot ;  —  Telescopes 
 
 Will  show  thee  myriads  more  innumerous 
 
 Than  the  sea  sand ;  —  each  of  those  little  lamps 
 
 Is  the  great  source  of  light,  the  central  sun 
 
 Round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood 
 
 Of  planets  travel,  every  planet  stock'd 
 
 With  living  beings  impotent  as  thee. 
 
 Now,  proud  man  !  now,  where  is  thy  greatness  fled  ? 
 
 What  art  thou  in  the  scale  of  universe  ? 
 
 Less,  less  than  nothing  !  —  Yet  of  thee  the  God 
 
 Who  built  this  wondrous  frame  of  worlds  is  careful, 
 
 As  well  as  of  the  mendicant  who  begs 
 
 The  leavings  of  thy  table.     And  shalt  thou 
 
 Lift  up  thy  thankless  spirit,  and  contemn 
 
 His  heavenly  providence  ?     Deluded  fool. 
 
 Even  now  the  thunderbolt  is  wing'd  with  death, 
 
 Even  now  thou  totterest  on  the  brink  of  hell. 
 
 How  insignificant  is  mortal  man. 
 Bound  to  the  hasty  pinions  of  an  hour  ; 
 How  poor,  how  trivial  in  the  vast  conceit 
 Of  infinite  duration,  boundless  space  ! 
 
 M  3 
 
166 
 
 God  of  the  universe  !  Almighty  one  ! 
 
 Thou  who  dost  walk  upon  the  winged  winds. 
 
 Or  with  the  storm  thy  rugged  charioteer, 
 
 Swift  and  impetuous  as  the  northern  blast, 
 
 Ridest  from  pole  to  pole ;  Thou  who  dost  hold 
 
 The  forked  lightnings  in  thine  awful  grasp, 
 
 And  reinest-in  the  earthquake,  when  thy  wrath 
 
 Goes  down  towards  erring  man,  I  would  address 
 
 To  Thee  my  parting  paean ;  for  of  Thee, 
 
 Great  beyond  comprehension,  who  thyself 
 
 Art  Time  and  Space,  sublime  Infinitude, 
 
 Of  Thee  has  been  my  song  —  With  awe  I  kneel 
 
 Trembling  before  the  footstool  of  thy  state. 
 
 My  God  !  my  Father  !  —  I  will  sing  to  Thee 
 
 A  hymn  of  laud,  a  solemn  canticle. 
 
 Ere  on  the  cypress  wreath,  which  overshades 
 
 The  throne  of  Death,  I  hang  my  mournful  lyre. 
 
 And  give  its  wild  strings  to  the  desert  gale. 
 
 Rise,  Son  of  Salem  !  rise,  and  join  the  strain, 
 
 Sweep  to  accordant  tones  thy  tuneful  harp, 
 
 And  leaving  vain  laments,  arouse  thy  soul 
 
 To  exultation.     Sing  hosanna,  sing. 
 
 And  hallelujah,  for  the  Lord  is  great 
 
 And  full  of  mercy  !     He  has  thought  of  man ; 
 
 Yea,  compass'd  round  with  countless  worlds,  has  thought 
 
 Of  we  poor  worms,  that  batten  in  the  dews 
 
 Of  morn,  and  perish  ere  the  noon-day  sun. 
 
 Sing  to  the  Lord,  for  he  is  merciful : 
 
 He  gave  the  Nubian  lion  but  to  live, 
 
 To  rage  its  hour,  and  perish ;  but  on  man 
 
167 
 
 He  lavish'd  immortality,  and  Heaven. 
 
 The  eagle  falls  from  her  aerial  tower. 
 
 And  mingles  with  irrevocable  dust : 
 
 But  man  from  death  springs  joyful, 
 
 Springs  up  to  life  and  to  eternity. 
 
 Oh  that,  insensate  of  the  favouring  boon, 
 
 The  great  exclusive  privilege  bestow'd 
 
 On  us  unworthy  trifles,  men  should  dare 
 
 To  treat  with  slight  regard  the  profFer'd  Heaven, 
 
 And  urge  the  lenient,  but  All- Just,  to  swear 
 
 In  wrath,  "  They  shall  not  enter  in  my  rest." 
 
 Might  I  address  the  supplicative  strain 
 
 To  thy  high  footstool,  I  would  pray  that  thou 
 
 Wouldst  pity  the  deluded  wanderers, 
 
 And  fold  them,  ere  they  perish,  in  thy  flock. 
 
 Yea,  I  would  bid  thee  pity  them,  through  Him, 
 
 Thy  well-belov'd,  who,  upon  the  cross. 
 
 Bled  a  dread  sacrifice  for  human  sin. 
 
 And  paid,  with  bitter  agony,  the  debt 
 
 Of  primitive  t^'ansgression. 
 
 Oh  !  I  shrink, 
 My  veiy  soul  doth  shrink,  when  I  reflect 
 That  the  time  hastens,  when  in  vengeance  cloth'd. 
 Thou  shalt  come  down  to  stamp  the  seal  of  fate 
 On  erring  mortal  man.     Thy  chariot  wheels 
 Then  shall  rebound  to  earth's  remotest  caves, 
 And  stormy  ocean  from  his  bed  shall  start 
 At  the  appalling  summons.     Oh  !  how  dread, 
 On  the  dark  eye  of  miserable  man. 
 Chasing  his  sins  in  secrecy  and  gloom, 
 
 M  4 
 
168 
 
 Will  burst  the  effulgence  of  the  opening  Heaven  ; 
 
 When  to  the  brazen  trumpet's  deafening  roar, 
 
 Thou  and  thy  dazzling  cohorts  shall  descend. 
 
 Proclaiming  the  fulfilment  of  the  word  ! 
 
 The  dead  shall  start  astonish'd  from  their  sleep  ! 
 
 The  sepulchres  shall  groan  and  yield  their  prey, 
 
 The  bellowing  floods  shall  disembogue  their  charge 
 
 Of  human  victims.  —  From  the  farthest  nook 
 
 Of  the  wide  world  shall  troop  their  risen  souls, 
 
 From  him  whose  bones  are  bleaching  in  the  waste 
 
 Of  polar  solitudes,  or  him  whose  corpse, 
 
 Whelm'd  in  the  loud  Atlantic's  vexed  tides, 
 
 Is  washed  on  some  Carribean  prominence, 
 
 To  the  lone  tenant  of  some  secret  cell 
 
 In  the  Pacific's  vast  *     *     *  realm, 
 
 Where  never  plummet's  sound  was  heard  to  part 
 
 The  wilderness  of  water  ;  they  shall  come 
 
 To  greet  the  solemn  advent  of  the  Judge. 
 
 Thou  first  shalt  summon  the  elected  saints 
 
 To  their  apportion'd  Heaven  !  and  thy  Son, 
 
 At  thy  right  hand,  shall  smile  with  conscious  joy 
 
 On  all  his  past  distresses,  when  for  them 
 
 He  bore  humanity's  severest  pangs. 
 
 Then  shalt  th6u  seize  the  avenging  scymitar, 
 
 And,  with  a  roar  as  loud  and  horrible 
 
 As  the  stern  earthquake's  monitory  voice. 
 
 The  wicked  shall  be  driven  to  their  abode, 
 
 Down  the  immitigable  gulf,  to  wail 
 
 And  gnash  their  teeth  in  endless  agony. 
 
169 
 
 Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard.  —  Spirit,  rear 
 
 Thy  flag  on  high  !  —  Invincible,  and  throned 
 
 In  unparticipated  might.     Behold 
 
 Earth's  proudest  boasts,  beneath  thy  silent  sway, 
 
 Sweep  headlong  to  destruction,  thou  the  while, 
 
 Unmov'd  and  heedless,  thou  dost  hear  the  rush 
 
 Of  mighty  generations,  as  they  pass 
 
 To  the  broad  gulf  of  ruin,  and  dost  stamp 
 
 Thy  signet  on  them,  and  they  rise  no  more. 
 
 Who  shall  contend  with  Time  —  unvanquish'd  Time, 
 
 The  conqueror  of  conquerors,  and  lord 
 
 Of  desolation  ?  —  Lo  !  the  shadows  fly. 
 
 The  hours  and  days,  and  years  and  centuries, 
 
 They  fly,  they  fly,  and  nations  rise  and  fall. 
 
 The  young  are  old,  the  old  are  in  their  graves. 
 
 Heard'st  thou  that  shout  ?     It  rent  the  vaulted  skies  ; 
 
 It  was  the  voice  of  people,  —  mighty  crowds,  — 
 
 Again  !  'tis  hush'd  —  Time  speaks,  and  all  is  hush'd ; 
 
 In  the  vast  multitude  now  reigns  alone 
 
 Unruffled  solitude.     They  all  are  still ; 
 
 All  —  yea,  the  whole  —  the  incalculable  mass. 
 
 Still  as  the  ground  that  clasps  their  cold  remains. 
 
 Rear  thou  aloft  thy  standard.  —  Spirit,  rear 
 Thy  flag  on  high  !  and  glory  in  thy  strength. 
 But  do  thou  know  the  season  yet  shall  come, 
 When  from  its  base  thine  adamantine  throne 
 Shall  tumble ;  when  thine  arm  shall  cease  to  strike. 
 Thy  voice  forget  its  petrifying  power ; 
 
170 
 
 When  saints  shall  shout,  and  Time  shall  be  no  mot'e. 
 
 Yea,  he  doth  come  —  the  mighty  champion  comes, 
 
 Whose  potent  spear  shall  give  thee  thy  death-wound, 
 
 Shall  crush  the  conqueror  of  conquerors. 
 
 And  desolate  stern  Desolation's  lord. 
 
 Lo  !  where  he  cometh  !  the  Messiah  comes  ! 
 
 The  King  !  the  Comforter  !  the  Christ  I  —  He  comes 
 
 To  burst  the  bonds  of  death,  and  overturn 
 
 The  power  of  Time.  —  Hark  !  the  trumpet's  blast 
 
 Rings  o'er  the  heavens  \  —  They  rise,  the  myriads  rise  — 
 
 Even  from  their  graves  they  spring,  and  burst  the  chains 
 
 Of  torpor  —  He  has  ransom'd  them,     *     *     * 
 
 Forgotten  generations  live  again. 
 Assume  the  bodily  shapes  they  own'd  of  old. 
 Beyond  the  flood :  —  the  righteous  of  their  times 
 Embrace  and  weep,  they  weep  the  tears  of  joy. 
 The  sainted  mother  wakes,  and  in  her  lap 
 Clasps  her  dear  babe,  the  partner  of  her  grave. 
 And  heritor  with  her  of  Heaven,  —  a  flower 
 Wash'd  by  the  blood  of  Jesus  from  the  stain 
 Of  native  guilt,  even  in  its  early  bud. 
 And,  hark  !  those  strains,  how  solemnly  serene 
 They  fall,  as  from  the  skies  —  at  distance  fall  — 
 Again  more  loud  —  The  hallelujah's  swell ; 
 The  newly-risen  catch  the  joyful  sound ; 
 They  glow,  they  burn ;  and  now  with  one  accord 
 Bursts  forth  sublime  from  every  mouth  the  song 
 Of  praise  to  God  on  high,  and  to  the  Lamb 
 Who  bled  for  mortals. 
 
171 
 
 Yet  there  is  peace  for  man.  —  Yea,  there  is  peace 
 
 Even  in  this  noisy,  this  unsettled  scene  ; 
 
 When  from  the  crowd,  and  from  the  city  far, 
 
 Haply  he  may  be  set  (in  his  late  walk 
 
 O'ertaken  mth  deep  thought)  beneath  the  boughs 
 
 Of  honeysuckle,  when  the  sun  is  gone, 
 
 And  with  fixt  eye,  and  wistful,  he  surveys 
 
 The  solemn  shadows  of  the  Heavens  sail. 
 
 And  thinks  the  season  yet  shall  come,  when  Time 
 
 Will  waft  him  to  repose,  to  deep  repose. 
 
 Far  from  the  unquietness  of  life  —  from  noise 
 
 And  tumult  far  —  beyond  the  flying  clouds, 
 
 Beyond  the  stars,  and  all  this  passing  scene, 
 
 Where  change  shall  cease,  and  Time  shall  be  no  more. 
 
THE  CHRISTIAD 
 
 A    DIVINE    POEM. 
 
This  was  the  work  which  Henry  had  most  at  heart.  His  riper  judg- 
 ment would  probably  have  perceived  that  the  subject  was  ill  chosen. 
 What  is  said  so  well  in  the  Censiira  Literaria  of  all  Scriptural  sub- 
 jects for  narrative  poetry,  applies  peculiarly  to  this.  "  Any  thing 
 taken  from  it  leaves  the  story  imperfect ;  any  thing  added  to  it  dis- 
 gusts and  almost  shocks  us  as  impious.  As  Omar  said  of  the  Alex- 
 andrian Library,  we  may  say  of  such  writings :  if  they  contain  only 
 what  is  in  the  Scriptures  they  are  superfluous :  if  what  is  not  in  them 
 they  are  false." — It  may  be  added,  that  the  mixture  of  mythology 
 makes  truth  itself  appear  fabulous. 
 
 There  is  great  power  in  the  execution  of  this  fragment.  —  In  editing 
 these  remains,  I  have,  with  that  decorum  which  it  is  to  be  wished 
 all  editors  would  observe,  abstained  from  informing  the  reader  what 
 he  is  to  admire  and  what  he  is  not ;  but  I  cannot  refrain  from  say- 
 ing that  the  two  last  stanzas  greatly  affected  me,  when  I  discovered 
 them  written  on  the  leaf  of  a  different  book,  and  apparently  long 
 after  the  first  canto  ;  and  greatly  shall  I  be  mistaken  if  they  do  not 
 affect  the  reader  also. 
 
THE   CHRISTIAD, 
 
 A  DIVINE  POEM. 
 
 BOOK  I. 
 
 I. 
 
 1  SING  the  Cross  !  —  Ye  white-rob'd  angel  choirs, 
 
 Who  know  the  chords  of  harmony  to  sweep, 
 Ye  who  o'er  holy  David's  varying  wires 
 
 Were  wont  of  old  your  hovering  watch  to  keep, 
 Oh,  now  descend  !  and  with  your  harpings  deep. 
 Pouring  sublime  the  full  symphonious  stream 
 
 Of  music,  such  as  soothes  the  saint's  last  sleep. 
 Awake  my  slumbering  spirit  from  its  dream, 
 And  teach  me  how  to  exalt  the  high  mysterious  theme. 
 
176 
 
 IL 
 
 Mourn  !  Salem,  mourn  !  low  lies  thine  humbled  state, 
 Thy  glittering  fanes  are  levelPd  with  the  ground  ! 
 
 Fallen  is  thy  pride  !  —  Thine  halls  are  desolate  ! 
 
 Where  erst  was  heard  the  timbrel's  sprightly  sound, 
 And  frolic  pleasures  tripp'd  the  nightly  round. 
 
 There  breeds  the  wild  fox  lonely,  —  and  aghast 
 Stands  the  mute  pilgrim  at  the  void  profound, 
 
 Unbroke  by  noise,  save  when  the  hurrying  blast 
 Sighs,  like  a  spirit,  deep  along  the  cheerless  waste. 
 
 III. 
 
 It  is  for  this,  proud  Solyma  !  thy  towers 
 Lie  crumbling  in  the  dust ;  for  this  forlorn 
 
 Thy  genius  wails  along  thy  desert  bowers. 
 
 While  stern  Destruction  laughs,  as  if  in  scorn, 
 That  thou  didst  dare  insult  God's  eldest  born  ; 
 
 And,  with  most  bitter  persecuting  ire. 
 
 Pursued  his  footsteps  till  the  last  day-dawn 
 
 Rose  on  his  fortunes  —  and  thou  saw'st  the  fire 
 That  came  to  light  the  world,  in  one  great  flash  expire. 
 
177 
 
 IV. 
 
 Oh  !  for  a  pencil  dipt  in  living  light, 
 
 To  paint  the  agonies  that  Jesus  bore  ! 
 Oh  !  for  the  long-lost  harp  of  Jesse's  might, 
 
 To  hymn  the  Saviour's  praise  from  shore  to  shore; 
 While  seraph  hosts  the  lofty  paean  pour, 
 And  Heaven  enraptur'd  Usts  the  loud  acclaim  ! 
 May  a  frail  mortal  dare  the  theme  explore  ? 
 May  he  to  human  ears  his  weak  song  frame? 
 Oh  !  may  he  dare  to  sing  Messiah's  glorious  name? 
 
 Spirits  of  pity  !  mild  Crusaders,  come  ! 
 
 Buoyant  on  clouds  around  your  minstrel  float. 
 And  give  him  eloquence  who  else  were  dumb, 
 
 And  raise  to  feeling  and  to  fire  his  note ! 
 
 And  thou,  Urania  !  who  dost  still  devote 
 Thy  nights  and  days  to  God's  eternal  shrine, 
 
 Whose  mild  eye's  lumin'd  what  Isaiah  wrote. 
 Throw  o'er  thy  Bard  that  solemn  stole  of  thine, 
 And  clothe  him  for  the  fight  with  energy  divine. 
 
 VOL.  II, 
 
178 
 
 VI. 
 
 When  from  the  temple's  lofty  summit  prone, 
 Satan  o'ercome,  fell  down ;  and  'throned  there, 
 
 The  Son  of  God  confest,  in  splendour  shone ; 
 Swift  as  the  glancing  sunbeam  cuts  the  air, 
 Mad  with  defeat,  and  yelling  his  despair, 
 *  *  * 
 
 Fled  the  stern  king  of  Hell  —  and  with  the  glare 
 Of  gliding  meteors,  ominous  and  red. 
 Shot  athwart  the  clouds  that  gathered  round  his  head. 
 
 VII. 
 
 Right  o'er  the  Euxine,  and  that  gulf  which  late 
 
 The  rude  Massagetae  ador'd,  he  bent 
 His  northering  course,  while  round,  in  dusky  state. 
 
 The  assembling  fiends  their  summon'd  troops  augment; 
 
 Cloth'd  in  dark  mists,  upon  their  way  they  went, 
 While,  as  they  pass'd  to  regions  more  severe. 
 
 The  Lapland  sorcerer  swell'd  with  loud  lament 
 The  solitary  gale,  and,  fiU'd  with  fear. 
 The  howling  dogs  bespoke  unholy  spirits  near. 
 
179 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Where  the  North  Pole,  in  moody  soUtude, 
 
 Spreads  her  huge  tracks  and  frozen  wastes  around, 
 
 There  ice-rocks  pil'd  aloft,  in  order  rude, 
 Form  a  gigantic  hall,  where  never  sound 
 Startled  dull  Silence'  ear,  save  when  profound 
 
 The  smoak-frost  mutter'd  :  there  drear  Cold  for  aye 
 Thrones  him,  —  and,  fix'd  on  his  primaeval  mound, 
 
 Ruin,  the  giant,  sits ;  while  stern  Dismay 
 Stalks  like  some  woe-struck  man  along  the  desert  way. 
 
 IX. 
 
 In  that  drear  spot,  grim  Desolation's  lair, 
 No  sweet  remain  of  life  encheers  the  sight  ; 
 
 The  dancing  heart's  blood  in  an  instant  there 
 
 Would  freeze  to  marble.  —  Mingling  day  and  night 
 (Sweet  interchange,  which  makes  our  labours  light,) 
 
 Are  there  unknown ;  while  in  the  summer  skies 
 The  sun  roUs  ceaseless  round  his  heavenly  height, 
 
 Nor  ever  sets  till  from  the  scene  he  flies. 
 And  leaves  the  long  bleak  night  of  half  the  year  to  rise. 
 
 N   2 
 
180 
 
 X. 
 
 'Twas  there,  yet  shuddering  from  the  burning  lake, 
 Satan  had  fix'd  their  next  consistory, 
 
 When  parting  last  he  fondly  hop'd  to  shake 
 Messiah's  constancy,  —  and  thus  to  free 
 The  powers  of  darkness  from  the  dread  decree 
 
 Of  bondage  brought  by  him,  and  circumvent 
 The  unerring  ways  of  Him  whose  eye  can  see 
 
 The  womb  of  Time,  and,  in  its  embryo  pent. 
 Discern  the  colours  clear  of  every  dark  event. 
 
 XI. 
 
 Here  the  stern  monarch  stay'd  his  rapid  flight, 
 
 And  his  thick  hosts,  as  with  a  jetty  pall, 
 Hovering  obscur'd  the  north  star's  peaceful  light. 
 
 Waiting  on  wing  their  haughty  chieftain's  call. 
 
 He,  meanwhile,  downward,  with  a  sullen  fall, 
 Dropt  on  the  echoing  ice.     Instant  the  sound 
 
 Of  their  broad  vans  was  hush'd,  and  o'er  the  hall, 
 Vast  and  obscure,  the  gloomy  cohorts  bound. 
 Till,  wedg'd  in  ranks,  the  seat  of  Satan  they  surround. 
 
181 
 
 XII. 
 
 High  on  a  solium  of  the  solid  wave, 
 
 Prankt  with  rude  shapes  by  the  fantastic  frost, 
 
 He  stood  in  silence ;  —  now  keen  thoughts  engrave 
 Dark  figures  on  his  front ;  and,  tempest-tost, 
 He  fears  to  say  that  every  hope  is  lost. 
 
 Meanwhile  the  multitude  as  death  are  mute : 
 So,  ere  the  tempest  on  Malacca's  coast. 
 
 Sweet  Quiet,  gently  touching  her  soft  lute, 
 Sings  to  the  whispering  waves  the  prelude  to  dispute. 
 
 xm. 
 
 At  length  collected,  o'er  the  dark  Divan 
 
 The  arch-fiend  glanced,  as  by  the  Boreal  blaze 
 
 Their  downcast  brows  were  seen,  and  thus  began 
 His  fierce  harangue :  —  "  Spirits  !  our  better  days 
 Are  now  elaps'd ;  Moloch  and  Belial's  praise 
 
 Shall  sound  no  more  in  groves  by  myriads  trod. 
 
 Lo  !  the  light  breaks  !  -—The  astonished  nations  gaze  ? 
 
 For  us  is  lifted  high  the  avenging  rod  ! 
 For,  spirits,  this  is  He,  •—  this  is  the  Son  of  God  !" 
 
 N  3 
 
182 
 
 XIV. 
 
 What  then  I  —  shall  Satan's  spirit  crouch  to  fear  ? 
 
 Shall  he  who  shook  the  pillars  of  God's  reign 
 Drop  from  his  unnerv*d  arm  the  hostile  spear  ? 
 
 Madness  !     The  very  thought  would  make  me  fain 
 
 To  tear  the  spanglets  from  yon  gaudy  plain, 
 And  hurl  them  at  their  Maker !  — Fix'd  as  fate 
 
 I  am  his  Foe  1  —  Yea,  though  his  pride  should  deign 
 To  soothe  mine  ire  with  half  his  regal  state. 
 Still  would  I  burn  with  fixt,  unalterable  hate. 
 
 XV. 
 
 Now  hear  the  issue  of  my  curst  emprize, 
 
 W^hen  from  our  last  sad  synod  I  took  flight, 
 Buo/d  with  false  hopes,  in  some  deep-laid  disguise. 
 To  tempt  this  vaunted  Holy  One  to  write 
 His  own  self-condemnation  ;  —  in  the  plight 
 Of  aged  man  in  the  lone  wilderness, 
 
 Gathering  a  few  stray  sticks,  I  met  his  sight. 
 
 And,  leaning  on  my  staff,  seem'd  much  to  guess 
 
 What  cause  could  mortal  bring  tu  that  forlorn  recess. 
 
183 
 
 XVI. 
 
 Then  thus  in  homely  guise  I  featly  fram'd 
 
 My  lowly  speech :  —  "  Good  Sir,  what  leads  this  way 
 ''  Your  wandering  steps?  must  hapless  chance  be  blam'd 
 
 "  That  you  so  far  from  haunt  of  mortals  stray  ? 
 
 "  Here  have  I  dwelt  for  many  a  lingering  day, 
 «  Nor  trace  of  man  have  seen ;  but  how  !  methought 
 
 "  Thou  wert  the  youth  on  whom  God's  holy  ray 
 "  1  saw  descend  in  Jordan,  when  John  taught 
 "  That  he  to  fallen  man  the  saving  promise  brought." 
 
 XVII. 
 
 "  I  am  that  man,"  said  Jesus,  "  I  am  He! 
 
 "  But  truce  to  questions—  Canst  thou  point  my  feet 
 "  To  some  low  hut,  if  haply  such  there  be 
 
 "  In  this  wild  labyrinth,  where  I  may  meet 
 
 "  With  homely  greeting,  and  may  sit  and  eat; 
 «  For  forty  days  I  have  tarried  fasting  here, 
 
 «  Hid  in  the  dark  glens  of  this  lone  retreat, 
 "  And  now  I  hunger ;  and  my  faintmg  ear 
 "  Longs  much  to  greet  the  sound  of  fountains  gushing  near.' 
 
 N  4 
 
184 
 
 XVIII. 
 
 Then  thus  I  answer'd  wily ;  —  "  If,  indeed, 
 
 "  Son  of  our  God  thou  be'st,  what  need  to  seek 
 
 "  For  food  from  men  ? —  Lo !  on  these  flint  stones  feed, 
 "  Bid  them  be  bread  \  Open  thy  Hps  and  speak, 
 "  And  living  rills  from  yon  parch'd  rock  will  break." 
 
 Instant  as  I  had  spoke,  his  piercing  eye 
 
 Fix'd  on  my  face ;  —  the  blood  forsook  my  cheek, 
 
 I  could  not  bear  his  gaze ;  my  mask  slipped  by; 
 I  would  have  shunn'd  his  look,  but  had  not  power  to  fly* 
 
 XIX. 
 
 Then  he  rebuked  me  with  the  holy  word  — 
 Accursed  sounds  !  but  now  my  native  pride 
 
 Return'd,  and  by  no  foolish  qualm  deterr'd, 
 I  bore  him  from  the  mountain's  woody  side, 
 Up  to  the  summit,  where  extending  wide 
 
 Kingdoms  and  cities,  palaces  and  fanes. 
 
 Bright  sparkling  in  the  sunbeams,  were  descried. 
 
 And  in  gay  dance,  amid  luxuriant  plains, 
 ^Tripp'd  to  the  jocund  reed  the  emasculated  swains. 
 
185 
 
 XX. 
 
 «  Behold,"  I  cried,  "  these  glories  !  scenes  divine  1 
 
 "  Thou  whose  sad  prime  in  pining  want  decays, 
 «  And  these,  O  rapture  !    these  shall  all  be  thine, 
 
 "  If  thou  wilt  give  to  me,  not  God,  the  praise. 
 
 "  Hath  he  not  given  to  indigence  thy  days  ? 
 "  Is  not  thy  portion  peril  here  and  pain  ? 
 
 «  Oh  !  leave  his  temples,  shun  his  wounding  ways  ! 
 "  Seize  the  tiara  !  these  mean  weeds  disdain, 
 "  Kneel,  kneel,  thou  man  of  woe,  and  peace  and  splendour 
 gain." 
 
 XXL 
 
 «  Is  it  not  written,"  sternly  he  replied, 
 
 "  Tempt  not  the  Lord  thy  God  !"  Frowning  he  spake. 
 And  instant  sounds,  as  of  the  ocean  tide. 
 
 Rose,  and  the  whirlwind  from  its  prison  brake, 
 And  caught  me  up  aloft,  till  in  one  flake. 
 The  sidelong  volley  met  my  swift  career. 
 
 And  smote  me  earthward. —Jove  himself  might  quake 
 At  such  a  fall ;  my  sinews  crack'd,  and  near, 
 Obscure  and  dizzy  sounds  seem'd  ringing  in  mine  ear. 
 
186 
 
 XXII. 
 
 Senseless  and  stunn'd  I  lay ;  till,  casting  round 
 
 My  half  unconscious  gaze,  I  saw  the  foe 
 Borne  on  a  car  of  roses  to  the  ground, 
 
 By  volant  angels ;  and  as  sailing  slow 
 
 He  sunk,  the  hoary  battlement  below. 
 While  on  the  tall  spire  slept  the  slant  sun-beam^ 
 
 Sweet  on  the  enamour'd  zephyr  was  the  flow 
 Of  heavenly  instruments.     Such  strains  oft  seem. 
 On  star-light  hill,  to  soothe  the  Syrian  shepherd's  dream^ 
 
 XXIIL 
 
 I  saw  blaspheming.  Hate  renewed  my  strength  y 
 I  smote  the  ether  with  my  iron  wing, 
 
 And  left  the  accursed  scene.  —  Arriv'd  at  length 
 In  these  drear  halls,  to  ye,  my  peers  I  I  bring 
 The  tidings  of  defeat.     Hell's  haughty  king 
 
 Thrice  vanquish'd,  baflled,  smitten,  and  dismay'd  ! 
 O  shame  !   Is  this  the  hero  who  could  fling 
 
 Defiance  at  his  Maker,  while  array'd, 
 High  o'er  the  walls  of  light  rebellion's  banners  play'd ! 
 
187 
 
 XXIV. 
 
 Yet  shall  not  Heaven's  bland  minions  triumph  long ; 
 
 Hell  yet  shall  have  revenge.  —  O  glorious  sight, 
 Prophetic  visions  on  my  fancy  throng, 
 I  see  wild  Agony's  lean  finger  write 
 Sad  figures  on  his  forehead !  —  Keenly  bright 
 Revenge's  flambeau  burns  !  Now  in  his  eyes 
 
 Stand  the  hot  tears,  —  immantled  in  the  night, 
 Lo  !  he  retires  to  mourn  !  —  I  hear  his  cries  ! 
 He  faints— he  falls— and  lo !  —'tis  true,  ye  powers,  he  dies. 
 
 XXV. 
 
 Thus  spake  the  chieftain,  —  and  as  if  he  view'd 
 The  scene  he  pictur'd,  with  his  foot  advanced, 
 
 And  chest  inflated,  motionless  he  stood, 
 Wliile  under  his  uplifted  shield  he  glanced, 
 W^ith  straining  eye-ball  fix'd,  Kke  one  entranced. 
 
 On  viewless  air ;  —  thither  the  dark  platoon 
 
 Gaz'd  wondering,  nothing  seen,  save  when  there  danced 
 
 The  northern  flash,  or  fiend  late  fled  from  noon, 
 Darken'd  the  disk  of  the  descending  moon. 
 
188 
 
 XXVL 
 
 Silence  crept  stilly  through  the  ranks.  —  The  breeze 
 Spake  most  distinctly.     As  the  sailor  stands, 
 
 When  all  the  midnight  grasping  from  the  seas 
 Break  boding  sobs,  and  to  his  sight  expands 
 High  on  the  shrouds  the  spirit  that  commands 
 
 The  ocean-farer's  life  ;  so  stiff —  so  sear 
 
 Stood  each  dark  power ; —  while  through  their  nume- 
 rous bands 
 
 Beat  not  one  heart,  and  mingling  hope  and  fear 
 Now  told  them  all  was  lost,  now  bade  revenge  appear. 
 
 XXVII. 
 
 One  there  was  there,  whose  loud  defying  tongue 
 Nor  hope  nor  fear  had  silenced,  but  the  swell 
 
 Of  over-boiling  malice.     Utterance  long 
 
 His  passion  mock'd,  and  long  he  strove  to  tell 
 His  labouring  ire ;  still  syllable  none  fell 
 
 From  his  pale  quivering  lip,  but  died  away 
 For  very  fury  ;  from  each  hollow  cell 
 
 Half  sprang  his  eyes,  that  cast  a  flamy  ray, 
 And  ***** 
 
189 
 
 XXVIII. 
 
 ^«  This  comes,"  at  length  burst  from  the  furious  chief, 
 «  This  -comes  of  distant  counsels  !    Here  behold 
 
 <'  The  fruits  of  wily  cunning  !  the  reUef 
 «  Which  coward  policy  would  fain  unfold, 
 «  To  soothe  the  powers  that  warr'd  with  Heaven  of  old ! 
 
 «  O  wise !  O  potent !    O  sagacious  snare  ! 
 
 ^«  And  lo  !  our  prince  —  the  mighty  and  the  bold, 
 
 «  There  stands  he,  spell-struck,  gaping  at  the  air, 
 «  While  Heaven  subverts  his  reign,  and  plants  her  standard 
 there." 
 
 XXIX. 
 
 Here,  as  recovered,  Satan  fix'd  his  eye 
 
 Full  on  the  speaker  ;  dark  it  was  and  stern ; 
 He  wrapt  his  black  vest  round  him  gloomily, 
 
 And  stood  like  one  whom  weightiest  thoughts  concern. 
 Him  Moloch  mark'd,  and  strove  again  to  turn 
 His  soul  to  rage.     «  Behold,  behold,"  he  cried, 
 "  The  lord  of  Hell,  who  bade  these  legions  spurn 
 '    «  Almighty  rule  —  behold  he  lays  aside 
 '«  The  spear  of  just  revenge,  and  shrinks,  by  man  defied." 
 
190 
 
 XXX. 
 
 Thus  ended  Moloch,  and  his  [burning]  tongue 
 Hung  quivering,  as  if  [mad]  to  quench  its  heat 
 
 In  slaughter.     So,  his  native  wilds  among, 
 The  famish'd  tiger  pants,  when,  near  his  seat, 
 Press'd  on  the  sands,  he  marks  the  traveller's  feet. 
 
 Instant  low  murmurs  rose,  and  many  a  sword 
 
 Had  from  its  scabbard  sprung ;  but  toward  the  seat 
 
 Of  the  arch-fiend  all  turn'd  with  one  accord, 
 As  loud  he  thus  harangued  the  sanguinary  horde. 
 
 Ye  powers  of  Hell,  I  am  no  coward.  I  proved  this  of 
 old :  who  led  your  forces  against  the  armies  of  Jehovah  ? 
 Who  coped  with  Ithuriel  and  the  thunders  of  the  Al- 
 mighty ?  Who,  when  stunned  and  confused  ye  lay  on  the 
 burning  lake,  who  first  awoke,  and  collected  your  scattered 
 powers?  Lastly,  who  led  you  across  the  unfathomable 
 abyss  to  this  delightful  world,  and  established  that  reign 
 here  which  now  totters  to  its  base  ?  How,  therefore,  dares 
 yon  treacherous  fiend  to  cast  a  stain  on  Satan's  bravery  ? 
 ne  who  preys  only  on  the  defenceless  —  who  sucks  the 
 blood  of  infants,  and  delights   only   in   acts   of  ignoble 
 
191 
 
 cruelty  and  unequal  contention.  Away  with  the  boaster  who 
 never  joins  in  action,  but,  like  a  cormorant,  hovers  over 
 the  field,  to  feed  upon  the  wounded,  and  overwhelm  the 
 dying.  True  bravery  is  as  remote  from  rashness  as  from 
 hesitation ;  let  us  counsel  coolly,  but  let  us  execute  our 
 counselled  purposes  determinately.  In  power  we  have 
 learnt,  by  that  experiment  which  lost  us  Heaven,  that  we 
 are  inferior  to  the  Thunder-bearer  :  In  subtlety  —  in  sub- 
 tlety alone  we  are  his  equals.     Open  war  is  impossible. 
 
 Thus  we  shall  pierce  our  Conqueror,  through  the  race 
 Which  as  himself  he  loves  ;   thus  if  we  fall, 
 
 We  fall  not  with  the  anguish,  the  disgrace 
 Of  falling  unrevenged.     The  stirring  call 
 Of  vengeance  wrings  within  me  !    Warriors  all, 
 
 The  word  is  vengeance,  and  the  spur  despair. 
 
 Away  with  coward  wiles  !  —  Death's  coal-black  pall 
 
 Be  now  our  standard  !  —  Be  our  torch  the  glare 
 Of  cities  fir'd !   our  fifes,  the  shrieks  that  fill  the  air  ! 
 
192 
 
 Him  answering  rose  Mecashpim,  who  of  old, 
 Far  in  the  silence  of  Chaldea's  groves, 
 
 Was  worshipped,  God  of  Fire,  with  charms  mitold 
 And  mystery.     His  wandering  spirit  roves. 
 Now  vainly  searching  for  the  flame  it  loves. 
 
 And  sits  and  mourns  like  some  white-robed  sire, 
 Where  stood  his  temple,  and  where  fragrant  cloves 
 
 And  cinnamon  upheap'd  the  sacred  pyre. 
 And  nightly  magi  watch'd  the  everlasting  fire. 
 
 He  waVd  his  robe  of  flame,  he  crossed  his  breast, 
 And  sighing  —  his  papyrus  scarf  survey'd. 
 
 Woven  with  dark  characters ;  then  thus  addressed 
 The  troubled  council. 
 
193 
 
 Thus  far  have  I  pursued  my  solemn  tlieme 
 
 With  self-rewarding  toil,  thus  far  have  sung 
 Of  godlike  deeds,  far  loftier  than  beseem 
 
 The  lyre  which  I  m  early  days  have  strung ; 
 
 And  now  my  spirits  faint,  and  I  have  hung 
 The  shell,  that  solaced  me  in  saddest  hour, 
 
 On  the  dark  cypress  !  and  the  strings  which  rung 
 With  Jesus'  praise,  their  harpings  now  are  o*er, 
 Or,  when  the  breeze  comes  by,  moan,  and  are  heard  no  more. 
 
 And  must  the  harp  of  Judah  sleep  again  ? 
 
 Shall  I  no  more  re-animate  the  lay  ? 
 Oh  !  thou  who  visitest  the  sons  of  men, 
 
 Thou  who  dost  listen  when  the  humble  pray, 
 
 One  little  space  prolong  my  mournful  day  ! 
 One  litde  lapse  suspend  thy  last  decree  ! 
 
 I  am  a  youthful  traveller  in  the  way, 
 And  this  slight  boon  would  consecrate  to  thee, 
 Ere  I  with  Death  shake  hands,  and  smile  that  I  am  fret. 
 
 VOL.  II. 
 
PROSE  COMPOSITIONS 
 
 o  S 
 
REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS. 
 
 IMITATIONS. 
 
 1  HE  sublimity  and  unaffected  beauty  of  the  sacred  writ- 
 ings are  in  no  instance  more  conspicuous,  than  in  the  fol- 
 lowing verses  of  the  xviiith  Psalm  : 
 
 "  He  bowed  the  heavens  also  and  came  down:  and 
 darkness  was  under  his  feet. 
 
 "  And  he  rode  upon  a  cherub  and  did  fly :  yea,  he  did 
 fly  upon  the  wings  of  the  wind." 
 
 None  of  our  better  versions  have  been  able  to  preserve 
 the  original  graces  of  these  verses.  That  wretched  one 
 of  Thomas  Sternhold,  however,  (which,  to  the  disgrace 
 and  manifest  detriment  of  religious  worship,  is  generally 
 used,)  has  in  this  solitary  instance,  and  then  perhaps  by 
 accident,  given  us  the  true  spirit  of  the  Psalmist,  and 
 has  surpassed  not  only  Merrick,  but  even  the  classic 
 Buchanan.  *     This  version  is  as  follows :  — 
 
 *  That  the  reader  may  judge  for  himself,  Buchanan's  translation  is 
 subjoined. 
 
 Utque  suum  dominum  terrae  demittat  in  orbem 
 Lenitur  inclinat  jussum  fastigia  ccelum ; 
 O 
 
198 
 
 "  The  Lord  descended  from  above, 
 
 "  And  bowed  the  heavens  high, 
 '*  And  underneath  his  feet  he  cast 
 
 "  The  darkness  of  the  sky. 
 
 "  On  cherubs  and  on  cherubims 
 
 "  Full  royally  he  rode, 
 "  And  on  the  wings  of  mighty  winds 
 
 "  Came  flying  all  abroad," 
 
 Dry  den  honoured  these  verses  with  very  high  com- 
 mendation, and,  in  the  following  lines  of  his  Annus  Mira- 
 bilis,  has  apparently  imitated  them,  in  preference  to  the 
 original : 
 
 "  The  duke  less  numerous,  but  in  courage  more, 
 "  On  wings  of  all  the  winds  to  combat  flies." 
 
 And  in  his  Ceyx  and  Alcyone,  from  Ovid,  he  has  — 
 
 "  And  now  sul)lime  she  rides  upon  the  wind." 
 
 Succedunt  pecUbus  ftiscae  caliginis  umbrae ; 
 I  lie  vehens  curru  volucri,  cui  fiammeiis  ales 
 Lora  tenens  levibus  ventoruni  auremigat  alls 
 Se  circuni  tiilvo  nebularnm  involvit  amictu, 
 Praetenditque  cavis  piceas  in  nubibus  iindas. 
 
 This  is  somewhat  too  hiu'bh  and  prosaic,  and  there  is  an  unpleasant 
 cacophony  in  the  terminations  of  the  5th  and  6tii  lines. 
 
199 
 
 which  is  probably  imitated,   as  well  as  most  of  the  follow- 
 ing, not  from  Sternhold,  but  the  original.     Thus  Pope, 
 
 "  Not  God  alone  in  the  still  calm  we  find, 
 
 "  He  mounts  the  storm  and  rides  upon  the  wind." 
 
 And  Addison  — 
 
 "  Rides  in  the  whirlwind  and  directs  the  storm." 
 The  unfortunate  Chatterton  has  — 
 
 "  And  rides  upon  the  pinions  of  the  wind." 
 And  Gray  — 
 
 "  With  arms  sublime  that  float  upon  the  air.*' 
 
 Few  poets  of  eminence  have  less  incurred  the  charge  of 
 plagiarism  than  Milton;  yet  many  instances  might  be 
 adduced  of  similarity  of  idea  and  language  with  the  Scrip- 
 ture, which  are  certainly  more  than  coincidences,  and 
 some  of  these  I  shall,  in  a  future  number,  present  to  your 
 readers.  Thus  the  present  passage  in  the  Psalmist  was  in 
 all  probability  in  his  mind  when  he  wrote  — 
 
 "  And  with  mighty  wings  outspread, 
 
 **  Dove-like  sat'st  brooding  on  the  vast  abyss." 
 
 Par,  Lost,   L.  20.  B,  1. 
 o  4 
 
200 
 
 The  third  verse  of  the  civth  Psahn  — 
 
 "  He  maketh  the  clouds  his  chariot,  and  walketli  upon 
 the  wings  of  the  wind,"  — 
 
 is  evidently  taken  from  the  before-mentioned  verses  in 
 the  xviiith  Psalm,  on  which  it  is  perhaps  an  improvement. 
 It  has  also  been  imitated  by  two  of  our  first  poets,  — 
 Shakspeare  and  Thomson,  The  former  in  Romeo  and 
 Juliet  — 
 
 "  Bestrides  the  lazy-paced  clouds, 
 
 "  And  sails  upon  the  bosom  of  the  air." 
 
 The  latter  in  Winter,  1.  199. 
 
 "  Till  Nature's  King,  who  oft 
 
 '*  Amid  tempestuous  darkness  dwells  alone, 
 "  And  on  the  wings  of  the  careering  winds 
 "  Walks  dreadfully  serene." 
 
 As  these  imitations  have  not  before,  I  believe,  been 
 noticed,  they  cannot  fail  to  interest  the  lovers  of  polite 
 letters;  and  they  are  such  as  at  least  will  amuse  your 
 readers  in  general.  If  the  sacred  writings  were  atten- 
 tively perused,  we  should  find  innumerable  passages  from 
 which  our  best  modem  poets  have  drawn  their  most  ad- 
 mired ideas:  and  the  enumerations  of  these  instances 
 would  perhaps  attract  the  attention  of  many  persons  to 
 
201 
 
 those  volumes,  which  they  now  perhaps  think  to  contain 
 
 every   thing  tedious  and  disgusting,    but   which,  on  the 
 
 contrary,    they  would  find  replete  with  interest,  beauty, 
 and  true  sublimity. 
 
202 
 
 STERNHOLD  AND  HOPKINS. 
 
 MR.  EDITOR, 
 
 In  your  Mirror  for  July,  a  Mr.  William  Toone  has 
 offered  a  few  observations  on  a  paper  of  mine,  in  a  pre- 
 ceding number,  containing  remarks  on  the  versions  and 
 imitations  of  the  9th  and  10th  verses  of  the  xviiith  Psalm, 
 to  which  I  think  it  necessary  to  offer  a  few  words  by  way 
 of  reply ;  as  they  not  only  put  an  erroneous  construction 
 on  certain  passages  of  that  paper,  but  are  otherwise  open 
 to  material  objection. 
 
 The  object  of  Mr.  Toone,  in  some  parts  of  his  observ- 
 ations, appears  to  have  been  to  refote  something  which 
 he  fancied  I  had  advanced,  tending  to  establish  the  gene- 
 ral merit  of  Sternhold  and  Hopkins's  translation  of  the 
 Psalms :  but  he  might  have  saved  himself  this  unneces- 
 sary trouble,  as  I  have  decidedly  condemned  it  as  mere 
 doggrel,  still  preserved  in  our  churches,  to  the  detri- 
 ment of  religion ;  and  the  version  of  the  passage  in 
 question  is  adduced  as  a  briUiant,  though  probably  acci- 
 dental, exception  to  the  general  character  of  the  work. 
 What  necessity,  therefore,  your  correspondent  could  see 
 for  "  hoping  that  I  should  think  with  him^  that  the  sooner  the 
 old  version  of  the  Psalms  was  consigned  to  oblivion,  the  better 
 it  would  be  fen-  rational  devotion^^  I  am  perfectly  at  a  loss  to 
 imagine. 
 
203 
 
 This  concluding  sentence  of  Mr.  Toone's  pa})er,  which 
 I  consider  as  introduced  merely  by  way  of  rounding  the 
 period,  and  making  a  graceful  exit,  needs  no  further 
 animadversion.  I  shall  therefore  proceed  to  examine  the 
 objections  of  the  "  worthy  clergyman  of  the  church  of 
 England"  to  these  verses,  cited  by  your  correspondent, 
 by  which  he  hopes  to  prove,  that  Dryden,  Knox,  and  the 
 numerous  other  eminent  men  who  have  expressed  their 
 admiration  thereof,  to  be  little  better  than  ideots.  —  The 
 first  is  this : 
 
 "  Cheruhim  is  the  plural  for  Cherub ;  but  our  ver- 
 sioner,  by  adding  an  s  to  it,  has  rendered  them  both 
 plurals."  By  adding  an  5  to  what  ?  If  the  pronoun  it 
 refer  to  cherubim,  as  according  to  the  construction  of 
 the  sentence  it  really  does,  the  whole  objection  is  non- 
 sense. —  But  the  worthy  gentleman,  no  doubt,  meant  to 
 say,  that  Sternhold  had  rendered  them  both  plurals  by 
 the  addition  of  an  5  to  cherub.  Even  in  this  sense, 
 however,  I  conceive  the  charge  to  be  easily  obviated; 
 for,  though  cherubim  is  doubtless  usually  considered  as 
 the  plural  of  cherub,  yet  the  two  words  are  frequently 
 so  used  in  the  Old  Testament  as  to  prove,  that  they 
 were  often  applied  to  separate  ranks  of  beings.  One  of 
 these,  which  I  shall  cite,  will  dispel  all  doubt  on  the 
 subject. 
 
 "  And  within  the  oracle  he  made  two  cheruhims  of  olive 
 tree,  each  ten  cubits  high." 
 
 1  Kings,  V.2S.  chap,  vii. 
 
204 
 
 The  other  objection  turns  upon  a  word  with  which  it  is 
 not  necessary  for  me  to  interfere ;  for  I  did  not  quote  these 
 verses  as  instances  of  the  merit  of  Sternhold,  or  his  version, 
 I  only  asserted  that  the  lines  which  I  then  copied,  viz. 
 
 "  The  Lord  descended  from  above,"  &c. 
 
 were  truly  noble  and  sublime.  Whether,  therefore,  Stern- 
 hold  wrote  all  the  winds  (as  asserted  by  your  correspon- 
 dent, in  order  to  furnish  room  for  objection),  or  mighty 
 winds,  is  of  no  import.  But  if  this  really  be  a  subsequent 
 alteration,  I  think  at  least  there  is  no  improvement ;  for 
 when  we  conceive  the  winds  as  assembling  from  all  quar- 
 ters, at  the  omnipotent  command  of  the  Deity,  and  bear- 
 ing him  with  their  united  forces  from  the  heavens,  we 
 have  a  more  sublime  image  than  when  we  see  him  as  fly- 
 ing merely  on  mighty  winds,  or  as  driving  his  team  (or 
 troop)  of  angels  on  a  strong  tempesf  s  rapid  wing,  with 
 most  amazing  swiftness,  as  elegantly  represented  by  Brady 
 and  Tate* 
 
 *  How  any  man,  enjoying  the  use  of  his  senses,  could  prefer  the  con- 
 temptible version  of  Brady  and  Tate  of  this  verse  to  Sternhold' s,  is  to 
 me  inexplicable.  The  epithets  which  are  introduced  would  have  dis- 
 graced a  school-boy,  and  the  majestic  imagery  of  the  original  is  sacri- 
 ficed to  make  room  for  tinsel  and  fustian  : 
 
 The  chariot  of  the  king  of  kings. 
 
 Which  active  troops  of  angels  drew, 
 On  a  strong  tempest's  rapid  wings. 
 With  most  amazing  swiftness  Jlcw. 
 
205 
 
 I  differ  fi'om  your  correspondent's  opinion,  that  these 
 verses,  so  far  from  possessing  sublimity,  attract  the  reader 
 merely  by  their  rumbling  sound :  And  here  it  may  not  be 
 amiss  to  observe,  that  the  true  sublime  does  not  consist  of 
 high  sounding  words,  or  pompous  magnificence;  on  the 
 contrary,  it  most  frequently  appears  clad  in  native  dignity 
 and  simplicity,  without  art,  and  without  ornament. 
 
 The  most  elegant  critic  of  antiquity,  Longinus,  in  his 
 Treatise  on  the  Sublime,  adduces  the  following  passage 
 from  the  Book  of  Genesis,  as  possessing  that  quality  in  an 
 eminent  degree ; 
 
 "  God  said,  Let  there  be  light,  and  there  was  light :  —  Let 
 the  earth  be,  and  earth  isoas."  * 
 
 From  what  I  have  advanced  on  this  subject,  I  would 
 not  have  it  inferred,  that  I  conceive  the  version  of  Stern- 
 hold  and  Hopkins,  generally  speaking,  to  be  superior  to 
 that  of  Brady  and  Tate ;  for,  on  the  contrary,  in  almost 
 every  instance,  except  that  above  mentioned,  the  latter 
 possesses  an  indubitable  right  to  pre-eminence.  Our  lan- 
 guage, however,  cannot  yet  boast  one  version  possessing 
 the  true  spirit  of  the  original;  some  are  beneath  con- 
 tempt, and  the  best  has  scarcely  attained  mediocrity. 
 Your  correspondent  has  quoted  some  verses  from  Tate, 
 in  triumph,  as  comparatively  excellent;  but,  in  my  opi- 
 
 *  The  critic  apparently  quoted  from  memory,  for  we  may  search  in 
 vain  for  the  latter  part  of  this  sentence. 
 
206 
 
 nion,  they  are  also  instances  of  our  general  failure  in  sa- 
 cred poetry :  they  abound  in  those  ambiiiosa  ornamenta 
 which  do  well  to  please  women  and  children,  but  which 
 disgust  the  man  of  taste. 
 
 To  the  imitations  already  noticed  of  this  passage,  permit 
 me  to  add  the  following  :  — 
 
 "  But  various  Iris,  Jove's  commands  to  bear, 
 "  Speeds  on  the  wings  of  winds  through  liquid  air." 
 
 Pope's  Iliad,  B.  2. 
 
 "  Miguel  cruzando  os  pelagos  do  vento." 
 
 Carlos  Reduzido,  Canto  I.,  by  Pedro  de 
 Azevedo  Tojal,  an  ancient  Portuguese  poet  of  some  merit. 
 
207 
 
 REMARKS  ON  THE  ENGLISH  POETS, 
 
 WARTON, 
 
 The  poems  of  Thomas  Warton  are  replete  with  a 
 sublimity,  and  richness  of  imagery,  which  seldom  fail  to 
 enchant :  every  line  presents  new  beauties  of  idea,  aided 
 by  all  the  magic  of  animated  diction.  From  the  inex- 
 haustible stores  of  figurative  language,  majesty,  and  sub- 
 limity, which  the  ancient  English  poets  afford,  he  has 
 culled  some  of  the  richest  and  the  sweetest  flowers.  But, 
 unfortunately,  in  thus  making  use  of  the  beauties  of  other 
 writers,  he  has  been  too  unsparing ;  for  the  greater  num- 
 ber of  his  ideas  and  nervous  epithets  cannot,  strictly 
 speaking,  be  called  his  own ;  therefore,  however  we  may 
 be  charmed  by  the  grandeur  of  his  images,  or  the  felicity 
 of  his  expression,  we  must  still  bear  in  our  recollection, 
 that  we  cannot  with  justice  bestow  upon  him  the  highest 
 eulogium  of  genius  —  that  of  originality. 
 
 It  has,  with  much  justice,  been  observed,  that  Pope, 
 and  his  imitators,  have  introduced  a  species  of  refine- 
 ment into  our  language,  which  has  banished  that  nerve 
 and  pathos  for  which  Milton  had  rendered  it  eminent. 
 Harmonious  modulations,  and  unvarying  exactness  of 
 measure,  totally  precluding  sublimity  and  fire,  have  re- 
 duced our  fashionable    poetry   to  mere  sing-song.      But 
 
208 
 
 Thomas  Warton,  whose  taste  was  un vitiated  by  tlie  frivo- 
 lities of  the  day,  immediately  saw  the  intrinsic  worth  of 
 what  the  world  then  slighted.  He  saw  that  the  ancient 
 poets  contained  a  fund  of  strength,  and  beauty  of  ima- 
 gery, as  well  as  diction,  which,  in  the  hands  of  genius, 
 would  shine  forth  with  redoubled  lustre.  Entirely  reject- 
 ing, therefore,  modern  niceties,  he  extracted  the  honied 
 sweets  from  these  beautiful,  though  neglected  flowers* 
 Every  grace  of  sentiment,  every  poetical  term,  which  a 
 false  taste  had  rendered  obsolete,  was  by  him  revived  and 
 made  to  grace  his  own  ideas ;  and  though  many  will  con- 
 demn him  as  guilty  of  plagiarism,  yet  few  will  be  able  to 
 withhold  the  tribute  of  their  praise. 
 
 The  peculiar  forte  of  Warton  seems  to  have  been  in  the 
 sombre  descriptive.  The  wild  airy  flights  of  a  Spenser* 
 the  "  chivalrous  feats  of  barons  bold,"  or  the  "  cloistered 
 solitude,"  were  the  favourites  of  his  mind.  Of  this  his  bent 
 he  informs  us  in  the  following  lines  :  — 
 
 Through  Pope's  soft  song,  though  all  the  graces  breathe. 
 
 And  happiest  art  adorns  his  attic  page. 
 
 Yet  does  my  mind  with  sweeter  transport  glow. 
 
 As  at  the  root  of  mossy  trunk  reclin'd, 
 
 In  magic  Spenser's  wildly  warbled  song, 
 
 I  see  deserted  Una  wander  wide 
 
 Through  wasteful  solitudes  and  lurid  heaths. 
 
 Weary,  forlorn,  than  where  the  fated  fair  * 
 
 *  Belinda,     Vide  Pope's  Rape  of  the  Lock. 
 
209 
 
 Upon  the  bosom  bright  of  silver  Thames, 
 Launches  in  all  the  lustre  of  brocade, 
 Amid  the  splendours  of  the  laughing  sun  ; 
 The  gay  description  palls  upon  the  sense, 
 And  coldly  strikes  the  mind  with  feeble  bhss. 
 
 Pleasures  of  MelaiicJioly, 
 
 Warton's  mind  was  formed  for  the  grand  and  the  sub- 
 lime. Were  his  imitations  less  verbal,  and  less  numer- 
 ous, I  should  be  led  to  imagine  that  the  peculiar  beauties 
 of  his  favourite  authors  had  sunk  so  impressively  into  his 
 mind,  that  he  had  unwittingly  appropriated  them  as  his 
 own  ;  but  they  are  in  general  such  as  to  preclude  the 
 idea. 
 
 To  the  metrical  and  other  intrinsic  ornaments  of  style, 
 he  appears  to  have  paid  due  attention.  If  we  meet  with 
 an  uncouth  expression,  we  immediately  perceive  that  it  is 
 peculiarly  appropriate,  and  that  no  other  term  could  have 
 been  made  use  of  with  so  happy  an  effect.  His  poems 
 abound  with  alliterative  lines.  Indeed,  this  figure  seems 
 to  have  been  his  favourite ;  and  he  studiously  seeks  every 
 opportunity  to  introduce  it :  however,  it  must  be  acknow- 
 ledged, that  his  "  daisy-dappled  dales,"  &c.  occur  too 
 frequently. 
 
 The  poem  on  which  Warton's  fame  [as  a  poet)  prin- 
 cipally rests,  is,  the  "  Pleasures  of  Melancholy,"  and 
 (notwithstanding  the  perpetual  recurrence  of  ideas  which 
 are  borrowed  from  other  poets)  there  are  few  pieces  which 
 
 VOL.  II.  p 
 
210 
 
 I  have  perused  with  more  exquisite  gratification.  The 
 gloomy  tints  with  which  he  overcasts  his  descriptions;  his 
 highly  figurative  language ;  and,  above  all,  the  antique  air 
 which  the  poem  wears,  convey  the  most  sublime  ideas  to 
 the  mind. 
 
 Of  the  other  pieces  of  this  poet,  some  are  excellent, 
 and  they  all  rise  above  mediocrity.  In  his  sonnets,  he  has 
 succeeded  wonderfully ;  that  written  at  Winslade,  and  the 
 one  to  the  river  Lodon,  are  peculiarly  beautiful,  and  that 
 to  Mr.  Gray  is  most  elegantly  turned.  The  "  Ode  on  the 
 Approach  of  Summer  "  is  replete  with  genius  and  poetic 
 fire ;  and  even  over  the  Birth-day  Odes,  which  he  wrote  as 
 poet  laureat,  his  genius  has  cast  energy  and  beauty.  His 
 humorous  pieces  and  satires  abound  in  wit ;  and,  in  short, 
 taking  him  altogether,  he  is  an  ornament  to  our  country 
 and  our  language,  and  it  is  to  be  regretted,  that  the  profu- 
 sion with  which  he  has  made  use  of  the  beauties  of  other 
 poets,  should  have  given  room  for  censure. 
 
 I  should  have  closed  my  short,  and,  I  fear,  jejune  essay 
 on  Warton,  but  that  I  wished  to  hint  to  your  truly  elegant 
 and  acute  Stamford  correspondent,  Octavius  Gilchrist, 
 (whose  future  remarks  on  Warton's  imitations  I  await  with 
 considerable  impatience,)  that  the  passage  in  the  Pleasures 
 of  Melancholy  — 
 
 or  ghostly  shape. 
 
 At  dista?ice  seen,  invites,  with  hecFning  handy 
 Thy  lonesome  steps^ 
 
211 
 
 which    he    supposes   to    bo   taken   from  the  following  in 
 Com  us  — 
 
 Of  calling  shapes,  and  beck'ning  shadows  dire, 
 And  airy  tongues  that  syllable  men's  names," 
 
 is  more  probably  taken  from  the  commencement  of  Pope's 
 Elegy  on  an  unfortunate  Lady  — 
 
 What  beck'ning  ghost,  along  the  moonlight  shade 
 Invites  my  steps,  and  points  to  yonder  glade  ? 
 
 The  original  idea  was  possibly  taken  from  Com  us  by 
 Pope,  from  whom  Warton,  to  all  appearance,  again  bor- 
 rowed it. 
 
 Were  the  similarity  of  the  passage  in  Gray  to  that  in 
 Warton  less  striking  and  verbal,  I  should  be  inclined  to 
 think  it  only  a  remarkable  coincidence ;  for  Gray's  bio- 
 graphers inform  us,  that  he  commenced  his  elegy  in 
 1 742,  and  that  it  was  completed  in  1744,  being  the  year 
 which  he  particularly  devoted  to  the  muses,  though  he  did 
 not  ^'  put  the Jinishing  stroke  to  W'  until  1750.  The  Plea- 
 sures of  Melancholy  were  published  in  4to.  in  1747;  there- 
 fore Gray  might  take  his  third  stanza  fi-om  Warton  ;  but  it 
 is  rather  extraordinary  that  the  third  stanza  of  a  poem 
 should  be  taken  from  another,  published  Jive  years  after 
 that  poem  was  begun,  and  three  after  it  was  understood  to 
 be  completed.     One  circumstance,  however,  seems  to  ren- 
 
 p  2 
 
212 
 
 der  the  supposition  of  its  being  a  plagiarism  somewhat  more 
 probable,  which  is,  that  the  stanza  in  question  is  not  essen- 
 tial to  the  connection  of  the  preceding  and  antecedent 
 verses ;  therefore  it  might  have  been  added  by  Gray,  when 
 he  put  the  ^^ finishing  stroke'"  to  his  piece  in  1750. 
 
213 
 
 CURSORY  REMARKS  ON  TRAGEDY 
 
 The  pleasure  which  is  derived  from  the  representation 
 of  an  affecting  tragedy,  has  often  been  the  subject  of  en- 
 quny  among  philosophical  critics,  as  a  singular  phenome- 
 non.—  That  the  mind  should  receive  gratification  from  the 
 excitement  of  those  passions  which  are  in  themselves  pain- 
 ful, is  really  an  extraordinary  paradox,  and  is  the  more  in- 
 explicable, since,  when  the  same  means  are  employed  to 
 rouse  the  more  pleasing  affections,  no  adequate  effect  is 
 produced. 
 
 In  order  to  solve  this  problem,  many  ingenious  hypo- 
 theses have  been  invented.  The  Abbe  Du  Bos  tells  us,  that 
 the  mind  has  such  a  natural  antipathy  to  a  state  of  listless- 
 ness  and  languor,  as  to  render  the  transition  from  it  to 
 a  state  of  exertion,  even  though  by  rousing  passions  in 
 themselves  painful,  as  in  the  instance  of  tragedy,  a  positive 
 pleasure.  Monsieur  Fontenelle  has  given  us  a  more  satis- 
 factory account.  He  tells  us  that  pleasure  and  pain,  two 
 sentiments  so  different  in  themselves,  do  not  differ  so  much 
 in  their  cause ;  —  that  pleasure,  carried  too  far,  becomes 
 pain;  and  pain,  a  little  moderated,  becomes  pleasure. 
 Hence  that  the  pleasure  we  derive  from  tragedy  is  a  pleasing 
 sorrow,  a  modulated  pain.  David  Hume,  who  has  also 
 written  upon  this  subject,  unites  the  two  systems,  with  this 
 addition,  that  the  painful  emotions  excited  by  the  represent- 
 
 p  3 
 
214 
 
 ation  of  melancholy  scenes,  are  further  tempered,  and  the 
 pleasure  is  proportionably  heightened,  by  the  eloquence 
 displayed  in  the  relation  —  the  art  shown  in  collecting  the 
 pathetic  circumstances,  and  the  judgment  evinced  in  their 
 happy  disposition. 
 
 But  even  now  I  do  not  conceive  the  difficulty  to  be 
 satisfactorily  done  away.  Admitting  the  postulatum  which 
 the  Abbe  Du  Bos  assumes,  that  languor  is  so  disagreeable 
 to  the  mind,  as  to  render  its  removal  positive  pleasure,  to 
 be  true;  yet,  when  we  recollect,  as  Mr.  Hume  has  before 
 observed,  that  w^ere  the  same  objects  of  distress  which 
 give  us  pleasure  in  tragedy,  set  before  our  eyes  in  reality, 
 though  they  would  effectually  remove  listlessness,  they 
 would  excite  the  most  unfeigned  uneasiness,  we  shall 
 hesitate  in  applying  this  solution  in  its  full  extent  to  the 
 present  subject.  M.  Fontenelle's  reasoning  is  much  more 
 conclusive;  yet  I  think  he  errs  egregiously  in  his  pre- 
 mises, if  he  means  to  imply  that  any  modulation  of  pain 
 is  pleasing,  because,  in  whatever  degree  it  may  be,  it  is 
 still  pain,  and  remote  from  either  ease  or  posiitve  plea- 
 sure ;  and  if,  by  moderated  pain,  he  means  any  uneasy 
 sensation  abated,  though  not  totally  banished,  he  is  no 
 less  mistaken  in  the  application  of  them  to  the  subject  be- 
 fore us.  —  Pleasure  may  very  well  be  conceived  to  be  pain- 
 ful, when  carried  to  excess,  because  it  there  becomes 
 exertion,  and  is  inconvenient.  We  may  also  form  some 
 idea  of  a  pleasure  arising  from  moderated  pain,  or  the 
 transition  from  the  disagreeable  to  the  less  disagreeable ; 
 but  this  cannot  in  any  wise  be  applied  to  the  gratification 
 
215 
 
 we  derive  from  a  tragedy,  for  there  no  superior  degree  of 
 pain  is  left  for  an  inferior.  As  to  Mr.  Hume's  addition  of 
 the  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  art  of  the  poet,  for  the 
 introduction  of  which  he  has  written  his  whole  disserta- 
 tion on  tragedy,  it  merits  little  consideration.  The  self- 
 recollection  necessary  to  render  this  art  a  source  of  gratifi- 
 cation must  weaken  the  illusion  ;  and  whatever  weakens  the 
 illusion  diminishes  the  effect. 
 
 In  these  systems  it  is  taken  for  granted  that  all  those 
 passions  are  excited  which  are  represented  in  the  drama. 
 This  I  conceive  to  have  been  the  primary  cause  of  eri?or ; 
 for  to  me  it  seems  very  probable  that  the  only  passion 
 or  affection  which  is  excited,  is  that  of  sympathy,  which 
 partakes  of  the  pleasing  nature  of  pity  and  compassion, 
 and  includes  in  it  so  much  as  is  pleasing  of  hope  and  ap- 
 prehension, joy  and  grief. 
 
 The  pleasure  we  derive  from  the  afflictions  of  a  friend 
 is  proverbial  —  every  person  has  felt,  and  wondered  why 
 he  felt,  something  soothing  in  the  participation  of  the  sor- 
 rows of  those  dear  to  his  heart ;  and  he  might  with  as 
 much  reason  have  questioned  why  he  was  delighted  with 
 the  melancholy  scenes  of  tragedy.  Both  pleasures  are 
 equally  singular ;  they  both  arise  from  the  same  source. 
 Both  originate  in  sympathy. 
 
 It  would  seem  natural  that  an  accidental  spectator  of 
 a  cause  in  a  court  of  justice,  with  which-  he  is  perfectly 
 unacquainted,    would  remain  an  uninterested  auditor  of 
 
 p  4 
 
216 
 
 what  was  going  forward.     Experience  tells  us,  however^ 
 the  exact  contrary.     He  immediately,   even  before  he  is 
 well  acquainted  with  the  merits  of  the  case,  espouses  one 
 side  of  the  question,  to  which  he  uniformly  adheres,  par- 
 ticipates in  all  its  advantages,  and  sympathises  in  its  suc- 
 cess.     There  is  no  denying  that  the  interest  this  man 
 takes  in  the  business  is  a  source  of  pleasure  to  him ;  but 
 we  cannot  suppose  one  of  the  parties  in  the  cause,  though 
 his  interest  must  be  infinitely  more  lively,  to  feel  an  equal 
 pleasure,   because  the  painful  passions  are  in  him  really 
 roused,    while  in  the  other    sympathy  alone    is  excited, 
 which  is  in  itself  pleasing.     It  is  pretty  much  the  same 
 with  the  spectator  of  a  tragedy.     And,   if  the  sympathy 
 is  the  more  pleasing,  it  is  because  the  actions  are  so  much 
 the  more  calculated  to  entrap  the  attention,  and  the  ob- 
 ject so  much  the  more  worthy.     The  pleasure  is  height- 
 ened also  in  both  instances  by  a  kind  of  intuitive  recol- 
 lection,  which  never  forsakes  the  spectator,   that  no  bad 
 consequences  will  result  to  him  from  the  action  he  is  sur- 
 veying.     The  recollection    is    the  more  predominant  in 
 the  spectator  of  a  tragedy,  as  it  is  impossible  in  any  case 
 totally  to  banish  from  his  memory  that  the  scenes  are 
 fictitious  and  illusive.     In  real  life  we  always  advert  to 
 futurity,  and  endeavour  to  draw  inferences  of  the  probable 
 consequences ;    but  the   moment  we  take  off  our  minds 
 from  what  is  passing  on  the  stage  to  reasonings  thereupon, 
 the  illusion  is  dispelled,   and  it  again  recurs  that  it  is  all 
 fiction. 
 
 If  we  compare  the  degrees  of  pleasure  we  derive  from 
 
217 
 
 the  perusal  of  a  novel  and  the  representation  of  a  tragedy, 
 we  shall  observe  a  wonderful  disparity.  In  both  we  feel 
 an  interest,  in  both  sympathy  is  excited.  But  in  the  one, 
 things  are  merely  related  to  us  as  having  passed^  which  it  is 
 not  attempted  to  persuade  us  ever  did  in  reality  happen, 
 and  from  which,  therefore,  we  never  can  deceive  ourselves 
 into  the  idea  that  any  consequences  whatever  will  result ; 
 in  the  other,  on  the  contrary,  the  actions  themselves  pass 
 before  our  eyes;  we  are  not  tempted  to  ask  ourselves 
 whether  they  did  ever  happen  ;  we  see  them  happen,  we 
 are  the  witnesses  of  them ;  and  were  it  not  for  the  melio- 
 rating circumstances  before  mentioned,  the  sympathy 
 would  become  so  powerful  as  to  be  in  the  highest  degree 
 painful. 
 
 In  tragedy,  therefore,  every  thing  which  can  strengthen 
 the  illusion  should  be  introduced,  for  there  are  a  thousand 
 drawbacks  on  the  effect,  which  it  is  impossible  to  remove, 
 and  which  have  always  so  great  a  force,  as  to  put  it  out  of 
 the  power  of  the  poet  to  excite  sympathy  in  a  too  painful 
 degree.  Every  thing  that  is  improbable,  every  thing 
 which  is  out  of  the  common  course  of  nature,  should,  for 
 this  reason,  be  avoided,  as  nothing  will  so  forcibly  remind 
 the  spectator  of  the  unrealness  of  the  illusion. 
 
 It  is  a  mistaken  idea,  that  we  sympathise  sooner  with 
 the  distresses  of  kings  and  illustrious  personages,  than 
 with  those  of  common  life.  Men  are,  in  fact,  more  in- 
 clined to  commiserate  the  sufferings  of  their  equals,  than 
 of  those  whom  they  cannot  but  regard  rather  with  awe 
 
218 
 
 than  pity,  as  superior  beings,  and  to  take  an  interest  in 
 incidents  which  might  have  happened  to  themselves 
 sooner  than  in  those  remote  from  their  own  rank  and 
 habits.  It  is  for  this  reason  that  ^schylus  censures  Eu- 
 ripides for  introducing  his  kings  in  rags,  as  if  they  were 
 more  to  be  compassionated  than  other  men ; 
 
 HgcoTQV  ]xsy  rsg  ^cKriKeuovlug  pax»«]W,7no-;^a;v,  7v  Iv  eXesivo\ 
 Tois  oiv^gcoTTois  (pcilvovT  slvcu. 
 
 Some  will,  perhaps,  imagine  that  it  is  in  the  power  of 
 the  poet  to  excite  our  sympathy  in  too  powerful  a  degree, 
 because,  at  the  representation  of  certain  scenes,  the  spec- 
 tators are  frequently  affected  so  as  to  make  them  shriek 
 out  with  terror.  But  this  is  not  sympathy ;  it  is  horror,  it 
 is  disgust,  and  is  only  witnessed  when  some  act  is  com- 
 mitted on  the  stage  so  cruel  and  bloody,  as  to  make  it 
 impossible  to  contemplate  it,  even  in  idea,  without  horror. 
 
 Nee  pueros  coram  populo  Medea  trucidet, 
 Aut  humana  palam  coquat  exta  nefarius  Atreus. 
 
 Hor.  Ars  PoeL  L  185. 
 
 It  is  for  this  reason,  also,  that  many  fine  German  dra- 
 mas cannot  be  brought  on  the  English  stage,  such  as  the 
 Robbers  of  Schiller,  and  the  Adelaide  of  Wulfingen,  by 
 Kotzebue :  they  are  too  horrible  to  be  read  without  vio- 
 lent emotions,  and  Horace  will  tell  you  what  an  immense 
 difference  there  is  in  point  of  effect  between  a  relation 
 and  a  representation. 
 
219 
 
 Segnius  irritant  animos  demissa  per  aurem, 
 Quam  quae  sunt  oculis  subjecta  fidelibus,  et  quae 
 Ipse  sibi  tradit  spectator. 
 
 Ars  Poet.  L  ISO, 
 
 I  shall  conclude  these  desultory  remarks,  strung  toge- 
 ther at  random,  without  order  or  connection,  by  observing 
 what  little  foundation  there  is  for  the  general  outcry  in 
 the  literary  world,  against  the  prevalence  of  German  dra- 
 mas on  our  stage.  Did  they  not  possess  uncommon  merits 
 they  would  not  meet  with  such  general  approbation.  Fa- 
 shion has  but  a  partial  influence,  but  they  have  drawn 
 tears  from  an  audience  in  a  barn  as  well  as  in  a  theatre 
 royal ;  they  have  been  welcomed  with  plaudits  in  every 
 little  market-town  in  the  three  kingdoms,  as  well  as  in  the 
 metropolis.  Nature  speaks  but  one  language ;  she  is  alike 
 intelligible  to  the  peasant  and  the  man  of  letters,  the 
 tradesman  and  the  man  of  fashion.  While  the  Muse  of 
 Germany  shall  continue  to  produce  such  plays  as  the 
 Stranger  and  Lovers'  Vows  *,  who  will  not  rejoice  that 
 translation  is  able  to  naturalize  her  efforts  in  our  lan- 
 guage? 
 
 *  I  speak  of  these  plays  only  as  adapted  to  our  stage  by  the  elegaol 
 pens  of  Mr.  Thompson  and  Mrs.  Inchbald. 
 
220 
 
 MELANCHOLY   HOURS. 
 
 (No.  L) 
 
 There  is  a  mood 
 
 (I  sing  not  to  the  vacant  and  the  young) 
 There  is  a  kindly  mood  of  Melancholy, 
 That  wings  the  soul  and  points  her  to  the  skies. 
 
 Dyer, 
 
 Philosophers  have  divested  themselves  of  their  na- 
 tural apathy,  and  poets  have  risen  above  themselves,  in 
 descanting  on  the  pleasures  of  Melancholy.  There  is  no 
 mind  so  gross,  no  understanding  so  uncultivated,  as  to  be 
 incapable,  at  certain  moments,  and  amid  certain  combi- 
 nations, of  feeling  that  sublime  influence  upon  the  spirits 
 which  steals  the  soul  from  the  petty  anxieties  of  the 
 world, 
 
 "  And  fits  it  to  hold  converse  with  the  sfods." 
 
 a 
 
 I  must  confess,  if  such  there  be  who  never  felt  the 
 chvine  abstraction,  I  envy  them  not  their  insensibility. 
 For  my  own  part,  it  is  from  the  indulgence  of  this 
 soothing  power  that  I  derive  the  most  exquisite  of  gra- 
 tifications ;  at  the  calm  hour  of  moonlight,  amid  all  the 
 sublime  serenity,  the  dead  stillness  of  the  night;  or 
 when  the  howling  storm  rages  in  the  heavens,  the  rain 
 pelts   on  my  roof,  and    the   winds   whistle   through   the 
 
221 
 
 crannies  of  my  apartment,  I  feel  the  divine  mood  of 
 melancholy  upon  me;  I  imagine  myself  placed  upon  an 
 eminence,  above  the  crowds  who  pant  below  in  the  dusty 
 tracks  of  wealth  and  honour.  The  black  catalogue  of 
 crimes  and  of  vice;  the  sad  tissue  of  wretchedness  and 
 woe,  passes  in  review  before  me,  and  I  look  down  upon 
 man  with  an  eye  of  pity  and  commiseration.  Though 
 the  scenes  which  I  survey  be  mournful,  and  the  ideas 
 they  excite  equally  sombre ;  though  the  tears  gush  as  I 
 contemplate  them,  and  my  heart  feels  heavy  with  the 
 sorrowful  emotions  which  they  inspire ;  yet  are  they  not 
 unaccompanied  with  sensations  of  the  purest  and  most 
 ecstatic  bliss. 
 
 It  is  to  the  spectator  alone  that  Melancholy  is  for- 
 bidding; in  herself  she  is  soft  and  interesting,  and  ca- 
 pable of  affording  pure  and  unalloyed  delight.  Ask  the 
 lover  why  he  muses  by  the  side  of  the  purling  brook,  or 
 plunges  into  the  deep  gloom  of  the  forest  ?  Ask  the  un- 
 fortunate why  he  seeks  the  still  shades  of  solitude  ?  or 
 the  man  who  feels  the  pangs  of  disappointed  ambition, 
 why  he  retires  into  the  silent  walks  of  seclusion  ?  and  he 
 will  tell  you  that  he  derives  a  pleasure  therefrom,  which 
 nothing  else  can  impart.  It  is  the  delight  of  Melancholy ; 
 but  the  melancholy  of  these  beings  is  as  far  removed  from 
 that  of  the  philosopher,  as  are  the  narrow  and  contracted 
 complaints  of  selfishness  from  the  mournful  regrets  of  ex- 
 pansive philanthropy ;  as  are  the  desponding  intervals  of 
 insanity  from  the  occasional  depressions  of  benevolent 
 sensibility. 
 
222 
 
 The  man  who  has  attained  that  cahn  equanimity 
 which  quaUfies  him  to  look  down  upon  the  petty  evils  of 
 life  with  indifference ;  who  can  so  far  conquer  the  weak- 
 ness of  nature,  as  to  consider  the  sufferings  of  the  in- 
 dividual of  little  moment,  when  put  in  competition  with 
 the  welfare  of  the  community,  is  alone  the  true  philoso- 
 pher. His  melancholy  is  not  excited  by  the  retrospect 
 of  his  own  misfortunes;  it  has  its  rise  from  the  con- 
 templation of  the  miseries  incident  to  life,  and  the  evils 
 which  obtrude  themselves  upon  society,  and  interrupt 
 the  harmony  of  nature.  It  would  be  arrogating  too 
 much  merit  to  myself,  to  assert  that  I  have  a  just  claim 
 to  the  title  of  a  philosopher,  as  it  is  here  defined ;  or  to 
 say  that  the  speculations  of  my  melancholy  hours  are 
 equally  disinterested :  be  this  as  it  may,  I  have  deter- 
 mined to  present  my  solitary  effusions  to  the  public; 
 they  will  at  least  have  the  merit  of  novelty  to  recom- 
 mend them,  and  may  possibly,  in  some  measure,  be  in- 
 strumental in  the  melioration  of  the  human  heart,  or  the 
 correction  of  false  prepossessions.  This  is  the  height  of 
 my  ambition ;  this  once  attained,  and  my  end  will  be 
 fully  accomplished.  One  thing  I  can  safely  promise, 
 though  far  from  being  the  coinages  of  a  heart  at  ease, 
 they  will  contain  neither  the  querulous  captiousness  of 
 misfortune,  nor  the  bitter  taunts  of  misanthropy.  So- 
 ciety is  a  chain  of  which  I  am  merely  a  link :  all  men 
 are  my  associates  in  error,  and  though  some  may  have 
 gone  farther  in  the  ways  of  guilt  than  myself,  yet  it  is 
 not  in  me  to  sit  in  judgment  upon  them ;  it  is  mine  to 
 treat  them  rather  in  pity  than  in  anger,  to  lament  their 
 
223 
 
 crimes  and  to  weep  over  their  sufferings.  As  these  papers 
 will  be  the  amusement  of  those  hours  of  relaxation,  when 
 the  mind  recedes  from  the  vexations  of  business,  and 
 sinks  into  itself  for  a  moment  of  solitary  ease,  rather 
 than  the  efforts  of  literary  leisure,  the  reader  will  not 
 expect  to  find  in  them  unusual  elegance  of  language,  or 
 studied  propriety  of  style.  In  the  short  and  necessary 
 intervals  of  cessation  from  the  anxieties  of  an  irksome 
 employment,  one  finds  little  time  to  be  solicitous  about 
 expression.  If,  therefore,  the  fervour  of  a  glowing  mind 
 expresses  itself  in  too  warm  and  luxuriant  a  manner  for 
 the  cold  ear  of  dull  propriety,  let  the  fastidious  critic  find 
 a  selfish  pleasure  in  descrying  it.  To  criticism  melan- 
 choly is  indifferent.  If  learning  cannot  be  better  employed 
 than  in  declaiming  against  the  defects,  while  it  is  insensi- 
 ble to  the  beauties  of  a  performance,  well  may  we  exclaim 
 with  the  poet, 
 
 X2  syjxevrjj  ayvoia  (hg  oifxai[jt,og  Tig  si 
 
 w. 
 
224 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS, 
 
 (No.  n.) 
 
 But  (vvel-a-day  ! )  who  loves  the  Muses  now  ? 
 Or  helpes  the  cUmber  of  the  sacred  hyll  ? 
 None  leane  to  them ;  but  strive  to  disalow 
 All  heavenly  dewes  the  goddesses  distill. 
 
 IVni.  Broitme's  Shepheard' s  Pipe.     Eg.  5, 
 
 It  is  a  melancholy  reflection,  and  a  reflection  which 
 often  sinks  heavily  on  my  soul,  that  the  Sons  of  Genius 
 generally  seem  predestined  to  encounter  the  rudest  storms 
 of  adversity,  to  struggle,  unnoticed,  with  poverty  and  mis- 
 fortune. The  annals  of  the  world  present  us  with  many 
 corroborations  of  this  remark ;  and,  alas  !  who  can  tell 
 how  many  unhappy  beings,  who  might  have  shone  with 
 distinguished  lustre  among  the  stars  which  illumine  our 
 hemisphere,  may  have  sunk  unknown  beneath  the  pressure 
 of  untoward  circumstances ;  who  knows  how  many  may 
 have  shrunk,  with  all  the  exquisite  sensibility  of  genius, 
 from  the  rude  and  riotous  discord  of  the  world,  into  the 
 peaceful  slumbers  of  death.  Among  the  number  of  those 
 whose  talents  might  have  elevated  them  to  the  first  rank  of 
 eminence,  but  who  have  been  overwhelmed  with  the  ac- 
 cumulated ills  of  poverty  and  misfortune,  I  do  not  hesitate 
 to  rank  a  young  man  whom  I  once  accounted  it  my  greatest 
 happiness  to  be  able  to  call  my  friend. 
 
225 
 
 Charles  Wanely  was  tbe  only  son  of  an  Inimhle 
 village  rector,  who  just  lived  to  give  him  a  liberal  edu-? 
 cation,  and  then  left  him  unprovided  for  and  unpror 
 tected,  to  struggle  through  the  world  as  well  as  he  could, 
 With  a  heart  glowing  with  the  enthusiasm  of  poetry  and 
 romance,  with  a  sensibility  the  most  exquisite,  and  with 
 an  indignant  pride,  which  swelled  in  his  veins,  and  told 
 him  he  was  a  man,  my  friend  found  himself  cast  upon 
 the  wide  world  at  the  age  of  sixteen,  an  adventurer, 
 without  fortune  and  without  connection.  As  his  inde-. 
 pendent  spirit  could  not  brook  the  idea  of  being  a  bur-^ 
 den  to  those  whom  his  father  had  taught  him  to  consi- 
 der only  as  alHed  by  blood,  and  not  by  affection,  he 
 looked  about  him  for  a  situation  which  could  ensure  to 
 him,  by  his  own  exertions,  an  honourable  competence.  It 
 was  not  long  before  such  a  situation  offered,  ,and  Charles 
 precipitately  articled  himself  to  an  attorney,  without 
 giving  himself  time  to  consult  his  own  inclinations,  or  the 
 disposition  of  his  master.  The  transition  from  Sophocles 
 and  Euripides,  Theocritus  and  Ovid,  to  Finche  and  Wood, 
 Coke  and  Wynne,  was  striking  and  difficult ;  but  Charles 
 applied  himself  with  his  wonted  ardour  to  his  new  study, 
 as  considering  it  not  only  his  interest,  but  his  duty  so  to 
 do.  It  was  not  long,  however,  before  he  discovered  that 
 he  disliked  the  law,  that  he  disliked  his  situation,  and  that 
 he  despised  his  master.  The  fact  was,  my  friend  had  many 
 mortifications  to  endure,  which  his  haughty  soul  could  ill 
 brook.  The  attorney  to  whom  he  was  articled?  was  one  of 
 those  narrow-minded  beino^s  who  consider  wealth  as  alone 
 entitled  to  respect.     He  had  discovered  that  his  clerk  was 
 
 VOL.  II.  Q 
 
226 
 
 very  poor  and  very  destitute  of  friends,  and  thence  he  very 
 naturally  concluded  that  he  might  insult  him  with  impu- 
 nity.    It  appears,   however,  that  he  was   mistaken  in  his 
 calculations.     I  one  night  remarked  that  my  friend  was 
 unusually  thoughtful.     I  ventured  to  ask  him  whether  he 
 had  met  with  any  thing  particular  to  ruffle  his  spirits.     He 
 looked  at  me  for  some  moments  significantly,   then,   as  if 
 roused  to  fury  by  the  recollection —  "  I  have,"  said  he  ve- 
 hemently, "  I  have,  I  have.     He  has  insulted  me  grossly, 
 and  I  will  bear  it  no  longer."     He  now  walked  up  and 
 down  the  room  with  visible  emotion.  —  Presently  he  sat 
 down.  —  He  seemed  more  composed.     "  My  friend,"  said 
 he,   "  I  have  endured  much  from  this  man.     I  conceived 
 it  my  duty  to  forbear,  but  I  have  forborne  until  forbear- 
 ance is  blameable,    and,   by  the  Almighty,   I  will  never 
 again  endure  what  I  have  endured  this  day.     But  not  only 
 this  man ;   every  one  thinks  he  may  treat  me  with   con- 
 tumely, because  I  am  poor  and  friendless.     But  I  am  a 
 man,   and  will  no  longer  tamely  submit  to  be  the  sport  of 
 fools,   and  the  foot-ball  of  caprice.     In  this  spot  of  earth, 
 thouirh  it  save  me  birth,  I  can  never  taste  of  ease.     Here 
 
 Do  •' 
 
 I  must  be  miserable.  The  principal  end  of  man  is  to 
 arrive  at  happiness.  Here  I  can  never  attain  it ;  and  here 
 therefore  I  will  no  longer  remain.  My  obligations  to  the 
 rascal,  who  calls  himself  my  master,  are  cancelled  by  his 
 abuse  of  the  authority  I  rashly  placed  in  his  hands.  I  have 
 no  relations  to  bind  me  to  this  particular  place."  The 
 tears  started  in  his  eyes  as  he  spoke,  "  I  have  no  tender 
 ties  to  bid  me  stay,  and  why  do  I  stay  ?  The  world  is  all 
 before  me.     My  inclination  leads  me  to  travel ;  I  will  pur- 
 
227 
 
 sue  that  inclination ;  and,  perliaps,  in  a  strange  land  I  may 
 find  that  repose  which  is  denied  to  me  in  the  place  of  my 
 birth.  My  finances,  it  is  true,  are  ill  able  to  support  the 
 expenses  of  travelling:  but  what  then  —  Goldsmith,  my 
 friend,"  with  rising  enthusiasm,  "  Goldsmith  traversed 
 Europe  on  foot,  and  I  am  as  hardy  as  Goldsmith.  Yes,  I 
 will  go,  and  perhaps,  ere  long,  I  may  sit  me  down  on  some 
 towering  mountain,  and  exclaim  with  him,  while  a  hundred 
 realms  lie  in  perspective  before  me, 
 
 "  Creation's  heir,  the  world,  the  world  is  mine." 
 
 It  was  in  vain  I  entreated  him  to  reflect  maturely,  ere 
 he  took  so  bold  a  step ;  he  was  deaf  to  my  importunities, 
 and  the  next  morning  I  received  a  letter  informing  me  of 
 his  departure.  He  was  observed  about  sun-rise,  sitting  on 
 the  stile,  at  the  top  of  an  eminence  which  commanded  a 
 prospect  of  the  surrounding  country,  pensively  looking 
 towards  the  village.  I  could  divine  his  emotions,  on  thus 
 casting  probably  a  last  look  on  his  native  place.  The  neat 
 white  parsonage-house,  with  the  honey-suckle  mantling  on 
 its  wall,  I  knew  would  receive  his  last  glance ;  and  the  image 
 of  his  father  would  present  itself  to  his  mind,  with  a  melan- 
 choly pleasure,  as  he  was  thus  hastening,  a  solitary  indivi- 
 dual, to  plunge  himself  into  the  crowds  of  the  world,  deprived 
 of  that  fostering  hand  which  would  otherwise  have  been  his 
 support  and  guide. 
 
 From  this  period  Charles  Wanely  was  never  heard  of  at 
 
 L ,  and,  as  his  few  relations  cared  little  about  him,  in  a 
 
 Q  2 
 
228 
 
 short  time  it  was  almost  forgotten  that  such  a  being  had 
 ever  been  in  existence. 
 
 About  five  years  had  elapsed  from  this  period,  when  my 
 occasions  led  me  to  the  continent.  I  will  confess  I  was 
 not  without  a  romantic  hope,  that  I  might  again  meet  with 
 my  lost  friend ;  and  that  often,  with  that  idea,  I  scru- 
 tinised the  features  of  the  passengers.  One  fine  moon- 
 light night,  as  I  was  strolling  down  the  grand  Italian  Strada 
 di  Toledo,  at  Naples,  I  observed  a  crowd  assembled  round 
 a  man,  who,  with  impassioned  gestures,  seemed  to  be  ve- 
 hemently declaiming  to  the  multitude.  It  was  one  of  the 
 Improvisatori,  who  recite  extempore  verses  in  the  streets 
 of  Naples,  for  what  money  they  can  collect  from  the 
 hearers.  I  stopped  to  listen  to  the  man's  metrical  romance, 
 and  had  remained  in  the  attitude  of  attention  some  time, 
 when,  happening  to  turn  round,  I  beheld  a  person  ver}^ 
 shabbily  dressed,  stedfastly  gazing  at  me.  The  moon 
 shone  full  in  his  face.  I  thought  his  features  were  fami- 
 liar to  me.  He  was  pale  and  emaciated,  and  his  counte- 
 nance bore  marks  of  the  deepest  dejection.  Yet,  amidst 
 all  these  changes,  I  thought  I  recognised  Charles  Wanely. 
 I  stood  stupified  with  surprise.  My  senses  nearly  failed 
 me.  On  recovering  myself,  I  looked  again,  but  he  had 
 left  the  spot  the  moment  he  found  himself  observed.  I 
 darted  through  the  crowd,  and  ran  every  way  which  I 
 thought  he  could  have  gone,  but  it  was  all  to  no  purpose. 
 Nobody  knew  him.  Nobody  had  even  seen  such  a  per- 
 son. The  two  following  days  I  renewed  my  enquiries,  and 
 at  last  discovered  the  lodgings  where  a  man  of  his  descrip- 
 
229 
 
 tion  had  resided.  But  he  had  left  Naples  the  morning 
 after  his  form  had  struck  my  eyes.  I  found  he  gained  a 
 subsistence  by  drawing  rude  figures  in  chalks,  and  vending 
 them  among  the  peasantry.  I  could  no  longer  doubt  it 
 was  my  friend,  and  immediately  perceived  that  his  haughty 
 spirit  could  not  bear  to  be  recognised  in  such  degrading 
 circumstances,  by  one  who  had  known  him  in  better  days. 
 Lamenting  the  misguided  notions  which  had  thus  again 
 thrown  him  from  me,  I  left  Naples,  now  grown  hateful  to 
 my  sight,  and  embarked  for  England.  It  is  now  nearly 
 twenty  years  since  this  rencounter,  during  which  period 
 he  has  not  been  heard  of;  and  there  can  be  little  doubt 
 that  this  unfortunate  young  man  has  found,  in  some  re- 
 mote corner  of  the  continent,  an  obscure  and  an  unla- 
 mented  grave. 
 
 Thus,  those  talents  which  were  formed  to  do  honour  to 
 human  nature,  and  to  the  country  which  gave  them  birth, 
 have  been  nipped  in  the  bud  by  the  frosts  of  poverty  and 
 scorn,  and  their  unhappy  possessor  lies  in  an  unknown  and 
 nameless  tomb,  who  might,  under  happier  circumstances, 
 have  risen  to  the  highest  pinnacle  of  ambition  and  re- 
 nown. 
 
 2  3 
 
230 
 
 MELANCHOLY   HOURS. 
 (No.  IIL) 
 
 Few  know  that  elegance  of  soul  refin'd. 
 Whose  soft  sensation  feels  a  quicker  joy 
 From  melancholy's  scenes,  than  the  dull  pride 
 Of  tasteless  splendour  and  magnificence 
 Can  e*er  afford. 
 
 Warton^s  Melancholy, 
 
 In  one  of  my  midnight  rambles  down  the  side  of  the 
 Trent,  the  river  which  waters  the  place  of  my  nativity, 
 as  I  was  musing  on  the  various  evils  which  darken  the 
 life  of  man,  and  which  have  their  rise  in  the  malevo- 
 lence and  ill-nature  of  his  fellows,  the  sound  of  a  flute 
 from  an  adjoining  copse  attracted  my  attention.  The 
 tune  it  played  was  mournful,  yet  soothing.  It  was  suited 
 to  the  solemnity  of  the  hour.  As  the  distant  notes  came 
 wafted  at  intervals  on  my  ear,  now  with  gradual  swell, 
 then  dying  away  on  the  silence  of  the  night,  I  felt  the 
 tide  of  indignation  subside  within  me,  and  give  place  to 
 the  solemn  calm  of  repose.  I  listened  for  some  time  in 
 breathless  ravishment.  The  strain  ceased,  yet  the  sounds 
 still  vibrated  on  my  heart,  and  the  visions  of  bliss  which 
 they  excited,  still  glowed  on  my  imagination.  I  was  then 
 standing  in  one  of  my  favourite  retreats.  It  was  a  little 
 alcove,  overshadowed  with  willows,  and  a   mossy  seat  at 
 
231 
 
 the  back  invited  to  rest.     I   laid  myself  lisdessly  on  the 
 bank.     The  Trent  murmured  sofdy  at  my  feet,   and  the 
 willows  sighed  as  they  waved  over  my  head.     It  was  the 
 holy  moment  of  repose,  and  I  soon  sunk  into  a  deep  sleep. 
 The  operations  of  fancy  in  a  slumber,   induced  by  a  com- 
 bination  of  circumstances    so    powerful   and   uncommon, 
 could  not  fail  to  be  wild  and  romantic  in  the  extreme. 
 Methought  I  found    myself  in  an   extensive   area,    filled 
 with  an  immense  concourse  of  people.     At  one  end  was 
 a  throne  of  adamant,  on  which   sat  a   female,  in  whose 
 aspect   1    immediately   recognised    a   divinity.       She   was 
 clad  in  a  garb  of  azure,   on  her  forehead  she  bore  a  sun, 
 whose  splendour  the  eyes  of  many  were  unable  to  bear, 
 and  whose   rays    illumined   the   whole   space,   and  pene- 
 trated into  the  deepest  recesses  of  darkness.     The  aspect 
 of  the   goddess   at  a  distance  was  forbidding,   but  on  a 
 nearer   approach,    it  was  mild  and  engaging.     Her  eyes 
 were   blue  and  piercing,   and  there  was  a  fascination  in 
 her  smile  which  charmed  as  if  by  enchantment.     The  air 
 of  intelligence  which  beamed  in  her  look,  made  the  be- 
 holder shrink  into  himself  with  the  consciousness  of  in- 
 feriority ;    yet  the  affability  of  her  deportment,    and  the 
 simplicity  and  gentleness  of  her  manners,  soon  re-assured 
 him,  while  the  bewitching  softness  which  she   could   at 
 times  assume,  won  his   permanent  esteem.      On  enquiry 
 of  a  by-stander  who  it  was   that  sat  on  the  throne,  and 
 what   was    the    occasion    of  so   uncommon  an   assembly, 
 he  informed  me  that  it   was    the    Goddess    of  Wisdom, 
 who   had   at   last   succeeded   in  regaining   the   dominion 
 of  the  earth,  which  Folly  had  so  long  usurped.     That  sh 
 
 2  ^ 
 
2S2 
 
 sat  there  in  her  judicial  capacity,  in  order  to  try  tht' 
 merits  of  many  who  were  supposed  to  be  the  secret 
 emissaries  of  Folly.  In  this  way  I  understood  Envy 
 and  Malev  olence  had  been  sentenced  to  perpetual  banish- 
 ment, though  several  of  their  adherents  yet  remained 
 among  meii,  whose  minds  were  too  gross  to  be  irra- 
 diated with  the  light  of  wisdom.  One  trial  I  understood 
 was  just  ended,  and  another  supposed  delinquent  w^as 
 about  to  be  put  to  the  bar.  With  much  curiosity  I 
 hurried  forwards  to  survey  the  figure  which  now  ap- 
 proached. She  was  habited  in  black,  and  veiled  to  the 
 waist.  Her  pace  was  solemn  and  majestic,  yet  in  every 
 movement  was  a  winning  gracefulness.  As  she  approached 
 to  the  bar,  I  got  a  nearer  view  of  her,  when,  what 
 was  my  astonishment  to  recognise  in  her  the  person 
 bf  my  favourite  goddess.  Melancholy.  Amazed  that  she, 
 whom  I  had  always  looked  upon  as  the  sister  and  com- 
 panion of  Wisdom,  should  be  brought  to  trial  as  an 
 emissary  and  an  adherent  of  Folly,  I  waited  in  mute 
 impatience  for  the  accusation  which  could  be  framed 
 iigainst  her.  —  On  looking  towards  the  centre  of  the  area, 
 I  was  much  surprised  to  see  a  bustling  little  Cit  of  my 
 acquaintance,  who,  by  his  hemming  and  clearing,  I  con- 
 cluded was  going  to  make  the  charge.  As  he  was  a 
 self-important  little  fellow,  full  of  consequence  and  busi- 
 ness, and  totally  incapable  of  all  the  finer  emotions  of 
 the  soul,  I  could  not  conceive  what  ground  of  com- 
 plaint he  could  haVe  against  Melancholy,  who,  I  was 
 persuaded,  would  never  have  deigned  to  take  up  her 
 i'esidence   for   a  moment  in  his  breast.     When  I  recol- 
 
233 
 
 lected,  however,  that  he  had  some  sparks  of  ambition 
 in  his  composition,  and  that  he  was  an  envious  carp- 
 ino-  Httle  mortal,  who  had  formed  the  design  of  should- 
 ering himself  into  notice  by  decrying  the  defects  of 
 others,  while  he  was  insensible  to  his  own,  my  amaze- 
 ment and  my  apprehensions  vanished,  as  I  perceived  he 
 only  wanted  to  make  a  display  of  his  own  talent,  in 
 doing  which  I  did  not  fear  his  making  himself  sufficiently 
 ritiiculous. 
 
 After  a  good  deal  of  irrelevant  circumlocution,  he  bold- 
 ly began  the  accusation  of  Melancholy.  I  shall  not  dwell 
 upon  many  absurd  and  many  invidious  parts  of  his  speech, 
 nor  upon  the  many  blunders  in  the  misapplication  of  words, 
 such  as  "  deduce"  for  "  detract"  and  others  of  a  similar 
 nature,  which  my  poor  friend  committed  in  the  course  of 
 his  harangue,  but  shall  only  dwell  upon  the  material  parts 
 of  the  charge. 
 
 He  represented  the  prisoner  as  the  offspring  of  Idleness 
 and  Discontent^  who  was  at  all  times  a  sulky,  sullen,  and 
 "  eminently  useless''  member  of  the  community,  and  not  un- 
 frequently  a  very  dangerous  one.  He  declared  it  to  be  his 
 opinion,  that  in  case  she  were  to  be  suffered  to  prevail, 
 mankind  would  soon  become  "  too  idle  to  go,'*  and  would 
 all  lie  down  and  perish  through  indolence,  or  through  for- 
 getting that  sustenance  was  necessary  for  the  preservation 
 of  existence;  and  concluded  with  painting  the  horrors 
 which  would  attend  such  a  depopulation  of  the  earth,  in 
 
234 
 
 such  colours  as  made  many  weak  minds  regard  the  goddess 
 with  fear  and  abhorrence. 
 
 Having  concluded,  the  accused  was  called  upon  for  her 
 defence.     She  immediately,  with  a  graceful  gesture,  lifted 
 up  the  veil  which  concealed  her  face,  and  discovered  a 
 countenance  so  soft,  so  lovely,  and  so  sweetly  expressive, 
 as  to  strike  the   beholders   with  involuntary  admiration, 
 and  which,   at  one  glance,    overturned  all  the  flimsy  so- 
 phistry of  my  poor  friend  the  citizen :  and  when  the  silver 
 tones  of  her  voice  were  heard,  the  murmurs,  which  until 
 then  had  continually  arisen  from  the  crowd,  were  hushed  to 
 a  dead  still,  and  the  whole  multitude  stood  transfixed  in 
 breathless  attention.    As  near  as  I  can  recollect,  these  were 
 the  words  in  which  she  addressed  herself  to  the  throne  of 
 wisdom : 
 
 /  shall  not  deign  to  give  a  direct  ans'isoer  to  the  various 
 insinuations  ns^hich  have  been  thronm  out  against  me  hy  my 
 accuser.  Let  it  suffice  that  I  declare  my  true  history,  in 
 opposition  to  that  which  has  been  so  artfully  fabricated  to 
 my  disadvantage.  In  that  eai'ly  age  of  the  world,  when 
 mankind  followed  the  peaceful  avocations  of  a  pastoral 
 life  only,  and  contentment  and  harmony  reigned  in  every 
 vale,  I  was  not  known  among  men ;  but  when,  in  process 
 of  time.  Ambition  and  Vice,  with  their  attendant  evils, 
 were  sent  down  as  a  scourge  to  the  human  race,  I  made 
 my  appearance.  I  am  the  offspring  of  Misfortune  and 
 Virtue,  and  was  sent  by  Heaven  to  teach  my  parents  how 
 
235 
 
 to  support  their  afflictions  with  magnanimity.     As  I  grew 
 up,  I  became  the  intimate   friend   ot   the  wisest   among 
 men.     I  was  the  bosom  friend  of  Plato,  and  other  illus- 
 trious sages  of  antiquity,  and  was  then  often  known  by 
 the  name  of  Philosophy,  though,  in  present  times,  when 
 that  title  is  usurped  by  mere  makers  of  experiments,  and 
 inventors   of  blacking-cakes,   I    am  only   known  by   the 
 appellation  of  Melancholy.    So  far  from  being  of  a  discon- 
 tented disposition,  my  very  essence  is  pious  and  resigned 
 contentment.     I  teach  my  votaries  to  support  every  vicis- 
 situde of  fortune  with  calmness  and  fortitude.     It  is  mine 
 to  subdue  the  stormy  propensities  of  passion  and  vice,  to 
 foster  and   encourage  the  principles  of  benevolence  and 
 philanthropy,  and  to  cherish  and  bring  to  perfection  the 
 seeds  of  virtue  and  wisdom.     Though  feared  and  hated 
 by  those  who,  like  my  accuser,  are  ignorant  of  my  nature, 
 I  am  courted  and  cherished   by  all  the  truly  wise,  the 
 good,  and  the  great ;  the  poet  wooes  me  as  the  goddess  of 
 inspiration;   the    true  philosopher   acknowledges   himself 
 indebted  to  me  for  his  most  expansive  views  of  human 
 nature ;  the  good  man  owes  to  me  that  hatred  of  the  wrong 
 and   love  of  the  right,   and   that  disdain  for  the  conse- 
 quences which   may  result  from  the  performance  of  his 
 duties,  which  keeps  him  good ;  and  the  religious  flies  to  me 
 for  the  only  clear  and  unencumbered  view  of  the  attributes 
 and  perfections  of  the  Deity.     So  far  from  being  idle,  my 
 mind  is  ever  on  the  wing  in  the  regions  of  fancy,  or  that 
 true  philosophy  which  opens  the  book  of  human  nature, 
 and  raises  the  soul  above  the  evils  incident  to  life.     If  I 
 
236 
 
 am  useless,  in  the  same  degree  were  Plato  and  Socrates, 
 Locke  and  Paley,  useless ;  it  is  true  that  my  immediate 
 influence  is  confined,  but  its  effects  are  disseminated  by 
 means  of  literature  over  every  age  and  nation,  and  man- 
 kind, in  every  generation,  and  in  every  clime,  may  look 
 to  me  as  their  remote  illuminator,  the  original  spring  of 
 the  principal  intellectual  benefits  they  possess.  But  as 
 there  is  no  good  without  its  attendant  evil,  so  I  have  an 
 elder  sister,  called  Phrenzy,  for  whom  I  have  often  been 
 mistaken,  who  sometimes  follows  close  on  my  steps,  and 
 to  her  I  owe  much  of  the  obloquy  which  is  attached  to  my 
 name ;  though  the  puerile  accusation  which  has  just  been 
 brought  against  me  turns  on  points  which  apply  more  ex- 
 clusively to  myself. 
 
 She  ceased,  and  a  dead  pause  ensued.  The  multi- 
 tude seemed  struck  with  the  fascination  of  her  utter- 
 ance and  gesture,  and  the  sounds  of  her  voice  still 
 seemed  to  vibrate  on  every  ear.  The  attention  of  the 
 assembly,  however,  was  soon  recalled  to  the  accuser,  and 
 their  indignation  at  his  baseness  rose  to  such  a  height 
 as  to  threaten  general  tumult,  when  the  Goddess  of 
 Wisdom  arose,  and,  waving  her  hand  for  silence,  beck- 
 oned the  prisoner  to  her,  placed  her  on  her  right  hand, 
 and,  with  a  sweet  smile,  acknowledged  her  for  her  old 
 companion  and  friend.  She  then  turned  to  the  accuser, 
 with  a  frown  of  severity  so  terrible,  that  I  involuntarily 
 started  with  terror  from  my  poor  misguided  friend,  and 
 with  the  violence  of  the  start  I  awoke,  and,  instead  of  the 
 
237 
 
 throne  of  the  Goddess  of  Wisdom,  and  the  vast  assembly 
 
 of  people,  beheld  the  first  rays  of  the  morning  peeping 
 
 over  the  eastern  cloud;  and,  instead  of  the  loud  murmurs 
 
 of  the  incensed  multitude,    heard   nothing    but    the   soft 
 
 gurgling  of  the  river  at  my  feet,    and  the  rustling  wing 
 
 of  the  sky-lark,    who  was  now   beginning  his  first  matin 
 
 song. 
 
 W. 
 
oq 
 
 38 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 (No.  IV.) 
 
 S/coTTTjo'ajUcj'os  eupia-KOV  ov^a/xoos  av  aWws  ov  ros;  SiaTTpa^aixsvos. 
 
 Isocn. 
 
 The  world  has  often  heard  of  fortune-hunters,  legacy- 
 hunters,  popularity-hunters,  and  hunters  of  various  de- 
 scriptions —  one  diversity,  however,  of  this  very  extensive 
 species  has  hitherto  eluded  public  animadversion :  I  allude 
 to  the  class  of  friend-hunters — men  who  make  it  the  busi- 
 ness of  their  lives  to  acquire  friends,  in  the  hope,  through 
 their  influence,  to  arrive  at  some  desirable  point  of  ambi- 
 tious eminence.  Of  all  the  mortifications  and  anxieties  to 
 which  mankind  voluntarily  subject  themselves,  from  the  ex- 
 pectation of  future  benefit,  there  are,  perhaps,  none  more 
 galling,  none  more  insupportable,  than  those  attendant  on 
 friend-making.  —  Show  a  man  that  you  court  his  society, 
 and  it  is  a  signal  for  him  to  treat  you  with  neglect  and  con- 
 tumely. Humour  his  passions,  and  he  despises  you  as  a 
 sycophant.  Pay  implicit  deference  to  his  opinions,  and  he 
 laughs  at  you  for  your  folly.  In  all,  he  views  you  with 
 contempt,  as  the  creature  of  his  will,  and  the  slave  of  his 
 caprice.  I  remember  I  once  soKcited  the  acquaintance  and 
 coveted  the  friendship  of  one  man,  and,  thank  God,  I  can 
 yet  say  (and  I  hope  on  my  death-bed  I  shall  be  able  to  say 
 the  same)  of  only  one  man. 
 
239 
 
 Germanicus  was  a  character  of  considerable  eminence 
 in  the  literary  world.  He  had  the  reputation  not  only 
 of  an  enlightened  understanding  and  refined  taste,  but 
 of  openness  of  heart  and  goodness  of  disposition.  His 
 name  always  carried  with  it  that  weight  and  authority 
 which  are  due  to  learning  and  genius  in  every  situation. 
 His  manners  were  polished,  and  his  conversation  ele- 
 gant. In  short,  he  possessed  every  qualification  which 
 could  render  him  an  enviable  addition  to  the  circle  of 
 every  man's  friends.  With  such  a  character,  as  I  was 
 then  very  young,  I  could  not  fail  to  feel  an  ambition  of 
 becoming  acquainted,  when  the  opportunity  offered,  and 
 in  a  short  time  we  were  upon  terms  of  familiarity.  To 
 ripen  this  familiarity  into  friendship,  as  far  as  the  most 
 awkward  diffidence  would  permit,  was  my  strenuous 
 endeavour.  If  his  opinions  contradicted  mine,  I  imme- 
 diately, without  reasoning  on  the  subject,  conceded  the 
 point  to  him  as  a  matter  of  course  that  he  must  be  right, 
 and  by  consequence  that  I  must  be  wrong.  Did  he  utter 
 a  witticism,  I  was  sure  to  laugh  ;  and  if  he  looked  grave, 
 though  nobody  could  tell  why,  it  was  mine  to  groan. 
 By  thus  conforming  myself  to  his  humour,  I  flattered 
 myself  I  was  making  some  progress  in  his  good  graces, 
 but  I  was  soon  undeceived.  A  man  seldom  cares  much 
 for  that  which  costs  him  no  pains  to  procure.  Whether 
 Germanicus  found  me  a  troublesome  visitor,  or  whether 
 he  was  really  displeased  with  something  I  had  unwit- 
 tingly said  or  done,  certain  it  is,  that  when  I  met  him 
 one  day,  in  company  with  persons  of  apparent  figure,  he 
 had   lost  all  recollection  of  my  features.     I   called  upon 
 
240 
 
 him,  but  Germanicus  was  not  at  home.  Again  and 
 again  I  gave  a  hesitating  knock  at  the  great  man's  dooi' — 
 all  was  to  no  purpose.  He  was  still  not  at  home.  The 
 sly  meaning,  however,  which  was  couched  in  the  sneer 
 of  the  servant  the  last  time  that,  lialf  ashamed  of  my 
 errand,  I  made  my  enquiries  at  his  house,  convinced 
 me  of  what  I  ought  to  have  known  before,  that  Ger- 
 manicus was  at  home  to  all  the  world  save  me.  I  be- 
 lieve, with  all  my  seeming  humility,  I  am  a  confounded 
 proud  fellow  at  bottom ;  my  rage  at  this  discovery, 
 therefore,  may  be  better  conceived  than  described.  Ten 
 thousand  curses  did  I  imprecate  on  the  foolish  vanity 
 which  led  me  to  solicit  the  friendship  of  my  superior,  and 
 again  and  again  did  I  vow  down  eternal  vengeance  on 
 my  head,  if  I  evermore  condescended  thus  to  court  the 
 acquaintance  of  man.  To  this  resolution  I  believe  I  shall 
 ever  adhere.  If  I  am  destined  to  make  any  progress  in 
 the  world,  it  will  be  by  my  own  individual  exertions. 
 As  I  elbow  my  way  through  the  crowded  vale  of  life, 
 I  will  never,  in  any  emergency,  call  on  my  selfish  neigh- 
 bour for  assistance.  If  my  strength  give  way  beneath  the 
 pressure  of  calamity,  I  shall  sink  without  his  whine  of 
 hypocritical  condolence :  and  if  I  do  sink,  let  him  kick 
 me  into  a  ditch,  and  go  about  his  business.  I  asked  not 
 his  assistance  while  living,  it  will  be  of  no  service  to  me 
 when  dead. 
 
 Believe  me,  reader,  whoever  thou  mayest  be,  there 
 are  few  among  mortals  whose  friendship,  when  acquired, 
 will   repay    thee  for  the  meanness   of  solicitation.     If  a 
 
241 
 
 man  voluntarily  holds  out  his  hand  to  thee,  take  it  with 
 caution.  If  thou  find  him  honest,  be  not  backward  to  re- 
 ceive his  proffered  assistance,  and  be  anxious,  when  occa- 
 sion shall  require,  to  yield  to  him  thine  own.  A  real  friend 
 is  the  most  valuable  blessing  a  man  can  possess,  and,  mark 
 me,  it  is  by  far  the  most  rare.  It  is  a  black  swan.  But, 
 whatever  thou  mayest  do,  solicit  not  friendship.  If  thou 
 art  young,  and  would  make  thy  way  in  the  world,  bind 
 thyself  a  seven  years*  apprentice  to  a  city  tallow-chandler, 
 and  thou  mayest  in  time  come  to  be  lord  mayor.  Many 
 people  have  made  their  fortunes  at  a  tailor's  board.  Peri- 
 wig-makers have  been  known  to  buy  their  country-seats, 
 and  bellows-menders  have  started  their  curricles;  but 
 seldom,  very  seldom,  has  the  man  who  placed  his  de- 
 pendence on  the  friendship  of  his  fellow-men  arrived  at 
 even  the  shadow  of  the  honours  to  which,  through  that 
 medium,  he  aspired.  Nay,  even  if  thou  shouldst  find  a 
 friend  ready  to  lend  thee  a  helping  hand,  the  moment,  by 
 his  assistance,  thou  hast  gained  some  little  eminence,  he 
 will  be  the  first  to  hurl  thee  down  to  thy  primitive,  and 
 now,  perhaps,  irremediable  obscurity. 
 
 Yet  I  see  no  more  reason  for  complaint  on  the  ground 
 of  the  fallacy  of  human  friendship,  than  I  do  for  any  other 
 ordonnance  of  nature,  which  may  appear  to  run  counter  to 
 our  happiness.  Man  is  naturally  a  selfish  creature,  and  it 
 is  only  by  the  aid  of  philosophy  that  he  can  so  far  conquer 
 the  defects  of  his  being,  as  to  be  capable  of  disinterested 
 friendship.  Who^  then,  can  expect  to  find  that  benign 
 disposition,  which  manifests  itself  in  acts  of  disinterested 
 
 VOL.   II.  R 
 
242 
 
 benevolence  and  spontaneous  affection,  a  common  visitor  i 
 Who  can  preach  philosophy  to  the  mob  ?  * 
 
 The  recluse,  who  does  not  easily  assimilate  with  the 
 herd  of  mankind,  and  whose  manners  with  difficulty  bend 
 to  the  peculiarities  of  others,  is  not  likely  to  have  many 
 real  friends.  His  enjoyments,  therefore,  must  be  solitary, 
 lone,  and  melancholy.  His  only  friend  is  himself  As  he 
 sits  immersed  in  reverie  by  his  midnight  fire,  and  hears 
 without  the  wild  gusts  of  wind  fitfully  careering  over  the 
 plain,  he  listens  sadly  attentive ;  and  as  the  varied  inton- 
 ations of  the  howling  blast  articulate  to  his  enthusiastic  ear, 
 he  converses  with  the  spirits  of  the  departed,  whUe,  be- 
 tween each  dreary  pause  of  the  storm,  he  holds  solitary 
 communion  with  himself  Such  is  the  social  intercourse  of 
 the  recluse ;  yet  he  frequently  feels  the  soft  consolations 
 of  friendship.  A  heart  formed  for  the  gentler  emotions  of 
 the  soul,  oftens  feels  as  strong  an  interest  for  what  are 
 called  brutes,  as  most  bipeds  affect  to  feel  for  each  other. 
 Montaigne  had  his  cat ;  I  have  read  of  a  man  whose  only 
 friend  was  a  large  spider;  and  Trenck,  in  his  dungeon, 
 would  sooner  have  lost  his  right  hand,  than  the  poor 
 little  mouse,  which,  grown  confident  with  indulgence,  used 
 to  beguile  the  tedious  hours  of  imprisonment  with  its  gam- 
 
 *  By  the  word  mob  here,  the  author  does  not  mean  to  include  merely 
 the  lower  classes.  In  the  present  acceptation,  it  takes  in  a  great  part  of 
 the  mob  of  quality ;  men  who  are  either  too  ignorant,  or  too  much 
 taken  up  with  base  and  grovelling  pursuits,  to  have  room  for  any  of  the 
 more  amiable  affections. 
 
243 
 
 bols.  For  my  own  part,  I  believe  my  dog,  who,  at  this 
 moment,  seated  on  his  hinder  legs,  is  wistfully  surveying 
 me,  as  if  he  was  conscious  of  all  that  is  passing  in  my 
 mind  :  —  my  dog,  I  say,  is  as  sincere,  and,  whatever  the 
 world  may  say,  nearly  as  dear  a  friend,  as  any  I  possess  ; 
 and,  when  I  shall  receive  that  summons  which  may  not 
 now  be  far  distant,  he  will  whine  a  funeral  requiem  over 
 my  grave,  more  piteously  than  all  the  hired  mourners  in 
 Christendom.  Well,  well,  poor  Bob  has  had  a  kind  mas- 
 ter of  me,  and,  for  my  own  part,  I  verily  believe  there  are 
 few  things  on  this  earth  I  shall  leave  with  more  regret  than 
 this  faithful  companion  of  the  happy  hours  of  my  infancy. 
 
 W. 
 
 R    2 
 
244 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 
 (No.  V.) 
 
 Un  Sonnet  sans  defaut  vaut  seul  un  long  poeme, 
 Mais  en  vain  mille  auteurs  y  pensent  arriver  ; 
 
 A  peine  
 
 peut-on  admirer  deux  ou  trois  entre  mille. 
 
 BoiLEAU. 
 
 There  is  no  species  of  poetry  which  is  better  adapted 
 to  the  taste  of  a  melancholy  man  than  the  sonnet.  While 
 its  brevity  precludes  the  possibiUty  of  its  becoming  tire- 
 some, and  its  full  and  expected  close  accords  well  with  his 
 dejected,  and  perhaps  somewhat  languid  tone  of  mind,  its 
 elegiac  delicacy  and  querimonious  plaintiveness  come  in 
 pleasing  consonance  with  his  feelings. 
 
 This  elegant  little  poem  has  met  with  a  peculiar  fate  in 
 this  country :  half  a  century  ago  it  was  regarded  as  utterly 
 repugnant  to  the  nature  of  our  language,  while  at  present 
 it  is  the  popular  vehicle  of  the  most  admired  sentiments  of 
 our  best  living  poets.  This  remarkable  mutation  in  the 
 opinions  of  our  countrymen  may,  however,  be  accounted 
 for  on  plain  and  common  principles.  The  earlier  English 
 sonnetteers  confined  themselves  in  general  too  strictly  to 
 the  Italian  model,  as  well  in  the  disposition  of  the  rhymes, 
 as  in  the  cast  of  the  ideas.     A  sonnet  with  them  was  only 
 
245 
 
 another  word  for  some  metaphysical  conceit,  or  clumsy 
 antithesis,  contained  in  fourteen  harsh  lines,  full  of  ob- 
 scure inversions  and  ill-managed  expletives.  They  bound 
 themselves  down  to  a  pattern  which  was  in  itself  faulty, 
 and  they  met  with  the  common  fate  of  servile  imitators, 
 in  retaining  all  the  defects  of  their  original,  while  they 
 suffered  the  beauties  to  escape  in  the  process.  Their 
 sonnets  are  like  copies  of  a  bad  picture ,  however  accu- 
 rately copied,  they  are  still  bad.  Our  contemporaries,  on 
 the  contrary,  have  given  scope  to  their  genius  in  the  son- 
 net without  restraint,  sometimes  even  growing  licentious  in 
 their  liberty,  setting  at  defiance  those  rules  which  form  its 
 distinguishing  peculiarity,  and,  under  the  name  of  sonnet, 
 soaring  or  falling  into  ode  or  elegy.  Their  compositions, 
 of  course,  are  impressed  with  all  those  excellencies  which 
 would  have  marked  their  respective  productions  in  any 
 similar  walk  of  poetry. 
 
 It  has  never  been  disputed  that  the  sonnet  first  arrived 
 at  celebrity  in  the  Italian :  a  language  which,  as  it  abounds 
 in  a  musical  similarity  of  terminations,  is  more  eminently 
 qualified  to  give  ease  and  eloquence  to  the  legitimate  son- 
 net, restricted  as  it  is  to  stated  and  frequently-recurring 
 rhymes  of  the  same  class.  As  to  the  inventors  of  this 
 little  structure  of  verse,  they  are  involved  in  impenetrable 
 obscurity.  Some  authors  have  ascribed  it  singly  to  Gui- 
 tone  D'Arezzo,  an  Italian  poet  of  the  thirteenth  century, 
 but  they  have  no  sort  of  authority  to  adduce  in  support  of 
 their  assertions.  Arguing  upon  probabilities,  with  some 
 slight  coincidental  corroborations,    I  should    be  inclined 
 
 R   3 
 
246 
 
 to  maintain  that  its  origin  may  be  referred  to  an  earlier 
 period ;  that  it  may  be  looked  for  among  the  Provengals, 
 who  left  scarcely  any  combination  of  metrical  sounds  un- 
 attempted ;  and  who,  delighting  as  they  did  in  sound  and 
 jingle,  might  very  possibly  strike  out  this  harmonious 
 stanza  of  fourteen  lines.  Be  this  as  it  may,  Dante  and 
 Petrarch  were  the  first  poets  who  rendered  it  popular,  and 
 to  Dante  and  Petrarch  therefore  we  must  resort  for  its 
 required  rules. 
 
 In  an  ingenious  paper  of  Dr.  Drake's  "Literary  Hours," 
 a  book  which  I  have  read  again  and  again  with  undimi- 
 nished pleasure,  the  merits  of  the  various  English  writers 
 in  this  delicate  mode  of  composition  are  appreciated  with 
 much  justice  and  discrimination.  His  veneration  for 
 Milton,  however,  has,  if  I  may  venture  to  oppose  my 
 judgment  to  his,  carried  him  too  far  in  praise  of  his  son- 
 nets. Those  to  the  Nightingale  and  to  Mr.  Lawrence  are, 
 I  think,  alone  entitled  to  the  praise  of  mediocrity ,  and,  if 
 my  memory  fail  me  not,  my  opinion  is  sanctioned  by 
 the  testimony  of  our  late  illustrious  biographer  of  the 
 poets. 
 
 The  sonnets  of  Drummond  are  characterised  as  ex- 
 quisite. It  is  somewhat  strange,  if  this  description  be  just, 
 that  they  should  so  long  have  sunk  into  utter  oblivion,  to 
 be  revived  only  by  a  species  of  black-letter  mania^  which 
 prevailed  during  the  latter  half  of  the  eighteenth  century, 
 and  of  which  some  vestiges  yet  remain ;  the  more  espe- 
 cially as  Dr.  Johnson,    to  whom  they  could  scarcely  be 
 
24Y 
 
 unknown,  tells  us,  that  "  The  fabric  of  the  sonnet  has 
 necer  succeeded  in  our  language."  For  my  own  part  I 
 can  say  nothing  of  them.  I  have  long  sought  a  copy  of 
 Drummond's  works,  and  I  have  sought  it  in  vain;  but 
 from  specimens  which  I  have  casually  met  with,  in  quo- 
 tations, I  am  forcibly  inclined  to  favour  the  idea,  that, 
 as  they  possess  natural  and  pathetic  sentiments,  clothed 
 in  tolerably  harmonious  language,  they  are  entitled  to  the 
 praise  which  has  been  so  hberally  bestowed  on  them. 
 
 Sir  Philip  Sidney's  Astrophel  and  Stella  consists  of  a 
 number  of  sonnets,  which  have  been  unaccountably  passed 
 over  by  Dr.  Drake,  and  all  our  other  critics  who  have 
 written  on  this  subject.  Many  of  them  are  eminently 
 beautiful.  The  works  of  this  neglected  poet  may  occupy 
 a  future  number  of  my  lucubrations. 
 
 Excepting  these  two  poets,  I  believe  there  is  scarcely 
 a  writer  who  has  arrived  at  any  degree  of  excellence  in 
 the  sonnet,  until  of  late  years,  when  our  vernacular  bards 
 have  raised  it  to  a  degree  of  eminence  and  dignity 
 among  the  various  kinds  of  poetical  composition,  which 
 seems  almost  incompatible  with  its  very  circumscribed 
 limits. 
 
 Passing  over  the  classical  compositions  of  Warton, 
 which  are  formed  more  on  the  model  of  the  Greek  epi- 
 gram, or  epitaph,  that  the  Italian  sonnet,  Mr.  Bowles  and 
 Charlotte  Smith  are  the  first  modern  writers  who  have  met 
 
 R  4 
 
248 
 
 with  distinguished  success  in  the  sonnet.  Those  of  the 
 former,  in  particular,  are  standards  of  excellence  in  this 
 department.  To  much  natural  and  accurate  description,  they 
 unite  a  strain  of  the  most  exquisitely  tender  and  delicate 
 sentiment ;  and,  with  a  nervous  strength  of  diction,  and  a 
 wild  freedom  of  versification,  they  combine  an  euphonious 
 melody,  and  consonant  cadence,  unequalled  in  the  Eng- 
 lish language.  While  they  possess,  however,  the  superior 
 merit  of  an  original  style,  they  are  not  unfrequently  de- 
 formed by  instances  of  that  ambitious  singularity  which  is 
 but  too  frequently  its  concomitant.  Of  these  the  intro- 
 duction of  rhymes  long  since  obsolete,  is  not  the  least 
 striking.  Though,  in  some  cases,  these  revivals  of  anti- 
 quated phrase  have  a  pleasing  eflPect,  yet  they  are  oftentimes 
 uncouth  and  repulsive.  Mr.  Bowles  has  almost  always 
 thrown  aside  the  common  rules  of  the  sonnet ;  his  pieces 
 have  no  more  claim  to  that  specific  denomination,  than  that 
 they  are  confined  to  fourteen  lines.  How  far  this  deviation 
 from  established  principle  is  justifiable,  may  be  disputed  : 
 for  if,  on  the  one  hand,  it  be  alleged  that  the  confinement 
 to  the  stated  repetition  of  rhymes,  so  distant  and  frequent, 
 is  a  restraint  which  is  not  compensated  by  an  adequate 
 effect  on  the  other,  it  must  be  conceded,  that  these  little 
 poems  are  no  longer  sonnets  than  while  they  conform  to 
 the  rules  of  the  sonnet,  and  that  the  moment  they  forsake 
 them,  they  ought  to  resign  the  appellation. 
 
 The  name  bears  evident  affinity  to  the  Italian  sondire^ 
 "  to  resound "  —  "  sing  armmdy'  which  originated  in  the 
 
249 
 
 Latin  sonans,  —  soundings  jingling,  ringing  :  or,  indeed,  it 
 may  come  immediately  from  the  French  sonner,  to  sound, 
 or  ring,  in  which  language,  it  is  observable,  we  first  meet 
 with  the  word  sonnette,  where  it  signifies  a  little  bell, 
 and  sonnettier,  a  maker  of  little  bells ;  and  this  derivation 
 affords  a  presumption,  almost  amounting  to  certainty, 
 that  the  conjecture  before  advanced,  that  the  sonnet  ori- 
 ginated with  the  Provencals,  is  well  founded.  It  is  some- 
 what strange  that  these  contending  derivations  have  not 
 been  before  observed,  as  they  tend  to  settle  a  question, 
 which,  however  intrinsically  unimportant,  is  curious,  and 
 has  been  much  agitated. 
 
 But,  wherever  the  name  originated,  it  evidently  bears 
 relation  only  to  the  peculiarity  of  a  set  of  chiming  and 
 jingling  terminations,  and  of  course  can  no  longer  be 
 applied  with  propriety  where  that  peculiarity  is  not 
 preserved. 
 
 The  single  stanza  of  fourteen  lines,  properly  varied  in 
 their  correspondent  closes,  is,  notwithstanding,  so  well 
 adapted  for  the  expression  of  any  pathetic  sentiment,  and 
 is  so  pleasing  and  satisfactory  to  the  ear,  when  once  ac- 
 customed to  it,  that  our  poetry  would  suffer  a  material 
 loss  were  it  to  be  disused  through  a  rigid  adherence  to 
 mere  propriety  of  name.  At  the  same  time,  our  language 
 does  not  supply  a  sufficiency  of  similar  terminations  to 
 render  the  strict  observance  of  its  rules  at  all  easy,  or  com- 
 patible with  ease  or  elegance.     The  only  question,  there- 
 
250 
 
 fore,  is,  whether  the  musical  effect  produced  by  the  ad- 
 herence to  this  difficult  structure  of  verse  overbalance  the 
 restraint  it  imposes  on  the  poet,  and  in  case  we  decide  in 
 the  negative,  whether  we  ought  to  preserve  the  denomina- 
 tion of  sonnet,  when  we  utterly  renounce  the  very  peculia- 
 rities which  procured  it  that  cognomen. 
 
 In  the  present  enlightened  age,  I  think  it  will  not  be 
 disputed  that  mere  jingle  and  sound  ought  invariably  to 
 be  sacrificed  to  sentiment  and  expression.  Musical  effect 
 is  a  very  subordinate  consideration ;  it  is  the  gilding  to 
 the  cornices  of  a  Vitruvian  edifice ;  the  colouring  to  a 
 shaded  design  of  Michael  Angelo.  In  its  place,  it  adds  to 
 the  effect  of  the  whole ;  but,  when  rendered  a  principal 
 object  of  attention,  it  is  ridiculous  and  disgusting.  Rhyme 
 is  no  necessary  adjunct  of  true  poetry.  Southey's  Tha- 
 laba  is  a  fine  poem,  with  no  rhyme,  and  very  little  measure 
 or  metre ;  and  the  production  which  is  reduced  to  mere 
 prose,  by  being  deprived  of  its  jingle,  could  never  possess, 
 in  any  state,  the  marks  of  inspiration. 
 
 So  far,  therefore,  I  am  of  opinion  that  it  is  advisable 
 to  renounce  the  Italian  fabric  altogether.  We  have 
 already  sufficient  restrictions  laid  upon  us  by  the  metrical 
 laws  of  our  native  tongue,  and  I  do  not  see  any  reason, 
 out  of  a  blind  regard  for  precedent,  to  tie  ourselves  to  a 
 difficult  structure  of  verse,  which  probably  originated 
 with  the  Troubadours,  or  wandering  bards  of  France  and 
 Normandy,  or  with  a  yet  ruder  race,  one  which  is  not 
 
251 
 
 productive  of  any  rational  eiFect,  and  which  only  pleases 
 the  ear  by  frequent  repetition,  as  men  who  have  once  had 
 the  greatest  aversion  to  strong  wines  and  spirituous 
 liquors,  are,  by  habit,  at  last  brought  to  regard  them  as 
 delicacies. 
 
 In  advancing  this  opinion,  I  am  aware  that  1  am  op- 
 posing myself  to  the  declared  sentiments  of  many  indivi- 
 duals whom  I  greatly  respect  and  admire.  Miss  Seward 
 (and  Miss  Seward  is  in  herself  a  host)  has,  both  theoreti- 
 cally and  practically,  defended  the  Italian  structure.  Mr. 
 Capel  Loift  has  likewise  favoured  the  world  with  many 
 sonnets,  in  which  he  shows  his  approval  of  the  legitimate 
 model  by  his  adherence  to  its  rules,  and  many  of  the 
 beautiful  poems  of  Mrs.  Lofft,  published  in  the  Monthly 
 Mirror,  are  likewise  successfully  formed  by  those  rules. 
 Much,  however,  as  I  admire  these  writers,  and  ample  as 
 is  the  credence  I  give  to  their  critical  discrimination,  I 
 cannot,  on  mature  reflection,  subscribe  to  their  position 
 of  the  expediency  of  adopting  this  structure  in  our  poetry, 
 and  I  attribute  their  success  in  it  more  to  their  individual 
 powers,  which  would  have  surmounted  much  greater 
 difficulties,  than  to  the  adaptability  of  this  foreign  fabric  to 
 our  stubborn  and  intractable  language. 
 
 If  the  question,  however,  turn  only  on  the  propriety 
 of  giving  to  a  poem  a  name  which  must  be  acknow- 
 ledged to  be  entirely  inappropriate,  and  to  which  it  can 
 have  no  sort  of  claim,  I  must  confess  that  it  is  manifestly 
 
252 
 
 indefensible;  and  we  must  then  either  pitch  upon  an- 
 other appellation  for  our  quatorzain,  or  banish  it  from  our 
 language ;  a  measure  which  every  lover  of  true  poetry  must 
 sincerely  lament. 
 
253 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 
 (No.  VL) 
 
 Full  many  a  flow'r  is  born  to  blush  unseen, 
 And  waste  its  sweetness  on  the  desart  air. 
 
 Gray. 
 
 Poetry  is  a  blossom  of  very  delicate  growth ;  it  requires 
 the  maturing  influence  of  vernal  suns,  and  every  encou- 
 ragement of  culture  and  attention,  to  bring  it  to  its  natural 
 perfection.  The  pursuits  of  the  mathematician,  or  the 
 mechanical  genius,  are  such  as  require  rather  strength  and 
 insensibility  of  mind,  than  that  exquisite  and  finely-wrought 
 susceptibility,  which  invariably  marks  the  temperament  of 
 the  true  poet ;  and  it  is  for  this  reason,  that,  while  men 
 of  science  have  not  unfrequently  arisen  from  the  abodes 
 of  poverty  and  labour,  very  few  legitimate  children  of  the 
 Muse  have  ever  emerged  from  the  shades  of  hereditary 
 obscurity. 
 
 It  is  painful  to  reflect  how  many  a  bard  now  lies, 
 nameless  and  forgotten,  in  the  narrow  house,  who,  had 
 he  been  born  to  competence  and  leisure,  might  have 
 usurped  the  laurels  from  the  most  distinguished  per- 
 sonages in  the  temple  of  Fame.  The  very  consciousness 
 of  merit  itself  often  acts  in  direct  opposition  to  a  stimulus 
 to    exertion,    by  exciting   that   mournful    indignation  at 
 
254 
 
 supposititious  neglect,  which  urges  a  sullen  concealment 
 of  talent,  and  drives  its  possessor  to  that  misanthropic  dis- 
 content which  prays  on  the  vitals,  and  soon  produces  un- 
 timely mortality.  A  sentiment  like  this  has,  no  doubt, 
 often  actuated  beings,  who  attracted  notice,  perhaps,  while 
 they  lived,  only  by  their  singularity,  and  who  were  forgotten 
 almost  ere  their  parent  earth  had  closed  over  their  heads, 
 —  beings  who  lived  but  to  mourn  and  to  languish  for 
 what  they  were  never  destined  to  enjoy,  and  whose  exalted 
 endowments  were  buried  with  them  in  their  graves,  by  the 
 want  of  a  little  of  that  superfluity  which  serves  to  pamper 
 the  debased  appetites  of  the  enervated  sons  of  luxury 
 and  sloth. 
 
 The  present  age,  however,  has  furnished  us  with  two 
 illustrious  instances  of  poverty  bursting  through  the  cloud 
 of  suiTOunding  impediments  into  the  lull  blaze  of  notoriety 
 and  eminence.  I  allude  to  the  two  Bloomfields,  bards  who 
 may  challenge  a  comparison  with  the  most  distinguished 
 favourites  of  the  Muse,  and  who  both  passed  the  day-spring 
 of  life,  in  labour,  indigence,  and  obscurity. 
 
 The  author  of  the  Farmer's  Boy  hath  already  received 
 the  applause  he  justly  deserved.  It  yet  remains  for  the 
 Essay  on  War  to  enjoy  all  the  distinction  it  so  richly 
 merits,  as  well  from  its  sterling  worth,  as  from  the  cir- 
 cumstance of  its  author.  Wliether  the  present  age  will 
 be  inclined  to  do  it  full  justice,  may  indeed  be  feared. 
 Had   Mr.  Nathaniel  Bloomfield  made  his  appearance  in 
 
255 
 
 the  horizon  of  letters  prior  to  his  brotlier,  he  would  un- 
 doubtedly have  been  considered  as  a  meteor  of  uncommon 
 attraction;  the  critics  would  have  admired,  because 
 it  would  have  been  the  fashion  to  admire.  But  it  is  to 
 be  apprehended  that  our  countrymen  become  inured 
 to  phenomena ;  —  it  is  to  be  apprehended  that  the  fri- 
 volity of  the  age  cannot  endure  a  repetition  of  the  un- 
 common —  that  it  will  no  longer  be  the  rage  to  patronise 
 indigent  merit :  that  the  beau  monde  will  therefore  neglect, 
 and  that,  by  a  necessary  consequence,  the  critics  will 
 sneer !  ! 
 
 Nevertheless,  sooner  or  later,  merit  will  meet  with  its 
 reward;  and  though  the  popularity  of  Mr.  Bloomfield 
 may  be  delayed,  he  must^  at  one  time  or  other,  receive 
 the  meed  due  to  its  deserts.  Posterity  will  judge  impar- 
 tially ;  and  if  bold  and  vivid  images,  and  original  con- 
 ceptions, luminously  displayed,  and  judiciously  apposed, 
 have  any  claim  to  the  regard  of  mankind,  the  name  of 
 Nathaniel  Bloomfield  will  not  be  without  its  high  and 
 appropriate  honours. 
 
 Rousseau  very  truly  observes,  that  with  whatever 
 talent  a  man  may  be  born,  the  art  of  writing  is  not  easily 
 obtained.  If  this  be  applicable  to  men  enjoying  every 
 advantage  of  scholastic  initiation,  how  much  more  for- 
 cibly must  it  apply  to  the  offspring  of  a  poor  village 
 tailor,  untaught,  and  destitute  both  of  the  means  and 
 the  time  necessary  for  the  cultivation  of  the  mind  !  If 
 the  art  of  writing  be  of  difficult  attainment  to  those  who 
 
256 
 
 make  it  the  study  of  their  lives,  what  must  it  be  to  him, 
 who,  perhaps,  for  the  first  forty  years  of  his  Hfe,  never  en- 
 tertained a  thought  that  any  thing  he  could  write  would 
 be  deemed  worthy  of  the  attention  of  the  public  !  —  whose 
 only  time  for  rumination  was  such  as  a  sedentary  and 
 sickly  employment  would  allow ;  on  the  tailor's  board,  sur- 
 rounded with  men,  perhaps,  of  depraved  and  rude  habits, 
 and  impure  conversation  ! 
 
 And  yet,  that  Mr.  N.  Bloomfield's  poems  display 
 acuteness  of  remark,  and  deUcacy  of  sentiment,  com- 
 bined with  much  strength,  and  considerable  selection  of 
 diction,  few  will  deny.  The  Paean  to  Gunpowder  would 
 alone  prove  both  his  power  of  language,  and  the  fertility 
 of  his  imagination;  and  the  following  extract  presents 
 him  to  us  in  the  still  higher  character  of  a  bold  and 
 vivid  paint ei;  Describing  the  field  after  a  battle,  he 
 says, 
 
 Now  here  and  there,  about  the  horrid  field. 
 
 Striding  across  the  dying  and  the  dead. 
 
 Stalks  up  a  man,  by  strength  superior, 
 
 Or  skill  and  prowess  in  the  arduous  fight, 
 
 Preserv'd  alive  :  —  fainting  he  looks  around  ; 
 
 Fearing  pursuit  —  not  caring  to  pursue. 
 
 The  supplicating  voice  of  bitterest  moans. 
 
 Contortions  of  excruciating  pain. 
 
 The  shriek  of  torture,  and  the  groan  of  death. 
 
 Surround  him  ;  —  and  as  Night  her  mantle  spreads. 
 
 To  veil  the  horrors  of  the  mourning  field. 
 
257 
 
 With  cautious  step  shaping  his  devious  way, 
 He  seeks  a  covert  where  to  hide  and  rest  ^ 
 At  every  leaf  that  rustles  in  the  breeze 
 Starting,  he  grasps  his  sword ;  and  every  nerve 
 Is  ready  strain'd,  for  combat  or  for  flight. 
 
 P.  12.  Essay  on  War, 
 
 If  Mr.  Bloomfield  had  written  nothing  besides  the  Elegy 
 on  the  Enclosure  of  Honington  Green,  he  would  have  had 
 a  right  to  be  considered  as  a  poet  of  no  mean  excellence. 
 The  heart  which  can  read  passages  like  the  following,  with- 
 out a  sympathetic  emotion,  must  be  dead  to  every  feeling 
 of  sensibility. 
 
 STANZA  VI. 
 
 The  proud  city's  gay  wealthy  train, 
 
 Who  nought  but  refinement  adore. 
 May  wonder  to  hear  me  complain 
 
 That  Honington  Green  is  no  more  ; 
 Bnt  if  to  the  church  you  e'er  went, 
 
 If  you  knew  what  the  village  has  been, 
 You  will  sympathise  while  I  lament 
 
 The  enclosure  of  Honington  Green. 
 
 VII. 
 
 That  no  more  upon  Honington  Green 
 Dwells  the  matron  whom  most  I  revere, 
 
 If  by  pert  Observation  unseen, 
 
 I  e'en  now  could  indulge  a  fond  tear, 
 
 VOL.  II.  s 
 
258 
 
 Ere  her  bright  morn  of  life  was  o'ercast^ 
 When  my  senses  first  woke  to  the  scene. 
 
 Some  short  happy  hours  she  had  past 
 On  the  margin  of  Honington  Green. 
 
 VIII. 
 
 Her  parents  with  plenty  were  blest, 
 
 And  num'rous  her  children,  and  young, 
 Youth's  blossoms  her  cheek  yet  possest, 
 
 And  melody  woke  when  she  sung : 
 A  widow  so  youthful  to  leave, 
 
 (Early  clos'd  the  blest  days  he  had  seen,) 
 My  father  was  laid  in  his  grave. 
 
 In  the  church-yard  on  Honington  Green. 
 
 XXI. 
 
 Dear  to  me  was  the  wild  thorny  hill. 
 
 And  dear  the  brown  heath's  sober  scene; 
 
 And  youth  shall  find  happiness  still. 
 
 Though  he  rove  not  on  common  or  green. 
 
 XXII. 
 
 So  happily  flexile  man's  make, 
 So  pliantly  docile  his  mind. 
 
 Surrounding  impressions  we  take. 
 And  bliss  in  each  circumstance  find, 
 
259 
 
 The  youths  of  a  more  polish'd  age 
 
 Shall  not  wish  these  rude  commons  to  see ; 
 
 To  the  bird  that's  inur'd  to  the  cage, 
 It  would  not  be  bliss  to  be  free. 
 
 There  is  a  sweet  and  tender  melancholy  pervades  the 
 elegiac  ballad  efforts  of  Mr.  Bloomfield,  which  has  the  most 
 indescribable  effects  on  the  heart.  Were  the  versification  a 
 little  more  polished,  in  some  instances,  they  would  be  read 
 with  unmixed  delight.  It  is  to  be  hoped  that  he  will  cul- 
 tivate this  engaging  species  of  composition,  and,  (if  I  may 
 venture  to  throw  out  the  hint,)  if  judgment  may  be  formed 
 from  the  poems  he  has  published,  he  would  excel  in  sacred 
 poetry.  Most  heartily  dp  I  recommend  the  lyre  of  David 
 to  this  engaging  bard.  Divine  topics  have  seldom  been 
 touched  upon  with  success  by  our  modern  Muses :  they 
 afford  a  field  in  which  he  would  have  few  competitors,  and 
 it  is  a  field  worthy  of  his  abilities. 
 
 W. 
 
 s  2 
 
260 
 MELANCHOLY   HOURS. 
 
 {No.  vn.*) 
 
 If  the  situation  of  man,    in    the  present  life,  be  con- 
 sidered in  all  its  relations  and  dependencies,  a  striking  in- 
 consistency will  be  apparent  to  a  very  cursory  observer. 
 We  have  sure  warrant  for  believing  that  our  abode  here 
 is  to  form  a  comparatively  insignificant  part  of  our  exist- 
 ence,  and  that  on  our  conduct  in  this  life  will  depend  the 
 happiness  of  the  life  to  come ;  yet  our  actions  daily  give 
 the  lie  to  this  proposition,  inasmuch  as  we  commonly  act 
 like  men  who  have  no  thought  but  for  the  present  scene, 
 and  to  whom  the  grave  is  the  boundary  of  anticipation. 
 But  this  is  not  the  only  paradox  which  humanity  furnishes 
 to  the  eye  of  a  thinking  man.     It  is  very  generally  the 
 case,  that  we  spend  our  whole  lives  in  the  pursuit  of  ob- 
 jects, which  common  experience  informs  us  are  not  capa- 
 ble of  conferring  that  pleasure  and  satisfaction  which  we 
 expect  from  their  enjoyment.     Our  views  are  uniformly 
 directed  to  one  point :  —  hnj^piness  in  whatever  garb  it  be 
 clad,   and  under  whatever  figure  shadowed,  is  the  great 
 aim  of  the  busy  multitudes,    whom   we    behold    toiling 
 
 *  My  predecessor,  the  Spectator,  considering  that  the  seventh  part 
 of  our  time  is  set  apart  for  religious  purposes,  devoted  every  seventli 
 lucubration  to  matters  connected  with  Christianity,  and  the  severer  part 
 of  morals :  I  trust  none  of  my  readers  will  regret  that,  in  this  instance,  I 
 follow  so  good  an  example. 
 
261 
 
 through  the  vale  of  life,  in  such  an  infinite  diversity  of 
 occupation,  and  disparity  of  views.  But  the  misfortune 
 is,  that  we  seek  for  Happiness  where  she  is  not  to  be  found, 
 and  the  cause  of  wonder,  that  the  experience  of  ages 
 should  not  have  guarded  us  against  so  fatal  and  so  uni- 
 versal an  error. 
 
 It  would  be  an  amusing  speculation  to  consider  the 
 various  points  after  which  our  fellow-mortals  are  inces- 
 santly straining,  and  in  the  possession  of  which  they  have 
 placed  that  imaginary  chief  good  which  we  are  all 
 doomed  to  covet,  but  which,  perhaps,  none  of  us,  in  this 
 sublunary  state,  can  attain.  At  present,  however,  we 
 are  led  to  considerations  of  a  more  important  nature. 
 We  turn  from  the  inconsistencies  observable  in  the  prose- 
 cution of  our  subordinate  pursuits,  from  the  partial  fol- 
 lies of  individuals,  to  the  general  delusion  which  seems  to 
 envelope  the  whole  human  race :  —  the  delusion  under 
 whose  influence  they  lose  sight  of  the  chief  end  of  their 
 being,  and  cut  down  the  sphere  of  their  hopes  and  enjoy- 
 ments to  a  few  rolling  years,  and  that,  too,  in  a  scene  where 
 they  know  there  is  neither  perfect  fruition  nor  permanent 
 delight. 
 
 The  faculty  of  contemplating  mankind  in  the  abstract, 
 apart  from  those  prepossessions  which,  both  by  nature 
 and  the  power  of  habitual  associations,  would  intervene  to 
 cloud  our  view,  is  only  to  be  obtained  by  a  life  of  vnlue 
 and  constant  meditation,  by  temperance,  and  purity  of 
 thought.     Whenever  it  is  attained,  it  must  greatly  tend 
 
 s  3 
 
262 
 
 to  correct  our  motives  —  to  simplify  our  desires  —  and  to 
 excite  a  spirit  of  contentment  and  pious  resignation.  We 
 then,  at  length,  are  enabled  to  contemplate  our  being,  in 
 all  its  bearings,  and  in  its  full  extent,  and  the  result  is,  that 
 superiority  to  common  views,  and  indifference  to  the 
 things  of  this  life,  which  should  be  the  fruit  of  all  true 
 philosophy,  and  which,  therefore,  are  the  more  peculiar 
 fruits  of  that  system  of  philosophy  which  is  called  the 
 Christian. 
 
 To  a  mind  thus  sublimed,  the  great  mass  of  mankind 
 will  appear  like  men  led  astray  by  the  workings  of  wild 
 and  distempered  imaginations  —  visionaries  who  are  wan- 
 dering after  the  phantoms  of  their  own  teeming  brains, 
 and  their  anxious  solicitude  for  mere  matters  of  worldly 
 accommodation  and  ease  will  seem  more  like  the  effects 
 of  insanity  than  of  prudent  foresight,  as  they  are  esteem- 
 ed. To  the  awful  importance  of  futurity  he  will  observe 
 them  utterly  insensible;  and  he  will  see  with  astonish- 
 ment the  kw  allotted  years  of  human  life  wasted  m  pro- 
 viding abundance  they  will  never  enjoy,  while  the  eter- 
 nity they  are  placed  here  to  prepare  for,  scarcely  employs 
 a  moment's  consideration.  And  yet  the  mass  of  these 
 poor  wanderers  in  the  ways  of  error,  have  the  light  of 
 truth  shining  on  their  very  foreheads.  They  have  the  re- 
 velation of  Almighty  God  himself,  to  declare  to  them  the 
 folly  of  worldly  cares,  and  the  necessity  for  providing  for 
 a  future  state  of  existence.  They  know  by  the  expe- 
 rience of  every  preceding  generation,  that  a  very  small  por- 
 tion of  joy  is  allowed  to  the  poor  sojourners  in  this  vale  of 
 
26S 
 
 tears,  and  that,  too,  embittered  with  much  pain  and  fear , 
 and  yet  every  one  is  willing  to  flatter  himself  that  he  shall 
 fare  better  than  his  predecessor  in  the  same  path,  and  that 
 happiness  will  smile  on  him  which  hath  frowned  on  all  his 
 progenitors. 
 
 Still  it  would  be  wrong  to  deny  the  human  race  all 
 claim  to  temporal  felicity.  There  may  be  comparative 
 although  very  little  positive  happiness  ;  —  whoever  is  more 
 exempt  from  the  cares  of  the  world  and  the  calamities  in- 
 cident to  humanity  — -  whoever  enjoys  more  contentment 
 of  mind,  and  is  more  resigned  to  the  dispensations  of 
 Divine  Providence  —  in  a  word,  whoever  possesses  more  of 
 the  true  spirit  of  Christianity  than  his  neighbours,  is  com- 
 paratively happy.  But  the  number  of  these,  it  is  to  be 
 feared,  is  very  small.  Were  all  men  equally  enlightened 
 by  the  illuminations  of  truth,  as  emanating  from  the  spirit 
 of  Jehovah  himself,  they  would  all  concur  in  the  pursuit 
 of  virtuous  ends  by  virtuous  means  —  as  there  would  be  no 
 vice,  there  would  be  very  little  infelicity.  Every  pain 
 would  be  met  with  fortitude,  every  affliction  with  resign- 
 ation. We  should  then  all  look  back  to  the  past  with  com- 
 placency, and  to  the  future  with  hope.  Even  this  unstable 
 state  of  being  would  have  many  exquisite  enjoyments  — 
 the  principal  of  which  would  be  the  anticipation  of  that 
 approaching  state  of  beatitude  to  which  we  might  then 
 look  with  confidence,  through  the  medium  of  that  atone- 
 ment of  which  w^e  should  be  partakers,  and  our  acceptance, 
 by  virtue  of  which,  would  be  sealed  by  that  purity  of  mind 
 
264 
 
 of  which  human  nature  is,  of  itself^  incapable.  But  it  is 
 from  the  mistakes  and  miscalculations  of  mankind,  to  which 
 their  fallen  natures  are  continually  prone,  that  arises  that 
 flood  of  misery  which  overwhelms  the  whole  race,  and  re- 
 sounds wherever  the  footsteps  of  man  have  penetrated.  It 
 is  the  lamentable  error  of  placing  happiness  in  vicious  in- 
 dulgencies,  or  thinking  to  pursue  it  by  vicious  means.  It 
 is  the  blind  folly  of  sacrificing  the  welfare  of  the  fiiture  to 
 the  opportunity  of  immediate  guilty  gratification,  which 
 destroys  the  harmony  of  society,  and  poisons  the  peace, 
 not  only  of  the  immediate  procreators  of  the  errors  —  not 
 only  of  the  identical  actors  of  the  vices  themselves,  but  of 
 all  those  of  their  fellows  who  fall  within  the  reach  of  their 
 influence  or  example,  or  who  are  in  any  wise  connected 
 with  them  by  the  ties  of  blood. 
 
 I  would  therefore  exhort  you  earnestly  —  you  who  are 
 yet  unskilled  in  the  ways  of  the  world  —  to  beware  on 
 what  object  you  concentre  your  hopes.  Pleasures  may 
 allure  —  pride  or  ambition  may  stimulate,  but  their  fruits 
 are  hollow  and  deceitful,  and  they  afford  no  sure,  no 
 solid  satisfaction.  You  are  placed  on  the  earth  in  a 
 state  of  probation  —  your  continuance  here  will  be,  at 
 the  longest  a  very  short  period,  and  when  you  are 
 called  from  hence  you  plunge  into  an  eternity,  the  com- 
 pletion of  which  will  be  in  correspondence  to  your 
 past  life,  unutterably  happy  or  inconceivably  miserable. 
 Your  fate  will  probably  depend  on  your  early  pursuits  — 
 it  will  be  these  which   will   give  the  turn   to  your  cha- 
 
265 
 
 racter  and  to  your  pleasures.      I  beseech  you,  therefore, 
 with  a  meek  and  lowly  spirit,   to  read  the  pages  of  that 
 Book,   which  the  wisest  and  best  of  men  have  acknow- 
 ledged to  be  the  word  of  God,      You  will  there  find  a 
 rule  of  moral  conduct,  such  as  the  world  never  had  any 
 idea  of  before  its  divulgation.     If  you  covet  earthly  hap- 
 piness, it  is  only  to  be  found  in  the  path  you  will  find 
 there  laid  down,  and  I  can  confidently  promise  you,  in  a 
 life  of  simplicity  and  purity,  a  life  passed  in  accordance 
 with  the  Divine  word,  such  substantial  bhss,  such  unruffled 
 peace,  as  is  no  where  else  to  be  found.     All  other  schemes 
 of  earthly  pleasure  are  fleeting  and  unsatisfactory.      They 
 all  entail  upon  them  repentance  and  bitterness  of  thought. 
 This  alone  endureth  for  ever —  this  alone  embraces  equally 
 the  present  and  the  future  —  this  alone  can  arm  a  man 
 against  every  calamity  —  can  alone  shed  the  balm  of  peace 
 over  that  scene  of  life  when  pleasures  have  lost  their  zest, 
 and  the  mind  can  no  longer  look  forward  to  the  dark  and 
 mysterious  future.     Above  all,  beware  of  the  ignus  fatuus 
 of  false  philosophy :  that  must  be  a  very  defective  system 
 of  ethics  which  will  not  bear  a  man  through  the  most  try- 
 ing stage  of  his  existence,  and  I  know  of  none  that  will  do 
 it  but  the  Christian. 
 
 W. 
 
\66 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 
 (No.  VIII.) 
 
 "Qcrris  x6yovs  yap  'mapaKaTOL^rjKiiv  ws  XaSuv 
 E^e?  tij-ev,  ci,5ik6s,  icrriv,  ^  aKpar^js  &yav. 
 ^cras  5e'  y  iicrh  aiKporcpoi  kukoi. 
 
 Anaxandrides  apud  Suidam. 
 
 Much  has  been  said  of  late  on  the  subject  of  171- 
 scriptive  tvrilmg,  and  that,  in  my  opinion,  to  very  little 
 purpose.  Dr.  Drake,  when  treating  on  this  topic,  is, 
 for  once,  inconclusive ;  but  his  essay  does  credit  to  his 
 discernment,  however  little  it  may  honour  him  as  a  pro- 
 mulgator of  the  laws  of  criticism  :  the  exquisite  speci- 
 mens it  contains  prove  that  the  doctor  has  a  feeling  of 
 propriety  and  general  excellence,  although  he  may  be 
 unhappy  in  defining  them.  Boileau  says,  briefly,  "  Les 
 inscriptions  doivent  etre  simples,  courtes,  ct  familiares" 
 We  have,  however,  many  examples  of  this  kind  of  writing 
 in  our  language,  which  although  they  possess  none  of 
 these  qualities,  are  esteemed  excellent.  Akenside's  classic 
 imiUitions  are  not  at  all  simple,  nothing  short,  and  the  very 
 reverse  of  familiar,  yet  who  can  deny  that  they  are 
 beautiful,  and  in  some  instances  appropriate  ?  Southey's 
 inscriptions  are  noble  })ieces  ;  —  for  the  opposite  qualities 
 of  tenderness  and  dignity,  sweetness  of  imagery  and  terse- 
 ness of  moral,   unrivailetl ;  they  are  perhaps  wanting  in 
 
267 
 
 propriety,  and  (which  is  the  criterion)  produce  a  much 
 better  effect  in  a  book,  than  they  would  on  a  colunni  or  a 
 cenotaph.  There  is  a  certain  ch^aste  and  majestic  gravity 
 expected  from  the  voice  of  tombs  and  monuments, 
 which  probably  would  displease  in  epitaphs  never  intended 
 to  be  engraved,  and  inscriptions  for  obelisks  which  never 
 existed. 
 
 When  a  man  visits  the  tomb  of  an  illustrious  charac- 
 ter, a  spot  remarkable  for  some  memorable  deed,  or  a 
 scene  connected  by  its  natural  sublimity  with  the  higher 
 feelings  of  the  breast,  he  is  in  a  mood  only  for  the 
 nervous,  the  concise,  and  the  impressive;  and  he  will 
 turn  with  disgust  alike  from  the  puerile  conceits  of  the 
 epigrammatist,  and  the  tedious  prolixity  of  the  herald.  It 
 is  a  nice  thing  to  address  the  mind  in  the  workings  of 
 generous  enthusiasm.  As  words  are  not  capable  of  ex- 
 citing such  an  effervescence  of  the  sublimer  affections, 
 so  they  can  do  little  towards  increasing  it.  Their  office 
 is  rather  to  point  these  feelings  to  a  beneficial  purpose, 
 and  by  some  noble  sentiment,  or  exalted  moral,  to  im- 
 part to  the  mind  that  pleasure  which  results  from  warm 
 emotions  when  connected  with  the  virtuous  and  the  ge- 
 nerous. 
 
 In  the  composition  of  inscriptive  pieces,  great  atten- 
 tion must  be  paid  to  local  and  topical  propriety.  The 
 occasion,  and  the  place,  must  not  only  regulate  the 
 tenor,  but  even  the  style  of  an  inscription :  for  what,  in 
 
268 
 
 one  case,  would  be  proper  and  agreeable,  in  another 
 would  be  impertinent  and  disgusting.  But  these  rules 
 may  always  be  taken  foi-  granted,  that  an  inscription 
 should  be  unaffected  and  free  from  conceits;  that  no 
 sentiment  should  be  introduced  of  a  trite  or  hacknied 
 nature ;  and  that  the  design  and  the  moral  to  be  incul- 
 cated should  be  of  sufficient  importance  to  merit  the 
 reader's  attention,  and  ensure  his  regard.  Who  would 
 think  of  setting  a  stone  up  in  the  wilderness  to  tell  the 
 traveller  what  he  knew  before,  or  what,  when  he  had 
 learnt  for  the  first  time,  was  not  worth  the  knowing?  It 
 would  be  equally  absurd  to  call  aside  his  attention  to  a 
 simile  or  an  epigrammatic  point.  Wit  on  a  monument, 
 is  like  a  jest  from  a  judge,  or  a  philosopher  cutting  capers. 
 It  is  a  severe  mortification  to  meet  with  flippancy 
 where  we  looked  for  solemnity,  and  meretricious  ele- 
 o-ance  where  the  occasion  led  us  to  expect  the  unadorned 
 majesty  of  truth. 
 
 That  branch  of  inscriptive  writing  which  commemo- 
 rates the  virtues  of  departed  worth,  or  points  out  the 
 ashes  of  men  who  yet  live  in  the  admiration  of  their 
 posterity,  is,  of  all  others,  the  most  interesting,  and,  if 
 properly  managed,  the  most  useful. 
 
 It  is  not  enough  to  proclaim  to  the  observer  that  he  is 
 drawing  near  to  the  reliques  of  the  deceased  genius,  — 
 the  occasion  seems  to  provoke  a  few  reflections.  If  these 
 be    natural^     they    will    be    in    unison    with    the    feel- 
 
269 
 
 ings  of  the  reader,  and,  if  they  tend  where  they  ought  to 
 tend,  they  will  leave  him  better  than  they  found  him. 
 But  these  reflections  must  not  be  too  much  prolonged. 
 They  must  rather  be  hints  than  dissertations.  It  is  suffi- 
 cient to  start  the  idea,  and  the  imagination  of  the  reader 
 will  pursue  the  train  to  much  more  advantage  than  the 
 writer  could  do  by  words. 
 
 Panegyric  is  seldom  judicious  in  the  epitaphs  on  public 
 characters,  for,  if  it  be  deserved,  it  cannot  need  publica- 
 tion, and  if  it  be  exaggerated,  it  will  only  serve  to  excite 
 ridicule.  When  employed  in  memorizing  the  retired 
 virtues  of  domestic  life,  and  qualities  which,  though  they 
 only  served  to  cheer  the  little  circle  of  privacy,  still  de- 
 served, from  their  unfrequency,  to  triumph,  at  least,  for  a 
 while,  over  the  power  of  the  grave,  it  may  be  interesting 
 and  salutary  in  its  effects.  To  this  purpose,  however,  it  is 
 rarely  employed.  An  epitaph-book  will  seldom  supply 
 the  exigencies  of  character ;  and  men  of  talents  are  not 
 always,  even  in  these  favoured  times,  at  hand  to  eternize 
 the  virtues  of  private  life. 
 
 The  following  epitaph,  by  Mr.  Hayley,  is  inscribed  on 
 a  monument  to  the  memory  of  Cowper,  in  the  church  of 
 East  Dei^eham  : 
 
 "  Ye  who  with  warmth  the  public  triumph  feel 
 Of  talents  dignified  by  sacred  zeal, 
 Here  to  Devotion's  bard  devoutly  just, 
 Pay  your  fond  tribute  due  to  Cowper's  dust ! 
 
270 
 
 • 
 
 England,  exulting  in  his  spotless  fame. 
 Ranks  with  her  dearest  sons  his  fav'rite  name : 
 Sense,  Fancy,  Wit,  conspire  not  all  to  raise 
 So  clear  a  title  to  Affection's  praise : 
 His  highest  honours  to  the  heart  belong ; 
 His  virtues  form'd  the  maffic  of  his  son^." 
 
 "  This  epitaph,"  says  a  periodical  critic  *,  "  is  simply 
 elegant,  and  appropriately  just."  I  regard  this  sen- 
 tence as  peculiarly  unfortunate,  for  the  epitaph  seems  to 
 me  to  be  elegant  without  simpliciti/,  and  just  without 
 projjvietij*  No  one  will  deny  that  it  is  correctly  written, 
 and  that  it  is  not  destitute  of  grace ;  but  in  what  consists 
 its  simplicity  I  am  at  a  loss  to  imagine.  The  initial  ad- 
 dress is  laboured  and  circumlocutory.  There  is  some- 
 thing artificial  rather  than  otherwise  in  the  personifica- 
 tion of  England,  and  her  ranking  the  poet's  name  "  with 
 her  dearest  sons,"  instead  of  with  those  of  her  dearest 
 sons,  is  like  ranking  poor  John  Doe  with  a  proper  bona 
 Jide  son  of  Adam,  in  a  writ  of  arrest.  Sense,  Fancy,  and 
 Wit,  "  raising  a  title,"  and  that  to  "  Affection's  praise," 
 is  not  very  simple,  and  not  over  intelligible.  Again,  the 
 epitaph  is  just  because  it  is  strictly  true;  but  it  is  by 
 no  means,  therefore,  appropriate.  Who  that  would  turn 
 aside  to  visit  the  ashes  of  Cowper,  would  need  to  ba 
 told  that  England  ranks  him  with  her  favourite  sons, 
 and  that  sense,  fancy,  and  wit,  were  not  his  greatest 
 honours,   for  that  his  virtues   formed  the   mamc   of  his 
 
 *  The  Monthly  Reviewer. 
 
271 
 
 song ;  or  who,  hearing  this,  would  be  the  better  for  the 
 information?  Had  Mr.  Hayley  been  employed  in  the 
 monumental  praises  of  a  private  man,  this  might  have 
 been  excusable,  but  speaking  of  such  a  man  as  Cow- 
 per,  it  is  idle.  This  epitaph  is  not  appropriate,  there- 
 fore, and  we  have  shown  that  it  is  not  remarkable  for 
 simplicity.  Perhaps  the  respectable  critics  themselves 
 may  not  feel  inclined  to  dispute  this  point  very  tena- 
 ciously. Epithets  are  very  convenient  litde  things  for 
 rounding  off  a  period ;  and  it  will  not  be  the  first  time 
 that  truth  has  been  sacrificed  to  verbosity  and  anti- 
 thesis. 
 
 To  measure  lances  with  Hayley  may  be  esteemed  pre- 
 sumptuous ;  but  probably  the  following,  although  much 
 inferior  as  a  composition,  would  have  had  more  effect  than 
 his  poHshed  and  harmonious  lines. 
 
 INSCRIPTION  FOR  A  MONUMENT 
 
 TO   THE    MEMORY    OF    COWPER. 
 
 Reader  !  if  with  no  vulgar  sympathy 
 
 Thou  view'st  the  wreck  of  genius  and  of  worth, 
 
 Stay  thou  thy  footsteps  near  this  hallow'd  spot. 
 
 Here  Cowper  rests.     Although  renown  have  made 
 
 His  name  familiar  to  thine  ear,  this  stone 
 
 May  tell  thee  that  his  virtues  were  above 
 
272 
 
 The  common  portion :  —  that  the  voice,  now  hiish'd 
 
 In  death,  was  once  serenely  querulous 
 
 With  pity's  tones,  and  in  the  ear  of  woe 
 
 Spake  music.     Now  forgetful  at  thy  feet 
 
 His  tir'd  head  presses  on  its  last  long  rest, 
 
 Still  tenant  of  the  tomb ;  —  and  on  the  cheek, 
 
 Once  warm  with  animation's  lambent  flush, 
 
 Sits  the  pale  image  of  unmark'd  decay. 
 
 Yet  mourn  not.     He  had  chosen  the  better  part ; 
 
 And  these  sad  garments  of  mortality 
 
 Put  off",  we  trust,  that  to  a  happier  land 
 
 He  went  a  light  and  gladsome  passenger. 
 
 Sigh'st  thou  for  honours,  reader  ?   Call  to  mind 
 
 That  glory's  voice  is  impotent  to  pierce 
 
 The  silence  of  the  tomb  !  but  virtue  blooms 
 
 Ev'n  on  the  wreck  of  life,  and  mounts  the  skies  ! 
 
 So  gird  thy  loins  with  lowliness,  and  walk 
 
 With  Cowper  on  the  pilgrimage  of  Christ. 
 
 This  inscription  is  faulty  from  its  length,  but  if  a 
 painter  cannot  get  the  requisite  effect  at  one  stroke,  he 
 must  do  it  by  many.  The  laconic  style  of  epitaphs  is 
 the  most  difficult  to  be  managed  of  any,  inasmuch  as 
 most  is  expected  from  it.  A  sentence  standing  alone  on 
 a  tomb,  or  a  monument,  is  expected  to  contain  some- 
 thing particularly  striking;  and  when  this  expectation  is 
 disappomted,  the  reader  feels  like  a  man  who,  having 
 been    promised   an  excellent  joke,  is  treated  with  a  stale 
 
273 
 
 conceit,  or  a  vapid  pun.  The  best  specimen  of  this 
 kind,  which  I  am  acquainted  with,  is  that  on  a  French 
 general : 
 
 t5 
 
 "  Siste,  Viator ;  Heroem  calcas  /" 
 Stop,  traveller ;  thou  treadest  on  a  hero ! 
 
 W. 
 
 VOL.  If. 
 
274 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS, 
 
 (No.  IX.) 
 
 Scires  e  sanguine  natos. 
 
 Ovid. 
 
 It  is  common  for  busy  and  active  men  to  behold  the 
 occupations  of  the  retired  and  contemphitive  person  with 
 contempt.  They  consider  his  speculations  as  idle  and 
 unproductive ;  as  they  participate  in  none  of  his  feelings, 
 they  are  strangers  to  his  motives,  his  views,  and  his  de- 
 lights ;  they  behold  him  elaborately  employed  on  what 
 they  conceive  forwards  none  of  the  interests  of  life,  con^ 
 tributes  to  none  of  its  gratifications,  removes  none  of  its 
 inconveniences  :  they  conclude,  therefore,  that  he  is  led 
 away  by  the  delusions  of  futile  philosophy,  that  he 
 labours  for  no  good,  and  lives  to  no  end.  Of  the  various 
 frames  of  mind  which  they  observe  in  him,  no  one 
 seems  to  predominate  more,  and  none  appears  to  them 
 more  absurd,  than  sadness,  which  seems,  in  some  degree, 
 to  pervade  all  his  views,  and  shed  a  solemn  tinge  over 
 all  his  thoughts.  Sadness,  arising  from  no  personal 
 grief,  and  connected  with  no  individual  concern,  they 
 regard  as  moon-struck  melancholy,  the  effect  of  a 
 mind  overcast  with  constitutional  gloom,  and  diseased 
 with  habits  of  vain  and  fanciful  speculation.  —  "  We  can 
 
275 
 
 share  with  the  sorrows  of  the  unfortunate,"  say  they, 
 "  but  this  monastic  spleen  merits  only  our  derision:  it 
 tends  to  no  beneficial  purpose,  it  benefits  neither  its 
 possessor  nor  society."  Those  who  have  tliought  a  little 
 more  on  this  subject  than  the  gay  and  busy  crowd,  will 
 draw  conclusions  of  a  different  nature.  That  there  is  a 
 sadness,  springing  from  the  noblest  and  purest  sources, 
 a  sadness  friendly  to  the  human  heart,  and,  by  direct 
 consequence,  to  human  nature  in  general,  is  a  truth 
 which  a  little  illustration  will  render  tolerably  clear,  and 
 which,  when  understood  in  its  full  force,  may  probably 
 convert  contempt  and  ridicule  into  respect. 
 
 I  set  out,  then,  with  the  proposition,  that  the  man  who 
 thinks  deeply,  especially  if  his  reading  be  extensive,  will, 
 unless  his  heart  be  very  cold  and  very  light,  become 
 habituated  to  a  pensive,  or,  with  more  propriety,  a 
 mournful  cast  of  thought.  This  will  arise  from  two  more 
 particular  sources  —  from  the  view  of  human  nature  in 
 general,  as  demonstrated  by  the  experience  both  of  past 
 and  present  times,  and  from  the  contemplation  of  indi- 
 vidual instances  of  human  depravity  and  of  human  suf- 
 fering. The  first  of  these  is,  indeed,  the  last  in  the 
 order  of  time,  for  his  general  views  of  humanity  are  in 
 a  manner  consequential,  or  resulting  from  the  special; 
 but  I  have  inverted  that  order  for  the  sake  of  perspi- 
 cuity. 
 
 Of  those  who  have  occasionally  thought  on  these  sub- 
 T  2 
 
276 
 
 jects,  I  may,  with  perfect  assurance  of  their  reply,  en- 
 quire what  have  been  their  sensations  when  they  have,  for 
 a  moment,  attained  a  more  enlarged  and  capacious  notion 
 of  the  state  of  man  in  all  its  bearings  and  dependencies. 
 They  have  found,  and  the  profoundest  philosophers  have 
 done  no  more,  that  they  are  enveloped  in  mystery,  and 
 that  the  mystery  of  man's  situation  is  not  without  alarm- 
 ing and  fearful  circumstances.  They  have  discovered 
 that  all  they  know  of  themselves  is  that  they  live,  but  that 
 from  whence  they  came,  or  whither  they  are  going,  is 
 by  Nature  altogether  hidden ;  that  impenetrable  gloom 
 surrounds  them  on  every  side,  and  that  they  even  hold 
 their  morrow  on  the  credit  of  to-day,  when  it  is,  in  fact, 
 buried  in  the  vague  and  indistinct  gulf  of  the  ages  to 
 come !  —  These  are  reflections  deeply  interesting,  and 
 lead  to  others  so  awful,  that  many  gladly  shut  their  eyes 
 on  the  giddy  and  unfathomable  depths  which  seem  to 
 stretch  before  them.  The  meditative  man,  however, 
 endeavours  to  pursue  them  to  the  farthest  stretch  of  the 
 reasoning  powers,  and  to  enlarge  his  conceptions  of  the 
 mysteries  of  his  own  existence ;  and  the  more  he  learns, 
 and  the  deeper  he  penetrates,  the  more  cause  does  he  And 
 for  being  serious,  and  the  more  inducements  to  be  conti- 
 nually thoughtful. 
 
 If,  again,  we  turn  from  the  condition  of  mortal 
 existence,  considered  in  the  abstract,  to  the  quahties 
 and  characters  of  man,  and  his  condition  in  a  state  of 
 societv,   we  see  things  perhaps  ecjually  strange   and   in- 
 
277 
 
 finitely    more   affecting.  —  In    the    economy   of  creation, 
 we  perceive  nothing  inconsistent   with  the  power   of  an 
 all- wise  and  all-merciful  God.     A  perfect  harmony  runs 
 through   all   the   parts   of  the  universe.      Plato's    syrens 
 sing   not  only  from   the   planetary   octave,   but    through 
 all   the   minutest    divisions    of   the    stupendous    whole; 
 order,    beauty,    and   perfection,    the    traces   of  the   great 
 Architect,  glow  through  every  particle  of  his  work.     At 
 man,    however,    we  stop :   there   is    one  exception.     The 
 harmony  of  order   ceases,  and   vice  and   misery  disturb 
 the  beautiful  consistency   of  creation,    and  bring  us  first 
 acquainted  with  positive  evil.     We    behold    men  carried 
 irresistibly  away  by  corrupt  principles  and  vicious  inclin- 
 ations,  indulging   in  propensities,    destructive    as  well  to 
 themselves  as  to  those  around  them ;  the  stronger  oppress- 
 ing the  weaker,  and  the  bad  persecuting  the  good  !    we 
 see  the  depraved  in  prosperity,  the  virtuous  in  adversity, 
 the  guilty  unpunished,    the  deserving  overwhelmed  with 
 unprovoked    misfortunes.     From  hence    we    are  tempted 
 to  think,   that  He,  whose  arm  holds  the  planets  in  their 
 course,  and  directs  the  comets  along  their  eccentric  orbits, 
 ceases     to    exercise   his    providence     over   the   affairs   of 
 mankind,   and   leaves  them   to  be  governed  and  directed 
 by  the  impulses  of  a  corrupt  heart,   or  the  blind  work- 
 ings of  chance  alone.     Yet  this  is  inconsistent  both  with 
 the   wisdom    and    the  goodness    of  the   Deity.      If  God 
 permit   evil,    he    causes    it:    the    difference  is    casuistical. 
 We     are    led,    therefore,     to    conclude,    that  it  v/as   not 
 always  thus  :  that  man  wafe  created  in  a  far  different  and 
 
 T    3 
 
278 
 
 far  happier  condition ;  but  that,  by  some  means  or 
 other,  he  has  forfeited  the  protection  of  his  Maker. 
 Here  then  is  a  mystery.  The  ancients,  led  by  reasonings 
 alone,  perceived  it  with  amazement,  but  did  not  solve 
 the  problem.  They  attempted  some  explanation  of  it 
 by  the  lame  fiction  of  a  golden  age  and  its  cession, 
 where,  by  a  circular  mode  of  reasoning,  they  attribute 
 the  introduction  of  vice  to  their  gods  having  deserted 
 the  earth,  and  the  desertion  of  the  gods  to  the  intro- 
 duction of  vice.*  This,  however,  was  the  logic  of  the 
 poets ;  the  philosophers  disregarded  the  fable,  but  did 
 not  dispute  the  fact  it  was  intended  to  account  for. 
 They  often  hint  at  human  degeneracy,  and  some  un- 
 known curse  hanging  over  our  being,  and  even  coming 
 into  the  world  along  with  us.  Pliny,  in  the  preface  to 
 his    seventh  book,   has   this  remarkable  passage :    "  The 
 
 *   KoiTOT€  St]  TTpos  d\v/j.Trou  atro  x^ovos  ivpvodarjs, 
 AevKoiaiv  <papec<xai  KaKv^ajx^vu}  xpoa  koKov, 
 h^avarrwv  /uera  (pvKov  Irov,  irpoKnrovT  av^puTrovs 
 AiSoos  Kai  'Ne/j.eais'  ra   Se  Aen|/eTat  a/\7eo  Avypa 
 0P7JTOIS  av^puTToiaif  KUKov  5'  ovK  iffcrerai  aA/CTj. 
 
 Hesiod.  Opera  et  Dies.    Lib.  l.   L.  195. 
 
 Victa  jacet  Pietas :  et  Virgo  caede  madentes, 
 Ultima  coilcstiim  terras  Astraea  reliquit. 
 
 Ovid.  Metamor.    L.  1.  Fab.  4. 
 
 Paulatim  deinde  ad  Siiperos  Astraea  recessit, 
 Hac  comite  atcjiie  diia;  pariter  fugere  sororcs. 
 
 Juvenal.  Sat.  vi.    L.  10. 
 
279 
 
 iinimal  about  to  rule  over  the  rest  of  created  animals 
 lies  weeping,  bound  hand  and  foot,  making  his  first 
 entrance  upon  life  with  sharp  pangs,  and  this^  for  no 
 other  crime  than  that  he  is  horn  man.''  —  Cicero,  in  a 
 passage,  for  the  preservation  of  which  we  are  indebted 
 to  St.  Augustine,  gives  a  yet  stronger  idea  of  an  existing 
 degeneracy  in  human  nature: —  "  Man,"  says  he,  "  comes 
 into  existence,  not  as  from  the  hands  of  a  mother,  but 
 of  a  step-dame  nature,  with  a  body  feeble,  naked,  and 
 fragile,  and  a  mind  exposed  to  anxiety  and  care,  ab- 
 ject in  fear,  unmeet  for  labour,  prone  to  licentiousness,  in 
 which,  however,  there  still  dwell  some  sparks  of  the 
 divine  mind,  though  obscured,  and,  as  it  were,  in 
 ruins."  And,  in  another  place,  he  intimates  it  as  a  current 
 opinion,  that  man  comes  into  the  world  as  into  a  state  of 
 punishment  expiatory  of  crimes  committed  in  some 
 previous  stage  of  existence,  of  which  we  now  retain  no  re- 
 collection. 
 
 » 
 From  these  proofs,  and  from  daily  observation  and 
 experience,  there  is  every  ground  for  concluding  that  man 
 is  in  a  state  of  misery  and  depravity  quite  inconsistent 
 with  the  happiness  for  which,  by  a  benevolent  God,  he 
 must  have  been  created.  We  see  glaring  marks  of  this 
 in  our  own  times.  Prejudice  alone  blinds  us  to  the  ab- 
 surdity and  the  horror  of  those  systematic  murders 
 which  go  by  the  name  of  wars,  where  man  falls  on  man, 
 brother  slaughters  brother,  where  death,  in  evei-y  va- 
 riety of  horror,  preys  "  on  the  jinely-fihrcd  human  frame y' 
 and  where  the  cry  of  the  widow  and  the  orphan  rise  up  to 
 
 T  4 
 
280 
 
 heaven  long  after  the  thunder  of  the  fight  and  the  clang 
 of  arms  have  ceased,  and  the  bones  of  sons,  brothers,  and 
 husbands  slain  are  grown  white  on  the  field.  Customs 
 hke  these  vouch,  with  most  miraculous  organs,  for  the  de-^ 
 pravity  of  the  human  heart,  and  these  are  not  the  most 
 mournful  of  those  considerations  which  present  themselves 
 to  the  mind  of  the  thinking  man. 
 
 Private  life  is  equally  fertile  in  calamitous  perversion 
 of  reason,  and  extreme  accumulation  of  misery.  On  the 
 one  hand,  we  see  a  large  proportion  of  men  sedulously 
 employed  in  the  eduction  of  their  own  ruin,  pursuing 
 vice  in  all  its  varieties,  and  sacrificing  the  peace  and  hap- 
 piness of  the  innocent  and  unoffending  to  their  own 
 brutal  gratifications ;  and,  on  the  other,  pain,  misfor- 
 tune, and  misery,  overwhelming  alike  the  good  and  the 
 bad,  the  provident  and  the  improvident.  But  too  ge- 
 neral a  view  would  distract  our  attention  :  let  the  reader 
 pardon  me  if  I  suddenly  draw  him  away  from  the  sur- 
 vey of  the  crowds  of  life  to  a  few  detached  scenes.  We 
 will  select  a  single  picture  at  random.  The  character 
 is  common. 
 
 Behold  that  beautiful  female,  who  is  rallying  a  well^ 
 dressed  young  man  with  so  much  gaiety  and  humour. 
 Did  you  ever  see  so  lovely  a  countenance?  There  is  an 
 expression  of  vivacity  in  her  fine  dark  eye  which  quite 
 captivates  one :  and  her  smile,  were  it  a  litde  less  bold, 
 would  be  bewitcliing.  How  gay  and  careless  she  seems  ! 
 One   would    suppose   she    had   a    very   light   and   happy 
 
281 
 
 heart.  Alas  !  how  appearances  deceive  !  This  gaiety  is 
 all  feigned.  It  is  her  business  to  please,  and  beneath 
 a  fair  and  painted  outside  she  conceals  an  inquiet  and 
 forlorn  breast.  When  she  was  yet  very  young,  an  en- 
 gaging but  dissolute  young  man  took  advantage  of  her 
 simplicity,  and  of  the  affection  with  which  he  had  in- 
 spired her,  to  betray  her  virtue.  At  first  her  infamy 
 cost  her  many  tears ;  but  habit  wore  away  this  remorse, 
 leaving  only  a  kind  of  indistinct  regret,  and,  as  she 
 fondly  loved  her  betrayer,  she  experienced,  at  times,  a 
 mingled  pleasure  even  in  this  abandoned  situation.  But 
 this  was  soon  over.  Her  lover,  on  pretence  of  a  journey 
 into  the  country,  left  her  for  ever.  She  soon  afterwards 
 heard  of  his  marriage,  with  an  agony  of  grief  which 
 few  can  adequately  conceive,  and  none  describe.  The 
 calls  of  want,  however,  soon  subdued  the  more  distract- 
 ing ebullitions  of  anguish.  She  had  no  choice  left; 
 all  the  gates  of  virtue  were  shut  upon  her,  and  though 
 she  really  abhorred  the  course,  she  was  obliged  to  betake 
 herself  to  vice  for  support.  Her  next  keeper  possessed 
 her  person  without  her  heart.  She  has  since  passed 
 through  several  hands,  and  has  found,  by  bitter  expe- 
 rience, that  the  vicious,  on  whose  generosity  she  is 
 thrown,  are  devoid  of  all  feeling  but  that  of  self-gratifi- 
 cation, and  that  even  the  wages  of  prostitution  are  re- 
 luctantly and  grudgingly  paid.  She  now  looks  on  all 
 men  as  sharpers.  She  smiles  but  to  entangle  and  de- 
 stroy, and  while  she  simulates  fondness,  is  intent  only 
 on  the  extorting  of  that,  at  best  poor  pittance,  which 
 her  ntcessities  loudly   demand.     Thoughtless  as  she  may 
 
28 
 
 seem,  she  is  not  without  an  idea  of  her  lor  lorn  and 
 wretclied  situation,  and  she  looks  only  to  sudden  death 
 as  her  refuge,  against  that  time  when  her  charms  shall 
 cease  to  allure  the  eye  of  incontinence,  when  even  the 
 lowest  haunts  of  infamy  shall  be  shut  against  her,  and 
 without  a  friend  or  a  hope,  she  must  sink  under  the  pres- 
 sure of  want  and  disease. 
 
 But  we  will  now  shift  the  scene  a  little,  and  select 
 another  object.  Behold  yon  poor  weary  wretch,  who 
 with  a  child  wrapt  in  her  arms  with  difficulty  drags 
 along  the  road.  The  man,  with  a  knapsack,  who  is 
 walking  before  her,  is  her  husband,  and  is  marching  to 
 join  his  regiment.  He  has  been  spending,  at  a  dram- 
 shop in  the  town  they  have  just  left,  the  supply  which 
 the  pale  and  weak  appearance  of  his  wife  proclaims  was 
 necessary  for  her  sustenance.  He  is  now  half  drunk,  and 
 is  venting  the  artificial  spirits  which  intoxication  excites 
 in  the  abuse  of  his  weary  help-mate  behind  him. 
 She  seems  to  listen  to  his  reproaches  in  patient  silence. 
 Her  face  will  tell  you  more  than  many  words,  as,  with 
 a  wan  and  meaning  look,  she  surveys  the  little  wretch 
 who  is  asleep  on  her  arms.  The  turbulent  brutality  of 
 the  man  excites  no  attention  :  she  is  pondering  on  the 
 future  chance  of  life,  and  the  probable  lot  of  her  heedless 
 little  one. 
 
 One  other  picture,  and  I  have  done.  The  man 
 pacing  with  a  slow  ste})  and  languid  aspect .  over  yon 
 prison  court,  was  once   a  fme  dashing  fellow,  the  admir- 
 
283 
 
 ation  of  the  ladles,  and  the  envy  of  the  men.  He  is 
 the  only  representative  of  a  once  respectable  family,  and 
 is  brought  to  this  situation  by  unlimited  indulgence  at 
 that  time  when  the  check  is  most  necessary.  He  began 
 to  figure  in  genteel  life  at  an  early  age.  His  misjudging 
 mother,  to  whose  sole  care  he  was  left,  thinking  no  al- 
 liance too  good  for  her  darling,  cheerfully  supplied  his 
 extravagance,  under  the  idea  that  it  would  not  last  long, 
 and  that  it  would  enable  him  to  shine  in  those  circles 
 where  she  wished  him  to  rise.  But  he  soon  found  that 
 habits  of  prodigality,  once  well  gained,  are  never  eradi- 
 cated. His  fortune,  though  genteel,  was  not  adequate 
 to  such  habits  of  expense.  His  unhappy  parent  lived  to 
 see  him  make  a  degrading  alliance,  and  come  in  danger 
 of  a  gaol,  and  then  died  of  a  broke^n  heart.  His  affairs 
 soon  wound  themselves  up.  His  debts  were  enormous, 
 and  he  had  nothing  to  pay  them  with.  He  has  now 
 been  in  that  prison  many  years,  and  since  he  is  excluded 
 from  the  benefit  of  an  insolvency  act,  he  has  made  up 
 his  mind  to  the  idea  of  ending  his  days  there.  ^is 
 wife,  whose  beauty  had  decoyed  him,  since  she  found 
 he  could  not  support  her,  deserted  him  for  those  who 
 could,  leaving  him  without  friend  or  companion,  to 
 pace,  with  measured  steps,  over  the  court  of  a  country 
 gaol,  and  endeavour  to  beguile  the  lassitude  of  imprison- 
 ment, by  thinking  on  the  days  that  are  gone,  or  counting 
 the  squares  in  his  grated  window  in  every  possible  direc- 
 tion, backwards,  forwards,  and  across,  till  he  sighs  to  find 
 the  sum  always  the  same,  and    that  the  more  anxiously 
 
284 
 
 wc  strive  to  beguile  the  moments  in  their  course,  the  more 
 shiggishly  they  travel. 
 
 If  these  are  accurate  pictures  of  some  of  the  varieties 
 of  human  suffering,  and  if  such  pictures  are  common 
 even  to  triteness,  what  conclusions  must  we  draw  as  to 
 the  condition  of  man  in  general,  and  what  must  be  the 
 prevailing  frame  of  mind  of  him  who  meditates  much  on 
 these  subjects,  and  who,  unbracing  the  whole  tissue  of 
 causes  and  effects,  sees  Misery  invariably  the  offspring 
 of  Vice,  and  Vice  existing  in  hostility  to  the  intentions 
 and  wishes  of  God  ?  Let  the  meditative  man  turn  where 
 he  will,  he  finds  traces  of  the  depraved  state  of  Nature, 
 and  her  consequent  misery.  History  presents  him  with 
 little  but  murder,  treachery,  and  crimes  of  every  de- 
 scription. Biography  only  strengthens  the  view,  by 
 concentrating  it.  The  philosophers  remind  him  of  the 
 existence  of  evil,  by  their  lessons  how  to  avoid  or  endure 
 it;  and  the  very  poets  themselves  afford  him  pleasure,  not 
 unconnected  with  regret,  as,  either  by  contrast,  exempli- 
 fication, or  deduction,  they  bring  the  world  and  its  circum- 
 stances before  his  eyes. 
 
 That  such  an  one,  then,  is  prone  to  sadness,  who  will 
 wonder?  If  such  meditations  are  beneficial,  who  will 
 blame  them?  The  discovery  of  evil  naturally  leads  us 
 to  contribute  our  mite  towards  the  alleviation  of  the 
 wretchedness  it  introduces.  While  we  lament  vice,  we 
 learn    to  shun   it    ourselves,    and    to    endeavour,    if  pot- 
 
285 
 
 sible,  to  arrest  its  progress  in  those  around  us ;  and  in  tlie 
 course  of  these  high  and  lofty  speculations,  we  are  insen- 
 sibly led  to  think  humbly  of  ourselves,  and  to  lift  up  our 
 thoughts  to  Him  who  is  alone  the  fountain  of  all  perfec- 
 tion and  the  source  of  all  o'ood. 
 
 W. 
 
286 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 
 (Ng.X.) 
 
 La  rime  est  une  esclave,  et  no  doit  qu'obeir. 
 
 JBoileau,  VArt  Poetiqiie^ 
 
 Experiments  in  versification  have  not  often  been 
 successful.  Sir  Philip  Sidney,  with  all  his  genius.,  great 
 it  undoubtedly  was,  could  not  impart  grace  to  his  hexa-- 
 meters,  or  fluency  to  his  sapphics.  Spenser's  stanza  was 
 new,  but  his  'uerse  was  familiar  to  the  ear ;  and  though  his 
 rhymes  were  frequent  even  to  satiety,  he  seems  to  have 
 avoided  the  awkwardness  of  novelty,  and  the  difficulty  of 
 unpractised  metres.  Donne  had  not  music  enough  to  ren- 
 der his  broken  rhyming  couplets  sufferable,  and  neither 
 his  wit  nor  his  pointed  satire  were  sufficient  to  rescue  hmi 
 from  that  neglect  which  his  uncouth  and  rugged  versifi- 
 cation speedily  superinduced. 
 
 Li  our  times,  Mr.  Southey  has  given  grace  and  melody 
 to  some  of  the  Latin  and  Greek  measures,  and  Mr. 
 Bowles  has  written  rhyming  heroics,  wherein  the  sense  is 
 transmitted  from  couplet  to  couplet,  and  the  pauses  are 
 varied  with  all  the  freedom  of  blank  verse,  without  ex- 
 citing any  sensation  of  ruggedness,  or  offending  the  nicest 
 ear.  But  these  are  minor  efforts :  the  former  of  these 
 exquisite  poets  has  taken  a  yet  wider  range,  and  in  his 
 "  Thalaba  the  Destroyer,"  has  spurned  at  all  the  received 
 
287 
 
 laws  of  metre,  and  framed   a  fabric  of  verse  altogetiier  hi: 
 
 own. 
 
 An  innovation,  so  bold  as  that  of  Mr.  Southey,  was 
 sure  to  meet  with  disapprobation  and  ridicule.  The 
 world  naturally  looks  with  suspicion  on  systems  which 
 contradict  established  principles,  and  refuse  to  quadrate 
 with  habits  which,  as  they  have  been  used  to,  men  are 
 apt  to  think  cannot  be  improved  upon.  The  opposition 
 which  has  been  made  to  the  metre  of  Thalaba,  is,  there- 
 fore, not  so  much  to  be  imputed  to  its  want  of  harmony, 
 as  to  the  operation  of  existing  prejudices ;  and  it  is  fair  to 
 conclude,  that,  as  these  prejudices  are  softened  by  usage, 
 and  the  strangeness  of  novelty  wears  off,  the  peculiar  fea- 
 tures of  this  lyrical  frame  of  verse  will  be  more  candidly 
 appreciated,  and  its  merits  more  unreservedly  acknow- 
 ledged. 
 
 Whoever  is  conversant  with  the  writings  of  this 
 author,  will  have  observed  and  admired  that  great- 
 ness of  mind,  and  comprehension  of  intellect,  by  which 
 he  is  enabled,  on  all  occasions,  to  throw  off  the  shackles 
 of  habit  and  prepossession.  Southey  never  treads  in  the 
 beaten  track  :  his  thoughts,  while  they  are  those  of  nature, 
 carry  that  cast  of  originality  which  is  the  stamp  and  testi- 
 mony of  genius.  He  views  things  through  a  peculiar 
 phasis,  and  while  he  has  the  feelings  of  a  man,  they  are 
 those  of  a  man  almost  abstracted  from  mortality,  and  re- 
 flecting or.,  and  paiDting  the  scenes  of  life,  as  if  he  were 
 
288 
 
 a  mere  spectator,  uninfluenced  by  his  own  connection 
 with  the  objects  he  surveys.  To  this  faculty  of  bold  dis- 
 crimination I  attribute  many  of  Mr.  Southey's  peculiarities 
 as  a  poet.  He  never  seems  to  enquire  how  other  men 
 would  treat  a  subject,  or  what  may  happen  to  be  the  usage 
 of  the  times ;  but,  filled  with  that  strong  sense  of  fitness, 
 which  is  the  result  of  bold  and  unshackled  thought,  he 
 fearlessly  pursues  that  course  which  his  own  sense  of  pro- 
 priety  points  out. 
 
 It  is  very  evident  to  me,  and  I  should  conceive  to  alt 
 who  consider  the  subject  attentively,  that  the  structure  of 
 verse,  which  Mr.  Southey  has  promulgated  in  his  Thalaba, 
 was  neither  adopted  rashly,  nor  from  any  vain  emulation 
 of  originality.  As  the  poet  himself  happily  observes,  "  It 
 is  the  arabesque  ornament  of  an  Arabian  tale^  No  one 
 would  wish  to  seie  the  Joan  of  Arc  in  such  a  garb ;  but 
 the  wild  freedom  of  the  versification  of  Thalaba  accords 
 well  with  the  romantic  wildness  of  the  story;  and  I  do 
 not  hesitate  to  say,  that,  had  any  other  known  measure 
 been  adopted,  the  poem  would  have  been  deprived  of 
 half  its  beauty,  and  all  its  propriety.  In  blank  verse  it 
 would  have  been  absurd  ;  in  rhyme,  insipid.  The  lyrical 
 manner  is  admirably  adapted  to  the  sudden  transitions 
 and  rapid  connections  of  an  Arabian  tale,  while  its  va- 
 riety precludes  taedium,  and  its  full,  because  unshackled, 
 cadence  satisfies  the  ear  with  legitimate  harmony.  At 
 first,  indeed,  the  verse  may  appear  uncouth,  because  it 
 i^  new  to  the  ear ;  but  I  defy  any  man  who  has  any  feel- 
 
289 
 
 Ing  of  melody,  to  peruse  the  whole  poem,  without  paying 
 tribute  to  the  sweetness  of  its  flow,  and  the  gracefulness 
 of  its  modulations. 
 
 In  judging  of  this  extraordinary  poem,  we  should  con- 
 sider it  as  a  genuine  lyric  production, — we  should  con- 
 ceive it  as  recited  to  the  harp,  in  times  when  such  relations 
 carried  nothing  incredible  with  them.  Carrying  this 
 idea  along  with  us,  the  admirable  art  of  the  poet  will 
 strike  us  with  tenfold  conviction  ;  the  abrupt  sublimity  of 
 his  transitions,  the  sublime  simplicity  of  his  manner,  and 
 the  delicate  touches  by  which  he  connects  the  various 
 parts  of  his  narrative,  will  then  be  more  strongly  observ- 
 able, and  we  shall,  in  particular,  remark  the  uncommon 
 felicity  with  which  he  has  adapted  his  versification ;  and,  in 
 the  midst  of  the  wildest  irregularity,  left  nothing  to  shock 
 the  ear,  or  offend  the  judgment. 
 
 W. 
 
 Vol.  II. 
 
290 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 
 (No.  XL) 
 
 THE   PROGRESS  OF  KNOWLEDGE. 
 
 Few  histories  would  be  more  worthy  of  attention 
 than  that  of  the  progress  of  knowledge,  from  its  first 
 dawn  to  the  time  of  its  meridian  splendour,  among  the 
 ancient  Greeks.  Unfortunately,  however,  the  precau- 
 tions which,  in  this  early  period,  were  almost  generally 
 taken  to  confine  all  knowledge  to  a  particular  branch  of 
 men,  and  when  the  Greeks  began  to  contend  for  the 
 palm  among  learned  nations,  their  backwardness  to  ac- 
 knowledge the  sources  from  whence  they  derived  the 
 first  principles  of  their  philosophy,  haVe  served  to  wrap 
 this  interesting  subject  in  almost  impenetrable  obscurity. 
 Few  vestiges,  except  the  Egyptian  hieroglyphics,  now 
 remain  of  the  learning  of  the  more  ancient  world.  Of 
 the  two  millions  of  verses  said  to  have  been  written  by  the 
 Chaldean  Zoroaster  *,  we  have  no  relics ;  and  the  oracles 
 which  go  under  his  name  are  pretty  generally  acknow- 
 ledged to  be  spurious. 
 
 Pliny. 
 
291 
 
 The  Greeks  unquestionably  derived  tlicir  philosophy 
 from  the  Egyptians  and  Chaldeans.  Both  Pythagoras 
 and  Plato  had  visited  those  countries  for  the  advantage 
 
 o 
 
 of  learning ;  and  if  we  may  credit  the  received  accounts 
 of  the  former  of  these  illustrious  sages,  he  was  regularly 
 initiated  in  the  schools  of  Egypt,  during  the  period  of 
 twenty-two  years  that  he  resided  in  that  country,  and  be- 
 came the  envy  and  admiration  of  the  Egyptians  them- 
 selves. Of  the  Pythagorean  doctrines  we  have  some  ac- 
 counts remaining ;  and  nothing  is  wanting  to  render  the 
 systems  of  Platonism  complete  and  intelligible.  In  the 
 dogmas  of  these  philosophers,  therefore,  we  may  be  able 
 to  trace  the  learning  of  these  primitive  nations,  though 
 our  conclusions  must  be  cautiously  drawn,  and  much  must 
 be  allowed  to  the  active  intelligence  of  two  Greeks.  Ovid's 
 short  summary  of  the  philosophy  of  Pythagoras  deserves 
 attention. 
 
 Isque,  licet  coeli  regione  remotos 
 
 Mente  Deos  adiit :  et  quae  natura  negabat 
 Visibus  humanis  oculis  ea  pectoris  hausit. 
 Cumque  animo  et  vigili  perspexerat  omnia  cura ; 
 In  medium  discenda  dabat :  coetumque  silentum, 
 Dictaque  mirantum,  magni  primordia  mundi 
 Et  rerum  causas  et  quid  natura  docebat. 
 Quid  Deus :  unde  nives  :  quae  fulminis  esset  origo 
 Jupiter  an  venti,  discussa  nube  tonarent. 
 Quid  quateret  terras  :  qua  sidera  lege  mearent 
 Et  quodcumque  latet. 
 
 V  2 
 
292 
 
 If  we  are  to  credit  this  account,  and  it  is  corroborated 
 by  many  other  testimonies,  Pythagoras  searched  deeply 
 into  natural  causes.  Some  have  imagined,  and  strongly 
 asserted,  that  his  central  fire  was  figurative  of  the  sun, 
 and,  therefore,  that  he  had  an  idea  of  its  real  situation ; 
 but  this  opinion,  so  generally  adopted,  may  be  com- 
 bated with  some  degree  of  reason.  I  should  be  in- 
 clined to  think  Pythagoras  gained  his  idea  of  the  great 
 central,  vivifying,  and  creative  fire  from  the  Chaldeans, 
 and  that,  therefore,  it  was  the  representative  not  of  the 
 sun  but  of  the  Deity.  Zoroaster  taught  that  there  was 
 one  God,  Eternal,  the  Father  of  the  Universe :  he  assi- 
 milated the  Deity  to  light,  and  applied  to  him  the 
 names  of  Light,  Beams,  and  Splendour.  The  Magi, 
 corrupting  this  representation  of  the  Supreme  Being, 
 and,  taking  literally  what  was  meant  as  an  allegory  or 
 symbol,  supposed  that  God  was  this  central  fire,  the 
 source  of  heat,  light,  and  life,  residing  in  the  centre  of 
 the  universe;  and  fromv  hence  they  introduced  among 
 the  Chaldeans  the  worship  of  fire.  That  Pythagoras  was 
 tainted  with  this  superstition  is  well  known.  On  the  testi- 
 mony of  Plutarch,  his  disciples  held,  that  in  the  midst 
 of  the  world  is  fire,  or  in  the  midst  of  the  four  elements 
 is  the  fiery  globe  of  Unity,  or  Monad  —  the  procreative, 
 nutritive,  and  excitative  power.  The  sacred  fire  of  Vesta, 
 among  the  Greeks  and  Latins,  was  a  remain  of  this 
 doctrine. 
 
 As  the  limits  of  this  paper  will  not  allow  me  to  take 
 
293 
 
 m  all  the  branches  of  this  subject,  I  shall  confine  my  atten- 
 tion to  the  opinions  held  by  these  early  nations  of  the 
 nature  of  the  Godhead. 
 
 Amidst  the  corruptions  introduced  by  the  Magi,  we  may 
 discern,  with  tolerable  certainty,  that  Zoroaster  taught  the 
 worship  of  the  one  true  God ;  and  Thales,  Pythagoras,  and 
 Plato,  who  had  all  been  instituted  in  the  mysteries  of  the 
 Chaldeans,  taught  the  same  doctrine.  These  philosophers 
 likewise  asserted  the  omnipotence  and  eternity  of  God ;  and 
 that  he  was  the  creator  of  all  things,  and  the  governor  of 
 the  universe.  Plato  decisively  supported  the  doctrines  of 
 future  rewards  and  punishments ;  and  Pythagoras,  struck 
 with  the  idea  of  the  omnipresence  of  the  Deity,  defined 
 him  as  miimm  per  universas  mundi  partes  oraiiemque  naiuram 
 commeans  atque  diffusus^  ex  quo  omnia  qiue  nascuntur  ani- 
 malia  vitam  capiunt.*  —  An  intelligence  moving  upon,  and 
 diffused  over  all  the  parts  of  the  universe  and  all  nature, 
 from  which  all  animals  derive  their  existence.  As  for  the 
 swarm  of  gods  worshipped  both  in  Egypt  and  Greece,  it  is 
 evident  they  were  only  esteemed  as  inferior  deities.  In  the 
 time  of  St.  Paul,  there  was  a  temple  at  Athens  inscribed  to 
 the  unknown  God  :  and  Hesiod  makes  them  younger  than 
 the  earth  and  heaven. 
 
 E|  apxv^  ovs  Taia  Kai  Ovpavos  evpvs  ctiktov 
 
 Theog. 
 
 *  Lactantius  Div.  Inst.  lib.  cap.  5.  etiain,  Minucius  Felix,  "  Pytha- 
 gorae  Deus  est  animus  per  iiniversam  reruni  naturam  commeans  atque 
 intentijs  ex  quo  etiam  aninialium  omnium  vita  capiatur." 
 
 u   3 
 
294 
 
 If  Pythagoras,  and  the  other  philosophers  who  succeeded 
 him,  paid  honour  to  these  gods,  they  either  did  it  through 
 fear  of  encountering  ancient  prejudices,  or  they  reconciled 
 it  by  recurring  to  the  Daemonology  of  their  masters,  the 
 Chaldeans,  who  maintained  the  agency  of  good  and  bad 
 daemons,  who  presided  over  different  things,  and  were  dis- 
 tinguished into  the  powers  of  light  and  darkness,  heat  and 
 cold.  It  is  remarkable,  too,  that  amongst  all  these  people, 
 whether  Egyptians  or  Chaldeans,  Greeks  or  Romans,  as  well 
 as  every  other  nation  under  the  sun,  sacrifices  were  made  to 
 the  gods,  in  order  to  render  them  propitious  to  their  wishes, 
 or  to  expiate  their  offences  —  a  fact  which  proves,  that  the 
 conviction  of  the  interference  of  the  Deity  in  human  affairs 
 is  universal ;  and,  what  is  much  more  important,  that  this 
 custom  is  primitive,  and  derived  from  the  first  inhabitants 
 of  the  world. 
 
(395 
 
 MELANCHOLY  HOURS. 
 (No.  XII.) 
 
 While  the  seat  of  empire  was  yet  at  Byzantium,  and 
 that  city  was  the  centre,  not  only  of  dominion,  but  of 
 learning  and  politeness,  a  certain  hermit  had  fixed  his  resi- 
 dence in  a  cell,  on  the  banks  of  the  Athyras,  at  the  distance 
 of  about  ten  miles  from  the  capital.  The  spot  was  retired, 
 although  so  near  the  great  city,  and  was  protected,  as  well 
 by  woods  and  precipices  as  by  the  awful  reverence  with 
 which,  at  that  time,  all  ranks  beheld  the  character  of  a  re- 
 cluse. Indeed,  the  poor  old  man,  who  tenanted  the  little 
 hollow,  at  the  summit  of  a  crag,  beneath  which  the  Athy- 
 ras rolls  its  impetuous  torrent,  was  not  famed  for  the  seve- 
 rity of  his  penances,  or  the  strictness  of  his  mortifications. 
 That  he  was  either  studious,  or  protracted  his  devotions  to 
 a  late  hour,  was  evident,  for  his  lamp  was  often  seen  to 
 stream  through  the  trees  which  shaded  his  dwelling,  when 
 accident  called  any  of  the  peasants  from  their  beds  at  un- 
 seasonable hours.  Be  this  as  it  may,  no  miracles  were 
 imputed  to  him ;  the  sick  rarely  came  to  petition  for  the 
 benefit  of  his  prayers,  and,  though  some  both  loved  him, 
 and  had  good  reason  for  loving  him,  yet  many  undervalued 
 him  for  the  want  of  that  very  austerity  which  the  old  man 
 seemed  most  desirous  to  avoid. 
 
 It  was  evening,  and  the  long  shadows  of  the  Thracian 
 
 u  4 
 
296 
 
 mountains  were  extending  still  farther  and  farther  along 
 the  plains,  when  this  old  man  was  disturbed  in  his  medi- 
 tations by  the  approach  of  a  stranger.  "  How  far  is  it 
 to  Byzantium?"  was  the  question  put  by  the  traveller. 
 "  Not  far  tx)  those  who  know  the  country,"  replied  the 
 hermit,  "  but  a  stranger  would  not  easily  find  his  way 
 through  the  windings  of  these  woods,  and  the  intricacies 
 of  the  plains  beyond  them.  Do  you  see  that  blue  mist 
 which  stretches  alon^r  the  boundin":  line  of  the  horizon  as 
 far  as  the  trees  will  permit  the  eye  to  trace  it  ?  That 
 is  the  Propontis:  and  higher  up  on  the  left,  the  city  of 
 Constantinople  rears  its  proud  head  above  the  waters. 
 But  I  would  dissuade  thee,  stranger,  from  pursuing  thy 
 journey  farther  to-night.  Thou  mayest  rest  in  the  village, 
 which  is  half  way  down  the  hill ;  or  if  thou  wilt  share  my 
 supper  of  roots,  and  put  up  with  a  bed  of  leaves,  my  cell 
 is  open  to  thee."— "  1  thank  thee,  father,"  replied  the 
 youth,  "  I  am  weary  with  my  journey,  and  will  accept  thy 
 proffered  hospitality."  They  ascended  the  rock  together. 
 The  hermit's  cell  was  tlie  work  of  nature.  It  penetrated 
 far  into  the  rock,  and  in  the  innermost  recess  was  a  little 
 chapel,  furnished  with  a  crucifix,  and  a  human  skull,  the 
 objects  of  the  hermit's  nighdy  and  daily  contemplation, 
 for  neither  of  them  received  his  adoration.  That  cor- 
 ruption had  not  as  yet  crept  into  the  Christian  church. 
 The  hermit  now  lighted  up  a  fire  of  dry  sticks,  (for  the 
 nights  are  very  piercing  in  the  regions  about  the  Helles- 
 pont and  the  Bosphorus,)  and  then  proceeded  to  pre- 
 pare their  vegetable  meal.  While  he  was  thus  employed, 
 his   young   guest  surveyed,    with   surprise,    the  dwelling 
 
297 
 
 which  he  was  to  inhabit  for  the  night.  A  cold  rock-hole 
 on  the  bleak  summit  of  one  of  the  Thracian  hills,  seemed 
 to  him  a  comfortless  choice  for  a  weak  and  solitary  old 
 man.  The  rude  materials  of  his  scanty  furniture  still 
 more  surprised  him.  A  table  fixed  to  the  gi'ound,  a 
 wooden  bench,  an  earthen  lamp,  a  number  of  rolls  of 
 papyrus  and  vellum,  and  a  heap  of  leaves  in  a  corner, 
 the  hermit's  bed,  were  all  his  stock.  "  Is  it  possible," 
 at  length  he  exclaimed,  "  that  you  can  tenant  this  com- 
 fortless cave,  with  these  scanty  accommodations,  through 
 choice :  Go  with  me,  old  man,  to  Constantinople,  and 
 receive  from  me  those  conveniences  which  befit  your 
 years."  "  And  what  art  thou  going  to  do  at  Constan- 
 tinople, my  young  friend,"  said  the  hermit,  "  for  thy 
 dialect  bespeaks  thee  a  native  of  more  southern  regions. 
 Am  I  mistaken,  art  thou  not  an  Athenian  ?"  "I  am  an 
 Athenian,"  replied  the  youth,  "  by  birth,  but  I  hope  I 
 am  not  an  Athenian  in  vice.  I  have  left  my  degenerate 
 birth-place  in  quest  of  happiness.  I  have  learned  from 
 my  master,  Speusippus,  a  genuine  asserter  of  the  much 
 belied  doctrines  of  Epicurus,  that  as  a  future  state  is  a 
 mere  phantom  and  vagary  of  the  brain,  it  is  the  only  true 
 wisdom  to  enjoy  life  while  we  have  it.  But  I  have  learned 
 from  him  also,  that  virtue  alone  is  true  enjoyment.  I 
 am  resolved,  therefore,  to  enjoy  life,  and  that  too  with 
 virtue,  as  my  companion  and  guide.  My  travels  are 
 begun  with  the  design  of  discovering  where  I  can  best 
 unite  both  objects :  enjoyment  the  most  exquisite,  with 
 virtue  the  most  perfect.  You  perhaps  may  have  reached 
 the  latter,   my  good  father ;  the  formei"  you  have  certainly 
 
298 
 
 missed.      To-morrow  I  shall   continue  my  search.      At 
 Constantinople,   I  shall  laugh  and  sing  with  the  gay,  me- 
 ditate with  the  sober,   drink  deeply  of  every  unpolluted 
 pleasure,  and  taste  all  the  fountains  of  wisdom  and  phi- 
 losophy.    I  have  heard  much  of  the  accomplishments  of 
 the  women  of  Byzantium.      With  us,   females  are  mere 
 household  slaves;  here,  I  am  told,  they  have  minds.     I 
 almost  promise  myself  that  I  shall  marry  and  settle  at 
 Constantinople,  where  the  loves  and  graces  seem  alone 
 to   reside,  and  where  even  the  women  have  minds.     My 
 good  father,  how  the  wind  roars  about  this  aerial  nest  of 
 yours,  and  here  you  sit  during  the  long  cold  nights,  all 
 alone,   cold  and  cheerless,   when  Constantinople  is  just  at 
 your  feet,  with  all  its  joys,  its  comforts,  and  its  elegancies. 
 I  perceive  that  the  philosophers  of  our  sect,  who    suc- 
 ceeded Epicurus,  were  right,  when  they  taught  that  there 
 might  be  virtue  vdthout  enjoyment,   and  that  virtue  with- 
 out enjoyment  is  not  worth  the  having."      The  face  of 
 the   youth   kindled   with    animation    as    he    spake   these 
 words,  and  he  visibly  enjoyed  the  consciousness  of  supe- 
 rior intelligence.     The  old  man  sighed,  and  was  silent. 
 As  they  ate  their  frugal  supper,   both  parties  seemed  in- 
 volved in  deep  thought.     The  young  traveller  was  dream- 
 ing of  the  Byzantine  women :  his  host  seemed  occupied 
 with  far  different  meditations.      "  So  you  are  travelling 
 to  Constantinople  in  search  of  happiness  ?"  at  length  ex- 
 claimed the  hermit;   "  I  too  have  been  a  suitor  of  that 
 divinity,   and  it  may  be  of  use  to  yoi:.  to  hear  how  I  have 
 fared.     The  history  of  my  life  will  serve  to  fill  up  the 
 interval  before  we  retire  to  rest,   and  my  experience  may 
 14 
 
299 
 
 not  prove  altogether  useless  to  one  who  is  about  to  go  the 
 same  journey  which  I  have  finished. 
 
 "  These  scanty  hairs  of  mine  were  not  always  grey,  nor 
 these  limbs  decrepid :  I  was  once,  like  thee,  young,  fresh 
 and  vigorous,  full  of  delightful  dreams  and  gay  anticipations. 
 Life  seemed  a  garden  of  sweets,  a  path  of  roses ;  and  I 
 thought  I  had  but  to  choose  in   what  way  I  would  be 
 happy.     I  will  pass    over  the  incidents  of  my  boyhood, 
 and   come  to   my  maturer  years.      I   had   scarcely   seen 
 twenty  summers,  when  I  formed  one  of  those  extravagant 
 and  ardent  attachments,  of  which  youth  is  so  susceptible. 
 It  happened,  that,  at  that  time,  I  bore   arms  under  the 
 emperor  Theodosius,   in  his  expedition  against  the  Goths, 
 who  had  over-run  a  part  of  Thrace.     In  our  return  from 
 a  successful  campaign,  we  staid  some  time  in  the  Greek 
 cities,  which  border   on   the  Euxine.     In   one   of  these 
 cities  I   became   acquainted  with  a  female,    whose    form 
 was  not  more  elegant  than  her  mind  was  cultivated,  and 
 her  heart  untainted.     I  had  done  her  family  some  trivial 
 services,  and   her  gratitude  spoke  too  warmly  to  my  in- 
 toxicated brain  to  |leave  any  doubt  on  my  mind  that  she 
 loved  me.     The  idea  was  too  exquisitely  pleasing  to  be 
 soon  dismissed.     I  sought   every  occasion  of  being  with 
 her.     Her  mild  persuasive  voice  seemed  like   the   music 
 of  heaven  to  my  ears,   after  the  toils  and  roughness  of  a 
 soldier's  life.     I  had  a  fi'iend,   too,  whose  converse,  next 
 to    that  of  the  dear   object  of  my  secret  love,  was  most 
 dear   to  me.     He  formed  the  third  in  all  our  meetings, 
 and  beyond  the  enjoyment  of  the  society  of  these  two,  I 
 
;oo 
 
 had  not  a  wish.  I  had  never  yet  spoken  explicitly  to 
 my  female  friend,  but  I  fondly  hoped  we  understood 
 each  other.  Why  should  I  dwell  on  the  subject  ?  I  was 
 mistaken.  My  friend  threw  himself  on  my  mercy.  I 
 found  that  he,  not  I,  was  the  object  of  her  affections. 
 Young  man,  you  may  conceive,  but  I  cannot  describe 
 what  I  felt,  as  I  joined  their  hands.  The  stroke  was 
 severe,  and,  for  a  time,  unfitted  me  for  the  duties  of  my 
 station.  I  suffered  the  army  to  leave  the  place  without 
 accompanying  it :  and  thus  lost  the  rewards  of  my  past 
 services,  and  forfeited  the  favour  of  my  sovereign.  This 
 was  another  source  of  anxiety  and  regret  to  me,  as  my 
 mind  recovered  its  wonted  tone.  But  the  mind  of  youth, 
 however  deeply  it  may  feel  for  a  while,  eventually  rises 
 up  from  dejection,  and  regains  its  wonted  elasticity. 
 That  vigour  by  which  the  spirit  recovers  itself  from  the 
 depths  of  useless  regret,  and  enters  upon  new  prospects 
 with  its  accustomed  ardour,  is  only  subdued  by  time. 
 I  now  applied  myself  to  the  study  of  philosophy,  under 
 a  Greek  master,  and  all  my  ambition  was  directed  towards 
 letters.  But  ambition  is  not  quite  enough  to  fill  a  young 
 man's  heart.  I  still  felt  a  void  there,  and  sighed  as  I 
 reflected  on  the  happiness  of  my  friend.  At  the  time 
 when  I  visited  the  object  of  my  first  love,  a  young  Chris- 
 tian woman,  her  frequent  companion,  had  sometimes 
 taken  my  attention.  She  was  an  Ionian  by  birth,  and 
 had  all  the  softness  and  pensive  intelligence  which  her 
 countrywomen  are  said  to  possess  when  unvitiated  by 
 the  corruptions  so  prevalent  in  that  delightful  region. 
 You   are  no   stranger   to   tlie  contempt   with   which  the 
 
301 
 
 Greeks  then  treated,  and  do  still,  in  some  places,  treat 
 the  Christians.  This  young  woman  bore  that  contempt 
 with  a  calmness  which  surprised  me.  There  were  then 
 but  few  converts  to  that  religion  in  those  parts,  and  its 
 profession  was  therefore  more  exposed  to  ridicule  and 
 persecution  from  its  strangeness.  Notwithstanding  her 
 religion,  I  thought  I  could  love  this  interesting  and 
 amiable  female,  and,  in  spite  of  my  former  mistake,  I 
 had  the  vanity  to  imagine  I  was  not  indifferent  to  her. 
 As  our  intimacy  increased,  I  learned,  to  my  astonishment, 
 that  she  regarded  me  as  one  involved  in  ignorance  and 
 error:  and  that,  although  she  felt  an  affection  for  me, 
 yet  she  would  never  become  my  wife,  while  I  remained 
 devoted  to  the  religion  of  my  ancestors.  Piqued  at  this 
 discovery,  I  received  the  books,  which  she  now  for  the 
 first  time  put  into  my  hands,  with  pity  and  contempt. 
 I  expected  to  find  them  nothing  but  the  repositories  of  a 
 miserable  and  deluded  superstition,  more  presuming  than 
 the  mystical  leaves  of  the  Sibyls,  or  the  obscure  triads 
 of  Zoroaster.  How  was  I  mistaken  !  There  was  much 
 which  I  could  not  at  all  comprehend ;  but,  in  the  midst  of 
 this  darkness,  the  effect  of  my  ignorance,  I  discerned  a 
 system  of  morality,  so  exalted,  so  exquisitely  pure,  and 
 so  far  removed  from  all  I  would  have  conceived  of  the 
 most  perfect  virtue,  that  all  the  philosophy  of  the  Gre- 
 cian world  seemed  worse  than  dross  in  the  comparison. 
 My  former  learning  had  only  served  to  teach  me  that 
 something  was  wanting  to  complete  the  systems  of  philo- 
 sophers. Here  that  invisible  link  was  supplied,  and  I 
 could  even  then  observe  a  harmony  and  consistency   in 
 
302 
 
 the  whole,  which  carried  irresistible  conviction  to  my 
 mind.  I  will  not  enlarge  on  this  subject.  Christianity 
 is  not  a  mere  set  of  opinions  to  be  embraced  by  the  under- 
 standing. It  is  the  work  of  the  heart  as  well  as  the  head. 
 Let  it  suffice  to  say,  that,  in  time,  I  became  a  Christian, 
 and  the  husband  of  Sapphira. 
 
REFLECTIONS. 
 
REFLECTIONS, 
 
 ON  PRAYER. 
 
 If  there  be  any  duty  which  our  Lord  Jesus  Christ  seems 
 to  have  considered  as  more  indispensably  necessary  to- 
 wards the  formation  of  a  true  Christian,  it  is  that  of 
 prayer.  He  has  taken  every  opportunity  of  unpressing 
 on  our  minds  the  absolute  need  in  which  we  stand  of  the 
 divine  assistance,  both  to  persist  in  the  paths  of  righte- 
 ousness, and  to  fly  from  the  allurements  of  a  fascinat- 
 ing, but  dangerous  Hfe:  and  he  has  directed  us  to  the 
 only  means  of  obtaining  that  assistance  in  constant  and 
 habitual  appeals  to  the  throne  of  Grace.  Prayer  is  cer- 
 tainly the  foundation-stone  of  the  superstructure  of  a 
 religious  life :  for  a  man  can  neither  arrive  at  true  piety, 
 nor  persevere  in  its  ways  when  attained,  unless,  with  sin- 
 cere and  continued  fervency,  and  with  the  most  unaffected 
 anxiety,  he  implore  Almighty  God  to  grant  him  his  per- 
 petual grace,  to  guard  and  restrain  him  from  all  those 
 derelictions  of  heart,  to  which  we  are,  by  nature,  but  too 
 prone.  I  should  think  it  an  insult  to  the  understanding  of 
 a  Christian  to  dwell  on  the  necessity  of  prayer,  and,  be- 
 fore we  can  harangue  an  infidel  on  its  efficacy,   we  must 
 
 VOL.  11.  X 
 
306 
 
 convince  him,  not  only  that  the  Being  to  whom  we  address 
 ourselves  really  exists,   but  that  he  condescends  to  hear 
 and  to  answer  our  humble  supplications.      As  these  ob- 
 jects are  foreign  to  my  present  purpose,   I  shall  take  my 
 leave  of  the  necessity  of  prayer,   as  acknowledged  by  all 
 to  whom  this  paper  is  addressed,  and  shall  be  content  to 
 expatiate  on  the  strong  inducements  which  we  have  to  lift 
 up  our  souls  to  our  Maker  in  the  language  of  supplication 
 and  of  praise;  to  depict  the  happiness  which  results  to  the 
 man  of  true  piety  from  the  exercise  of  this  duty ;  and,  last- 
 ly, to  warn  mankind,  lest  their  fervency  should  carry  them 
 into  the  extreme  of  fanaticism,  and  their  prayers,  instead 
 of  being  silent  and  unassuming  expressions  of  gratitude 
 to  their  Maker,   and  humble  entreaties  for  his  favouring 
 grace,  should  degenerate  into  clamorous  vociferations  and 
 insolent  gesticulations,  utterly  repugnant  to  the  true  spirit 
 of  prayer,  and  to  the  language  of  a  creature  addressing  his 
 Creator. 
 
 There  is  such  an  exalted  delight  to  a  regenerate 
 being  in  the  act  of  prayer,  and  he  anticipates  with  so 
 much  pleasure  amid  the  toils  of  business,  and  the  crowds 
 of  the  world,  the  moment  when  he  shall  be  able  to  pour 
 out  his  soul  without  interruption  into  the  bosom  of  his 
 Maker,  that  I  am  persuaded,  that  the  degree  of  desire 
 or  repugnance  which  a  man  feels  to  the  performance 
 of  this  amiable  duty,  is  an  infallible  criterion  of  his  ac- 
 ceptance with  God.  Let  the  unhappy  child  of  dissipa- 
 tion—  let  the  impure  voluptuary  boast  of  his  short 
 hours   of  rxquisite   enjoyment;    even   in   the   degree   of 
 
307 
 
 bliss  they  are  infinitely  interior  to  the  delight  of  which 
 the  righteous  man  participates  in  his  private  devotions ; 
 while  in  their  opposite  consequences  they  lead  to  a  no 
 less  wide  extreme  than  heaven  and  hell,  a  state  of  posi- 
 tive happiness,  and  a  state  of  positive  misery.  If  there 
 were  no  other  inducement  to  prayer,  than  the  very  grati- 
 fication it  imparts  to  the  soul,  it  would  deserve  to  be 
 regarded  as  the  most  important  object  of  a  Christian; 
 for  no  where  else  could  he  purchase  so  much  calmness, 
 so  much  resignation,  and  so  much  of  that  peace  and  re- 
 pose of  spirit,  in  which  consists  the  chief  happiness  of 
 this  otlierwise  dark  and  stormy  being.  But  to  prayer, 
 besides  the  inducement  of  momentary  gratification,  the 
 very  self-love  implanted  in  our  bosoms  would  lead  us  to 
 resort,  as  the  chief  good,  for  our  Lord  hath  said,  "  Ask, 
 and  it  shall  be  given  to  thee ;  knock,  and  it  shall  be  open- 
 ed ;"  and  not  a  supplication  made  in  the  true  spirit  of  faith 
 and  humility,  but  shall  be  answered ;  not  a  request  which 
 is  urged  with  unfeigned  submission  and  lowliness  of  spirit, 
 but  shall  be  granted,  if  it  be  consistent  with  our  happi- 
 ness, either  temporal  or  eternal.  Of  this  happiness, 
 however,  the  Lord  God  is  the  only  judge ;  but  this  we 
 do  know,  that  whether  our  requests  be  granted,  or 
 whether  they  be  refused,  all  is  working  together  for  our 
 ultimate  benefit. 
 
 When  I  say,  that  such  of  our  requests  and  solicita- 
 tions, as  are  urged  in  the  true  spirit  of  meekness,  humi- 
 lity, and  submission,  will  indubitably  be  answered,  I 
 would   wish   to    draw    a   line   between    supplications    so 
 
 X  2 
 
308 
 
 urwed,  and  those  violent  and  vehement  declamations 
 which,  under  the  name  of  prayers,  are  sometimes  heard 
 to  proceed  from  the  lips  of  men  professing  to  worship 
 God  in  the  spirit  of  meekness  and  truth.  Surely  I  need 
 not  impress  on  any  reasonable  mind,  how  directly  con- 
 trary these  inflamed  and  bombastic  harangues  are  to 
 every  precept  of  Christianity,  and  every  idea  of  the  de- 
 ference due  from  a  poor  worm,  like  man,  to  the  omni- 
 potent and  all-great  God.  Can  we  hesitate  a  moment  as 
 to  which  is  more  acceptable  in  his  sight  —  the  diffident, 
 the  lowly,  the  retiring,  and  yet  solemn  and  impressive 
 form  of  worship  of  our  excellent  church ;  and  the  wild 
 and  laboured  exclamations,  the  authoritative  and  dicta- 
 tory  clamours  of  men,  who,  forgetting  the  immense  dis- 
 tance at  which  they  stand  from  the  awful  Being  whom 
 they  address,  boldly,  and  with  unblushing  front,  speak 
 to  their  God  as  to  an  equal,  and  almost  dare  to  pre- 
 scribe to  his  infinite  wisdom  the  steps  it  shall  pursue? 
 How  often  has  the  silent,  yet  eloquent  eye  of  misery,  wrung 
 from  the  reluctant  hand  of  charity  that  relief  which 
 has  been  denied  to  the  loud  and  importunate  beggar? 
 And  is  Heaven  to  be  taken  by  storm?  Are  we  to  wrest 
 the  Almighty  from  his  purposes  by  vociferation  and  im- 
 portunity ?  God  forbid  !  It  is  a  fair  and  a  reasonable, 
 though  a  melancholy  inference,  that  the  Lord  shuts  his 
 ears  against  prayers  like  these,  and  leaves  the  deluded 
 supplicants  to  follow  the  impulse  of  their  own  head-strong 
 passions,  without  a  guide,  and  destitute  of  every  ray  of  his 
 pure  and  holy  light. 
 
309 
 
 Those  mock  apostles,  who  thus  disgrace  the  worship 
 of  the  true  God  by  their  extravagance,  are  very  fond 
 of  appearing  to  imitate  the  conduct  of  our  Saviour, 
 during  his  mortal  peregrination ;  but  how  contrary  were 
 his  habits  to  those  of  these  deluded  men  !  Did  he  teach 
 his  disciples  to  insult  the  ear  of  Heaven  with  noise  and 
 clamour?  Were  his  precepts  those  of  fanaticism  and 
 passion?  Did  he  inflame  the  minds  of  his  hearers  with 
 vehement  and  declamatory  harangues!  Did  he  pray 
 with  all  this  confidence  —  this  arrogance  —  this  assurance  ? 
 How  different  was  his  conduct !  He  divested  wisdom  of 
 all  its  pomp  and  parade,  in  order  to  suit  it  to  the  capaci- 
 ties of  the  meanest  of  its  auditors.  He  spake  to  them 
 in  the  lowly  language  of  parable  and  similitude;  and 
 when  he  prayed,  did  he  instruct  his  hearers  to  attend  to 
 him  with  a  loud  chorus  of  Amens  ?  Did  he  (partici- 
 pating as  he  did  in  the  Godhead),  did  he  assume  the  tone 
 of  sufficiency,  and  the  language  of  assurance?  Far 
 from  itl  he  prayed,  and  he  instructed  his  disciples  to 
 pray,  in  lowliness  and  meekness  of  spirit ;  he  instructed 
 them  to  approach  the  throne  of  Grace  with  fear  and 
 trembling,  silently,  and  with  the  deepest  awe  and  vener- 
 ation ;  and  he  evinced  by  his  condemnation  of  the  prayer 
 of  the  self-sufficient  Pharisee,  opposed  to  that  of  the  dif- 
 fident publican,  the  light  in  which  those  were  consi- 
 dered in  the  eyes  of  the  Lord,  who,  setting  the  terrors  of 
 his  Godhead  at  defiance,  and  boldly  building  on  their 
 own  worthiness,  approached  him  with  confidence  and 
 pride.         *         *         * 
 
 X  3 
 
310 
 
 There  is  nothing  so  indispensably  necessary  towards 
 the  establishment  of  future  earthly,   as  well  as  heavenly 
 happiness,  as  early  impressions  of  piety.      For,  as  religion 
 is  the  sole  source  of  all   human  welfere  and   peace,    so 
 habits  of  religious  reflection,  in  the  spring  of  life,   are  the 
 only  means  of  arriving  at  a  due  sense  of  the  importance 
 of  divine   concerns   in   age,    except    by   the    bitter   and 
 hazardous  roads  of  repentance  and  remorse.     There  is  not 
 a  more  awful  spectacle  in  nature,  than  the  death-bed  of 
 a  late  repentance.      The  groans  of  agony  which  attend 
 the  separation  of  the  soul  from  the  body,   heightened  by 
 the   heart-piercmg  exclamation   of  mental   distress;    the 
 dreadful  ebullitions  of  horror  and  remorse,  intermingled 
 with   the   half-fearful,   but    fervent   deprecations    of    the 
 divine  wrath,   and  prayers  for  the  divine  mercy,  joined  to 
 the  pathetic  imploring  to  the  friends  who  stand  weeping 
 around  the  bed  of  the  sinner  to  pray  for  him,    and  to 
 take  warning  from  his  awful  end,    contribute  to  render 
 this  scene  such  an  impressive  and  terrible  memento  of  the 
 state  of  those  who  have  neglected  their   souls,  as  must 
 bring  to  a  due   sense  of  his  duty  the  most  hardened  of 
 infidels. 
 
 It  is  to  ensure  you,  my  young  friends,  as  far  as  pre- 
 cept can  ensure  you,  from  horrors  like  these  in  your  last 
 moments,  that  I  write  this  little  book,  in  the  hopes  that, 
 through  the  blessing  of  the  Divine  Being,  it  may  be  use- 
 
311 
 
 ful  in  inducing  you  to  reflect  on  the  importance  of  early 
 piety,  and  lead  you  into  the  cheerful  performance  of  your 
 duties  to  God,  and  to  your  own  souls.  In  the  pursuit  of 
 this  plan,  I  shall,  first,  consider  the  bliss  which  results 
 from  a  pious  disposition,  and  the  horrors  of  a  wicked 
 one.  Secondly,  the  necessity  of  an  early  attention  to  the 
 concerns  of  the  soul  towards  the  establishment  of  perma- 
 nent religion,  and  its  consequent  happiness  ;  and,  thirdly, 
 I  shall  point  out  and  contrast  the  last  moments  of  those 
 who  have  acted  in  conformity,  or  in  contradiction  to  the 
 rules  here  laid  down. 
 
 The  contrast  between  the  lives   of  the  good   a  nd  the 
 wicked  man   affords  such  convincing  arguments  in  sup- 
 port of  the  excellence  of  religion,  that,   even  those  infi- 
 dels  who   have   dared    to   assert   their   disbelief   of   the 
 doctrine  of  Revelation,  have  confessed  that  in  a  political 
 point  of  view,  if  in  no  other,  it  ought  to  be  maintained. 
 Compare  the  peaceful  and   collected  course  of  the  vir- 
 tuous and  pious  man,  with  the  turbulent  irregularity  and 
 violence    of  him  who    neglects   his    soul   for  the   allure- 
 ments of  vice,   and  judge   for  yourselves  of  the  policy  of 
 the  conduct  of  each,   even  in  this  world.      Whose  plea- 
 sures are  the  most  exquisite  ?      Whose  delights  the  most 
 lasting  ?     Whose  state  is  the  most  enviable  ?     His  who 
 barters  his  hopes  of  eternal  welfare  for  a  few  fleeting  mo- 
 ments of  brutal  gratification,  or  his  who,   while  he  keeps 
 a  future  state  alone  in   his  view,   finds  happiness  in  the 
 conscientious  performance  of  his  duties,  and  the  scrupu- 
 lous fulfilment  of  the  end  of  his  sojourn  here  ?     Believe 
 
312 
 
 me,  my  friends,  there  is  no  comparison  between  them. 
 The  joys  of  the  infatuated  mortal  who  sacrifices  his  soul 
 to  his  sensualities,  are  mixed  with  bitterness  and  anguish. 
 The  voice  of  conscience  rises  distinctly  to  his  ear,  amid 
 the  shouts  of  intemperance  and  the  sallies  of  obstreperous 
 mirth.  In  the  hour  of  rejoicing,  she  whispers  her  appal- 
 lino-  monitions  to  him,  and  his  heart  sinks  within  him, 
 and  the  smile  of  triumphant  villany  is  converted  into  the 
 jrhastly  grin  of  horror  and  hopelessness.  But,  oh  !  in 
 the  languid  intervals  of  dissipation ;  in  the  dead  hour  of 
 the  nio-ht,  when  all  is  solitude  and  silence,  when  the  soul 
 is  driven  to  commune  with  itself,  and  the  voice  of  re- 
 morse, whose  whispers  were  before  half  drowned  in  the 
 noise  of  riot,  rises  dreadfully  distinct  —  What  !  —  what 
 are  his  emotions  !  —  Who  can  paint  his  agonies,  his  exe- 
 crations, his  despair!  Let  that  man  lose  again,  in  the 
 vortex  of  fashion,  and  folly,  and  vice,  the  remembrance 
 of  his  horrors :  let  him  smile,  let  him  laugh  and  be  merry ; 
 believe  me,  my  dear  readers,  he  is  not  happy,  he  is  not 
 careless,  he  is  not  the  jovial  being  he  appears  to  be.  His 
 heart  is  heavy  within  him ;  he  cannot  stifle  the  reflections 
 which  assail  him  in  the  very  moment  of  enjoyment;  but 
 strip  the  painted  veil  from  his  bosom,  lay  aside  the  trap- 
 pino-s  of  folly,  and  that  man  is  miserable,  and  not  only  so, 
 but  he  has  purchased  that  misery  at  the  expense  of  eter- 
 nal torment. 
 
 Let  us  oppose  to  this  awful  picture  the  life  of  the  good 
 man  ;  of  him  who  rises  in  the  morning  with  cheerfulness, 
 to  praise  his  Creator  for  all  the  good  he  hath  bestowed 
 
313 
 
 upon  him,  and  to  perform  with  studious  exactness  the 
 duties  of  his  station;  and  lays  himself  down  on  his  pillow 
 in  the  evening  in  the  sweet  consciousness  of  the  applause 
 of  his  own  heart.  Place  this  man  on  the  stormy  seas  of 
 misfortune  and  sorrow  —  press  him  with  afflictive  dispens- 
 ations of  Providence — snatch  from  his  arms  the  object 
 of  his  affections  —  separate  him  for  ever  from  all  he  loved 
 and  held  dear  on  earth,  and  leave  him  isolated  and  an  out- 
 cast in  the  world,  —  he  is  calm  —  he  is  composed  —  he  is 
 grateful  —  he  weeps,  for  human  nature  is  weak,  but  he  still 
 preserves  his  composure  and  resignation  —  he  still  looks  up 
 to  the  Giver  of  all  good  with  thankfulness  and  praise,  and 
 perseveres  with  calmness  and  fortitude  in  the  paths  of  right- 
 eousness. His  disappointments  cannot  overwhelm  him,  for 
 his  chief  hopes  are  placed  far,  very  far,  beyond  the  reach 
 of  human  vicissitude.  "  He  hath  chosen  that  good  part, 
 which  none  can  take  away  from  him." 
 
 Here  then  lies  the  great  excellence  of  religion  and 
 piety ;  they  not  only  lead  to  eternal  happiness,  but  to  the 
 happiness  of  this  world ;  they  not  only  ensure  everlasting 
 bliss,  but  they  are  the  sole  means  of  arriving  at  that  degree 
 of  felicity  which  this  dark  and  stormy  being  is  capable  of, 
 and  are  the  sole  supports  in  the  hour  of  adversity  and 
 affliction.  How  infatuated  then  must  that  man  be,  who 
 can  wilfully  shut  his  eyes  to  his  own  welfare,  and  deviate 
 from  the  paths  of  righteousness  which  lead  to  bliss.  Even 
 allowing  him  to  entertain  the  erroneous  notion  that  religion 
 does  not  lead  to  happiness  in  this  life,  his  conduct  is  in- 
 compatible with  every  idea  of  a  reasonable  being.     In  the 
 
314 
 
 Spectator  we  find  the  following  image  employed  to  induce 
 a  conviction  of  the  magnitude  of  this  truth  :  supposing  the 
 whole  body  of  the  earth  were  a  great  ball,  or  mass  of  the 
 finest  sand,  and  that  a  single  grain,  or  particle  of  this  sand, 
 should  be  annihilated  every  thousand  years ;  supposing 
 then  that  you  had  it  in  your  choice  to  be  happy  all  the 
 while  this  prodigious  mass  was  consuming,  by  this  slow 
 method,  till  there  was  not  a  grain  of  it  left,  on  condition 
 that  you  were  to  be  miserable  ever  after ;  or  supposing  that 
 you  might  be  happy  for  ever  after,  on  condition  you  would 
 be  miserable  till  the  whole  mass  of  sand  were  thus  annihi- 
 lated, at  the  rate  of  one  sand  a  thousand  years  ;  which  of 
 these  two  cases  would  you  make  your  choice  ? 
 
 It  must  be  confessed  that  in  this  case  so  many     *         * 
 
 *  *  *  * 
 
315 
 
 The  life  of  man  is  transient  and  unstable ;  its  fairest 
 passages  are  but  a  lighter  shade  of  evil,  and  yet  those 
 passages  form  but  a  disproportionate  part  of  the  picture. 
 We  all  seek  Happiness,  though  with  different  degrees  of 
 avidity,  while  the  fickle  object  of  our  pursuits  continually 
 evades  the  grasp  of  those  who  are  the  most  eager  in  the 
 chase ;  and,  perhaps,  at  last  throws  herself  into  the  arms 
 of  those  who  had  entirely  lost  all  sight  of  her,  and  who, 
 when  they  are  most  blessed  with  her  enjoyment,  are  least 
 conscious  that  they  possess  her.  Were  the  objects  in 
 which  we  placed  the  consummation  of  our  wishes  always 
 virtuous,  and  the  means  employed  to  arrive  at  the  bourn 
 of  our  desires  uniformly  good,  there  can  be  little  doubt 
 that  the  aggregate  of  mankind  would  be  as  happy  as  is 
 consistent  with  the  state  in  which  they  live :  but,  unfortu- 
 nately, vicious  men  pursue  vicious  ends  by  vicious  means, 
 and,  by  so  doing,  not  only  ensure  their  own  misery,  but 
 they  overturn  and  destroy  the  fair  designs  of  the  wiser 
 and  the  better  of  their  kind.  Thus  he  who  has  no  idea  of 
 a  bliss  beyond  the  gratification  of  his  brutal  appetites,  in- 
 volves in  the  crime  of  seduction,  the  peace  and  the  repose 
 of  a  good  and  happy  family,  and  an  individual  act  of  evil 
 extends  itself  by  a  continued  impulse  over  a  large  portion 
 of  society.  It  is  thus  that  men  of  bad  minds  become  the 
 pests  of  the  societies  of  which  they  happen  to  be  mem- 
 bers. It  is  thus  that  the  virtuous  among  men  pay  the 
 bitter  penalty  of  the  crimes  and  follies  of  their  unworthy 
 fellows. 
 
316 
 
 Men  who  have  passed  their  whole  h'ves  in  the  lap  of 
 luxury  and  enjoyment,  have  no  idea  of  misery  beyond  that 
 of  which  they  happen  to  be  the  individual  objects. 
 
 THE    END. 
 
 Printed  by  A.  and  R.  Spottiswoode, 
 Printers- Street,  London. 
 
^11131 
 
 M.E1IAIM 
 
 Miiirmi*  ]saiEiKi^  wm'KTM 
 
 HENRT    KIKKE    WHITE, 
 JiORK  MAR<II  21».^17B5.  DXKIJ   ()rT<)BKU  1V)^.«  )»»»i. 
 
 WAUM  WITH  FOm*  H01»EANU  I.BARX1NG*S  SAOUE"  VIAMK, 
 TO  OllANX^S  BOWEUJS  THR  YOU'THFri.  POET  CAMK; 
 UVrOKQlIEiU-JO  I'OlVTiKS   TH' IMMORTAL  MXNIJ  T)lSrUWEl>. 
 BUT  WOHN  WITH  ANXIOUS  TllOIJUHT  THE  FRAME  DETATTBO: 
 PAtB  OE.'K  lUS  I^MP  AJf O  IN  HIS   CEU.  KETIBKt>. 
 THE  MARTYR    STl'DENT  VAOEU  ANO  EXPIliED. 
 O    OENIVS.  TASTE  AND     PIETIf    SlVCKRE, 
 TOO  E.\JULY  LOST.>n»ST  l^VTIES  TOO  SEVERE? 
 FOKEJI6NT  TO  MOrRJV  WAS  flEXEROl'S  SOTTHET  SEE>% 
 BE  TOLO  THE   TAU5  AND  SHE1%'E»  WHAT  WHITE  HAU   BEEN? 
 won  TOUJ  IN  TAIX-FAR  OE'r  Th'ATIu\NTI«'  WAVE 
 A.  WANOBRElt    TAME   ANB   SOUflHT   THE   I'OKTS    CRVVR; 
 ON   YON    M>W   STONE    HE    SAW   HIS    X.i>NElA'    NA>IK, 
 AN1>  HAISED  THIS    KONO  MKMOKIAL  TO    HHS    J'AMK- 
 
 and  erect^^  m  JU  SauiU  Church  Cainbridc/e.  at  tfu  Sole  aipence  pf  Francis  £oo(f  EsqZ'. 
 m  Dw  /.wscRrPTiox  IS  by  WiUmiiv  Smyth  IsqlLFroiessor  of  M-<irn  Siston.-^ 
 
THE 
 
 REMAINS 
 
 OP 
 
 HENRY  KIRKE  WHITE, 
 
 OF  NOTTINGHAM, 
 
 LATE  OF  ST.. JOHN'S  COLLEGE,  CAMBRIDGE: 
 WITH    AN    ACCOUNT    OF    HIS 
 
 LIFE, 
 
 BY  ROBERT  SOUTH EY, 
 
 VOL.  Ill, 
 
 LONDON: 
 
 PRINTED    FOR 
 
 LONGMAN,  HURST,  REES,  ORME,  AND  BROWN, 
 
 PATERKOSTER-ROW^ 
 
 1822. 
 
London  : 
 
 Printed  by  A.  &  R.  Spottiswoode, 
 
 l^Jew- Street- Square. 
 
PREFACE. 
 
 r  Ew  books  have  issued  from  the  press,  during 
 the  last  fifteen  years,  which  have  excited  such 
 general  and  unabating  interest  as  the  Remains 
 of  Henry  Kirke  White.  I  hoped,  and  indeed 
 expected,  this  with  some  confidence ;  in  reliance 
 upon  something  better  than  the  taste  or  judge- 
 ment of  that  many-headed  idol,  the  public.  I 
 trusted,  that  the  genius  of  the  writer,  and  the 
 purity  and  beauty  of  his  character,  would  call 
 forth  admiration  in  young  and  generous  hearts ; 
 while  a  large  portion  of  the  community  would 
 duly  appreciate  his  good  sense,  his  prudence, 
 and  his  piety.  And,  in  this  I  was  not  deceived : 
 youth  and  age,  the  learned  and  the  unlearned, 
 the  proud  intellect  and  the  humble  heart,  have 
 derived  from  these  melancholy  relics  a  pleasure, 
 equal  perhaps  in  degree,though  different  in  kind. 
 A  ^ 
 
IV  PREFACE, 
 
 In  consequence  of  this  general  acceptation, 
 the  relatives  of  the  Author  were  often  advised 
 and  solicited  to  publish  a  farther  selection,  and 
 applications  to  the  same  effect  were  sometimes 
 addressed  to  me.  An  extract  from  one  letter 
 upon  the  subject  may  not  improperly  be  inserted 
 here,  for  its  singularity  and  frank  good-nature. 
 After  declaring,  that  he  did  not  remember  ever  to 
 have  read  a  work  which  had  more  pleased,  edified, 
 and  aftected  him,  the  writer  says,  "To  be  sure, 
 you  and  I  should  read  the  book  very  differently. 
 I  am  such  a  Goth,  that  I  have  no  taste  for  any 
 poetry,  beyond  a  Tabernacle  Hymn:  therefore, 
 when  I  read  the  first  volume,  I  skipped  the  verses, 
 or,  at  most,  hastily  ran  my  eye  over  them.  The 
 part  which  has  so  much  struck  me  is  his  reli- 
 gion. Indeed,  dear  Sir,  you  have  done  this  part 
 great  justice^  A  thought,  however,  has  struck  me^ 
 w^hicli  I  trust  your  candour  will  pai'don  me  for 
 stating  to  you.  As  you  bad  a  trunk  full  of 
 papers  of  his  writing  to  select  from,  I  fear  there 
 may  be  many  on  the  subject  of  religion  which 
 you  may  have  omitted,  (not  out  of  bigotry;  for 
 the  Life  is  so  fairly  and  honourably  written,  that  I 
 perfectly  acquit  you  of  that,)  but  from  thinking 
 them  perhaps  entliusiastic,  or  unworthy  of  his 
 
PREFACE.  V 
 
 great  abilities ;  when  those  very  papers  might 
 be  a  means  of  comfort  and  edification  to  some 
 pious  minds.  Even  if  this  did  not  weigh  with 
 you,  out  of  so  large  a  number  you  had  to  select 
 a  few,  consequently  many  must  have  been  una- 
 voidably rejected.  If  there  are  many  more  of 
 the  same  devotional  cast,  and  it  was  judged  ex- 
 pedient to  print  them,  I  would  gladly  subscribe 
 towards  it." 
 
 The  wishes,  thus  privately  expressed,  for  a 
 farther  selection,  were  seconded  by  the  publish- 
 ers ;  but  so  little  had  any  such  intention  been 
 originally  entertained,  that  the  poems,  and  some 
 prose  compositions,  which  from  time  to  time  were 
 recovered  and  thought  worthy  of  preservation, 
 were  inserted  in  the  former  volumes,  as  the  oppor- 
 tunity of  a  new  edition  occurred.  At  length, 
 however,  when  some  letters  of  more  than  common 
 interest  were  put  into  Mr.  Neville  White's  pos- 
 session, the  propriety  of  bearing  a  future  publi- 
 cation in  mind  was  perceived ;  and,  from  that 
 time,  such  letters  and  compositions  as  were  dis- 
 covered were  laid  aside  with  this  view.  From 
 these,  and  from  the  gleanings  of  the  original  col- 
 lection, the  present  volume  has  been  formed. 
 
 Few  of  the  prose  compositions  stand  in  need 
 A  3 
 
VI  PREFACE. 
 
 of  any  apology.  I  have  elsewhere  observed,  that 
 the  premature  good  sense  of  Henry  was  even 
 more  extraordinary  than  his  genius  ;  and  these 
 Remains  contain  abundant  proofs,  that  if  Provi- 
 dence had  thought  good  to  lengthen  his  days, 
 he  would,  in  all  likelihood,  have  been  one  of  the 
 most  jucticious  of  English  Authors.  With  re- 
 gard to  the  poetry,  having  in  the  first  instance 
 exercised  my  own  judgement,  I  did  not  now  think 
 myself  justified  in  rejecting,  what  others  recom- 
 mended for  insertion.  The  poems  had  been 
 seen  by  many  friends  of  the  family,  and  as  in 
 this  case  no  possible  injury  could  be  done  to  the 
 reputation  of  the  dead,  I  willingly  deferred  to 
 their  wishes  and  feelings.  That  which  has 
 pleased  one  person  may  be  expected  to  please 
 others  ;  and  the  productions  of  an  immature 
 mind  will  be  read  by  other  minds  in  tlie  same 
 stage,  with  which  they  will  be  in  unison.  The 
 lover  of  poetry,  as  well  as  the  artist  and  the  an- 
 tiquary, may  be  allowed  to  have  his  relics.  Even 
 in  the  relic-worship  of  the  Romish  superstition, 
 what  we  condemn,  is  not  the  natural  and  be- 
 coming sentiment,  but  the  abuse  which  has  been 
 made  of  it,  and  the  follies  and  villainies  which 
 have  been  committed  in  consequence. 
 
PREFACE.  yii 
 
 I  take  this  opportunity  of  making  some  ad- 
 ditions to  the  Account  of  Henry's  Life ;  and 
 especially,  to  that  part  of  it  concerning  the  manner 
 in  which  he  received  those  strong  religious  im- 
 pressions which  permanently  stamped  his  cha- 
 racter. The  facts  *  were  not  known  to  me  when 
 that  account  was  written ;  they  are  now  stated 
 on  the  authority  of  the  Rev.  R.  W.  Almond, 
 rector  of  St.  Peter's,  Nottingham,  who  was  his 
 fellow-student  at  Wintringham,  and  one  of  his 
 earliest  and  most  intimate  friends. 
 
 At  a  time  when  Henry  doubted  the  truth  of 
 Christianity,  and  professed  a  careless  indifference 
 concerning  it, — which  he  was  far  from  feeling,  — 
 it  happened  that  Mr.  Almond  was  accidentally 
 present  at  a  death-bed,  and  was  so  struck  with 
 what  he  then  saw  of  the  power  and  influence,  and 
 inestimable  value  of  religion,  that  he  formed  a  firm 
 determination  to  renounce  all  such  pursuits  as 
 
 *  It  will  be  observed,  that  this  statement  differs  materially 
 from  what  is  given  in  the  original  memoir ;  and  Henry's 
 friends  are  desirous,  that  the  difference  should  thus  be 
 pointed  out,  in  order  to  expose  the  pretensions  of  a  person 
 who  advertises  himself  as  the  tutor  of  Henry  Kirke  White, 
 and  the  instrument  of  his  conversion  !  How  groundless  the 
 latter  assertion  is,  is  here  shown ;  and  as  for  tutorage,  it 
 continued  not  more  than  five  or  six  weeks. 
 
 A   4 
 
Vin  PREFACE. 
 
 were  not  strictly  compatible  with  it.  That  he 
 might  not  be  shaken  in  this  resolution,  he  with- 
 drew from  the  society  of  all  those  persons  whose 
 ridicule  or  censure  he  feared;  and  was  particularly 
 careful  to  avoid  Henry,  of  whose  raillery  he  stood 
 most  in  dread.  He  anxiously  shunned  him  there- 
 fore ;  till  Henry,  who  would  not  suffer  an  intimacy 
 of  long  standing  to  be  broken  off  he  knew  not 
 why,  called  upon  his  friend,  and  desired  to  know 
 t-he  cause  of  this  unaccountable  conduct  towards 
 himself  and  their  common  acquaintance. 
 
 Mr.  Almond,  who  had  received  him  with  tremb- 
 ling and  reluctance,  replied  to  this  expostulation, 
 ihat  a  total  change  had  been  effected  in  his  reli- 
 gious views,  and  that  he  was  prepared  to  defend 
 his  opinions  and  conduct,  if  Henry  w^ould  allow 
 the  Bible  to  be  the  word  of  truth  and  the  stand- 
 ard of  appeal.  Upon  this,  Henry  exclaimed  in  a 
 tone  of  strong  emotion  :  —  "  Good  God,  you 
 surely  regard  me  in  a  worse  light  than  I  de- 
 serve !"  —  His  friend  proceeded  to  say,  that  what 
 he  had  said  was  from  a  conviction  that  they  had 
 no  common  ground  on  which  to  contend,  Henry 
 having  more  than  once  suggested,  that  the  book 
 of  Isaiah  was  an  epic,  and  that  of  Job  a  dramaticy 
 poem.     He   then  stated  what  the  change  was 
 
PREFACE.  IX 
 
 which  had  taken  place  in  his  own  views  and  in- 
 tentions, and  the  motives  for  his  present  conduct* 
 From  the  manner  in  which  Henry  hstened,  it 
 became  evident  that  his  mind  was  ill  at  ease, 
 and  that  he  was  no-ways  satisfied  with  himself. 
 His  friend,  therefore,  who  had  expected  to  be 
 assailed  in  a  tone  of  triumphant  superiority  by 
 one  in  the  pride  and  youthful  confidence  of  great 
 intellectual  powers,  and,  as  yet,  ignorant  of  his 
 own  ignorance,  found  himself  unexpectedly 
 called  upon  to  act  the  monitor ;  and,  putting 
 into  his  hands  Scott's  "  Force  of  Truth," 
 which  was  lying  on  the  table,  intreated  him 
 to  take  it  with  him,  and  peruse  it  at  his 
 leisure. 
 
 The  book  produced  little  effect,  and  was  re- 
 turned with  disapprobation.  Men  differ  as  much 
 in  mind  as  in  countenance:  some  are  to  be 
 awakened  by  passionate  exhortation,  or  vehement 
 reproof,  appealing  to  their  fears  and  exciting  their 
 imagination  ;  others  yield  to  force  of  argument, 
 or,  upon  slow  enquiry,  to  the  accumulation  of 
 historical  testimony  and  moral  proofs  ;  there  are 
 others,  in  whom  the  innate  principle  of  our 
 nature  retains  more  of  its  original  strength,  and 
 these  are  led  by  their  inward  monitor  into  the 
 
X  PREFACE. 
 
 way  of  peace.  Hemy  was  of  tliis  class.  His  in- 
 tellect might  have  been  on  the  watch  to  detect 
 a  flaw  in  evidence,  a  defective  argument,  or  an 
 illogical  inference ;  but,  in  his  heart,  he  felt  that 
 there  is  no  happiness,  no  rest,  without  religion  : 
 and  in  him  who  becomes  willing  to  beheve,  the 
 root  of  infidelity  is  destroyed.  Mr.  Almond  was 
 about  to  enter  at  Cambridge ;  on  the  evening 
 before  his  departure  for  the  University,  Henry 
 requested  that  he  would  accompany  him  to  the 
 little  room,  which  was  called  his  study.  "  We 
 had  no  sooner  entered,"  says  Mr.  Almond, 
 *'  than  he  burst  into  tears,  and  declared,  that 
 his  anguish  of  mind  was  insupportable.  He  in- 
 treated  that  I  would  kneel  down  and  pray  for 
 him:  and  most  cordially  were  our  tears  and 
 supplications  mingled  at  that  interesting  moment. 
 When  I  took  my  leave,  he  exclaimed  :  —  *  What 
 must  I  do  1  —  You  are  the  only  friend  to  whom 
 1  can  apply  in  this  agonizing  state,  and  you  are 
 about  to  leave  me.  My  literary  associates  are  all 
 inclined  to  deism.  I  have  no  one  with  whom 
 I  can  communicate !'  " 
 
 This  was  early  in  the  summer  of  1803,  soon 
 after  Henry  had  completed  his  eighteenth  year. 
 In  October,  his  friend,  wlien  he  went  to  reside 
 
PREFACE.  XI 
 
 at  Cambridge,  endeavoured  to  interest  in  Henry's 
 behalf  some  persons  who  might  be  able  to  assist 
 him  in  what  was  now  become  the  great  object  of 
 his  desire,  that  of  passing  through  the  University, 
 and  qualifying  himself  for  holy  orders.  It  is 
 neither  to  be  wondered  at  nor  censured,  that  his 
 representations,  where  he  had  an  opportunity  of 
 making  them,  were  for  the  most  part  coldly 
 received.  They  who  have  been  most  conversant 
 with  youth  best  understand  how  little  the  pro- 
 mises of  early  genius  are  to  be  relied  upon : 
 it  is  among  the  mortifying  truths  which  we  learn 
 from  experience;  and  no  common  spirit  of  bene- 
 volence is  required  to  overcome  the  chilling  effect 
 of  repeated  disappointments.  He  found,  how- 
 ever, encouragement  from  two  persons,  whose 
 names  have  since  become  well  known.  Mr. 
 Dealtry,  then  one  of  the  mathematical  lecturers 
 at  Trinity,  was  one.  This  gentleman,  whom 
 the  love  of  the  abstract  sciences  had  not  ren- 
 dered intolerant  of  other  pursuits  more  congenial 
 to  youthful  imaginations,  consented  to  look  at 
 Henry's  poem  of  "  T?W,"  a  manuscript  of  which 
 was  in  Almond's  possession.  The  perusal  in- 
 terested him  greatly;  he  entered  with  his  wonted 
 benignity  into  the  concerns  of  the  author,  and 
 
XU  PREFACE. 
 
 would  glaclly  have  befriended  him,  if  the  re- 
 quisite assistance  had  not  just  at  that  time  been 
 secured  from  other  quarters. 
 
 The  other  person  in  whom  Mr.  Almond  excited 
 an  interest  for  his  friend  was  Henry  Martyn, 
 who  has  since  sacrificed  his  life  in  the  missionary 
 service  ;  he  was  then  only  a  few  years  older  than 
 Henry ;  equally  ardent,  equally  devout,  equally 
 enthusiastic.  He  heard  with  emotion  of  this 
 kindred  spirit ;  read  some  of  his  letters,  and  un- 
 dertook to  enter  his  name  upon  the  boards  of 
 St.  John's,  (of  which  college  he  was  a  fellow,) 
 saying,  that  a  friend  in  London,  whose  name  he 
 was  not  at  liberty  to  communicate,  had  empowered 
 him  to  assist  any  deserving  young  man  with  thirty 
 pounds  a  year  during  his  stay  at  the  University. 
 To  ensure  success,  one  of  Henry's  letters  was 
 transmitted  to  this  unknown  friend;  and  Martyn 
 was  not  a  little  surprised  and  grieved,  to  learn 
 in  reply,  that  a  passage  in  that  letter  seemed  to 
 render  it  doubtful  whether  the  writer  were  a 
 Churchman  or  a  Dissenter ;  and,  therefore, 
 occasioned  a  demur  as  to  the  propriety  of 
 assisting  him.  Just  at  this  time  Henry  arrived  at 
 Cambridge,  with  an  introduction  to  Mr.  Simeon. 
 That  gentleman  being   in  correspondence  with 
 
PREFACE,  Xm 
 
 Martyn's  friend  in  London,  expressed  displeasure 
 at  his  arrival ;  but  the  first  interview  removed  all 
 objection. 
 
 I  may  here  add,  as  at  the  same  time  showing 
 Henry's  aspirations  after  fame  and  the  princi- 
 ples by  which  he  had  learnt  to  regulate  his 
 ambition,  that  on  the  cover  of  one  of  his  common- 
 place books  he  had  written  these  mottoes. 
 
 AAAA   TAP   E2TIN    M0T2A   KAI    HMIN 
 
 EURIP:    MEDEA.  1091. 
 
 Fame  is  the  spur  that  the  clear  spirit  doth  raise 
 (That  last  infirmity  of  noble  minds), 
 To  scorn  delight,  and  live  laborious  days. 
 
 Milton's  lycidas,  70. 
 
 Under  these  lines  was  placed  a  reference 
 to  the  following  extract,  (in  another  page,)  from 
 Barrow.  "  The  Holy  Scripture  does  not  teach 
 us  to  slight  honour  ;  but  rather,  in  its  fit  order 
 and  just  measure,  to  love  and  prove  it.  It  directs 
 us  not  to  make  a  regard  thereto  our  chief  prin- 
 ciple; not  to  propound  it  as  our  main  end  of 
 action.     It  charges  us,  to  bear  contentedly  the 
 
XIV  PREFACE. 
 
 want  or  loss  thereof,  as  of  other  temporal  goods. 
 Yea,  in  some  cases,  for  conscience  sake,  or  for 
 God's  service,  (that  is,  for  a  good  incomparably 
 better,)  it  obliges  us  willingly  to  prostitute  and 
 sacrifice  it,  choosing  rather  to  be  infamous  than 
 impious  ;  in  disgrace  with  man,  rather  than  in  dis- 
 favour with  God.  It,  in  fine,  commands  us  to 
 seek  and  embrace  it  only  in  subordination,  and 
 with  final  reference  to  God's  honour." 
 
 It  is  a  mournful  thing  to  consider  how  much 
 the  world  has  lost  in  a  mind  so  highly  gifted,  and 
 regulated  by  such  principles.  The  country  is 
 overflowing  with  talents :  and  mere  talents,  di- 
 rected as  they  are  more  frequently  to  evil  than 
 to  good,  are  to  be  regretted  when  they  are 
 cut  off,  only  in  compassion  for  those  who  must 
 answer  for  their  misappHcation :  but  one  who 
 had  chosen  his  part  well,  and  would  have  stood 
 forward,  armed  at  all  points,  among  the  conserv- 
 ative spirits  of  the  age,  can  ill  be  spared.  Yet 
 he  has  not  lived  in  vain,  either  for  himself  or 
 others.  Perhaps  no  afier- works  which  he  might 
 have  left  on  earth,  however  elaborate,  could  have 
 been  so  influential  as  his  youthful  example.  For 
 many  are  the  young  and  ardent  minds  who  have 
 received,  and  many,  many  more  are  they  who 
 
PREFACE.  XV 
 
 will  receive,  from  him  a  right  bias  in  the  begin- 
 ning of  their  course.  Many  are  the  youthful 
 poets  who  will  recognize  their  own  feelings 
 concerning  Henry  Kirke  White,  in  this  sweet 
 Sonnet. 
 
 Tho'  as  the  dew  of  morning,  short  thy  date, 
 
 Tho'  sorrow  look'd  on  thee,  and  said  —  "  be  mine  !" 
 
 Yet  with  a  holy  ardour,  bard  divine, 
 
 I  burn  —  I  burn  to  share  thy  glorious  fate. 
 
 Above  whatever  of  honours,  or  estate, 
 
 This  transient  world  can  give !  I  would  resign. 
 
 With  rapture.  Fortune's  choicest  gifts  for  thine, ^ — 
 
 More  truly  noble,  more  sublimely  great. 
 
 For  thou  hast  gain'd  the  prize  of  well-tried  worth. 
 
 That  prize  which  from  thee  never  can  be  riven ; 
 
 Thine,  Henry,  is  a  deathless  name  on  earth. 
 
 Thine  amaranthine  wreaths,  new-pluck*d  in  heaven  ! 
 
 By  what  aspiring  child  of  mortal  birth 
 
 Could  more  be  ask*d,  to  whom  might  more  be  given  ? 
 
 CHAUNCY  HARE  TOWNSEND. 
 
 A  tablet  to  Henry's  memory,  with  a  medallion 
 by  Chantrey,  has  been  placed  in  All-Saint's 
 Church,  Cambridge,  at  the  expense  of  a  young 
 American  Gentleman,  Mr.  Francis  Boott,  of 
 Boston.     During  his  travels  in  this  country,  he 
 
XVI  PREFACE. 
 
 visited  the  grave  of  one  whom  he  had  learnt  to 
 love  and  regret  in  America ;  and  finding  no  other 
 memorial  of  him  than  the  initials  of  his  name 
 upon  the  plain  stone  which  covers  his  perishable 
 remains,  ordered  this  monument  to  be  erected. 
 It  bears  the  following  inscription  by  Professor 
 Smyth,  who,  while  Henry  was  living,  treated 
 him  with  characteristic  kindness,  and  has  con- 
 signed to  posterity  this  durable  expression  of  his 
 friendship. 
 
 Warm  with  fond  hope  and  learning's  sacred  flame, 
 To  Granta's  bowers  the  youdiful  poet  came ; 
 Unconquer'd  powers  the  immortal  mind  displayed, 
 But  worn  with  anxious  thought  the  frame  decayed : 
 Pale  o'er  his  lamp,  and  in  his  cell  retir'd. 
 The  martyr  student  faded,  and  expired. 
 Oh !  genius,  taste,  and  piety  sincere. 
 Too  early  lost,  midst  studies  too  severe  ! 
 Foremost  to  mourn  was  generous  Southey  seen. 
 He  told  the  tale,  and  show'd  what  White  had  been ; 
 Nor  told  in  vain.  —  Far  o'er  the  Atlantic  wave 
 A  wanderer  came,  and  sought  the  poet's  grave : 
 On  yon  low  stone  he  saw  his  lonely  name. 
 And  raised  this  fond  memorial  to  his  fame. 
 
 WILLIAM  SMYTH. 
 
CONTENTS 
 
 OF 
 
 THE  THIRD  VOLUME. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Preface iii 
 
 Letter  to  Mr.  Harris 3 
 
 to  Mr.  R.  W.  Almond 6 
 
 to  the  Rev.  Mr.  S  *  *    9 
 
 to  Mr.  Kirke  Swann    11 
 
 to  his  Brother  Neville  13 
 
 to  Mr.  Charlesworth  15 
 
 to*  *  *  17 
 
 to  Mr.  R.  Wortley  20 
 
 to  his  Brother  Neville    ,  25 
 
 to ditto    30 
 
 to ditto    33 
 
 to  Mr.  *    *  ..* 40 
 
 to  Mr.  William  Leeson 46 
 
 to  his  Brother  Neville    .^. 51 
 
 to ditto 54 
 
 EARLY    POEMS. 
 
 The  Fair  Maid  of  Clifton  —  A  Ballad  in  the  old  style 59 
 
 On  Rural  Solitude  64 
 
 Song  «  The  Robin  Red  Breast "    66 
 
 Winter  Song 68 
 
 "  Sweet  Jessy  I  would  fain  caress"   70 
 
 a 
 
Xviu  CONTENTS. 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Song  "  Oh,  that  1  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses  " 71 
 
 "  In  hollow  music  sighing  thro'  the  glade" 72 
 
 "  Thou  mongrel,  who  dost  show  thy  teeth,  and  yelp  "    75 
 
 Verses  to  the  Countess  of  Derby 58 
 
 Ode  to  the  Morning  Star    74 
 
 Hermit  of  the  Pacific 76 
 
 POEMS    OF    LATER    DATE. 
 
 "  Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy"  85 
 
 "  When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn"   85 
 
 "  I  have  a  wish,  and  near  my  heart"  87 
 
 "  Once  more  his  beagles  wake  the  slumbering  morn"  88 
 
 *«  Drear  Winter,  who  dost  knock" 89 
 
 «  Behold  the  Shepherd  Boy,  who  homeward  tends"    91 
 
 "  Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp  arise"   94 
 
 "  With  slow  step  along  the  desert  sands"  97 
 
 Versification  of  the  22nd  Psalm    98 
 
 Hymn"  The  Lord  our  God  is  full  of  might"   100 
 
 "The  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  all"  101 
 
 «  Through  sorrow's  night,  and  danger's  path"  102 
 
 "  Much  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe"  —  A  fragment    104 
 
 "  Christian  Brethren  !  —  ere  we  part"  ditto  1 05 
 
 Sonnet,  to  a  friend  106 
 
 "  Oh,  had  the  soul's  deep  silence  power  to  speak" 107 
 
 "  The  Harp  is  still !  weak,  tho'  the  spirit  were" 108 
 
 "  Or  should  the  day  be  overcast" 109 
 
 «  Mild  Vesper,  favourite  of  the  Paphian  Queen"  110 
 
 "  In  every  clime  from  Lapland  to  Japan" HI 
 
 "  Poor  little  one,  most  bitterly  did  pain" 112 
 
 To  December  115 
 
 Ode  to  Liberty 114 
 
 «  Who  is  it  leads  the  planets  in  their  dance" 117 
 
 "  How  beautiful  upon  the  Element" 119 
 
C(XNTJi:NTS.  XIX 
 
 PAGE 
 
 Ode  "  Ghosts  of  the  dead,  in  grim  array"    121 
 
 on  the  death  of  the  Duke  D'Enghein 122 
 
 PROSE    COMPOSITIONS. 
 
 An  unfinished  Tract    127 
 
 Reasons  for  entering  the  Ministry  of  the  Church  152 
 
 Letter  (supposed  to  the  Christian  Observer)  on  the  interpreta- 
 tion of  a  passage  in  Timothy  vi.  10 134 
 
 on  a  passage  in  Josephus    ••••   156 
 
 . on  the  preaching  of  the  Gospel 140 
 
 on  the  nicknames  of  Controversial  disputants 142 
 
 . on  True  Philosophy  148 
 
 addressed  to  the  members  of  a  "  Sick  visiting  Society". . .  1 55 
 
 Essay  on  the  Dignity  of  the  Pulpit  158 
 
 . on  our  estimate  of  Happiness    160 
 
 on  the  Human  Mind 165 
 
 ^ on  Human  Life   1*^^ 
 
 "  Omnipresence"    175 
 
 on  the  22nd  verse  of  the  7th  chap,  of  the  Acts  of  the 
 
 Apostles t..... • 177 
 
LETTERS. 
 
 VOL.  III. 
 
LETTERS, 
 
 TO  MR.  HARRIS. 
 
 Nottingham, ,  1802. 
 
 DEAR    SIR, 
 
 1  MUST  stand  self-accused  of  negligence  for  not  having 
 written   to   you   sooner,  on  the  subject  of  Parkhurst's 
 Greek   Lexicon,  which  you  were  so  good  as  to  inform 
 me  you  could  obtain  for  2/.  2s. ;  but  at  the  time  you 
 left  the  note  at  our  house,  I  was  at  Chesterfield,  from 
 whence  I  did  not  return  until  the  ensuing  week,  and  my 
 mother  having  forgotten  to  mention  the  circumstance  of 
 your  note  being  written  in  the  Monthly  Mirror,  I  never 
 knew  of  it,  until  a  considerable  time  afterwards,  when  I 
 casually  cast  my  eye  upon  it,   as   I  was  preparing  the 
 numbers  to  be  bound.     I  have  also  expected,  for  some 
 time,  to  hear  of  your  return  to  Nottingham,  as  from  what 
 you  said  previous  to  your  departure,  I   concluded  you 
 were  not  going  to  bid  us  a  final  farewell.     I  now  suppose 
 you  have  obtained  a  situation  elsewhere,   but  in  what 
 .part  of  this  great  world,  I  am  totally  at  a  loss  to  imagine. 
 For  any  thing  I  know  to  the  contrary,  you  may  be  shiv- 
 ering in  Nova-Zembla,  or  sweltering  under  the   line; 
 
 B  2 
 
4 
 
 quaffing  the  milk  of  the  cocoa-nut  under  the  broad 
 bananas  of  the  Indies,  or  breathing  the  invigorating  air 
 of  Hberty  in  the  half-cultivated  wilds  of  North  America, 
 I  have  some  sort  of  a  prepossession,  however,  that  you  are 
 not  quite  so  far  removed  from  the  fogs  of  our  British 
 atmosphere,  but  rather  think  you  are  concealed  amid 
 its  vapours.  I  am  the  more  inclined  to  favour  this  latter 
 supposition,  though  not  so  romantic  as  the  former  by  half^ 
 ■ —  because  Mr.  S  *  *,  who  will  forward  this  letter,  has 
 signified  the  same  to  me^ 
 
 Since  your  departure,  I  have  made  some  progress  in 
 the  Greek,^  but  was  stopt  for  the  want  of  a  Lexicon.  I 
 lately  purchased  a  second-hand  Schrevelius,  (Greek  and 
 Latin,)  which  has  pretty  well  answered  my  purpose,  but 
 Parkhurst  is  still  desirable,  and  if  you  will  have  the 
 goodness  to  obtain  me  the  one  you  mentioned,  I  shall  be 
 obliged  to  you,  and  will  remit  you  the  price,  wherever 
 you  may  happen  to  be,  and  in  the  manner  you  may 
 judge  the  most  convenient, 
 
 I  can  assure  you,  I  begin  to  feel  your  loss  severely^ 
 and,  as  the  summer  approaches,  shall  do  it  the  more, 
 for  I  consider  the  hours  I  passed  with  you  at  the  Trent 
 Bridge,  as  the  most  delightfully  tranquil  of  my  life; 
 though  dashed,  at  intervals,  by  the  recollection  that  I 
 had  to  brave  all  the  horrors  of  the  night,  the  walking 
 spectres,  and  the  lurking  assassins  in  my  way  home,  over 
 the  meadows.     Seriously,  now  I  wonder,  how  you  could 
 
 15 
 
leave  so  many  attractions,  to  a  mind  like  your's,  when 
 you  possessed  an  easy  competency,  in  pursuit  of  preca- 
 rious wealth.  I  can  give  you  a  line  of  Horace  to  this 
 effect,  but  my  Latinity  is  very  stale  — 
 
 "  Q,uod  satis  est,  cui  contingit,  nihil  amplius  optet." 
 
 I  hope  you  will  not  think  me  impertinent,  in  thus 
 obtruding  my  gaping  wonderments  on  your  notice,  nor 
 think  me  a  believer  in  the  truth  of  that  impertinent 
 Greek  Proverb  "  TroWoi  i/^ol^y^tch  xpsirrovsg  SiSao-xaXcoj/,'* 
 Had  it  been  wiser,  instead  of  "  better/*  this  would  have 
 been  more  applicable,  but  you  see  how  ambitious  I  am  of 
 forcing  my  learning  on  your  notice.  Pray  do  have  the 
 goodness  to  inform  me  whether  in  writing  in  the  Greek 
 character,  there  is  not  some  mode  of  joining  the  letters, 
 without  making  use  of  those  plaguey  contractions  ;  in  my 
 present  way,  as  above,  I  find  it  wretchedly  tiresome. 
 
 You  see,  1  begin  to  talk  to  you  as  if  I  were  a  regular 
 correspondent ;  in  fact,  it  is  in  that  very  light  I  wish  to 
 consider  myself,  and  it  depends  on  you  to  determine 
 whether  I  shall  enjoy  that  pleasure.  I  confess,  all  the 
 advantage  will  be  on  my  side,  without  any  thing  ade- 
 quate, to  compensate  for  it  on  your's.  But,  — hang  these 
 "  buts,"  how  they  bother  one.  But,  the  fact  is,  I  have 
 nothing  interesting  onthe  subject,  though  L  have  been 
 racking  my  brains  several  minutes  to  discover  something. 
 
 *  *  #  *  "Sr  * 
 
 B    3 
 
TO  MR.  R.  W.  ALMOND. 
 
 Nottingham,  22d  November,  1803. 
 
 DEAB    ROBERT, 
 
 I  WAS  happy  enough  to  be  introduced  to  Mr.  Robinson* 
 a  few  days  ago ;  I  passed  half  an  hour  with  him  alone, 
 by  his  desire,  and  afterwards  took  tea  and  supper  with 
 him,  his  wife  and  daughter,  at  Mrs.  M  *  *  's.  I  cannot 
 describe  to  you,  in  adequate  terms,  the  domestic  cha- 
 racter of  this  venerable  man.  He  is  all  cheerfulness 
 and  complacency,  good  humoured,  and  sometimes  even 
 jocose ;  his  conversation  at  the  same  time  instnictive,  and, 
 in  no  common  degree,  entertainirig.  He  is  full  of  anec- 
 dotes of  eminent  pious  characters  of  the  last  century,  as 
 well  as  of  this.  He  knew  Mr.  Venn  very  well,  and  he 
 is  intimate  with  O  *  *  * :  he  gave  us  a  most  affecting 
 representation  of  his  last  interview  with  the  Jbr7ner,  just 
 before  his  death.  He  depicted  the  resigned  and  placid 
 countenance  of  the  aged  and  dying  Christian,  so  ad- 
 mirably in  his  features,  and  suited  his  voice  so  exactly 
 
 *  The  late  Rev.  Mr.  Robinson,   Vicar  of  St.  Mary's,  Leicester ;  th«j 
 author  of  "  Scripture  Characters,"  &c.  &c. 
 
 18 
 
to  the  affecting  state  of  a  very  old  man,  sinking  under 
 the  weight  of  years,  that  he  actually  drew  tears  into  my 
 eyes.  During  the  whole  evening,  I  was  pleased  to  observe, 
 he  directed  his  whole  conversation  to  me,  and,  as  he  had 
 before  slightly  examined  me,  it  gave  me  the  assurance 
 that  he  was  satisfied  with  me.  He  promised  me  every 
 assistance  that  he  could  command,  and  when  we  shook 
 hands  at  parting,  he  said,  "  Mr.  "White,  I  wish  you  may 
 live  to  become  an  ornament  to  the  Ministry ;  I  trust  you 
 will  have  assistance.  Fear  not,  go  on,  and  the  Lord 
 prosper  you."  He  recommended  me  to  labour  at  the 
 Greek  very  diligently,  and  thought  I  had  delayed  it  too 
 loner. 
 
 My  dear  friend,  I  cannot  adequately  express  what  I 
 owe  to  you  on  the  score  of  religion,  I  told  Mr.  Ro- 
 binson you  were  ihejirst  instrument  of  my  being  brought 
 to  think  deeply  on  religious  subjects  ;  and  I  feel  more 
 and  more  every  day,  that  if  it  had  not  been  for  you,  I 
 might,  most  probably,  have  been  now  buried  in  apathy  and 
 unconcern.  Though  I  am  in  a  great  measure  blessed,  — 
 I  mean  blessed  With  faith,  now  pretty  stedfast,  and  heavy 
 convictions^  I  am  far  from  being  happy.  My  sins  have 
 been  of  a  dark  hue,  and  manifold :  I  have  made  Fame 
 my  God,  and  Ambition  my  shrine.  I  have  placed  all 
 my  hopes  on  the  things  of  this  world.  I  have  knelt  to 
 Dagon ;  I  have  worshipped  the  evil  creations  of  my  o-i^n 
 
 B  4 
 
proud  heart,  and  God  had  well  nigh  turned  his  counte- 
 nance from  me  in  wrath  ;  perhaps  one  step  further,  and 
 he  might  have  shut  me  for  ever  from  his  rest.  I  now 
 turn  my  eyes  to  Jesus,  my  saviour,  my  atonement,  with 
 hope  and  confidence :  he  will  not  repulse  the  imploring 
 penitent ;  his  arms  are  open  to  all,  they  are  open  even 
 to  me ;  and  in  return  for  such  a  mercy,  what  can  I  do 
 less  than  dedicate  my  whole  life  to  his  service  ?  My 
 thoughts  would  fain  recur  at  intervals  to  my  former 
 delights,  but  I  am  now  on  my  guard  to  restrain  and 
 keep  them  in.  I  know  now  nsohere  they  ought  to  con- 
 center, and  with  the  blessing  of  God,  they  shall  there 
 all  tend. 
 
 My  next  publication  of  poems  will  be  solely  religious. 
 1  shall  not  destroy  those  of  a  different  nature,  which 
 now  lie  before  me,  but  they  will,  most  probably,  sleep  in 
 my  desk,  imtil  in  the  good  time  of  my  great  Lord  and 
 Master,  I  shall  receive  my  passport  from  this  world  of 
 vanity.  I  am  now  bent  on  a  higher  errand  than  that 
 of  the  attainment  of  poetical  fame ;  poetry,  in  future, 
 will  be  my  relaxation^  not  my  employment. —  Adieu  to 
 literary  ambition  !  "  You  do  not  aspire  to  be  prime 
 minister,"  said  Mr.  Robinson,  "  you  covet  a  far  higher 
 character ;  to  be  the  humblest  among  those  who  minister 
 to  their  Maker."^         *  *  #  *  * 
 
9 
 
 TO    THE    REV.  MR.  S  *  *  * 
 
 Wintringham,  ,  1804. 
 
 DEAR  SIR, 
 
 In  consequence  of  your  letter  of  the  8th  August  last, 
 I  took  the  liberty  of  writing  to  Mr.  Atkinson,  requesting 
 his  advice  and  directions,  as  you  signified  your  wish 
 that  I  should.  I  received,  in  answer,  the  letter  which 
 I  have  copied  ^r5^  on  the  other  side.  Since  I  had  my- 
 self written  to  Mr.  Atkinson,  stating,  that  in  pursuance 
 of  your  advice,  I  declined  the  assistance,  for  the  offer 
 of  which  I  was  indebted  to  the  Society;  and  as  I  also 
 understood  you  had  written  to  the  same  effect,  I  did 
 not  exactly  understand  the  purport  of  this  letter.  Mr. 
 Dashwood  was  of  opinion,  that  I  had  no  time  to  lose  ; 
 and  at  the  recommendation  of  the  Rev.  Mr.  Cocker,  of 
 Bunny,  near  Nottingham,  he  procured  me  a  tutor  in  the 
 Rev.  L.  Grainger,  of  Wintringham,  Lincolnshire,  who 
 was  once  an  usher  in  Mr.  Joseph  Milner's  school  at 
 Hull. 
 
 With  this  gentleman  I  have  now  been  three   weeks. 
 1   have   this   evening  received   from  Mr.  Atkinson,  the 
 
10 
 
 letter  which  is  last  copied  on  the  other  side ;  and,  unless 
 the  steps  Mr.  A.  has  taken  are  in  consequence  of  some 
 arrangement  between  him  and  you,  and  of  which  I  am 
 ignorant,  I  am  at  a  loss  to  account  for  the  intelligence 
 it  contains.  I  take  it  for  granted,  however,  that  things 
 remain  in  their  former  train,  and  that  a  misunderstanding 
 has  arisen  from  the  want  of  sufficient  explicitness  in  my 
 letters. 
 
 I  feel  particularly  uneasy  with  regard  to  this  apparent 
 misunderstanding.  As  Mr.  Atkinson,  for  whose  friendly 
 offices  I  am  greatly  indebted,  may  think  I  am  making 
 an  unhandsome  return  for  the  trouble  he  has  taken  on 
 my  behalf;  and  the  Society  may,  with  seeming  justice, 
 be  displeased  at  my  taking  up  their  time  and  attention  to 
 no  purpose,  I  am  anxious  to  remove  any  ill  impression 
 which  may  be  made  in  the  minds  of  these  gentlemen ; 
 and  if  I  might  hope  that  you  would  take  the  trouble 
 of  making  the  necessary  explanations  to  Mr.  Atkinson, 
 I  should  be  happy  in  the  confidence,  that  all  has  been 
 done  which  is  necessary  to  clear  up  the  mistake. 
 
11 
 
 TO  MR.  K.  SWANN. 
 
 Wintringham,  December,   1804. 
 MY    DEAR    KIRKE, 
 
 The  affection  of  my  friends  cannot  fail  to  give  nie 
 pleasure,  and,  I  assure  you,  this  testimony  of  your's 
 has  occasioned  me  no  little  satisfaction ;  but  I  must  still 
 assure  you,  that  I  am  perfectly  recovered,  and  as  well 
 as  I  ever  felt  myself  in  my  life.  My  disorder  was  a 
 slight  fever  of  the  nervous  kind,  brought  on  by  a  cold, 
 and  although  I  was  for  a  time  very  ill,  I  hope  the  event, 
 like  all  other  seeming  evils  in  the  hand  of  Providence, 
 will  turn  out  for  my  advantage.  I  assure  you,  you 
 would  not  despair  of  me  if  you  saw  me  eat,  I  have 
 already  a  good  stock  of  appetite,  and  can  hew  my  way 
 through  a  piece  of  bread  and  cheese  with  considerable 
 agility  and  effect.  Seriously,  I  have  from  conscientious 
 motives  given  up  too  intense  study ;  and  as  the  great 
 end  which  I  set  before  me  is  not  the  attainment  of 
 learning,  but  utility  in  the  ministry  of  Christ,  I  shall 
 take  especial  care  not  to  let  the  pursuit  of  letters  interfere 
 with  the  prospect  of  ministerial  usefulness. 
 
With  regard  to  your  visit  to  these  parts  of  the  world, 
 I  will  give  you  the  same  advice  as  I  gave  to  my  friend 
 *  *  *.  "  Let  it  be,  till  the  su?}imer  7nont/is"  You 
 cannot  well  conceive  the  bleak  and  uncomfortable  state 
 of  the  country  here  at  this  season  ;  the  plains  are  either 
 under  water,  or  so  intersected  with  drains,  that  walking 
 in  the  lowlands  is  almost  impracticable.  Wintringham 
 has  now  few  charms  even  for  us,  fond  as  we  are  of  it. 
 Glad  as  I  should  be  to  see  you  again,  I  should  feel 
 almost  a  pride  in  showing  you  the  village  in  all  its  beauty, 
 rather  than  at  its  greatest  disadvantage. 
 
13 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Cambridge,  25th  May,  1804, 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  SCARCELY  know  what  to  say  on  the  score  of  coming 
 to  London.  You  may  be  sure  I  should  have  no  objection, 
 but  as  it  is  an  expence  without  answering  any  end,  I 
 cannot  biit  hesitate.  If  you  think  it  may  possibly  be  at 
 all  serviceable  to  me,  so  far  as  relates  to  the  University, 
 I  will  certainly  come,  and  stay  two  or  three  days, 
 otherwise  I  think  it  will  be  my  duty  to  deny  myself  this 
 pleasure.  I  shall  stay  here  till  Wednesday  next,  in  case 
 I  do  not  go  to  town,  and  till  Monday,  if  I  do.  So,  if 
 you  will  write  by  return  of  post,  and  say  whether  you 
 think  I  may  do  good  in  London,  I  shall  be  better  able 
 to  decide. 
 
 I  am  truly  gratified  by  your  brotherly  offer  with  regard 
 to  the  expences,  but  I  am  by  no  means  inclined  to  make 
 that  an  inducement  to  come  to  town,  because  if  the  cost 
 be  unnecessarily  incurred,  it  is  no  matter  whether  it 
 come  out  of  your  pocket,  or  my  own. 
 
 1  have  not  been  able  to  do  any  good  here  yet ;  indeed 
 I  have  not  seen  Mr.  Simeon,  but  I  am  admitted  of  St. 
 
14 
 
 John's,  and  I  shall  certainly  reside,  if  I  trust  onlv  to 
 my  own  resources,  as  there  is  a  man  oitliat  college,  who 
 has  only  20/.  per  annum ;  and  I  have  been  assured  by 
 one  of  the  principals,  that,  (while  the  sizarships  are  so 
 very  advantageous,)  I  may  live  with  frugahty  for  that  sum. 
 
 I  find  one  great  objection  to  me  here,  is,  that  I  am  of 
 dissenting  family,  and  am  rather  inclined  that  way  my- 
 self, (which  latter  is  hy  no  means  true.)  so  I  have  no 
 very  sanguine  expectations ;  but  I  shall  make  no  conces- 
 sions, nor  at  all  attempt  to  ingratiate  myself  with  men 
 who  may  be  thus  prejudiced.  I  thank  God,  I  am  inde- 
 pendent enough  to  need  no  artifices  of  obsequiousness 
 or  conciliation. 
 
 I  am  glad  you  heard  Mr.  Simeon ;  he  is  a  truly  pious 
 man,  and  an  excellent  preacher. 
 
 When  I  get  to  Nottingham,  I  shall  continue  mv 
 letters  on  the  Christian  religion,  of  which  my  last  was 
 only  an  introduction,  and  shall  show  how  exactly  the 
 doctrine  of  the  church  coincides  with  the  scriptures. 
 
 I  must  conclude  by  recommending  you,  in  a  spiritual 
 sense,  to  the  guidance  of  the  all- wise  and  merciful  God, 
 w  ho  alone  is  able  to  bring  you  to  his  perfect  light,  and 
 establish  you  in  those  paths  which  lead  to  peace,  and 
 are  themselves  perfect  enjoyment. 
 
15 
 
 TO  MR.  CHARLESWORTH. 
 
 Nottingham,  21st.  Aug.    1804, 
 
 MY    DEAR    C- 
 
 You  must  know,  then,  in  the  first  place,  (to  begin 
 methodically,)  that,  as  I  have  a  year  to  spare  between 
 the  time  when  I  should  take  my  degree  (were  I  to  go 
 to  college  now),  and  the  period  when  I  should  be  old 
 enough  to  be  ord-^^ned,  it  has  been  thought,  that  were 
 I  to  delay  going  to  Cambridge  another  twelve  months,  it 
 would  not  retard  any  of  my  plans  ;  at  the  same  time  that 
 it  would  provide  me  with  much  better  means  of  cutting 
 a  figure.  Almond  stands  in  eodem  iircedicamento^  (this  is 
 logical  Latin),  so  we  have  agreed  to  go  and  study  together 
 under  some  able  classic,  and  then  to  take  all  the  Univer- 
 sity honours  by  storm. 
 
 I  am  advised  to  make  Scotland  the  seat  of  my  pre- 
 paratory labours,  not  only  on  account  of  its  being  a 
 learned  soil,   but  on  account  of  the  cheap  rate  at  which 
 
16 
 
 I  may  there  live,  and  be  taught.  The  largest  sum  I  can 
 afford  to  give  for  a  year's  board  and  tuition  being  40/, 
 I  believe,  it  will  be  worth  a  man's  while  in  Scotland,  to 
 take  me  and  my  friend  for  80Z.,  and  the  only  difficulty 
 is,  in  finding  a  respectable  man,  and  well-grounded 
 classic,  who  will  undertake  the  important  task. 
 
 Almond  conceives,  that  your  good  father  is  the  surest 
 source  to  obtain  this  information  from,  and  we  may,  per- 
 haps, trouble  him  to  give  us  some  intelligence,  or  direc- 
 tions to  guide  our  applications,  through  your  hands. 
 
17 
 
 •J^Q       ♦    #    #    # 
 
 Wintringham,  March,  1805. 
 DEAR    K., 
 
 I  GREATLY  fear  that  you  and  W  *  *  have  not  per- 
 severed in  your  laudable  undertaking.  The  Latin  lan- 
 guage might  be  useful  to  both  of  you,  and  as  you  have 
 leisure,  you  might  employ  it  advantageously  to  this 
 purpose.  I  do  assure  you  that  it  is  not  difficult  to  attain 
 a  sufficient  knowledge  of  the  language,  to  read  easy 
 authors ;  and  that  when  you  have  done  that,  you  may, 
 with  continued  application,  speedily  read  the  Greek 
 Testament.  Tell  me  what  are  your  determinations  on 
 this  head.  I  must  give  you  one  piece  of  advice,  how- 
 ever, which  is,  that  neither  languages,  nor  any  other 
 valuable  attainments,  are  to  be  taken  by  storm  :  con- 
 tinued, sedulous,  and  unwearied  application  must  be 
 employed  for  the  accomplishment  of  any  valuable  pur- 
 pose. The  stone,  which  force  could  not  br^ak,  is  worn 
 through  by  the  incessant  dropping  of  water.  Persons 
 at  our  age  ought  to  begin  to  acquire  comprehensive 
 views  of  things,  and  to  embrace  knowledge,  at  least  in 
 her  outlines,  with  some  degree  of  universality.     For  this 
 
 VOL.    III.  c 
 
IS 
 
 end,  all  languages  are  useful,  but  not  indispensable. 
 Translations  answer  most  of  the  purposes  of  a  know- 
 ledge of  the  original,  although  they  neither  convey  so 
 much  satisfaction,  nor  impart  so  much  pleasure.  To 
 learn  language  for  the  sake  of  knowing  it,  without  any 
 view  to  the  extension  of  our  general  knowledge,  or  other 
 beneficial  ends,  is  quite  absurd;  and  I  cannot  for  a 
 moment  suspect  you  of  such  a  motive :  I  know  your 
 design  is  to  enlarge  the  means  of  information,  and  to 
 unlock  stores  which  have  hitherto  been  withheld  from 
 you.  I  exhort  you  to  proceed,  and  I  pray,  that  as  you 
 begiii  your  studies  with  proper  motives,  you  may  be 
 enabled  to  pursue  them  with  an  eye  to  the  glory  of 
 God,  and  to  the  establishment  of  his  truth. 
 
 We  have  it,  all  of  us,  in  our  power,  in  a  greater  or 
 less  degree,  to  be  useful  to  our  fellow  pilgrims  ;  and  it  is 
 our  duty,  as  well  to  employ  the  means  we  at  present 
 enjoy  to  this  pui-pose,  as  to  endeavour  to  enlarge  those 
 means.  .  Now,  I  think,  it  is  tolerably  manifest,  that  the 
 more  extensive  a  man's  knowledge  under  proper  regu- 
 lations be,  the  less  likely  is  he  to  be  deceived  by  delusive 
 impostures,  or  misled  by  specious  errors.  Such  a  man, 
 in  religion,  is  like  a  bulwark  to  the  church,  the  detector 
 of  fallacies,  and  the  opj^oser  of  dangerous  innovations. 
 Those  who  have  a  studious  turn  should,  therefore,  make 
 a  conscience  of  directing  their  pursuits  to  the  proper 
 end,  in  order  that  they  may  answer  those  purposes  for 
 which  God  intended   them;  vet   wo   must   ouard   most 
 
19 
 
 carefully  apinst  the  pride  of  learning,  and  the  pride  of 
 reason.  If  we  once  throw  off'  our  dependance  on  God, 
 exult  in  our  own  wisdom,  and  rely  on  our  own  discern- 
 ment, our  knowledge  will  prove  a  snare  and  a  destruction 
 to  us.  A  studious  man  stands  in  need  of  almost  un- 
 ceasing supplications  for  God's  superintending  tiM 
 directing  hand ;  he  may  so  easily  be  deluded  by  proud 
 logic  and  proud  enquiries. 
 
 C  2 
 
w 
 
 TO  MR.  R.  WORTLEY. 
 
 Wintringhain,  8th  April,  1805. 
 MY    DEAR    SIR, 
 
 From  the  hand-writing,  I  apprehend  I  am  indebted 
 to  you  for  a  "  Nottingham  Jmirnal,''  which  has  brought 
 intelhgence  most  interesting  to  Almond  and  myself. 
 
 The  subscription  for  the  chapel  of  ease  is  a  very 
 spirited  one ;  and  I  think  you  are  beginning  with  the 
 most  prosperous  omens.  I  hope  the  undertaking  will 
 meet  with  yet  higher  protection  than  that  of  great  men 
 and  rich ;  and  that,  what  is  designed  for  the  honour  of 
 ©od,  will  not  be  destitute  of  his  all-powerful  aid.  Hu- 
 manly speaking,  there  is  only  one  impediment  in  your 
 way,  and  that  is  the  clause  vesting  the  presentation  in 
 the  hands  of  trustees.  There  is  a  bishop  in  the  house 
 who  makes  it  a  rule  to  oppose  every  bill  of  this  kind, 
 where  the  appointment  of  the  minister  is  not  placed  in 
 the  hands  of  the  vicar  or  rector  of  the  parish.  The 
 chapel  in  which  Mr.  Atkinson  preaches,  at  Leeds,  was 
 highly  favoured,  for  the  second  presentation  was  vested 
 in  Mr.  Atkinson  and  his  representatives. 
 
m 
 
 li  iviay  be,  that  as  this  chiuse  is  inserted  with  the  ex- 
 press concurrence  of  the  vicar,  and  as  he  and  the  patron 
 have  both  of  them  votes,  this  objection  may  be  in  some 
 measure  obviated;  but  I  should  think  the  committee 
 will  rather  choose  that  an  amendment  should  be  made, 
 than  the  bill  be  thrown  out  in  the  Upper  House.  Mr. 
 Grainger  thinks  this  is  a  serious  objection,  and,  indeed, 
 he  has  had  experience  of  its  being  so,  for  the  chapel 
 wherein  Mr.  D  *  *  *  preaches  at  H  *  *  *,  is  confined  in 
 the  same  manner,  and  for  the  same  reasons,  to  the 
 vicarage.  ^ 
 
 Mr.  Dashwood's  departure  will,  I  doubt  not,  occasion 
 you  all  much  regret.  I  have  no  doubt  his  reasons  for 
 the  step  are  very  cogent.  His  place  will  not  speedily 
 be  supplied,  and  even  if  you  are  very  fortunate,  you  will 
 be  obliged,  in  all  probability,  to  put  up  with  a  much 
 less  attractive,  if  not  a  less  powerful  preacher.  His 
 ministry  has  been  blessed,  as  we  can  all  testify,  with 
 uncommon  success. 
 
 For  my  own  part,  slow  as  have  been  my  advances  in 
 the  wisdom  of  the  gospel,  and  small  as  in  comparison 
 they  at  this  moment  continue  to  be,  I  still  owe  to  Mr. 
 Dashwood  more  than  the  most  unbounded  gratitude 
 can  adequately  express  :  nothing  less  than  my  all. 
 
 We  enjoy  in  our  present  situations  many  opportunities 
 of  improvement,  in  the  understanding  of  the  principles 
 
 c  3 
 
m 
 
 of  truth,  and  many  incentives  to  the  practice  of  Christian 
 virtues.  I  hope  that  we  at  least  endeavour  to  profit  by 
 them,  and  that  our  progress  in  the  learning  and  wisdom 
 of  the  world,  will,  by  the  especial  blessing  of  God,  be 
 attended  with  a  correspondent  increase  of  far  more  pre- 
 cious knowledge.  It  is  an  error  into  which  all  Christians 
 are  particularly  subject  to  fall,  that  they  already  possess 
 an  adequate  understanding  of  the  divine  truth,  and  that 
 all  they  have  to  do,  is  to  labour  in  producing  a  stricter 
 conformity  to  its  principles ;  whereas,  the  fact  is,  that 
 we  are  often  miserably  deficient  in  this  understanding, 
 and  should  live  in  more  decided  agreement  widi  the 
 truth,  if  we  knew  better  what  it  was.  I  have  felt  the 
 effects  of  this  myself,  and  I  now  find,  that  the  lowlier 
 opinion  I  have  of  my  spiritual  knowledge,  the  more 
 enlarged  views  I  entertain  of  the  relations  in  which  I 
 stand  to  my  God  and  Saviour. 
 
 When  in  Nottingham,  I  gave  way  too  much  to  a 
 practice,  which  prevails  there  in  a  shameful  degree,  of 
 sitting  in  judgment  on  the  attainments  and  experience 
 of  others.  At  this  time,  there  was  darkness  enough  in 
 my  own  heart,  to  have  employed  all  my  attention,  and  I 
 think  it  may  be  generally  asserted,  that  tliosevi^o  are  the 
 readiest  to  examine  others,  are  the  most  backward  to 
 examine  themselves;  that  the  more  we  feel  inclined  to 
 scrutinize  our  brother  Christians  with  severity,  the  less 
 able  are  we  to  endure  such  a  scrutiny  ourselves.    Before 
 
 Christianity  can  arrive  at  any  degree  of  perfection,  we 
 
 o-x- 
 
23 
 
 must  have  less  tongue  and  more  heart  'work.     If  a  man 
 be  faithful  to  his  convictions,  he  w^ill  find  too  much  to 
 do  at  home  to  busy  himself  with  what  he  has  no  oppor- 
 tunities of  sufficiently  knowing,  —  his  neighhom^s  heart. 
 We  are  to  consider  ourselves   at  all  times  as  miserably 
 ignorant ;  and  it  is  only  while  we  do  consider  ourselves 
 as  such,  that  we  are  in  a  disposition  to  learn  of  a  teaehevy 
 so  averse  to   the  pride  of  the  human   heart  as  Jesus 
 Christ.     I  fear,  (and  I  fear,  because  I  have  found  it  so 
 in  myself,)   that  a  superficial  and  too  trifling  religion 
 has  prevailed  too  much   in   Nottingham,    though  with 
 many  and  shi?iing  exceptiotis;  and  I  hope  that  the  time 
 will  soon   come,  when,  with  equal  zeal,  there  will  be 
 greater  depth  of  experience,  and  greater  diffidence  in 
 the  assumption  of  the  office  of  spiritual  inquisitors.     I 
 for  one  have  laid  down  my   post  of  dictator,  by  the 
 grace  of  God  never  to  resume  it ;  and  I  should  think, 
 and   I  have  little  doubt  you  will  concur  with  me,  that 
 the  authority  you  possess  over  the  younger  branches  of 
 our  brotherhood  there,  would  be  well  exercised,  in  dis- 
 countenancing, on  every  occasion,   such  a    spirit   as   I 
 have   been    speaking   of.       Those    who    feel  the    most 
 generally  talk  the  least:  and  it  is  one  way  of  lessening 
 that  trembling  hope  and  fearful  love  of  a  young  con- 
 vert, which  operates  such  salutary  effects,  by  suffering 
 him  to  indulge  in  remarks  on  the  unawakened,  or  the 
 weak  Christian,  as  if  he  were  already  admitted,  or  sure 
 of  acceptance,    and  could   pronounce  the  Shibboleth  of 
 the  genuine  church. 
 
 c  ^ 
 
24 
 
 In  this  censorious  and  unbelieving  age,  it  behoves  us 
 in  particular  to  be  circumspect ;  for  how  do  we  know 
 but  our  indiscreetness  may  excite  another  prejudice  in 
 the  minds  of  the  unconverted,  and  throw  another  ob- 
 stacle in  the  way  of  perishing  sinners  ?  As  professors  of 
 the  Gospel,  we  stand  in  a  very  important  and  arduous 
 situation,  since  we  know  that  our  failures,  errors,  and 
 absurdities,  will  be  laid  to  the  charge  of  the  principles 
 we  profess.  Indeed,  on  reflecting  on  this  subject,  it 
 seem5  to  me  almost  impossible  to  discharge  our  relative 
 duties  to  the  uttermost,  since  the  slightest  slip  may  give 
 occasion  to  our  enemies  to  despise  the  Gospel.  Well 
 might  the  apostle  exclaim,  "  Be  ye  circumspect" — "  Be 
 ye  mly  as  serpents"  Deep  thought  on  these  subjects  is 
 the  only  means  of  seeing  their  full  importance,  and  of 
 enabling  us  to  be  on  our  guard  so  incessantly  as  they 
 require.  Forgive  me  for  trespassing  so  long  on  your 
 time. 
 
^5 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Wintringham,  May,  1805. 
 My    dear    NEVILLE, 
 
 Your  opinion  of  Mr. meets  mine ;  he  is  in- 
 deed altered,  and  his  alteration  is  to  be  attributed  to 
 religion.  You  behold  in  him  a  faint  picture  of  what 
 the  divine  grace  can  do,  and  I  could  enumerate  in- 
 stances, where  the  marks  are  such  as  strike  "  con- 
 viction irresistible"  of  the  verity  of  its  operations. 
 Had  I  it  in  my  power  to  procure  you  all  the  riches 
 and  honours  of  the  world  at  a  wish,  I  should  think  I 
 gave  you  infinitely  mo7'e  than  them  all  by  giving  you 
 religion.  The  blessings  of  human  life  are  at  best  pre- 
 carious, but  this  can  never  fail  you,  and  is  then  most 
 valuable  when  all  other  comforts  fail.  I  should  think  it 
 needless  to  enlarge  on  the  value  of  religion,  since  the 
 most  depraved  acknowledge  it,  and  are  often  heard  to 
 sigh  for  the  happiness  of  the  pious ;  but  there  are  obsta- 
 cles in  the  way  of  a  profession  of  religion  which  need  a 
 little  explanation.  Many  young  men,  in  particular,  feel 
 an  inclination  to  join  the  more  serious  part  of  mankind, 
 who  from  an  unacquaintance  with  the  principles  of  the 
 
26 
 
 Bible,  are  so  dejected  with  a  view  of  the  obstacles  which 
 present  themselves,  that  they  put  off  their  reformation 
 from  day  to  day,  until  they  grow  hardened  in  insensi- 
 bility, and  confirmed  in  error.  All  this  arises,  as  I 
 have  said,  from  an  ignorance  of  Scripture  :  there  are  no 
 such  impediments  in  the  way  of  the  profession  of  the  Gos- 
 pel as  such  persons  imagine;  all  the  difficulties  they  shud- 
 der at  are  in  reality  shadows.  "  We  must  begin  with 
 reforming  our  conduct,"  say  they,  "  and  then,  perhaps, 
 God  may  be  pleased  to  accept  us.  We  find  it  very  hard 
 to  abstain  from  the  least  sinful  indulgence  now ;  how 
 shall  we  be  able  to  curb  our  appetites  on  all  occasions, 
 and  join  in  the  avocations  of  the  religious  and  sober, 
 without  repining  for  what  we  now  feel  so  very  indis- 
 pensable to  our  real  or  imaginary  happiness  ?"  To 
 a  person  reasoning  in  this  manner,  I  would  simply 
 explain  how  we  stand  with  relation  to  God  and  an- 
 other world.  We  are  all  sinners,  even  from  the  womb ; 
 we  are  intent  ever  on  sinful  objects,  and  every 
 thought  of  our  heart  is  evil.  In  this  state  we  are  justly 
 liable  to  God's  wrath  and  everlasting  damnation,  and 
 in  this  state  must  every  man  naturally  be,  since  we  are 
 born  under  the  curse,  and  so  destitute  of  good  that  we 
 cannot  of  ourselves  forsake  sin,  or  pursue  virtue.  But 
 God,  of  his  great  mercy,  through  our  Lord  and  Saviour 
 Jesus  Christ,  has  offered  redemption  to  mankind,  and 
 has  promised  to  afford  them  the  capacity  of  following 
 the  good,  and  eschewing  the  evil,  on  the  simple  condi- 
 tion of  faith  in  his  Almighty  Son.  —  We  may  be  aban- 
 
27 
 
 doned,  we  may  be  depraved  and  unprincipled,  but  God 
 will  still  adhere  to  the  letter  of  his  promises ;  and  when 
 we  turn  to  him,  acknowledge  our  unworthiness,  and, 
 oppressed  with  the  sense  of  our  deplorable  corruptions, 
 cry  out  for  salvation  by  the  blood  of  the  Redeemer  alone, 
 He  will  then  unquestionably  hear  us  —  He  will  pardon 
 our  sins ;  confirm  our  faith  ;  create  anew  our  polluted 
 natures ;  and,  finally,  by  the  pure  emanations  of  the 
 Holy  Spirit,  so  dispose  our  hearts,  and  rectify  our 
 minds,  that  we  shall  serve  him  in  true  and  perfect  obe- 
 dience, disturbed  no  more  by  the  attacks  of  our  spiri- 
 tual enemy,  at  least,  in  his  most  dangerous  shape.  Such 
 being  then  the  administration  of  God's  counsels  with 
 regard  to  us,  it  is  beginning  at  the  wrong  end  to  endea- 
 vour to  amend  our  lives  before  we  devote  ourselves  to 
 religion,  since  we  cannot  break  off  from  our  sins  with- 
 out the  previous  assistance  of  God's  grace.  —  We  must 
 first,  then,  consider  our  own  condition,  and  discover  the 
 extent  of  our  own  wickedness,  and  inability  to  do  good, 
 and  then  fly  to  the  redemption  of  the  cross  as  criminals, 
 whose  only  hope  of  pardon  is  laid  there.  Let  us  strive 
 to  attain  faith  in  Christ  first,  and  all  good  works  will 
 follow  in  due  place  ;  every  day  will  add  to  our  stability 
 and  strengthen  our  pious  resolutions,  till  we  arrive  at 
 that  sweet  "  peace  in  helieving^^  which  has  excited  the 
 raptures  of  the  saints  from  the  first  ages  of  Christianity 
 downwards.  We  are  manifestly  but  poor,  helpless,  and 
 blind  creatures,  exposed  to  much  care  and  misery,  and 
 unconscious  how  much   evil  the  morrow  may  have  in 
 
store  for  us ;  but  faith  in  Jesus  Christ  affords  us  what 
 our  nature  most  wants  —  a  basis  on  which  we  may  re- 
 pose ourselves,  and  all  our  cares  and  fears,  with  cer- 
 tainty and  satisfaction.  Trusting  in  him,  we  can  look 
 upon  the  dim  future  with  hope  and  confidence;  the 
 worst  evils  of  life  become  light  before  the  rays  of  his 
 consolation  ;  and  what,  to  another,  would  be  the  bottom 
 of  despair,  is  to  the  Christian  the  beginning  of  hope, 
 and  the  opening  of  a  better  scene.  None  can  compre- 
 hend the  exquisite  satisfaction  attendant  on  Christian 
 faith  but  those  who  have  had  some  experience  of  it. 
 The  support  it  is  in  trouble,  the  full  confidence  it  brings 
 along  with  it  of  God's  truth  and  mercy,  the  delightful 
 food  it  affords  to  calm  and  serious  meditation,  and, 
 above  all,  the  sweet  serenity  it  throws  over  our  antici- 
 pations of  death,  are  beyond  any  powers  of  man  to 
 describe.  —  Well  might  the  king  of  Israel  say,  "  Her 
 ways  are  ways  of  pleasantness,  and  all  her  paths  are 
 peace." 
 
 Who  could  suppose  that  men  in  so  wretched  a  con- 
 dition as  we  are,  could  fail  to  lay  hold  of  the  relief  held 
 out  by  the  Gospel  upon  such  simple  and  easy  conditions  ? 
 —  It  is  but  "  have  confidence  in  your  Maker,  subdue 
 your  own  proud  self-dependance,  and  fall  at  the  foot  of 
 the  Saviour,  in  the  spirit  of  penitence  and  prayer,  and 
 you  are  admitted,  by  gradual  steps,  to  the  throne  of 
 mercy  and  grace."  My  dear  Neville,  conquer  the  re- 
 luctance you  feel  to  think  upon  religion ;  devote  a  few 
 
^9 
 
 sober  hours  on  the  sabbath  to  the  reading  of  the  Scrip- 
 tures ;  study  the  unaffected  narratives  of  the  four  Evan- 
 gelists ;  observe  the  agreement  of  men  writing  without 
 any  communication  of  their  purpose,  in  far  distant  re- 
 gions, and  in  different  languages,  (for  St.Matthew*s  Gospel 
 was  originally  written  in  Hebrew ;)  observe  the  admirable 
 uniformity  which  exists  between  their  representations  of 
 Jesus.  They  differ  in  the  petty  circumstances  of  things, 
 but  the  great  whole  is  the  same.  We  see  God  visiting 
 the  earth,  promulging  doctrines  which  the  world  had 
 never  any  idea  of  before;  laying  ihe  foundation,  in  a 
 few  ignorant  fishermen,  of  a  religion  which  was  to 
 spread  over  the  whole  civilized  world ;  and,  finally,  seal- 
 ing his  testament  with  his  blood,  and  ransoming,  by 
 that  sacrifice,  the  fallen  race  of  man  from  the  curse  due 
 to  his  disobedience.  In  the  perusal  of  the  Scripture  you 
 will  find  many  occasions  to  check  your  own  proud  rea- 
 son, and  bring  it  into  obedience  to  God  :  in  the  end, 
 however,  all  these  apparent  difficulties  will  be  cleared 
 i,p  —  scripture  will  explain  scripture,  and  you  will  re- 
 joice to  behold  an  uniform  consent  run  through  the 
 whole,  —  harmony  rising  out  of  apparent  confusion,  and 
 all,  at  length,  uniting  to  the  full  establishment  of  faith, 
 and  the  complete  glorification  of  God.  Fear  not,  my 
 dear  Neville,  to  think  on  these  subjects;  they  will,  I 
 know,  afford  you  heart-felt  satisfaction  in  the  end,  and 
 they  will  be  a  pleasing  relief  to  you  in  any  vexations 
 which  business,  or  other  concerns  of  life,  may  give  you. 
 
30 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  June  1805. 
 MY    DEAR    BROTHER, 
 
 I  DO  not  know  whether  you  are  fond  of  history,  but 
 it  is  an  useful  and  generally  a  pleasing  study.  An- 
 cient history  is  important  as  it  elucidates  scripture,  and 
 that  in  such  a  degree  that  I  am  convinced  no  man  can 
 at  all  understand  the  Old  Testament  without  it.  Mo- 
 dern History  is  absolutely  necessary  for  a  man  and  a  gen- 
 tleman, as  giving  us  the  best  insight  into  the  manners, 
 policy,  and  character  of  nations.  The  outline  of  Ancient 
 History  is  easily  comprehended.  We  may  without  diffi- 
 culty trace  the  origin  of  people  in  the  Scriptures,  and  by 
 the  aid  of  the  profane  writers  can  make  a  continued  nar- 
 rative of  the  progress  of  empires.  Herodotus,  the  most 
 ancient  profane  historian,  began  to  write  just  at  the 
 period  when  the  Scripture  ceases;  and  Homer,  the 
 most  ancient  writer  among  the  Gentiles,  whose  writ- 
 ings are  come  down  to  us,  lived  about  the  time  of  Solo- 
 mon ;  so  that,  as  there  would  be  no  historical  records  of 
 the  first  ages  did  we  not  possess  the  Bible,  so  by  the  help 
 
31 
 
 of  the  profane  writers,  we  can  make  a  continued  history 
 of  man  from  the  beginning. 
 
 History  is  mere  confusion  without  the  aid  of  Chrono- 
 logy and  Geography.  The  former  science  is  the  most 
 difficult  to  attain,  but  it  is  not  necessary  to  know  the 
 precise  year  in  which  every  event  happened ;  it  is  suffi- 
 cient to  be  acquainted  with  its  relative  situation,  in  com- 
 parison with  other  events.  Ancient  times,  therefore, 
 may  be  divided  into  Six  great  Epochs,  comprising  all 
 the  period  from  the  Creation  to  the  birth  of  Christ, 
 which  is  4004  years.  The  Creation^  therefore,  hap- 
 pened B.  C.  4004.  The  Fall  of  Man,  the  Murder  of 
 Abel,  the  Translation  of  Enoch,  mark  this  period.  The 
 next  epoch  is  the  Deluge,  B.  C.  2348 ;  Noah  became  by 
 this  event,  in  a  manner  the  second  father  of  all  men. 
 He  had  three  sons,  Shem,  Ham,  and  Japhet,  who  be- 
 came the  heads  of  all  the  nations  in  three  distinct  quar- 
 ters of  the  earth.  Shem  was  the  father  of  the  Hebrews, 
 and  great  part  of  the  inhabitants  of  Asia;  Ham,  who  was 
 accursed  for  his  indecent  disrespect  to  his  father,  peo- 
 pled Egypt  and  all  Africa.  He  had  two  sons  more  par- 
 ticularly noted ;  Mizraim,  who  occupied  Egypt,  which  is 
 therefore  called  the  land  of  Mizraim ;  and  Canaan,  who 
 was  an  accomplice  in  his  father's  wickedness  and  subject 
 to  the  same  curse.  He  settled  in  that  part  of  Asia 
 which  w^as  afterwards  called  Judea,  and  had  ten  sons, 
 who  were  all  the  fathers  of  nations.  Japhet  travelled 
 northwards ;  his  posterity  settled  in  Asia  Minor,  crossed 
 
the  Hellespont,  and  in  time  ran  over  all  Europe.     He 
 had  a  son,  Javan,  who  was  the  father  of  Greece.     This 
 the   profane    historians    mention    among    the    ancient 
 Greeks.     Thus   the  whole  of  the  then  world  was  peo- 
 pled by  the  three  brothers  and  their  posterity ;  but  not 
 immediately,  for  the  inhabitants  of  the  world  lived  toge- 
 ther until  the  confusion  of  tongues  ;    when  they  divided, 
 but  still  according  to  family.     It  is  worth  while  to  con- 
 sider where  all  this  happened.     Noah's  ark  settled  on 
 Mount  Ararat,   in  Armenia,   in    Asia.     The  tower  of 
 Babel  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  origin  of  Babylon, 
 which  afterwards  became  so  great.     On  the  plains  of 
 Babylon,  therefore,  by  the  river  Euphrates,  all  mankind 
 were  assembled ;  and  from  thence,  scattered  themselves 
 in  every  direction.     If  you  have  any  map  of  the  world 
 you  will  find  these  places,  in  that  part  of  the  world 
 which  lies  near  the  Levant  and  Egypt  ,•  and  it  will  strike 
 you  with  amazement,   when  you  consider  how  rapidly 
 the  human  race  spread  themselves  over  such  immense 
 tracts ;  covering  Africa  in  the  posterity  of  Hcnn,   Asia 
 oiShem,  and  Europe  of  Jaj)?iet.     During  this  period  all 
 men  were  under  the  common  control  of  God,   but  ^as 
 they  began  to  grow  idolatrous,  God  thought  proper  to 
 choose  a  just  man,  Ab7'akam,  whose  posterity  should  be 
 his  peculiar  people,  and  to  whom  he  should  commit 
 the  custody  of  his  laws,  and  the  promise  of  the   Mes- 
 siah.    This  is  the  t/m-d  great  epoch,  and  is  denominated 
 «  T/ie  Call  of  Abraham,"  which  happened,  B.C.  1921. — 
 In  this  period  many  great  events  are  recorded  :  but  we 
 
 1* 
 
S3 
 
 find  Ham*s  descendants  were   become  powerful  kino-s  in 
 Egypt,  and  there  were  many  rulers  in  Canaan.     Isaacs 
 Abraham's  son,  was  the  father  of  Jacob,  who  supplanted 
 his   brother   Esau  by    a    blameable  fraud,   and   whose 
 twelve  sons  were  the  heads  of  the  twelve  tribes  of  Israel. 
 Joseph,  one  of  them,  being  sold  into  Egypt,  becomes 
 mighty,  and  at  length  transplants  his  father  and  bro- 
 thers into   Egypt,   where  they  became  a  great  people, 
 and  were  heavily  oppressed.     Moses  rises  up  as  their 
 deliverer,  leads  them  out  of  the  land  of  bondage,  and 
 from  Mount  Sinai  receives  the  first  written  revelation 
 from   God  to  man.      This   is  the  fourth  great  epoch 
 B.  C.  1491,  and  it  is  called  "  The  Epoch  of  Moses,  or  the 
 written  law"     Writing  was  then  alone  in  the  hands  of 
 the  Jews,  from  whom  the  art  passed  to  other  nations, 
 which  is  proved  by  the  shapes  of  the  letters,  and  by  the 
 universal   tradition  among  the    Greeks    that    Cadmus 
 brought  letters  from  Phoenicia,  which  name  was  applied 
 by  the  Greeks  to  Judea  as  well  as    Phoenicia.     The 
 Israelites  subdued    the    Canaanites    according    to   the 
 curse  denounced  on  them  by  Noah.    The  famous  Egyp- 
 tian king  Sesostris,  is  supposed  to  have  been  the  son  of 
 him  who  was  drowned  in  the  Red  Sea  by  the  hand  of 
 God.     He  roamed  all  over  Asia  in  search  of  conquests, 
 and  introduced  many  wise  laws  amongst  the  Egyptians. 
 In  his  reign  many  colonies  were  sent  out  to  various  parts 
 of  the  earth.     Danaus,  his  brother,   with  a  large  body 
 of  men,  settled  in  Greece,  hence  the  Greeks  are  called 
 Danaes.      Troy   was  destroyed  in    1184,   B.C.;   and 
 
 VOL.  III.  D 
 
34 
 
 Homer  lived  100  years  after.  The  Israelites  were  go- 
 verned by  Judges,  whose  actions  are  recorded  in  the  book 
 of  that  name  until  David  whose  son  Solomon  distinguishes 
 t\\Qjifth  epoch,  viz.  "  The  building  of  the  Temple,''  B.  C. 
 1012.  Solomon's  son,  Rehohoam,  by  a  piece  of  egre- 
 gious folly  caused  the  revolt  of  ten  of  the  twelve  tribes, 
 who  never  again  united.  Two  of  the  tribes  only,  viz.  Ju- 
 dah  and  Benjamin  adhered  to  Rehoboam  :  the  rest  made 
 another  king,  Jeroboam,  and  hence  arose  the  two  sepa- 
 rate kingdoms  of  Israel  and  Judah.  The  capital  of 
 Judah  was  Jerusalem  —  that  of  Israel,  Samaria.  The 
 kings  of  Israel  were,  in  general,  bad  men,  the  people 
 were  wicked,  and  after  many  signal  warnings,  they  were 
 all  dragged  out  of  their  country  by  Salmanaser,  king  of 
 Assyria,  whose  capital  was  Babylon,  and  were  never 
 re-established.  Salmanaser  brought  some  eastern  tribes 
 into  Samaria  in  their  room,  who,  being  at  first  infested 
 with  lions,  sent  to  the  king  to  tell  him  that  they  were 
 thus  harassed,  because  they  could  not  worship  the  god 
 of  the  country  in  the  right  manner,  for  such  they  super- 
 stitiously  thought  Jehovah  to  be.  Whereupon,  he  or- 
 dered some  exile  Levites  to  go  up,  and  be  their  priests, 
 who  thus  introduced  a  spurious  kind  of  worship,  wherein 
 idols  were  served  in  conjunction  with  the  true  God. 
 Hence,  the  Samaritans  were  detested  by  the  Jews,  who 
 were  wont  to  throw  it  in  the  teeth  of  Jesus,  that  he  was 
 a  Samaritan ;  and  hence,  the  "dooman  of  Samaria,  in  the 
 New  Testament,  wonders  that  Jesus,  being  a  Jew, 
 should  talk  with  her.     Henceforward,  then,  the  nation 
 
35 
 
 of  tlie  Jews  consists  of  Judah  and  Benjamin  alone. 
 This  period  contains  about  five  hundred  years.  The 
 Jews  grew  very  wicked,  and  the  Assyrian  monarchy 
 vefy  powerful,  —  I  should  rather  have  called  it  the 
 Babylojiian  monarchy ;  for,  strictly  speaking,  the  Assy- 
 rian fell  with  Nineveh  its  capital  —  but  they  were  both 
 o^  the  same  race.  The  prophets  now  foretold  the  ap- 
 proaching captivity,  and  Isaiah,  one  hundred  years 
 before  the  event,  mentioned  every  particular  of  it,  and 
 foretold  that,  at  the  end  of  seventy  years,  Cyrus,  then 
 not  in  being,  should  restore  them.  Nebuchadnezzar  at 
 length  destroys  Jerusalem,  as  the  prophets  had  unani- 
 mously declared  he  would,  and  takes  away  all  the  people 
 to  Babylon.  But  God's  wrath  was  denounced  against 
 that  proud  city,  and  prophecy  is  again  fulfilled.  —  Cyrus, 
 the  leader  of  the  Persian  army,  overturns  the  Assyrian 
 monarchy,  and  avenges  the  Jews.  Daniel,  who  had 
 lived  in  the  courts  of  preceding  princes,  was  in  high 
 favour  with  Cyrus.  That  great  prince  orders  the  re- 
 building of  Jerusalem,  and  the  temple :  and  releases 
 the  Jews  just  seventy  years  after  their  capture.  The 
 temple,  however,  was  not  completed  till  several  reigns 
 afterwards.  This  is  the  sixth  epocha,  B.  C.  5S6  — 
 called  the  epoch  of  "  Cyrus,  or  the  Return  from  Captivity,^* 
 The  Jews  were  under  the  power  of  the  Persian  monar- 
 chy, until  it  was  destroyed  by  Alexander  the  Great,  who 
 overran  all  Asia,  B.  C.  320.  The  captains  of  Alexander, 
 seeing  the  field  clear,  divided  his  kingdom  amongst 
 them.  —  Antipater  had   Greece;    Seleucus,  Syria,   in* 
 
 D  2 
 
36 
 
 eluding  Judea ;  and  Ptolemy  Lagus,  Egypt.  Antiochus 
 Epiphanes,  one  of  the  successors  of  Seleiicus,  king  of 
 Syria,  whose  capital  was  Antioch,  exercised  great  cru- 
 elty towards  the  Jews ;  but  they  were  now  again  a  war- 
 like, enlightened,  and  powerful  people.  The  Maccabees 
 successfully  held  out  against  one  of  the  mightiest  kings 
 of  the  world,  and  maintained,  for  a  considerable  time, 
 their  independence.  At  length  the  Grecian  empire  fell, 
 and  with  it  the  kingdom  of  Syria  received  its  death  blow. 
 The  Roman  was  rising  up  in  its  stead.  They  more 
 than  once  took  Jerusalem,  and,  at  length,  appointed  a 
 governor  over  it.  Things  were  in  this  state  —  the  Ro- 
 mans masters  of  the  whole  world,  and  Greek,  the  gene- 
 ral language  of  almost  all  nations  (not  excepting  the 
 Jews),  when  "  the  day-syringfrom  on  liigK''  beamed.  All 
 things  were  prepared ;  one  language  had  been  gradually 
 extended  over  the  whole  civilized  world ;  learning  and 
 philosophy  had  opened  the  understandings  of  men  for 
 the  reception  of  the  truth  —  when  four  thousand  and 
 four  years  after  the  creation,  the  blessed  Messiah  made 
 his  appearance,  and  laid  the  foundation  of  that  Gospel 
 which  soon  disseminated  itself  over  all  civilized  nations. 
 
 It  is  profitable  to  fix  this  division  of  the  more  ancient 
 periods  of  history  in  the  mind.     *         *         *         * 
 
 In  this  period  you  may  consider  empire  as  having 
 passed  successively  through  three  hands  into  a  fourth. 
 
87 
 
 The  Assyrian  empire  was  the  Jint.  It  began  with 
 Nimrod,  who  ruled  the  then  world,  and  ceased  when 
 Cyrus  took  Babylon,  and  transferred  the  government 
 into  the  hands  of  Persia.  The  Persian  empire,  which 
 was  the  second  great  kingdom,  fell  finally  with  Arta- 
 xerxes-Mnemon,  who  was  subdued  by  Alexander  the 
 Great.  Here  the  thirds  or  Grecian  empire,  strictly 
 speaking,  begins.  It  soon  fell  under  the  power  of  the 
 Romans,  who  were  the  masters  of  the  world  in  the 
 time  of  Jesus  Christ. 
 
 D  3 
 
38 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 Nottingham,  June,  1805. 
 DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  HAD  unfortunately  not  provided  myself  with  verses 
 for  the  Countess  of  Derby's  copy  of  my  little  volume  ; 
 and  I  have  been  invoking  the  muses  ever  since  two 
 o'clock  this  mornings  with  such  bad  success,  as  I  have 
 never  before  experienced  on  a  similar  occasion.  On  the 
 other  side  you  have  the  product,  which  must  pass. 
 
 TO  THE  RIGHT  HON.  THE  COUNTESS  OF  DERBY. 
 
 »> 
 In  the  dark  coverts  of  the  forest  shade, 
 
 By  scathed  oaks,  and  haunted  streamlets  laid ; 
 What  time  the  moon  uprose  her  clouds  among, 
 The  Muse,  unheeded,  pour'd  her  lonely  song. 
 Unheard  she  sung,  save  when  to  Fancy's  eye- 
 Pale  Vesper,  stooping  from  the  spangled  sky, 
 Would  listen,  silent, — or  with  distant  swell 
 Sequester'd  Echo  answer'd  from  her  cell.— 
 
S9 
 
 When  shrinking  timid  from  th'  obtrusive  gaze, 
 She  first  explor'd  the  world's  observant  maze; 
 Who  smil'd  benignant  on  her  artless  way  ? 
 Who  open'd  first  the  Patron's  fostering  ray  ? 
 Who  bade  her  fears,  her  throbbing  tremors  flee? 
 WIio,  thrice  revered  Derby !  —  who  but  thee  ? 
 
 O !  that  for  thee,  her  strains  might  boast  the  pow  r 
 
 To  soothe  the  tedium  of  one  weary  hour ; 
 
 To  bid  the  gloom  on  ynoiirnings  *  brow  retire. 
 
 Or  wake  to  energy  one  slumb'ring  fire. — 
 
 Might  they  one  transitory  smile  excite, 
 
 Or  raise  one  trivial  image  of  delight. 
 
 Then,  though  the  Critic  with  contemptuous  pride 
 
 Should  the  faint  murmurs  of  her  lyre  deride ; 
 
 Still  would  she  boast  her  Guerdon  passing  great 
 
 Content  that  Derby  owns  her  lays  are  sweet, 
 
 Nottingham,  June  18th,  1803, 
 
 The  Countess's  mother  was  recently  dead. 
 
 X)   4 
 
40 
 
 TO  MR. 
 
 Wintringham,  7th  September,  1805. 
 DEAR    SIR, 
 
 The  last  time  I  had  the  pleasure  of  conversing  with 
 you,  I  intimated  that  I  might  probably  address  a  letter 
 to  you ;  be  not  therefore  surprised  when  you  see  my 
 hand  and  signature.  I  conclude  your  affairs  stand  in  statu 
 quo ;  and  though  I  am  anxious  to  be  informed  as  to  the 
 certainty  of  your  prospects,  and  wish  you  were  yourself 
 at  ease  with  regard  to  them,  yet  I  think  the  suspense 
 may  not  be  altogether  useless,  as  it  will  teach  you  a 
 lesson  of  patience,  will  give  you  a  better  opportunity 
 of  proving  your  stedfastness,  and  of  manifesting  your 
 industry  and  firmness  in  your  studies,  even  while  you 
 are  dubious  whether  they  will  be  to  any  purpose. 
 
 If  you  are  sincere,  and  really  serious  in  your  wishes 
 to  become  a  minister  of  Christ,  and  if  you  are  convinced 
 it  is  God's  will  you  should  enter  that  sacred  office,  you 
 will  from  this  time  forward,  until  you  enter  orders, 
 live  a  life  of  constant,  resolute,  and  confirmed  study. 
 You  cannot,  dare  not^  offer  yourself  as  a  candidate  for 
 
41 
 
 the  priesthood  under  the  consciousness  of  mental  unfit- 
 ness, arising  from  indolence  and  volatility  of  disposition ; 
 and  remember,  that  indolence  and  shiftness  are  not 
 constitutional  evils,  but  are  such  as  every  man  has  it  in 
 his  power  to  cure.  If  you  ardently  long  to  become  a 
 public  helper  in  the  vineyard  of  Jesus  Christ,  you  must 
 think  that  office  worth  labouring  for ;  and  he  who  does 
 not  think  it  worth  labouring  for,  is  not  worthy  to  have 
 it.  Although,  in  the  early  ages  of  the  Christian  church, 
 God  administered  more  immediately  to  the  wants  of  his 
 preachers,  so  that  the  abundance  of  heavenly  gifts  in 
 a  measure  compensated  for  the  absence  of  external 
 qualifications  ;  yet,  even  in  those  ages,  St.  Paul  exhorts 
 Timothy  to  "  give  attention  to  reading  ;"  and  in  the  Old 
 Testament  we  read,  that  there  was  a  scJiool  of  the  pro- 
 phets ;  not  that  we  must  suppose  prophecy  a  commu- 
 nicable art,  but  in  these  academies,  young  men  were 
 instructed  in  letters  and  metrical  composition,  in  order 
 that  they  might  be  fitted  for  the  duties  of  prophets 
 whenever  it  should  please  God  to  call  them.  We  may 
 learn,  too,  that  God  peculiarly  selected  his  messengers 
 from  these  schools,  for  Amos  mentions  it  as  a  matter  of 
 wonder  that  he  had  been  called,  although  neither  a 
 prophet  nor  the  son  of  a  prophet,  (that  is,  profession- 
 ally.) In  the  present  day  more  extraneous  learning  is 
 necessary  to  a  clergyman  than  at  any  preceding  period, 
 on  account  of  the  advanced  and  enlightened  state  of 
 society  in  general ;  but  this  may  very  well  be  dispensed 
 with ;  only  let  a  minister  be  fully  prepared  in  matters 
 
42 
 
 immediately  relating  to  his  office.  In  order  to  this,  his 
 attainments  may  soon  be  enumerated,  and  with  regular 
 application  easily  acquired.  He  should  know  the  Latin, 
 tolerably ;  he  should  be  able  to  read  the  Greek  Testa- 
 ment critically ;  and,  above  all,  he  should  know  how 
 to  regulate  his  own  actions  and  thoughts  with  propriety 
 and  seriousness;  an  art  only  to  be  learned  by  much 
 sober  and  settled  thought,  joined  to  constant  prayer  and 
 luimble  trust  in  God.  These  are  objects  for  which  you 
 have  time  enough,  though  not  more  than  enough.  You 
 have  room  for  every  duty,  but  none  for  negligence, 
 procrastination,  or  unsteadiness.  Excuse  my  plainness, 
 but  I  think  your  situation  critical ;  and  if,  as  I  have  my 
 fears,  you  are  yet  trifling,  I  do  solemnly  assure  you, 
 that  I  consider  your  trifling  as  criminal.  To  leave 
 talents  like  your's  uncultivated,  through  an  aversion  to 
 application,  is  a  gross  abuse  of  God's  blessing,  and  an 
 insult  to  his  goodness.  I  conceive  the  fact  to  be  in- 
 dubitable, that  you  may  prepare  yourself  fully  and 
 completely  for  the  ministry  within  the  usual  time,  if 
 you  choose;  and  it  remains  with  you  to  determine 
 whether  or  not  you  will  sacrifice  your  own  ease,  and 
 your  own  evil  habits,  to  the  ministry  of  God.  I  make  full 
 allowance  for  your  present  avocations ;  but  I  appeal  to 
 your  conscience,  whether  there  is  not  time  left  for  study, 
 and  whether  that  time  is  not  often  sacrificed  to  trifling 
 engagements,  to  a  puerile  aversion  to  reading,  to  tem- 
 porary fatigue,  or  to  absolute  idleness.  I  think  I  have 
 discernment   enough   to  know   where  the  cause  of  all 
 
 3* 
 
43 
 
 these  evils  lie ;  and,  probably,  it  might  be  beneficial  to 
 direct  you  to  the  cause,  in  order  to  your  correcting 
 them.  I  think,  then,  you  are  liable  to  great  looseness, 
 or  what  may  be  called,  dissipation  of  thought;  that 
 you  too  readily  follow  the  impulse  of  the  moment,  and 
 are  easy  in  your  assent  to  every  fresh  proposition,  be- 
 cause you  are  averse  to  the  labour  of  enquiry  and  the 
 fatigue  of  judgment.  From  hence,  it  arises,  that  you 
 cannot  act  upon  principles  to  w^iich  you  readily  agree 
 and  most  cordially  assent ;  because  you  receive  them  too 
 quickly,  without  sufficient  consideration  of  their  nature 
 and  consequences.  What  stronger  mark  of  imbecility 
 can  a  Christian  give,  than  to  acknowledge  the  utility  and 
 necessity  of  certain  rules  and  counsels,  and  to  confess 
 the  evils  he  suffers,  in  consequence  of  his  disregard  of 
 them,  and  yet  be  unable  to  act  upon  them  and  regulate 
 his  habits  by  them  ?  The  man  who  cannot  bring  himself 
 to  think  deeply  on  the  truths  he  embraces, — the  man 
 who  is  convinced  without  examination,  and  yields  his 
 assent  without  the  trouble  of  reflection,  is  not  likely  to 
 be  a  very  consistent  character,  and  is  very  liable  to  be 
 led  into  error.  Such  a  man  will  never  be  happy  in  re- 
 ligious experience,  for  he  will  be  continually  offending 
 against  his  own  principles,  through  not  having  suffi- 
 ciently entered  into  their  extent  and  consequences,  and 
 he  will  always  be  fluctuating  between  opinion  and 
 practice;  because,  while  open  to  every  conviction,  he 
 can  neither  restrain  the  versatility  of  his  own  mind,  nor 
 
44 
 
 clearly  investigate   and   propound  to  himself  the    ne- 
 cessary agreements  of  belief  and  action* 
 
 You  see  clearly  what  you  ought  to  do,  and  how  you 
 ought  to  act ;  the  thing  to  be  done  is  neither  impracticable 
 nor  very  unpleasant;  and  yet  you,  day  after  day,  re- 
 solve that  the  morrow  shall  be  better  employed,  without 
 the  power,  when  the  hour  of  trial  comes,  of  buckling 
 down  steadfastly  to  the  work.  The  truth  is,  you  have 
 an  unhappy  facility  in  knitting  off  whatever  is  unpleasant 
 to  you,  and  turning  away  from  the  business  in  hand 
 to  every  phantom  which  the  moment  may  suggest.  You 
 will  agree  to  the  truth  of  these  observations ;  you  will 
 readily  exclaim,  "  it  is  so"  "  t/iese  are  my  evils,"  But 
 remember,  to  acknowledge  weaknesses  is  idle^  unless 
 you  have  a  cool  and  deliberate  purpose  of  subduing 
 them  through  the  assistance  of  God's  grace.  I  exhort 
 you  —  I  solemnly,  my  dear  friend,  exhort  you,  to  con- 
 sider, what  are  your  views  and  purposes,  and  to  think 
 what  you  are  about.  The  end  you  aim  at  is  most  im- 
 portant 5  let  your  preparation  be  in  proportion.  Surely, 
 it  is  no  small  thing  to  gather  in  the  harvest  of  the 
 Lord;  and  no  one  would  refuse  to  undergo  a  few 
 personal  privations  and  inconveniences  for  it.  I  grant, 
 to  toil  through  the  rudiments  of  languages,  at  your  age, 
 is  irksome ;  but  if  it  were  necessary  to  be  chained  to  the 
 gal  lies  for  seven  years  in  order  to  be  admitted  to  so 
 blessed  a  charge  —  who,  that  had  a  heart  really  affected, 
 would  hesitate  to  undergo  the  probation  ?     You  should 
 
45 
 
 pray  to  God  to  give  you  more  firmness  and  steadiness 
 of  mind ;  and  at  the  same  time,  should  strive  to  fix  and 
 sober  your  own  views,  and  correct  the  desultory  habits^ 
 of  thinking,  under  which,  it  seems  to  me,  you  labour. 
 If  God  have  called  you  to  the  ministry,  he  will  in  all 
 points  of  view  smooth  the  way  before  you.     Surely,  he 
 can  give  you  all  knowledge ;  and  can  so  enlarge  your 
 understanding,  as  that   all    the  attainments   of  earthly 
 wisdom  shall  be  blessed  unto  you.     Be  of  good  cheer ; 
 if  at  your  believing  prayers  God  shall  give  you  resolu- 
 tion to  study,  and  bless  you  in  it,  the  ruggedness  of  the 
 road  will  soon  disappear.     The  recollection  of  the  end 
 for  which  you  labour  will  sweeten  your  most  disgusting 
 tasks,  and  cast  a  charm,  even  over  the  uncouth  rudi- 
 ments  of  languages.     There   is,    indeed,    nothing   so 
 soothing,   so  exquisitely  delightful    as   study^  when  we 
 feel  we  have  God's  blessing,  and  that  we  are  labouring 
 for  His  glory.     No  human  gratification  can  equal  this ; 
 no  peace  can  equal  that  which  a  Christian  enjoys,  while 
 he  is  daily  and  constantly  pursuing  the   attainments  of 
 godly  knowledge,    and    informing   his   mind   with  the 
 things  which  pertain,  either  immediately  or  remotely  to 
 eternal  life.     That  this  may  be  your  lot,  may  God  in 
 his  mercy  grant !    Think  deeply  !    think  seriously  ! 
 
 I  am, 
 
 Your  sincere  friend,  and  fellow  in  Christ, 
 
 Henry  Kirke  White. 
 
46 
 
 TO  MR.  WILLIAM  LEESON. 
 
 Nottingham,  7tli  Apnl,  1806. 
 DEAR  LEESON, 
 
 1  BEG  your  pardon  for  not  having  replied  sooner  to 
 your  letter  and  invitation.  It  seems  determined  upon, 
 by  my  mother,  that  I  cannot  be  spared,  since  the  time 
 of  my  stay  is  so  very  short,  and  my  health  so  very  un- 
 certain. The  people  here  can  scarcely  be  persuaded 
 that  any  thing  ails  me,  so  well  do  I  look ;  but  occasional 
 depressions,  especially  after  any  thing  has  occurred  to 
 occasion  uneasiness,  still  harass  me.  My  mind  is  of  a  very 
 peculiar  cast.  I  began  to  think  too  early ;  and  the  in- 
 dulgence of  certain  trains  of  thouoht,  and  too  free  an 
 exercise  of  the  imagination,  have  superinduced  a  morbid 
 kind  of  sensibility ;  which  is  to  the  mind^  what  ex- 
 cessive irritability  is  to  the  body.  Some  circumstances 
 occurred  on  my  arrival  at  Nottingham,  which  gave  me 
 just  cause  for  inquietude  and  anxiety ;  the  consequences 
 were  irisomjiia,  and  a  relapse  into  causeless  dejections. 
 It  is  my  business  now  to  curb  these  irrational  and 
 immoderate  affections,  and  by  accustoming  myself  to 
 sober   thought   and   cool   reasoning,   to  restrain    these 
 
47 
 
 freaks  and  vagaries  of  tlie  fancy,  and  redundancies  of 
 l^eXoty^oXloi.  When  I  am  well,  I  cannot  help  entertain- 
 ing a  sort  of  contempt  for  the  weakness  of  mind  which 
 marks  my  indispositions.  Titus  when  well,  and  Titus 
 when  ill,  are  two  distinct  persons.  The  man,  when  in 
 healthy  despises  the  man,  when  ?7/,  for  his  weakness,  and 
 the  latter  envies  the  former  for  his  felicit}'.  I  hope  you 
 will  not  quarrel  with  my  metaphysics,  but  gravely  con- 
 sult your  Locke,  and  Bishop  Butler's  introductory 
 dissertation,  for  the  whole  controversy  about  Personal 
 Identity.  You  will  there  find  reason  to  question,  whe- 
 ther you  are  to-day  the  same  individual  that  you  were 
 yesterday ;  and,  probably,  if  you  drink  deeply  of  the 
 recondite  streams  of  the  Sophists,  you  may,  in  the  end, 
 doubt  with  Pyrrho,  whether  you  are  at  all,  or  whether 
 the  gay  pageantry  of  life,  and  its  attendants,  be  more 
 than  a  dream,  in  which  you  are  a  fictitious  personage, 
 created  by  the  fancy  of  the  dreamer.  But,  away  with 
 Pyrrhonism  !  I  would  rather  swell  with  Epicurus,  or 
 vaunt  with  Zeno,  than  first  doubt  the  existence  of  all 
 things,  and  then  douht^  whether  I  doubted  at  all.  It 
 is  an  amusing,  and  an  instructive  exercise,  to  survey 
 the  multiform  appearance  of  Heathen  Philosophy,  to 
 examine  its  varied  characteristics,  its  excellencies  and 
 defects,  and  then  to  turn  to  the  pure  fountains  of  Gospel 
 truth,  and  dwell  upon  their  beauties,  as  set  off  by  the 
 foils  of  folly  and  falsehood.  Conviction  never  breaks 
 with  more  clear  and  decisive  evidence  into  my  mind 
 than  when  I  draw  this  comparison.     When  I  see  the 
 
48 
 
 best  and  wisest  of  the  Heathen  Philosophers  labouring 
 all  their  lives  after  virtue  and  truth,  and  catching  but 
 such  slight  and  passing  glimpses  of  their  perfections, 
 as  just  to  show  how  desirable  they  are,  without  being 
 able  to  draw  aside,  for  a  moment,  the  veil  that  conceals 
 them ;  and  when,  on  the  other  hand,  I  contemplate  the 
 lowlv  Jesus,  and  his  despised  companions,  instantane- 
 ously revealing  all  that  is  lovely  in  morals ;  all  that  is 
 noble  in  conception,  and  sublime  in  principle ;  all,  in 
 short,  that  the  wise  and  the  learned  had  so  long  toiled 
 after  in  vain,  I  am  constrained  to  exclaim  with  Pharaoh, 
 «  This  is  the  finger  of  God" 
 
 Socrates  saw  more  of  moral  truth  than  any  pre- 
 ceding philosopher,  and  it  is  worth  remarking,  that  his 
 principles  approach  nearest  to  the  Gospel.  Socrates 
 said,  that  there  was  such  a  proneness  to  evil  in  the  nature 
 of  man,  that  we  could  not  act  virtuously,  without  some 
 supernatural  or  extraordinary  assistance  from  the  Deity : 
 and  HE,  first  inculcated  the  forgiveness  of  injuries.  Yet, 
 when  we  compare  Socrates  and  his  doctrines  with  Jesus 
 Christ  and  the  Gospel,  we  perceive  the  difference  be- 
 tween thefn  to  be  such  as  could  not  exist  between  men 
 alone.  The  infidel  and  inconstant  Rousseau,  wa  s  so 
 struck  with  this  comparison,  as  to  exclaim,  that  if  So- 
 crates was  a  sage,  Jesus  Christ  was  a  God.  Dr.  Priestley 
 covers  the  matter  more  artfully,  and  in  a  work  written 
 on  this  very  subject,  almost  equals  the  philosopher  with 
 the  Redeemer  of  the  world.     Dr.  Priestley  was  an  insi- 
 
4g 
 
 dious,  atid  artful  reasoner :  —  Rousseau  had  unbounded 
 pride,  but  more  vehemence,  and  of  course  less  conceal- 
 ment. I  am  writing  to  you  in  a  very  rambling,  inco- 
 herent style,  which  I  hope  you  will  pardon,  on  the  score 
 of  familiarity.     I  write  to  you  as  I  should  talk  to  you. 
 
 I  assure  you,  I  see  daily  more  reason  to  temper  zeal 
 with  discretion,  and  to  make  the  service  of  Christ  a 
 rational  service.  Our  feelings  are  not  the  least  fallible 
 guides  in  religion.  The  man  who  walks  humbly  and 
 soberly  with  his  God,  —  scrupulously  exact  in  the  per- 
 formance of  his  duties,  — hallowing  all  his  doings  with 
 the  exercise  of  faith  in  Jesus  Christ,  and  fortifying  his 
 ways  with  prayer  and  meditation ;  this  man  will  have 
 feelings  of  the  most  satisfactory  kind, — he  will  feel  the 
 spirit  of  peace  and  love  shedding  serenity  over  all  his 
 thoughts :  he  will  feel  the  dews  of  God's  blessing  des- 
 cending upon  his  soul.  This  is  the  effect  of  that  spirit, 
 which  the  Apostle  mentions,  "  as  witnessing  with  our 
 spirits,  that  we  are  the  children  of  God."  But  this  spe- 
 cies of  spiritual  enjoyment  is  not  to  be  resorted  to,  as 
 the  touchstone  of  our  acceptance  with  God.  It  is  not  the 
 necessary  attendant  of  religious  life,  though  it  is  so  fre- 
 quently enjoyed  by  the  pious,  and  so  clearly  promised 
 to  them  in  Scripture,  that  we  may  all  hope  for  it.  And 
 I  can  only  give  it  as  my  opinion,  that  those  who  con- 
 tinually resort  to  their  feelings,  as  the  criterion  of  their 
 
 VOL.    III.  E 
 
50 
 
 religious  progress,  are  the  least  likely  to  enjoy  this  sweet 
 reward  of  our  labours,  and  foretaste  of  the  joys  to  come. 
 
 I  have  scarcely  left  room  for  my  name.  Give  my 
 respects  to  your  friends,  with  thanks  for  their  invitation. 
 I  shall  be  in  Cambridge  on  Wednesday  week. 
 
 Your's  truly. 
 
51 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's  College,  f?Olh  June,  1806. 
 MY    DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  AM  not  much  surprised  at  the  long  delay  you  have 
 made  in  your  approach  to  the  Lord's  table ;  nor  do  I 
 blame  your  caution ;  but  remember,  that  there  is  a  diffe- 
 rence between  hesitation,  on  account  of  the  awful  nature 
 of  the  ordinance,  and  the  consciousness  of  unfitness ; 
 and  hesitation,  on  account  of  an  unwillingness  to  bind 
 yourself  with  still  stronger  ties  to  the  profession  of 
 Christianity.  You  may  fear  to  approach  that  holy  table, 
 lest  you  should  again  fall  away,  and  your  latter  state 
 should  be  worse  than  your  first :  but  you  must  not  absent 
 yourself  from  it,  in  order  that  you  may  fall  away  with 
 less  danger  to  your  soul.  You  cannot,  by  any  means, 
 purify  yourself,  so  as  to  become  a  worthy  partaker  of 
 that  blessed  ordinance;  but  you  may  qualify  yourself  to 
 partake  of  it,  with  a  quiet  conscience,  and  spiritual 
 comfort.  The  very  sense  of  unworthiness,  of  which 
 you  complain,  is  the  best  of  all  possible  frames  of  mind 
 
 E   2 
 
52 
 
 with  which  you  can  approach  the  sacred  table ;  and 
 there  can  be  Httle  doubt,  that  with  such  an  abiding  con- 
 sciousness of  unfitness  about  you,  God  will  have  respect 
 to  your  weakness,  and  will  bestow  upon  you  such  an 
 additional  portion  of  his  strength,  as  shall  effectually 
 guard  you  against  subsequent  temptations.  A  particu- 
 lar blessing,  attendant  on  the  holy  communion,  is,  that 
 it  strengthens  us  in  the  ways  of  Christ.  God  seems  to 
 have  a  peculiar  care  for  those  who  have  sealed  their 
 profession  with  this  solemn  office  ;  and  Christians  appear 
 to  receive  a  portion  of  spiritual  strength  at  these  periods 
 which  bears  them  through,  Hill  they  again  meet  at  the 
 holy  mysteries. 
 
 Opportunity  for  quiet  meditation  is  a  great  blessing ;  I 
 wish  I  knew  how  to  appreciate  its  value.  For  you,  my  dear 
 brother,  be  not  discouraged ;  God  sees  your  difficulties 
 and  will  administer  to  your  weaknesses ;  and  if  after  much 
 prayer  and  serious  thought,  you  can  endue  yourself  with 
 the  garb  of  humility,  and  kneel  a  trembling  guest  at  the 
 table  of  your  Redeemer,  content  even  to  pick  up  the 
 crumbs  that  fall  from  it,  and  deem  them  far  beyond  your 
 desert;  if,  I  say,  you  can  go  to  the  sacrament  with  these 
 feelings,  never  fear  but  our  all-blessed  and  benign  Father 
 will  approve  of  your  offering,  and  will  bless  you  accord- 
 ingly. Do  not,  however,  be  hurried  into  the  step  by  the 
 representations  of  your  friends.     Go,  then,  only  when 
 
53 
 
 your  heart,  consecrated  by  prayer,  longs  to  partake  of 
 the  body  and  blood  of  its  Saviour,  and  to  taste,  in  more 
 near  and  full  fruition,  the  fruits  of  redeeming  love. 
 And  may  God's  blessing,  my  dear  brother,  attend  you 
 in  it,  and  make  it  a  means  of  confirming  you  in  his 
 way,  and  of  weaning  you  more  completely  from  the 
 world,  and  its  passing  joys  ! 
 
 E  3 
 
54 
 
 TO  HIS  BROTHER  NEVILLE. 
 
 St.  John's,  July,  1806. 
 MY    DEAR    NEVILLE, 
 
 I  AM  going  to  spend  a  week  or  ten  clays  at  the  house 
 of  a  clergyman  in  this  neighbourhood,  whose  name  is 
 T  *  *  ;  he  is  a  very  pleasant,  and  very  clever  man, 
 has  a  most  charming  family  and  a  no  less  charming 
 house,  so  that  I  expect  my  visit  will  be  very  pleasant. 
 He  has  twelve  pupils,  (who  pay  him  1200/.  per  annum,) 
 but  his  family  is  so  well  regulated,  and  his  house  so 
 large,  that  you  scarcely  perceive  any  inconvenience  from 
 them. 
 
 I  read  very  moderately,  and  am  in  better  health  than 
 I  have  been  ever  since  I  came  to  Cambridge. 
 
 My  mother  and  sister  have  been  urging  me  to  take  a 
 
 hint,  let  out  by  Mr.  C  *  *    and   Mr.  S  *  ,  about  the 
 
 Free  School,  which  they  seem  inclined  to  confer  on  some 
 
 person,  not  a  clergyman.     It  is  not  likely  that  I  should 
 
 19 
 
55 
 
 give  up  the  minisUy  for  a  school.  If,  however,  they 
 would  allow  me  to  take  orders,  at  the  end  of  two  years, 
 which  is  the  soonest  I  could  do  it,  I  should  leave 
 the  University,  and  run  the  risk  of  getting  ordained. 
 Indeed,  the  risk  would  be  none,  as  I  could  keep  my 
 terms  at  Cambridge,  and  get  a  degree,  without  its  in- 
 terfering with  my  duties  as  a  school-master.  The  place 
 is  300?.  per  annum :  and,  I  think,  I  could  make  it  500/. 
 
 E  4 
 
EARLY   POEMS 
 
THE  FAIR  MAID  OF  CLIFTON. 
 
 A  new  Ballad,  in  the  old  style. 
 
 The  night  it  was  dark,  and  the  winds  were  high, 
 
 And  mournfully  waved  the  wood, 
 As  Bateman  met  his  Margaret 
 
 By  Trent's  majestic  flood. 
 
 He  pressed  the  maiden  to  his  breast. 
 And  his  heart  it  was  racked  with  fear. 
 
 For  he  knew,  that  again,  '  twas  a  deadly  chance 
 If  ever  he  press'd  her  there. 
 
 "  Oh  !  Margaret,  wilt  thou  bear  me  true,'* 
 
 He  said,  "  while  I'm  far  away, 
 "  For  to-morrow  I  go  for  a  foreign  land, 
 
 "  And  there  I  have  long  to  stay." 
 
 And  the  maid  she  vow'd  she  would  bear  him  true, 
 And  thereto  she  plighted  her  troth ; 
 
 And  she  pray'd  the  fiend  might  fetch  her  away 
 When  she  forgot  her  oath. 
 
60 
 
 And  the  night-owl  screamVI,  as  again  she  swore, 
 And  the  grove  it  did  mournfully  moan, 
 
 And  Bateman's  heart  within  him  sunk, 
 He  thought  'twas  his  dying  groan. 
 
 And  shortly  he  went  with  Clifton,  his  Lord, 
 
 To  abide  in  a  foreign  land : 
 And  Margaret  she  forgot  her  oath, 
 
 And  she  gave  to  another  her  hand. 
 
 Her  husband  was  rich,  but  old,  and  crabbed, 
 
 And  oft  the  false  one  sigh'd, 
 And  wish*d  that  ere  she  broke  her  vow, 
 
 She  had  broken  her  heart,  and  died. 
 
 And  now  returned,  her  Bateman  came 
 
 To  demand  his  betrothed  bride ; 
 But  soon  he  learn'd  that  she  had  sought 
 
 A  wealthier  lover's  side. 
 
 And  when  he  heard  the  dreadful  news, 
 
 No  sound  he  utter'd  more, 
 But  his  stiffened  corse,  ere  the  morn  was  seen, 
 
 Hung  at  his  false  one's  door. 
 
 And  Margaret,  all  night,  in  her  bed, 
 
 She  dreamed  hideous  dreams  ; 
 And  oft  upon  the  moaning  wind 
 
 Were  heard  her  frightful  screams. 
 
61 
 
 And  when  she  knew  of  her  lover's  death. 
 
 On  her  brow  stood  the  clammy  dew, 
 She  thought  of  her  oath,  and  she  thought  of  her  fate. 
 
 And  she  saw  that  her  days  were  few. 
 
 But  the  Lord  he  is  just,  and  the  guilty  alone 
 Have  to  fear  of  his  vengeance  the  lash. 
 
 The  thunderbolt  li^rms  not  tlie  innocent  head. 
 While  the  criminal  dies  'neadi  the  flash. 
 
 His  justice,  she  knew,  would  spare  her  awhile 
 For  the  child  that  she  bare  in  her  womb ; 
 
 But  she  felt,  that  when  it  was  borne  therefrom 
 She  must  instantly  go  to  her  tomb. 
 
 Th«  hour  approach'd,  and  she  view'd  it  widi  fear 
 
 As  the  date  of  her  earthly  time ; 
 And  she  tried  to  pray  to  Almighty  God 
 
 To  expiate  her  crime. 
 
 And  she  begg'd  her  relations  would  come  at  the  day. 
 And  die  parson  would  pray  at  her  side ; 
 
 And  the  clerk  would  sing  a  penitent  hymn. 
 With  all  the  singers  beside. 
 
 And  she  begg'd  they  would  bar  the  windows  so  strong. 
 
 And  put  a  new  lock  to  the  door; 
 And  sprinkle  with  holy  water  the  house, 
 
 And  over  her  chamber  floor. 
 
62 
 
 And  they  barr'd  with  iron  the  windows  so  strong, 
 And  they  put  a  new  lock  on  the  door ; 
 
 And  the  parson  he  came,  and  he  carefully  strew'd 
 With  holy  water  the  floor. 
 
 And  her  kindred  came  to  see  the  dame. 
 And  the  clerk,  and  the  singers  beside ; 
 
 And  they  did  sing  a  penitent  hymn, 
 And  with  her  did  abide. 
 
 And  midnight  came,  and  shortly  the  dame 
 
 Did  give  to  her  child  the  light ; 
 And  then  she  did  pray,  that  they  would  stay, 
 
 And  pass  with  her  the  night. 
 
 And  she  begg'd  they  would  sing  the  penitent  hymn, 
 
 And  pray  with  all  their  might ; 
 For  sadly  I  fear,  the  fiend  will  be  here. 
 
 And  fetch  me  away  this  night. 
 
 And  now  without,  a  stormy  rout, 
 
 With  howls  the  guests  did  hear ; 
 And  the  parson  he  pray'd,  for  he  was  afraid, 
 
 And  the  singers  they  quaver'd  with  fear. 
 
 And  Marg'ret  pray'd  the  Almighty's  aid. 
 
 For  louder  the  tempest  grew  ; 
 And  every  guest,  his  soul  he  blest. 
 
 As  the  tapers  burned  blue. 
 
63 
 
 And  the  fair  again,  she  pray'd  of  the  men 
 
 To  sing  with  all  their  might ; 
 And  they  did  sing,  'till  the  house  did  ring, 
 
 And  louder  they  sung  for  affright. 
 
 But  now  their  song,  it  dried  on  their  tongue. 
 For  sleep,  it  was  seizing  their  sense ; 
 
 And  Margaret  screamed,  and  bid  them  not  sleej>, 
 Or  the  fiends  would  bear  her  thence. 
 
e4f 
 
 ON  RURAL  SOLITUDE 
 
 When  wandering,  thoughtful,  my  stray  steps  at  eve 
 (Releas'd  from  toil  and  careless  of  their  way), 
 Have  reached,  unwillingly,  some  rural  spot 
 Where  quiet  dwells  in  clustered  cottages. 
 Fast  by  a  wood,  or  on  the  river's  marge, 
 I  have  sat  down  upon  the  shady  stile 
 Half  wearied  with  the  long  and  lonesome  walk. 
 And  felt  strange  sadness  steal  upon  the  heart, 
 
 And  unaccountable. The  rural  smells 
 
 And  sounds  spake  all  of  peacefulness  and  home ; 
 
 The  lazy  mastiff,  who  my  coming  eyed. 
 
 Half  balancing  'twixt  fondness  and  distrust, 
 
 Recaird  some  images,  now  half  forgot. 
 
 Of  the  warm  hearth  at  eve,  when  flocks  are  penn'd 
 
 And  cattle  hous'd,  and  every  labour  done. 
 
 And  as  the  twilight's  peaceful  hour  clos'd  in, 
 
 The  spiral  smoke  ascending  from  the  thatch, 
 
 And  the  eve  sparrow's  last  retiring  chirp. 
 
 Have  brought  a  busy  train  of  hov'ring  thoughts 
 
 To  recollection,  —  rural  offices 
 
65 
 
 In  younger  days,  and  happier  times  perform'd. 
 And  rural  friends,  now  with  their  grave-stones  carv'd, 
 And  tales  which  wore  away  the  winter's  night 
 Yet  fresh  in  memory.  —  Then  my  thoughts  assume 
 A  different  turn,  and  I  am  e'en  at  /lOfne. 
 That  hut  is  mine ;  that  cottage  half-embower'd 
 With  modest  jessamine,  and  that  sweet  spot 
 Of  garden-ground,  where,  rang'd  in  meet  array, 
 Grow  countless  sweets,  the  wall-flower  and  the  pink, 
 And  the  thick  thyme-bush  —  even  that  is  mine : 
 And  that  old  mulberry  that  shades  the  court 
 Has  been  my  joy  from  very  childhood  up. 
 
 VOL,   III. 
 
66 
 
 SONG. 
 
 The  Robin  Red-breast. 
 
 A    VERY    EARLY    COMPOSITION. 
 
 When  the  winter  wind  whistles  around  my  lone  cot, 
 And  my  holiday  friends  have  my  mansion  forgot, 
 Though  a  lonely  poor  being,  still  do  not  I  pine, 
 While   my  poor    Robin    Red-breast   forsakes  not  my 
 shrine. 
 
 He  comes  with  the  morning,  he  hops  on  my  arm, 
 For  he  knows  'tis  too  gende  to  do  him  a  harm : 
 And  in  gratitude  ever  beguiles  with  a  lay 
 The  soul-sick'ning  thoughts  of  a  bleak  winter's  day. 
 
 What,  though   he  may  leave  me,  when  spring  again 
 
 smiles, 
 To  waste  the  sweet  summer  in  love's  little  wiles, 
 Yet  will  he  remember  his  fosterer  long, 
 And  greet  her  each  morning  with  one  little  song. 
 
 And  when  the  rude  blast  shall  again  strip  the  trees. 
 And  plenty  no  longer  shall  flie  on  the  breeze ; 
 
 I 
 
Oh  !  then  he'll  return  to  his  Helena  kind, 
 
 And  repose  in  her  breast  from  the  rude  northern  wind. 
 
 My  sweet  little  Robin's  no  holiday  guest. 
 He'll  never  forget  his  poor  Helena's  breast; 
 But  will  strive  to  repay,  by  his  generous  song, 
 Her  love,  and  her  cares,  in  the  winter  day  long. 
 
 ¥  2 
 
68 
 
 WINTER  SONG. 
 
 Rouse  the  blazing  midnight  fire, 
 Heap  the  crackling  faggots  higher  ; 
 Stern  December  reigns  without, 
 With  old  Winter's  blustering  rout. 
 
 Let  the  jocund  timbrels  sound. 
 Push  the  jolly  goblet  round  ; 
 Care  avaunt,  with  all  thy  crew, 
 Goblins  dire  and  devils  blue. 
 
 Hark  !  without  the  tempest  growls, 
 And  the  affrighted  watch-dog  howls  ; 
 Witches  on  their  broomsticks  sail, 
 Death  upon  the  whistling  gale. 
 
 Heap  the  crackling  faggots  higher. 
 Draw  your  easy  chairs  still  nigher  ; 
 And  to  guard  from  wizards  hoar. 
 Nail  the  horse-shoe  on  the  door. 
 
 » 
 
 Now  repeat  the  freezing  story, 
 Of  the  murder'd  traveller  gory, 
 Found  beneath  the  yew-tree  sear, 
 Cut,  his  throat,  from  ear  to  ear. 
 
69 
 
 Tell,  too,  how  his  ghost,  all  bloody, 
 Frighten'd  once  a  neighboring  goody; 
 And  how,  still  at  twelve  he  stalks. 
 Groaning  o'er  the  wild-wood  walks. 
 
 Then,  when  fear  usurps  her  sway, 
 Let  us  creep  to  bed  away ; 
 Each  for  ghosts,  but  little  bolder. 
 Fearfully  peeping  o'er  his  shoulder. 
 
 r  3 
 
70 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Sweet  Jessy  !  I  would  fain  caress 
 That  lovely  cheek  divine ; 
 
 Sweet  Jessy,  I'd  give  worlds  to  press 
 That  rising  breast  to  mine. 
 
 Sweet  Jessy,  I  with  passion  burn 
 Thy  soft  blue  eyes  to  see ; 
 
 vSweet  Jessy,  I  would  die  to  turn 
 Those  melting  eyes  on  me  ! 
 
 Yet  Jessy,  lovely  as  *  *  * 
 Thy  form  and  face  appear, 
 
 I'd  perish  ere  1  would  consent 
 To  buy  them  with  a  tear. 
 
71 
 
 SONG. 
 
 Oh,  that  I  were  the  fragrant  flower  that  kisses 
 My  Arabella's  breast  that  heaves  on  high ; 
 
 Pleased  should  I  be  to  taste  the  transient  blisses, 
 And  on  the  melting  throne  to  faint,  and  die. 
 
 Oh,  that  I  were  the  robe  that  loosely  covers 
 Her  taper  limbs,  and  Grecian  form  divine ; 
 
 Or  the  entwisted  zones,  like  meeting  lovers, 
 That  clasp  her  waste  in  many  an  aery  twine. 
 
 Oh,  that  my  soul  might  take  its  lasting  station 
 In  her  waved  hair,  her  perfumed  breath  to  sip; 
 
 Or  catch,  by  chance,  her  blue  eyes  fascination  ! 
 Or  meet,  by  stealth,  her  soft  vermilion  lip. 
 
 But  chain'd  to  this  dull  being,  I  must  ever 
 
 Lament  the  doom  by  which  I'm  hither  placed ; 
 
 Must  pant  for  moments  I  must  meet  with  never, 
 And  dream  of  beauties  I  must  never  taste. 
 
 F   4 
 
Ti 
 
 In  hollow  music,  sighing  through  the  glade, 
 The  breeze  of  autumn  strikes  the  startled  ear, 
 
 And  fancy,  pacing  through  the  woodland  shade, 
 Hears  in  the  gust  the  requiem  of  the  year. 
 
 As  with  lone  tread  along  the  whisp'ring  grove 
 I  list  the  moan  of  the  capricious  wind, 
 
 I,  too,  o'er,  fancy's  milky  way  would  rove. 
 But  sadness  chains  to  earth  my  pensive  mind. 
 
 When  by  the  huddling  brooklet's  secret  brim 
 I  pause,  and  woo  the  dreams  of  Helicon, 
 
 Sudden  my  saddest  thoughts  revert  to  him 
 
 Who  taught  that  brook  to  wind,  and  now  is  gone. 
 
 When  by  the  poet's  sacred  urns  I  kneel. 
 And  rapture  springs  exultant  to  my  reed, 
 
 The  paean  dies,  and  sadder  measures  steal, 
 And  grief  and  Montague  demand  the  meed. 
 
 1»V., 
 
s 
 
 Thou  mongrel,  who  dost  show  thy  teeth,  and  yelp, 
 
 And  bay  the  harmless  stranger  on  his  way, 
 Yet,  when  the  wolf  appears,  dost  roar  for  help, 
 
 And  scamperest  quickly  from  the  bloody  fray  ; 
 Dare  but  on  my  fair  fame  to  cast  a  slur, 
 
 And  I  will  make  thee  know,  unto  thy  pain, 
 Thou  vile  old  good-for-nothing  cur  ! 
 
 I,  a  Laconian  dog,  can  bite  again : 
 Yes,  I  can  make  the  Daunian  tiger  flee, 
 Much  more  a  bragging,  foul-mouth*d  whelp  like  thee. 
 Beware  Lycambes,'  or  Bupalus'  fate  — 
 The  wicked  still  shall  meet  my  deadly  hate  ; 
 And  know,  when  once  I  seize  upon  my  prey, 
 
 I  do  not  languidly  my  wrongs  bemoan ; 
 I  do  not  whine  and  cant  the  time  away. 
 
 But,  with  revengeful  gripe,  I  bite  him  to  the  bone. 
 
74 
 
 ODE 
 
 To  THE  Morning  Star. 
 
 Many  invoke  pale  Hesper's  pensive  swa}^, 
 When  rest  supine  leans  o'er  the  pillowing  clouds, 
 
 And  the  last  tinklings  come 
 
 From  the  safe  folded  flock. 
 
 But  me,  bright  harbinger  of  coming  day, 
 Who  shone  the  first  on  the  primaeval  morn ; 
 
 Me,  thou  delightest  more  — 
 
 Chastely  luxuriant. 
 
 Let  the  poor  silken  sons  of  slothful  pride 
 Press  now  their  downy  couch  in  languid  ease, 
 
 While  visions  of  dismay 
 
 Flit  o'er  their  troubled  brain. 
 
 Be  mine  to  view ;  awake  to  nature's  charms, 
 Thy  paly  flame  evanish  from  the  sky, 
 
 As  gradual  day  usurps 
 
 The  welkin's  glowing  bounds. 
 
75 
 
 Mine,  to  snufF  up  the  pure  ambrosial  breeze, 
 Which  bears  aloft  the  rose-bound  car  of  morn, 
 
 And  mark  his  early  flight 
 
 The  rustling  skylark  wing. 
 
 And  thou,  Hygeia,  shalt  my  steps  attend, 
 Thou,  whom  distracted,  I  so  lately  wooed, 
 
 As  on  my  restless  bed 
 
 Slow  past  the  tedious  night ; 
 
 And  slowly,  by  the  taper's  sickly  gleam 
 Drew  my  dull  curtain ;  and  with  anxious  eye 
 
 Strove,  through  the  veil  of  night 
 
 To  mark  the  tardy  morn. 
 
 Thou,  Health,  shalt  bless  me  in  my  early  walk, 
 As  o'er  the  upland  slope  I  brush  the  dew. 
 
 And  feel  the  genial  thrill 
 
 Dance  in  my  lighten'd  veins. 
 
 And  as  I  mark  the  Cotter  from  his  shed 
 
 Peep  out  with  jocund  face  —  thou,  too,  Content, 
 
 Shalt  steal  into  my  breast, 
 
 Thy  mild,  thy  placid  sway. 
 
 Star  of  the  morning  !  these,  thy  joys  I'll  share. 
 As  rove  my  pilgrim  feet  the  sylvan  haunts ; 
 
 While  to  thy  blushing  shrine 
 
 Due  orisonb  shall  rise. 
 
76 
 
 THE    HERMIT   OF   THE  PACIFIC, 
 
 OR 
 
 The  Horrors  of  utter  Solitude. 
 
 Oh  !  who  can  paint  the  unspeakable  dismay 
 Of  utter  Solitude,  shut  out  from  all 
 Of  social  intercourse. —  Oh  !  who  can  say 
 What  haggard  horrors  hold  in  shuddering  thrall 
 Him,  who  by  some  Carvaggian  waterfall 
 A  shipwrecked  man  hath  scoop'd  his  desert  cave, 
 Where  Desolation,  in  her  giant  pall, 
 Sits  frowning  on  the  ever-falling  wave. 
 That  wooes  the  wretch  to  dig,  by  her  loud  shore,  his 
 grave. 
 
 Thou  youthful  pilgrim,  whose  untoward  feet. 
 Too  early  have  been  torn  in  life's  rough  way, 
 Thou,  who  endowed  with  Fancy's  holiest  heat 
 Seest  dark  Misfortune  cloud  thy  morning  ray  : 
 Though  doom'd  in  penury  to  pine  thy  day, 
 O  seek  not, — seek  not  in  the  glooms  to  shroud 
 Of  waste,  or  wilderness  —  a  cast-away  — 
 Where  noise  intrudes  not,  save  when  in  the  cloud. 
 Riding  sublime,  the  storm  roars  fearfully,  and  loud. 
 
77 
 
 Tliough  man  to  man  be  as  the  ocean  shark, 
 Reckless,  and  unrelentingly  severe ; 
 Though  friendship's  cloak  must  veil  the  purpose  dark, 
 While  the  red  poniard  glimmers  in  the  rear. 
 Yet,  is  society  most  passing  dear. 
 Though  mix  d  with  clouds  its  sunshine  gleams  refin'd 
 Will  through  the  glooms  most  pleasantly  appear, 
 And  soothe  thee,  when  thy  melancholy  mind 
 Must  ask  for  comfort  else  of  the  loud  pitiless  wind. 
 
 Yet  is  it  distant  from  the  muse's  theme 
 To  bid  thee  fly  the  rural  covert  still, 
 And  plunge  impetuous  in  the  busy  stream. 
 Of  crowds  to  take  of    *     *    joys  thy  fill. 
 Ah  !  no,  she  wooes  thee  to  attune  thy  quill 
 In  some  low  village's  remote  recess. 
 Where  thou  may'st  learn  —  O  enviable  skill, 
 To  heal  the  sick,  and  soothe  the  comfortless, 
 To  give,  and  to  receive  —  be  blessed,  and  to  bless. 
 
 God  unto  men  hath  different  powers  assign'd— 
 There  be,  who  love  the  city's  dull  turmoil; 
 There  be,  who  proud  of  an  ambitious  mind 
 From  lonely  quiet's  hermit-walks  recoil : 
 Leave  thou  these  insects  to  their  grov'lling  toil  — 
 Thou,  whom  retired  leisure  best  can  please ; 
 For  thee,  the  hazle  copse's  verdant  aisle. 
 And  summer  bow'r,  befitting  studious  ease, 
 Prepare  a  keener  bliss  than  they  shall  ever  seize. 
 
78 
 
 Lo,  the  grey  morning  climbs  the  eastern  tow'i-, 
 The  dew-drop  glistening  in  her  opening  eye 
 Now  on  the  upland  lawns  salute  the  hour 
 That  wakes  the  warbling  woods  to  melody ; 
 There  sauntering  on  the  stile,  embow'red  high 
 With  fi'agrant  hawthorn,  and  the  gadding  briar, 
 Pore  on  thy  book,  or  cast  by  fits  thine  eye 
 Where  far  below,  hill,  dale,  and  village  spire, 
 And  brook,  and  mead,  and  wood,  far  from  the  sight  retire. 
 
 But  what  are  these,  Jbrsakefi  ?ind  foilorn  F 
 'Tis  animation  breathes  the  subtle  spell  — 
 Hark  !  from  the  echoing  wood  the  mellow  horn 
 Winds  round  from  hill  to  hill,  with  distant  swell  ; 
 The  peasant's  matin  rises  from  the  dell  ; 
 The  heavy  waggon  creaks  upon  its  way, 
 While  tinkling  soft  the  silver-tuning  bell 
 Floats  on  the  gale,  or  dies  by  fits  away 
 From  the  sweet  straw-roof 'd  grange,  deep  buried  from 
 the  day. 
 
 Man  was  not  made  to  pine  in  solitude, 
 Ensepulchred,  and  far  from  converse  placed. 
 Not  for  himself  alone,  untamed  and  rude, 
 To  live  the  Bittern  of  the  desert  waste ; 
 It  is  not  his  (by  manlier  virtues  grac'd) 
 To  pore  upon  the  noontide  brook,  and  sigh. 
 And  weep  for  aye  o'er  sorrow  unefFaced ;       ^ 
 Him  social  duties  call  the  tear  to  dry, 
 And  wake  the  nobler  powers  of  usefuhiess  to  ply. 
 
79 
 
 The  savage  broods  that  in  the  forest  shroud, 
 The  Pard  and  Lion  mingle  with  their  kind  ; 
 And,  oh,  shall  man,  with  nobler  pow'rs  endow'd, 
 Shall  he,  to  nature's  strongest  impulse  blind, 
 Bury  in  shades  his  proud  immortal  mind  ? 
 Like  the  sweet  flow'r,  that  on  some  steep  rock  thrown, 
 Blossoms  forlorn,  rock'd  by  the  mountain  wind ; 
 A  little  while  it  decks  the  rugged  stone, 
 Then,  withering,  fades  away,  unnoticed  and  unknown  ! 
 
 For  ye  who,  fill'd  with  fancy's  wildest  dreams. 
 Run  from  the  imperious  voice  of  human  pride, 
 And  shrinking  quick  from  woe's  unheeded  screams. 
 Long  in  some  desert-cell  your  heads  to  hide. 
 Where  you  may  muse  ff  om  morn  to  eventide. 
 Free  from  the  taunts  of  contumely  and  scorn. 
 From  sights  of  woe  —  the  pow'r  to  sooth  denied, 
 Attend  the  song  which  in  life's  early  morn.  — 
 
POEMS 
 
 OF 
 
 LATER    DATE. 
 
 VOL.  11 
 
83 
 
 The  following  are  the  Verses  referred  to,  in  a  Letter  to  his  Brother 
 Neville,  in  the  First  Volume  of  the  Remains,  p.  117.  They  were  com- 
 posed extempore,  in  the  presence  of  the  Friend ;  who  is  there  said,  to  have 
 doubted  Henry's  ability  to  write  poetry.  —  N.  B.  These  verses  did  not 
 appear  in  the  first^ye  Editions  of  the  Remains. 
 
 Thou  base  repiner  at  another's  joy. 
 
 Whose  eyes  turn  green  at  merit  not  thine  own ; 
 Oh  !   far  away  from  generous  Britons  fly, 
 And  find  in  meaner  climes  a  fitter  throne. 
 Away,  away,  it  shall  not  be, 
 
 Thou  shalt  not  dare  defile  our  plains  ; 
 The  truly  generous  heart  disdains 
 Thy  meaner,  lowlier  fires,  while  he 
 Joys  at  another's  joy,  and  smiles  at  others'  jollity. 
 
 Triumphant  monster  !  though  thy  schemes  succeed  — 
 
 Schemes  laid  in  Acheron,  the  brood  of  night, 
 Yet,  but  a  little  while,  and  nobly  freed, 
 
 Thy  happy  victim  will  emerge  to  light ; 
 When  o'er  his  head,  in  silence  that  reposes, 
 
 Some  kindred  soul  shall  come  to  drop  a  tear : 
 Then  will  his  last  cold  pillow  turn  to  roses. 
 
 Which  thou  hadst  planted  with  the  thorn  severe ; 
 Then,  will  thy  baseness  stand  confest,  and  all 
 Will  curse  the  ungen'rous  fate,  that  bade  a  poet  fall. 
 
 ****** 
 G  2 
 
84. 
 
 Yet,  all  !  thy  arrows  are  too  keen,  too  sure ; 
 
 Could'st  thou  not  pitch  upon  another  prey? 
 Alas  !  in  robbing  him,  thou  robb'st  the  poor. 
 
 Who  only  boast  what  thou  wouldest  take  away. 
 See  the  lorn  bard,  at  midnight-study  sitting. 
 
 O'er  his  pale  features  streams  his  dying  lamp ; 
 While  o'er  fond  fancy's  pale  perspective  flitting, 
 
 Successive  forms  their  fleet  ideas  stamp. 
 Yet  say,  is  bliss  upon  his  brow  imprest? 
 
 Does  jocund  health  in  thought's  still  mansion  live  ? 
 Lo  !  the  cold  dews  that  on  his  temples  rest; 
 
 That  short,  quick  sigh  —  their  sad  responses  give. 
 
 And  can'st  thou  rob  a  poet  of  his  song, 
 
 Snatch  from  the  bard  his  trivial  meed  of  praise  ? 
 
 Small  are  his  gains,  nor  does  he  hold  them  long : 
 Then,  leave  !   Oh,  leave  him  to  enjoy  his  lays, 
 
 While  yet  he  lives  —  for  to  his  merits  just. 
 Though  future  ages  join  his  fame  to  raise, 
 
 Will  the  loud  trump  awake  his  cold  unheeding  dust? 
 
85 
 
 When  pride  and  envy,  and  the  scorn 
 
 Of  wealth,  njy  heart  with  gall  embued, 
 
 I  thought,  how  pleasant  were  the  morn 
 
 Of  silence  in  the  solitude. 
 
 To  hear  the  forest  bee  on  wino- : 
 
 Or  by  the  stream,  or  woodland  spring, 
 
 To  lie  and  muse  alone,  —  alone, 
 
 While  the  tinkling  waters  moan : 
 
 Or  such  wild  sounds  rise,  as  say, 
 
 Man  and  noise  are  far  away. 
 
 Now,  surely,  thought  I,  there's  enow 
 
 To  fill  life's  dusty  way ; 
 
 And  who  will  miss  a  poet's  feet, 
 
 Or  wonder  where  he  stray. 
 
 So  to  the  woods,  and  waste  I'll  go  : 
 
 And  I  will  build  an  osier  bower, 
 
 And  sweetly  there  to  me  shall  flow 
 
 The  meditative  hour. 
 
 And  when  the  autumn's  withering  hand 
 Shall  strew  with  leaves  the  sylvan  land, 
 I'll  to  the  forest  caverns  hie ; 
 G  3 
 
86 
 
 And  in  the  dark  and  stormy  nights 
 I'll  listen  to  the  shrieking  sprites ; 
 Who,  in  the  wintry  wolds  and  floods. 
 Keep  jubilee  and  thread  the  woods ; 
 Or,  as  it's  drifted  soft  and  slow, 
 Hurl  in  ten  thousand  shapes  the  snow. 
 
87 
 
 I  HAVE  a  wish,  and  near  m^  heart 
 
 That  wish  lies  buried ; 
 To  keep  it  there's  a  foolish  part, 
 
 For,  oh  !  it  must  not  be, 
 
 It  must  not,  must  not,  be. 
 
 Why,  my  fond  heart,  why  beat'st  thou  so  ? 
 
 The  dream  is  fair  to  see  — 
 But,  bid  the  lovely  flatterer  go  ; 
 
 It  must  not,  must  not,  be, 
 
 Oh  !  no,  it  must  not  be. 
 
 *Tis  well  this  tear  in  secret  falls, 
 This  weakness  suits  not  me ; 
 
 I  know  where  sterner  duty  calls  — 
 It  must  not,  cannot,  be. 
 Oh  !  no,  it  cannot  be. 
 
 G-  4 
 
sa 
 
 Once  more  his  beagles  wake  the  slumb'ring  morn, 
 
 And  the  high  woodland  echoes  to  his  horn, 
 
 As  on  the  mountain  cliff  the  hunter  band 
 
 Chase  the  fleet  chamois  o'er  the  unknown  land, 
 
 Or  sadly  silent,  from  some  jutting  steep. 
 
 He  throws  his  line  into  the  gulphy  deep. 
 
 Where  in  the  wilderness,  grotesque  and  drear. 
 
 The  loud  Arve  stuns  the  eve's  reposing  ear; 
 
 Or,  if  his  lost  domestic  joys  arise, 
 
 Once  more  the  prattler  its  endearments  tries  — 
 
 It  lisps  "  my  father  !"  and  as  newly  prest 
 
 Its  close  embraces  meet  his  lonely  breast. 
 
 His  long-lost  partner,  too,  at  length  restor'd. 
 
 Leans  on  his  arm,  and  decks  the  social  board. 
 
 Yet  still,  mysterious  on  his  fever'd  brain 
 
 The  deep  impressions  of  his  woes  remain : 
 
 He  thinks  she  weeps.  —  "  And  why,  my  love,  so  pale  ? 
 
 "  What  hidden  grief  could  o'er  thy  peace  prevail, 
 
 "  Or  is  it  fancy  ?  —  yet  thou  dost  but  *  *  ;" 
 
 And  then  he  weeps,  and  weeps  he  knows  not  why. 
 
m 
 
 Drear  whiter  !  who  dost  knock 
 
 So  loud  and  angry  on  my  cottage  roof 
 
 In  the  loud  night-storm  w^rapt,  while  drifting  snows 
 
 The  cheerless  waste  invest,  and  cold,  and  wide, 
 
 Seen  by  the  flitting  star,  the  landscape  gleams ; 
 
 With  no  unholy  awe  I  hear  thy  voice, 
 
 As  by  my  dying  embers,  safel}^  hous'd, 
 
 I,  in  deep  silence,  muse.     Tho'  I  am  lone, 
 
 And  my  low  chimney  owns  no  cheering  voice 
 
 Of  friendly  converse ;  yet  not  comfortless 
 
 Is  my  long  evening,  nor  devoid  of  thoughts 
 
 To  cheat  the  silent  hours  upon  their  way. 
 
 There  are,  who  in  this  dark  and  fearful  night. 
 
 Houseless,  and  cold  of  heart,  are  forc'd  to  bide 
 
 These  beating  snows,  and  keen  relentless  winds  — 
 
 Wayfaring  men,  or  wanderers  whom  no  home 
 
 Awaits,  nor  rest  from  travel,  save  the  inn 
 
 Where  all  the  journeyers  of  mortal  life 
 
 Lie  down  at  last  to  sleep.     Yet  some  there  be 
 
 Who  merit  not  to  suffer.  —  Infancy, 
 
 And  sinew-shrinking  age  are  not  exempt 
 
 From  penury's  severest,  deadliest  gripe. 
 
 Oh,  it  doth  chill  the  eddying  heart's-blood  to  see 
 
90 
 
 The  guileless  cheek  of  infancy  turn'd  blue 
 With  the  keen  cold.  —  Lo,  where  the  baby  hangs 
 On  his  wan  parent's  hand;  his  shiv'ring  skin 
 Half  bare,  and  opening  to  the  biting  gale. 
 Poor  shiv'rer,  to  his  mother  he  up  turns 
 A  meaning  look  in  silence  1  then  he  casts 
 Askance,  upon  the  howling  waste  before, 
 A  mournful  glance  upon  the  forward  way  — 
 But  all  lies  dreary,  and  cold  as  hope 
 In  his  forsaken  breast. 
 
91 
 
 Behold  the  shepherd  boy,  who  homeward  tends. 
 Finished  his  daily  labour.  —  O'er  the  path, 
 Deep  overhung  with  herbage,  does  he  stroll 
 With  pace  irregular :  —  by  fits  he  runs. 
 Then  sudden  stops  with  vacant  countenance, 
 And  picks  the  pungent  herb,  or  on  the  stile 
 Listlessly  sits,  and  twines  the  reedy  whip, 
 And  carols  blithe  his  short  and  simple  song. 
 Thrice  happy  idler  !  —  thou  hast  never  known 
 Refinement's  piercing  pang :  thy  joys  are  small, 
 Yet  are  they  unalloyed  with  bitter  thought 
 And  after  misery.  —  As  I  behold 
 Thy  placid,  artless  countenance,  I  feel 
 Strange  envy  of  thy  state,  and  fain  would  change 
 These  short,  uncommon  hours  of  keener  bliss 
 Por  thy  long  day  of  equal  happiness. 
 
 Heaven  grant  no  after  trials  may  imprint 
 
 Trouble's  deep  wrinkle  on  thine  open  face, 
 
 And  cloud  thy  generous  features.  —  May'st  thou  tread 
 
 In  the  calm  paths  thro'  which  thy  fathers  trod, 
 
 To  their  late  graves  of  honourable  rest : 
 
 So  will  thy  lot  be  happy.     So  the  hour 
 
Of  death  come  clad  in  loveliness  and  joy ; 
 And  as  tliou  lay'st  down  thy  blanclied  head 
 Beneath  the  narrow  mound,    affection's  hand 
 Will  bend  the  osier  o'er  thy  peaceful  grave. 
 And  bid  the  lily  blossom  on  thy  turf. 
 But,  oh  !  may  heaven  avert  from  thee,  the  curse 
 Of  mad  fanaticism  !  away  !  away  — 
 Let  not  the  restless  monster  dare  pollute 
 The  calm  abodes  of  rural  innocence  ! 
 Oh  !  if  the  wide  contagion  reach  thy  breast, 
 Unhappy  peasant,  peace  will  vanish  thence. 
 And  raging  turbulence  will  rack  thy  heart 
 With  feverish  dismay  :  —  then  discontent 
 Will  pray  upon  thy  vitals,  then  will  doubt 
 And  sad  uncertainty  in  fierce  array. 
 With  superstition's  monstrous  train  surround 
 Thy  dreadful  death-bed ;  and  no  soothing  hand 
 Will  smooth  the  painful  pillow,  for  the  bonds 
 Of  tender  amity  are  all  consumed 
 By  the  prevailing  fire.     They  all  are  lost 
 In  one  ungovernable,  selfish  flame. 
 Where  has  this  pestilence  arisen  ?  —  where 
 The  Hydra  multitude  of  sister  ills. 
 Of  infidelity,  and  open  sin, 
 Of  disaffection,  and  repining  gall  ? 
 Oh,  ye  revered,  venerable  band, 
 Who  wear  religion's  ephod,  unto  ye 
 Belongs  with  wakeful  vigilance  to  check 
 The  growing  evil.     In  the  vicious  town 
 19 
 
93 
 
 Fearless,  and  fixed,  the  monster  stands  secure 
 But  guard  the  rural  shade  I  let  honest  peace 
 Yet  hold  her  ancient  seats,  and  still  preserve 
 The  village  groups  in  their  primeval  bliss. 
 
 Such  was,  Placidio,  thy  divine  employ, 
 Ere  thou  v^ert  borne  to  some  sublimer  sphere 
 By  death's  mild  angel.  • 
 
94 
 
 Where  yonder  woods  in  gloomy  pomp  arise, 
 Embow'red,  remote,  a  lowly  cottage  lies ; 
 Before  the  door  a  garden  spreads,  where  blows 
 Now  wild,  once  cultivate,  the  brier  rose ; 
 Tho'  chok'd  with  weeds,  the  lily  there  will  peer, 
 And  early  primrose  hail  the  nascent  year ; 
 There  to  the  walls  didjess'mine  wreaths  attach. 
 And  many  a  sparrow  twitter'd  in  the  thatch. 
 While  in  the  woods  that  wave  their  heads  on  high 
 The  stock-dove  warbled  murmuring  harmony. 
 
 There,  buried  in  retirement,  dwelt  a  sage, 
 Whose  reverent  locks  bespoke  him  far  in  age ; 
 Silent  he  was,  and  solemn  was  his  mien. 
 And  rarely  on  his  cheek  a  smile  was  seen. 
 The  village  gossips  had  full  many  a  tale 
 About  the  aged  "  hermit  of  the  dale." 
 Some  called  him  wizard,  some  a  holy  seer, 
 Tho'  all  beheld  him  with  an  equal  fear. 
 And  many  a  stout  heart  had  he  put  to  flight. 
 Met  in  the  gloomy  wood-walks  late  at  night. 
 
 Yet  well,  I  ween,  the  sire  was  good  of  heart. 
 Nor  would  to  ought  one  heedless  pang  in)part ; 
 18 
 
95 
 
 His  soul  was  gentle,  but  he'd  known  of  woe, 
 
 Had  known  the  world,  nor  longer  wish'd  to  know. 
 
 Here,  far  retir'd  from  all  its  busy  ways, 
 
 He  hop'd  to  spend  the  remnant  of  his  days  ; 
 
 And  here,  in  peace,  he  till'd  his  little  ground, 
 
 And  saw,  unheeded,  years  revolving  round. 
 
 Fair  was  his  daughter,  as  the  blush  of  day. 
 
 In  her  alone  his  hopes  and  wishes  lay ; 
 
 His  only  care,  about  her  future  life, 
 
 When  death  should  call  him  from  the  haunts  of  strife. 
 
 Sweet  was  her  temper,  mild  as  summer  skies 
 
 When  o'er  their  azure  no  thin  vapour  flies; 
 
 And  but  to  see  her  aged  father  sad, 
 
 No  fear,  no  care,  the  gentle  Fanny  had. 
 
 Still  at  her  wheel,  the  live-long  day  slie  sung, 
 'Till  with  the  sound  the  lonesome  woodlands  rung. 
 And,  'till  usurp'd  his  long  unquestioned  sway, 
 The  solitary  bittern  wing'd  its  way, 
 Indignant  rose,  on  dismal  pinions  borne. 
 To  find,  untrod  by  man,  some  waste  forlorn  ; 
 Where,  unmolested,  he  might  hourly  wail, 
 And  with  his  screams  still  load  the  heavy  gale. 
 
 Once  as  I  stray'd  at  eve,  the  woods  among, 
 To  pluck  wild  strawberries,  —  I  heard  her  song ; 
 And  heard,  enchanted, — oh,  it  was  so  soft, 
 So  sweet,  I  thought  the  cherubim  aloft 
 
96 
 
 Were  quiring  to  the  spheres.     Now  the  full  note 
 Did  on  the  downy  wings  of  silence  float 
 Full  on  the  ravished  sense,  then  died  away. 
 Distantly  on  the  ear,  in  sweet  decay. 
 
 Then,  first  I  knew  the  cot ;  the  simple  pair ; 
 Tho'  soon  become  a  welcome  inmate  there : 
 At  eve,  I  still  would  fly  to  hear  the  lay, 
 Which  Fanny  to  her  lute  was  wont  to  play ; 
 Or  with  the  Sire,  would  sit  and  talk  of  war, 
 For  wars  he'd  seen,  and  bore  full  many  a  scar, 
 And  oft  the  plan  of  gallant  siege  he  drew, 
 And  lov'd  to  teach  me  all  the  arts  he  knew. 
 
97 
 
 With  slow  step,  along  the  desert  sand, 
 Where  o'er  the  parching  plains  broods  red  dismay, 
 The  Arab  chief  leads  on  his  ruthless  band. 
 And,  lo !  a  speck  of  dust  is  seen  to  play, 
 On  the  remotest  confines  of  the  day. 
 Arouse  !  arouse  !  fierce,  does  the  chieftain  cry. 
 Death  calls  !  the  caravan  is  on  its  way ! 
 The  warrior  shouts.     The  Siroc  hurries  by, 
 Hush'd  is  his  stormy  voice,  and  quenched  his  murderous 
 eye. 
 
 These  lines  might  appear,  by  the  metre,  to  have  been 
 intended  for  a  stanza  of  the  "  Christiady'  perhaps  to  have 
 been  introduced  as  a  simile ;  but  though  the  conception  is 
 striking,  the  composition  is  far  more  Incorrect  than  that  of 
 that  fine  fragment. 
 
 VOL.  Ill, 
 
f)S 
 
 PSALM  XXII. 
 
 My  God,  my  God,  oh,  why  dost  thou  forsake  me  ? 
 
 Why  art  thou  distant  in  the  hour  of  fear  ? 
 To  thee,  my  wonted  help,  I  still  betake  me, 
 
 To  thee  I  clamour,  but  thou  dost  not  hear. 
 
 The  beam  of  morning  witnesses  my  sighing. 
 The  lonely  night-hour  views  me  weep  in  vain, 
 
 Yet  thou  art  holy,  and,  on  thee  relying, 
 
 Our  fathers  were  released  from  grief  and  pain. 
 
 To  thee  they  cried,  and  thou  didst  hear  their  wailing. 
 On  thee  they  trusted,  and  their  trust  was  sure ; 
 
 But  I,  poor,  lost,  and  wretched  son  of  failing, 
 I,  without  hope,  must  scorn  and  hate  endure. 
 
 Me  they  revile ;  with  many  ills  molested, 
 They  bid  me  seek  of  thee,  O  Lord,  redress: 
 
 On  God,  they  say,  his  hope  and  trust  he  rested, 
 Let  God  relieve  him  in  his  deep  distress. 
 
 To  me.  Almighty  !   in  thy  mercy  shining. 
 
 Life's  dark  and  dangerous  portals  thou  didst  ope : 
 
 And  softly  on  my  mother's  lap  reclining. 
 
 Breathed  thro'  my  breast  the  lively  soul  of  hope. 
 14 
 
99 
 
 Even  from  the  womb,  ihou  art  my  God,  my  Father  1 
 Aid  me,  now  trouble  weighs  me  to  the  ground ; 
 
 Me  heavy  ills  have  worn,  and,  faint  and  feeble, 
 The  bulls  of  Bashan  have  beset  me  round. 
 
 My  heart  is  melted  and  my  soul  is  weary, 
 
 The  wicked  ones  have  pierced  my  hands  and  feet ; 
 
 Lord,  let  thy  influence  cheer  my  bosom  dreary ; 
 My  help  !  my  strength  !  let  me  thy  presence  greet. 
 
 Save  me  !  oh,  save  me !  from  the  sword  dividing. 
 Give  me  my  darling  from  the  jaws  of  death  ! 
 
 Thee  will  I  praise,  and  in  thy  name  confiding, 
 Proclaim  thy  mercies  with  my  latest  breath. 
 
100 
 
 HYMN  I. 
 
 The  Lord  our  God  is  full  of  might. 
 
 The  winds  obey  his  will : 
 He  speaks,  and  in  his  heavenly  height 
 
 The  rolling  sun  stands  still. 
 
 Rebel,  ye  waves,  and  o'er  the  land 
 
 With  threatening  aspect  roar  ! 
 The  Lord  uplifts  his  awful  hand, 
 
 And  chains  you  to  the  shore. 
 
 Howl,  winds  of  night,  your  force  combine  I 
 
 Without  his  high  behest, 
 Ye  shall  not  in  the  mountain  pine 
 
 Disturb  the  sparrow's  nest. 
 
 His  voice  sublime  is^  heard  afar. 
 
 In  the  distant  peal  it  dies ; 
 He  yokes  the  whirlwind  to  his  car. 
 
 And  sweeps  the  howling  skies. 
 
 Ye  nations  bend,  —  in  reverence  bend ; 
 
 Ye  monarch s,  wait  his  nod  ; 
 And  bid  the  choral  song  ascend, 
 
 To  celebrate  your  God. 
 16 
 
101 
 
 HYMN  II. 
 
 The  Lord  our  God  is  Lord  of  ali, 
 His  station  who  can  find  ? 
 
 I  hear  him  in  the  waterfall ! 
 I  hear  him  in  the  wind  f 
 
 If  in  the  gloom  of  night  I^shroud, 
 
 His  face  I  cannot  fly ; 
 I  see  him  in  the  evening  cloud. 
 
 And  in  the  morning  sky. 
 
 He  lives,  he  reigns  in  every  land. 
 From  winter's  polar  snows. 
 
 To  where,  across  the  burning  sand, 
 The  blasting  meteor  glows  ! 
 
 He  smiles,  we  live ;  he  frowns,  we  die  ; 
 
 We  hang  upon  his  word :  — 
 He  rears  his  red  right  arm  on  high. 
 
 And  ruin  bares  the  sword. 
 
 He  bids  his  blasts  the  fields  deform  — 
 Then  when  his  thunders  cease. 
 
 Sits  like  an  angel  'mid  the  storm, 
 And  smiles  the  winds  to  peace  ! 
 H  S 
 
102 
 
 HYMN  III. 
 
 Through  sorrow's  night,  and  dangei*'s  patli, 
 
 Amid  the  deepening  gloom, 
 We,  soldiers  of  an  injured  King, 
 
 Are  marching  to  the  tomb. 
 
 There,  when  the  turmoil  is  no  more, 
 
 And  all  our  powers  decay. 
 Our  cold  remains  in  solitude 
 
 Shall  sleep  the  years  away. 
 
 Our  labours  done,  securely  laid 
 
 In  this  our  last  retreat. 
 Unheeded,  o'er  our  silent  dust 
 
 The  storms  of  life  shall  beat. 
 
 Yet  not  thus  lifeless,  thus  inane, 
 
 The  vital  spark  shall  lie. 
 For  o'er  life's  wreck  that  spark  shall  vise 
 
 To  see  its  kindred  sky. 
 
 These  ashes  too,  this  little  dust. 
 
 Our  Father's  care  shall  keep, 
 'Till  the  last  angel  rise,  and  break 
 
 The  long  and  dreary  sleep. 
 
 J 
 
103 
 
 ^/  Then  love's  soft  dew  o'er  every  eye 
 
 Shall  shed  its  mildest  rays, 
 And  the  long  silent  dust  shall  burst 
 With  shouts  of  endless  praise.    . 
 
 H   4? 
 
104 
 
 HYMN  IV. 
 
 A  Fragment. 
 
 Much  in  sorrow,  oft  in  woe. 
 Onward,  Christians,  onward  go, 
 Fight  the  fight,  and  worn  with  strife. 
 Steep  with  tears  the  bread  of  life. 
 
 Onward,  Christians,  onward  go, 
 Join  the  war,  and  face  the  foe  : 
 Faint  not !  much  doth  yet  remain, 
 Dreary  is  the  long  campaign. 
 
 Shrink  not.  Christians  ;  will  ye  yield  ? 
 Will  ye  quit  the  painful  field  ^ 
 
105 
 
 HYMN  V. 
 
 Christians!  brethren  !  ere  we  part. 
 Join  every  voice  and  every  heart ; 
 One  solemn  hymn  to  God  we  raise, 
 One  final  song  of  grateful  praise. 
 
 Christians,  we  here  may  meet  no  more. 
 But  there  is  yet  a  happier  shore ; 
 And  there,  released  from  toil  and  pain, 
 Brethren,  we  shall  meet  again. 
 
 Now  to  God,  the  Three  in  One, 
 Be  eternal  glory  done ; 
 Raise,  ye  saints,  the  sound  again : 
 Ye  nations,  join  the  loud  AmeUo 
 
lOf) 
 
 TO  A  FRIEND. 
 
 To  you  these  pensive  lines  I  fondly  send. 
 
 Far  distant  now,  my  brother,  and  my  friend. 
 
 If,  'mid  the  novel  scene,  thou  yet  art  free 
 
 To  give  one  silent,  museful  hour  to  me. 
 
 Turn  from  the  world,  and  fancy,  whisp'ring  near, 
 
 Thou  hear*st  the  voice  thou  once  did'st  love  to  hear. 
 
 Can  time  and  space,  howe'er  with  anguish  fraught. 
 
 Damp  the  warm  heart,  or  chain  the  soaring  thought  ? 
 
 Or,  when  most  dread,  the  nascent  joy  they  blast, 
 
 Chace  from  the  mind  the  image  of  the  past  1 
 
 Ah,  no  !  when  death  has  robb'd  her  hord  of  bliss, 
 
 What  stays  to  soothe  the  widow's  hours,  but  this  ?— 
 
 This  cheers  her  dreams,  and  cheats  the  lingering  time 
 
 Till  she  shall  reach     ******* 
 
07 
 
 Oh  I  had  the  soul's  deep  silence  pow'r  to  speak ; 
 Could  the  warm  thought  the  bars  of  distance  break  ! 
 Could  the  lone  music  to  thine  ear  convey 
 Each  rising  sigh,  and  all  the  heart  can  say  ! 
 Dear  to  my  breast,  beyond  conception  dear. 
 Would  the  long  solitude  of  night  appear  : 
 Sweet  would  it  be  to  hear  the  winds  complain  — » 
 To  mark  the  heavings  of  the  moonlight  main ; 
 Sweet  to  behold  the  silent  hamlet  lie. 
 With  *  *  ♦  *  * 
 
 But  sweeter  far       *  *  ^  * 
 
 Rose  not  unshared,  nor  fell  unmarked  by  thee. 
 
108 
 
 SONNET. 
 
 The  harp  is  still !   Weak  tho*  the  spirit  were 
 
 That  whispered  in  its  rising  harmonies ; 
 
 Yet  Mem'ry,  with  her  sister,  fond  Regret, 
 
 Loves  to  recall  the  wild  and  wandering  airs 
 
 That  cheer'd  the  long-fled  hours,  when  o'er  the  strings 
 
 That  spirit  hover'd.     Weak,  and  though  it  were 
 
 To  pour  the  torrent  of  impetuous  song, 
 
 It  was  not  weak  to  touch  the  sacred  chords 
 
 Of  pity,  or  to  summon  with  dark  spell 
 
 Of  witching  rhymes,  the  spirits  of  the  deep 
 
 Form'd  to  do  Fancy's  bidding ;  and  to  fetch 
 
 Her  perfumes  from  the  morning  star,  or  dye 
 
 Her  volant  robes  with  the  bright  rainbow's  hues. 
 
109 
 
 Or  should  the  day  be  overcast. 
 We'll  Imger  Hill  the  show'r  be  past ; 
 Where  the  hawthorn's  branches  spread 
 A  fragrant  covert  o'er  the  head. 
 And  list  the  rain-drops  beat  the  leaves, 
 Or  smoke  upon  the  cottage  eaves ; 
 Or  silent  dimpling  on  the  stream 
 Convert  to  lead  its  silver  gleam ; 
 And  we  will  muse  on  human  life, 
 And  think,  from  all  the  storms  of  strife, 
 How  sweet  to  find  a  snug  retreat 
 Were  we  may  hear  the  tempests  beat, 
 Secure  and  fearless,  —  and  provide 
 Repose  for  life's  calm  eventide. 
 
no 
 
 Mild  vesper,  favourite  of  the  Paphian  Queen, 
 Whose  lucid  lamp  on  evening's  twilight  zone, 
 Sheds  a  soft  lustre  o'er  the  gloom  serene, 
 Only  by  Cynthia's  silver  beam  outshone : 
 Thee  I  invoke  to  point  my  lonely  way 
 O'er  these  wild  wastes,  to  where  my  lover  bides, 
 For  thou  alone  canst  lend  thy  friendly  ray. 
 
 Now  the  bright  moon  toward  the  ocean  glides 
 
 No  midnight  murderer  asks  thy  guilty  aid, 
 Nor  nightly  robber     *     *     ♦     *     * 
 I  am  alone,  by  silly  love  betrayed 
 To  woo  the  star  of  Venus,     *     *     *     « 
 
Ill 
 
 In  every  clime,  from  Lapland  to  Japan, 
 
 This  truth's  confest,  —  That  man*s  worst  foe  is  man. 
 
 The  rav'ning  tribes,  that  croud  the  sultry  zone, 
 
 Prey  on  all  kinds  and  colours,  but  their  own. 
 
 Lion  with  lion  herds,  and  pard  with  pard, 
 
 Instinct's  first  law,  their  covenant  and  guard. 
 
 But  man  alone,  the  lord  of  ev'ry  clime. 
 
 Whose  post  is  godlike,  and  whose  powers  sublime, 
 
 Man,  at  whose  birth  the  Almighty  hand  stood  still, 
 
 Pleas'd  with  the  last  great  effort  of  his  will ; 
 
 Man,  man  alone,  no  tenant  of  the  wood. 
 
 Preys  on  his  kind,  and  laps  his  brother's  blood  ; 
 
 His  fellow  leads,  whei-e  hidden  pit-falls  lie, 
 
 And  drinks  with  extacy  his  dying  sigh. 
 
11^ 
 
 SONNET 
 
 Poor  little  one  !  most  bitterly  did  pain, 
 
 And  life's  worst  ills,  assail  thine  early  age ; 
 
 And,  quickly  tir'd  with  this  rough  pilgrimage, 
 
 Thy  wearied  spirit  did  its  heaven  regain. 
 
 Moaning,  and  sickly,  on  the  lap  of  life 
 
 Thou  laidst  thine  aching  head,  and  thou  didst  sigh 
 
 A  little  while,  ere  to  its  kindred  sky 
 
 Thy  soul  returned,  to  taste  no  more  of  strife  ! 
 
 Thy  lot  was  happy,  little  sojourner  ! 
 
 Thou  had'st  no  mother  to  direct  thy  ways ; 
 
 And  fortune  frown'd  most  darkly  on  thy  days. 
 
 Short  as  they  were.     Now,  far  from  the  low  stir 
 
 Of  this  diln  spot,  in  heaven  thou  dost  repose. 
 
 And  look'st,  and  smil'st  on  this  world's  transient  woes. 
 
113 
 
 SONNET 
 
 TO    DECEMBER. 
 
 Dark  visaged  visitor,  who  comest  here 
 Clad  in  thy  mournful  tunic,  to  repeat 
 (While  glooms,  and  chilling  rains  enwrap  ihy  feet) 
 
 The  solemn  requiem  of  the  dying  year. 
 
 Not  undelightful  to  my  listening  ear 
 
 Sound  thy  dull  show'rs,  as,  o'er  my  woodland  seat, 
 Dismal,  and  drear,  the  leafless  trees  they  beat : 
 
 Not  undelightful,  in  their  wild  career, 
 
 Is  the  wild  music  of  thy  howling  blasts, 
 
 Sweeping  the  groves  long  aisle,  -while  sullen  Time 
 
 Thy  stormy  mantle  o'er  his  shoulder  casts, 
 
 And,  rock'd  upon  his  throne,  with  chant  sublime, 
 
 Joins  the  full-pealing  dirge,  and  winter  weaves 
 
 Her  dark  sepulchral  wreath  of  faded  leaves. 
 
 VOL.  III. 
 
 i 
 
ODE  TO  LIBERTY. 
 
 ^  Ience  to  thy  darkest  shades,  dire  Slavery,  hence 
 
 Thine  icy  touch  can  freeze, 
 
 Swift  as  the  Polar  breeze 
 The  proud  defying  port  of  human  sense. 
 
 Hence  to  thine  Indian  cave, 
 To  where  the  tall  canes  whisper  o'er  thy  rest, 
 
 Like  the  murmuring  wave 
 Swept  by  the  dank  wing  of  the  rapid  west  : 
 
 And  at  the  night's  still  noon. 
 The  lash'd  Angolan,  in  his  grated  cell, 
 
 Mix'd  with  the  tyger's  yell. 
 Howls  to  the  dull  ear  of  the  silent  moon. 
 
 But  come,  thou  goddess,  blithe  and  free, 
 Thou  mountain-maid,  sweet  Liberty.! 
 With  buskin'd  knee,  and  bosom  bare, 
 Thy  tresses  floating  in  the  air : 
 Come,  —  and  treading  on  thy  feet, 
 Lidependence  let  me  meet, 
 Thy  giant  mate,  whose  awful  form 
 Has  often  braved  the  bellowing  storm ; 
 And  heard  its  angry  spirit  shriek, 
 Rear'd  on  some  pro  montory's  beak, 
 Seen  by  the  lonely  fisher  far, 
 By  the  glimpse  of  flitting  star. 
 
I 
 
 115 
 
 His  awJuI  hulk,   in  dusky  shrowd, 
 Commixing-  with  the  pitchy  cloud  : 
 While  at  his  feet  the  hghtnings  phiy, 
 And  the  deep  thunders  die  away. 
 Goddess,  come,  and  let  us  sail 
 On  the  fresh  revivinji:  oale : 
 O'er  dewy  lawns,  and  forests  lone, 
 'Till  lighting  on  some  mountain  stone, 
 That  scales  the  circumambient  sky, 
 We  see  a  thousand  nations  lie. 
 From  Zembla's  snows,  to  Afric's  heat, 
 Prostrate  beneath  our  frolic  feet. 
 
 From  Italy's  luxurious  plains. 
 
 Where  everlasting  summer  reigns, 
 
 Why  Goddess,  dost  thou  turn  away  ? 
 
 Didst  thou  never  sojourn  there  ? 
 
 Oh,  yes,  thou  didst  —  but  fallen  is  Rome. 
 
 The  pilgrim  weeps  her  silent  doom. 
 
 As  at  midnight,  murmuring  low, 
 
 Along  the  mouldering  portico. 
 
 He  hears  the  desolate  wind  career, 
 
 While  the  rank  ivy  whispers  near. 
 
 Ill-fated  Gaul  !  ambitious  grasp 
 Bids  thee  again  in  slavery  gasp. 
 Again  the  dungeon  walls  resound 
 The  hopeless  shriek,  the  groan  profound. 
 
But,  lo,  in  yonder  happy  skies, 
 
 Helvetia's  airy  mountains  rise, 
 
 And,  oh,  on  her  tall  cliffs  reclin'd, 
 
 Gay  fancy,  whispering  to  the  mind : 
 
 As  the  wild  herdsman's  call  is  heard, 
 
 Tells  me,  that  she,  o'er  all  preferr'd 
 
 In  every  clime,  in  every  zone, 
 
 Is  Liberty's  divinest  throne. 
 
 Yet,  whence  that  sigh  ?     O  goddess,  say, 
 
 Has  the  tyrant's  thirsty  sway 
 
 Dared  profane  the  sacred  seat, 
 
 Thy  long  high-favour'd,  best  retreat  ? 
 
 It  has  !  it  has  !  away,  away, 
 
 To  where  the  green  isles  woo  the  day. 
 
 Where  thou  art  still  supreme,  and  where 
 
 Thy  Paeans  fill  the  floating  air. 
 
117 
 
 Who  is  it  leads  the  planets  on  their  dance  — 
 The  mighty  sisterhood  ?     Who  is  it  strikes 
 The  harp  of  universal  harmony  ? 
 
 Hark  !  'tis  the  voice  of  planets  on  their  dance, 
 Led  by  the  arch -contriver.     Beautiful 
 The  harmony  of  order  !     How  they  sing  ! 
 The  regulated  orbs,  upon  their  path 
 Through  the  wide  tractless  ether  sing  as  though 
 A  syren  sat  upon  each  ghtt'ring  gem, 
 And  made  fair  music  —  such  as  mortal  hand 
 Ne'er  rais'd  on  the  responding  chords ;  more  like 
 The  mystic  melody  that  oft  the  bard 
 Hears  in  the  strings  of  the  suspended  harp, 
 Touch'd  by  some  unknown  beings  that  reside 
 In  ev'ning  breezes,  or,  at  dead  of  night. 
 Wake  in  the  long,  shrill  pauses  of  the  wind. 
 
 This  is  the  music  which,  in  ages  hush'd, 
 Ere  the  Assyrian  quaff''d  his  cups  of  blood, 
 Kept  the  lone  Chald  awake,  when  thro'  the  night 
 He  watch'd  his  herds.     The  solitary  man, 
 By  frequent  meditation,  learnt  to  spell 
 
118 
 
 Yon  sacred  volunic  of  high  mystery. 
 
 He  could  arrange  the  wandering  passengers, 
 
 From  the  pale  star,  first  on  the  silent  brow 
 
 Of  the  meek-tressed  Eve,  to  him  who  shines. 
 
 Son  of  the  morning,  orient  Lucifer : 
 
 Sweet  were  to  him  in  that  unletter'd  age, 
 
 The  openings  of  wonder.  —  He  could  gaze 
 
 Till  his  whole  soul  was  fill'd  with  mystery, 
 
 And  every  night-wind  was  a  spirit's  voice, 
 
 And  every  far  off  mist,  a  spirit's  form : 
 
 So  with  fables,  and  wild  romantic  dreams 
 
 He  mix'd  his  truth,  and  couch'd  in  symbols  dark. 
 
 Hence,  blind  idolatry  arose,  and  men 
 
 Knelt  to  the  sun,  or  at  the  dead  of  night 
 
 Pour'd  their  orisons  to  the  cloud-wrapt  moon. 
 
 Hence,  also,  after  ages  into  stars 
 
 Transformed  their  heroes ;  and  the  warlike  chief, 
 
 With  fond  eye  fix'd  on  some  resplendent  gem, 
 
 Held  converse  with  the  spirits  of  his  sires :  — 
 
 With  other  eyes  than  these  did  Plato  view 
 
 The  heav'ns,  and,  fill'd  with  reasonings  sublime, 
 
 Half  pierc'd,  at  intervals,  the  mystery, 
 
 Which  with  the  gospel  vanish'd,  and  made  way 
 
 For  noon-day  brightness.  ^         "  * 
 
How  beautiful  upon  the  element 
 
 The  Egyptian  moonlight  sleeps ; 
 The  Arab  on  the  bank  hath  pitch'd  his  tent; 
 
 The  light  wave  dances,  sparkling,  o'er  die  deeps ; 
 The  tall  rieeds  whisper  in  the  gale. 
 And  o'er  the  distant  tide  moves  slow  the  silent  sail. 
 
 Thou  mighty  Nile  !  and  thou  receding  main, 
 How  peacefully  ye  rest  upon  your  shores, 
 Tainted  no  more,  as  when  from  Cairo's  tow'rs, 
 Roird  the  swoln  corse  by  plague  !  the  monster  !  slain. 
 Far  as  the  eye  can  see  around. 
 
 Upon  the  solitude  of  waters  wide, 
 There  is  no  sight,  save  of  the  restless  tide  — 
 Save  of  the  winds,  and  waves,  there  is  no  sound. 
 
 Egyptia  sleeps,  her  sons  in  silence  sleep  ! 
 Ill-fated  land,  upon  thy  rest  they  come  — 
 
 Th'  invader,  and  his  host.     Behold  the  deep 
 Bears  on  her  farthest  verge  a  dusky  gloom  — 
 And  now  they  rise,  the  masted  forests  rise, 
 
 I  4- 
 
1L>() 
 
 And  gallants,  through  the  foam,   their  way  they  make. 
 Stern  Genius  of  the  Memphian  shores,  awake  — - 
 
 The  foeman  in  thy  inmost  harbour  lies, 
 And  ruin  o'er  thv  land  with  brooding  pennon  flies. 
 
I'^l 
 
 Ghosts  of  the  dead,  in  griiu  array, 
 
 SiiiTOund  tlie  lyi'Jint's  niglitly  bed  ! 
 And  in  the  stilK  distinctly  say, 
 
 I  by  thy  treach'ry  bled. 
 And  I,  and  I,  ten  tliousands  cry  : 
 
 From  Jaffa's  plains,  from  Egypt's  sands, 
 They  come,  they  raise  the  chorus  high, 
 And  whirl  around  hi  shrieking  bands. 
 Loud,  and  more  loud,  the  clamours  rise, 
 ''  Lo  !  there  the  traitor  I  murderer  1  lies." 
 He  murder'd  me,  he  murder'd  thee. 
 
 And  now  his  bed,  his  rack  shall  be. 
 As  when  a  thousand  torrents  roar, 
 Around  his  head  their  yells  they  pour. 
 The  sweat-drops  start,  convulsion's  hand 
 
 Binds  every  nerve  in  iron  band 
 'Tis  done  !   they  fly,  the  clamours  die, 
 
 The  moon  is  up,  the  night  is  calm, 
 Man's  busy  broods  in  slumbers  lie ; 
 
 But  horrors  still  the  tyrant's  soul  alarm, 
 And  ever  and  anon,  serenely  clear. 
 Have  mercy,  mercy,  heaven  !  strikes  on  dull  midnight' 
 
 car 
 
ODE 
 
 ON    THE    DEATH    OF    THE    DUKE    d'eNGHIEN, 
 
 What  means  yon  trampling  !   what  that  light 
 
 That  glimmers  in  the  inmost  wood  ; 
 As  tho'  beneath  the  felon  night, 
 
 It  mark'd  some  deed  of  blood : 
 Beliold  yon  figures  dim  descried 
 In  dark  array,  they  speechless  glide. 
 The  forest  moans ;  the  raven's  scream, 
 Swells  slowly  o'er  the  moated  stream, 
 As  from  the  castle's  topmost  tow'r. 
 
 It  chants  its  boding  song  alone : 
 A  song,  that  at  this  awful  hour 
 
 Bears  dismal  tidings  in  its  funeral  tone ; 
 Tidings,  that  in  some  grey  domestic's  ear 
 Will  on  his  wakeful  bed  strike  deep  mysterious  fear 
 
 And,  hark,  that  loud  report !   tis  done  ; 
 
 There's  murder  couch'd  in  yonder  gloom  ; 
 'Tis  done,  'tis  done  1  the  prize  is  won. 
 
 Another  rival  meets  his  doom. 
 The  tyrant  smiles,  —  with  fell  delight 
 He  dwells  upon  the     ***** 
 The  tyrant  smiles  ;  from  terror  Jreed, 
 Exulting  in  the  I'oul  misdeed, 
 
 J 
 
1^3 
 
 And  sternly  in  his  secret  breast 
 Marks  out  the  victims  next  to  fail. 
 His  purpose  fixed;  their  moments  fly  no  more, 
 He  points,  —  the  poniard  knows  its  own  ; 
 
 Unseen  it  strikes, unseen  they  die, 
 
 Foul  midnight  only  hears,  and  shudders  at  the  groan. 
 But  justice  yet  shall  lift  her  arm  on  high, 
 And  Bourbon's  blood  no  more  ask  vengeance  from  the  sky. 
 
PROSE   COMPOSITIONS. 
 
AN  UNFINISHED  TRACT. 
 
 My  Brethren, 
 
 I  THINK  it  more  particularly  proper,  at  a  period,  which 
 seems  big  with  awful  events,  to  make  a  solemn  address 
 to  each  of  you  singly,  on  a  most  important  and  weiglity 
 subject.  I  mean,  the  state  of  your  minds  with  regard 
 to  religion. 
 
 The  more  pointed  objects  of  this  little  book,  are  such 
 of  you  as  it  has  pleased  God  to  place  in  the  lower 
 classes  of  life.  I  do  not  mean  to  take  up  yo\ir  attention 
 for  a  very  long  time ;  all  I  entreat  of  you,  is  to  turn 
 aside,  but  for  a  few  trifling  moments,  from  the  voice  of 
 folly  and  the  vain  pursuits  of  this  passing  world,  to 
 listen  to  the  voice  of  a  monitor,  who  teaches  those  mo- 
 mentous topics,  which  are  of  infinitely  more  weight, 
 than  the  revolutions  of  states  and  empires,  —  of  all  the 
 busy  pageants  of  the  earth.  Believe  me,  my  brethren, 
 the  subject  is  most  awful  and  solemn,  and  demands  your 
 midivided  attention.  Were  I  now  about  to  state  the  case 
 of  a  criminal  on  his  trial  for  life  or  death,  you  would 
 enter  with  the  deepest  interest  into  my  discourse ;  you 
 would  weigh  with  anxious  care  all  the  favourable  or  un- 
 favourable points  of  the  statement ;  you  woyld  make  your 
 conjectures  in  breathless  expectation,  as  to  the  probable 
 
128 
 
 event ;  and  I  am  now  going  to  address  yon  on  an  affair 
 of  infinitely  more  concern ;  an  allair,  whicli  treats  not 
 of  the  fate  of  a  mortal,  but  of  everlasting  life  or  everlast- 
 ing death  ;  and  that,  too,  of  your  own  selves.  You  are  all 
 criminals,  who  must  one  day  answer  at  the  peril  of  your 
 souls  for  your  conduct  here :  and  it  is  on  your  conduct 
 here^  that  I  would  exhort  you  ;  and  shall  you  turn  a  deaf 
 ear  to  the  representation  of  the  dangers  of  your  own 
 states?  shall  you  listen  with  indifference  to  the  voice 
 which,  warns  you  of  your  fate?  God  forbid  !  I  conjure 
 you,  my  dear  brethren,  hear  with  attention  the  precepts 
 which,  drawing  from  the  Gospel  of  Jesus  Christ,  I  would 
 impress  on  your  minds  ;  write  them  in  your  hearts,  and 
 inscribe  them  on  the  tablets  of  your  remembrance,  that 
 they  may  be  a  solace  to  you  in  sorrow  and  adversity ; 
 a  relief  in  pain  and  tribulation ;  and  finally,  a  sweet  and 
 firm  support,  w^hen  you  shall  repose  on  the  trying  pillow 
 of  death. 
 
 Surely,  I  need  not  impress  upon  you  the  excellence 
 and  the  truth  of  the  Gospel.  Most  of  you,  I  trust, 
 believe  in  your  Redeemer,  though  you  slight  and  dis- 
 regard his  words.  But  some,  T  know  too  well,  there 
 are  amongst  you,  who,  deluded  by  the  false,  yet  seemingly 
 open  reasoning  of  wretched  and  ignorant  infidels,  in  the 
 pride  of  their  hearts,  affirm  their  contempt  for  the 
 doctrines  of  Christianity.  Such  unhappy  men,  /  leave 
 to  their  God,  with  the  fervent  prayer,  that  as  his  spirit 
 can  alone  rescue  them  from  sure  and  everlasting  death, 
 he  will  vouchsafe  to  open  their  hearts  and  understandings 
 
V29 
 
 to  his  truths,  ere  they  fall  into  thatgulph  from  which  no 
 repentance,  no  tears,  no  prayers  will  ever  deliver  them ; 
 "  where  there  is  weeping,  and  wailing,  and  gnashing 
 of  teeth." 
 
 For  you,  who,  believing  in  the  Holy  Scriptures,  are 
 hardened  in  indifference  and  careless  wickedness,  I  shall 
 ^t'si  point  out  some  of  the  strong  calls  you  have  to  an 
 earnest  performance  of  the  duties  of  Religion.  I  shall 
 then,  shew  the  happiness  which  will  result  to  you  from 
 God's  blessing  upon  you ;  and  I  shall  then  conclude,  by 
 exhorting  you,  at  this  moment  in  particular,  to  begin  an 
 immediate  reformation  in  your  lives,  and  denounce  the 
 dreadful  sentence  of  Almighty  vengeance  on  such  as 
 shall  be  overtaken  in  their  career  of  wickedness. 
 
 The  Gospel  of  Christ  presents  itself  to  us  under  such 
 pleasing  appearances;  its  lessons  are  so  mild  and  de- 
 lightful, and  its  principles  are  so  interesting,  that  were 
 men  once  made  sensible  of  its  pleasures,  their  own  in- 
 clinations would  lead  them  ardently  to  long  to  share  its 
 comforts.  Gratitude  itself  calls  upon  us  night  and  day, 
 with  unwearied  and  continued  anxiousness  to  glorify 
 him,  who,  for  our  sakes,  bled  a  bitter  sacrifice.  Let 
 us  behold  the  state  of  man  after  the  fall.  Lost,  debased, 
 condemned,  having  the  judgment  of  death  denounced 
 upon  him ;  a  poor  worm  in  the  scale  of  the  universe, 
 less  than  a  grain  of  dust ;  and  let  us  reflect,  that  to 
 redeem  this  wretched  insect  from  the  penalties  of  his 
 crime,  the  Son  of  God  himself  assumed  all  the  infirmi- 
 ties of  human  nature  ;  that  for  him,  he  endured  the  most 
 
 VOL,   III,  K. 
 
130 
 
 eruel  ami  unrelenting  of  persecutions ;  and  lastly,  after 
 passing  a  life,  in  which  he  was  continually  employed  in 
 dohig  good  unto  all,  and  receiving  in  return,  every  pang 
 which  malignity  could  inflict  or  human  nature  undergo ; 
 that  he  died  on  the  cross,  a  death  the  most  miserable 
 and  dreadful  that  the  imagination  can  conceive.  Oh  1 
 how  black  must  be  the  ingratitude  of  that  man,  who  can 
 wilfully  and  unthinkingly  cast  away  salvation  purchased 
 for  him  at  a  rate  so  dear  !  What  punishment  must  he 
 deserve,  (for  whom  the  Son  of  God  himself  died,  as  a 
 means  of  salvation),  who  lighdy  resigns  the  dear  pri- 
 vilege, and  blindly  rushes  into  the  ways  of  error  and 
 sin  !  My  brethren,  consider  what  Jesus  Christ  endured 
 for  your  sakes.  You  may,  perhaps  yourselves,  have 
 tasted  the  bitter  cup  of  calamity ;  but  he  endured  all 
 your  afflictions  and  troubles  an  hundred  fold.  Are  you 
 poor  and  lowly  ?  So,  was  He.  Are  you  }>ersecuted  and 
 forlorn  ?  So,  was  He  unto  death.  Are  you  houseless 
 and  an  outcast?  The  Lord  Jesus  w^as  a  poor  way 
 wanderer,  without  a  pillow^  on  which  to  lay  his  head. 
 Are  your  prospects  in  the  world  gloomy  and  devoid  of 
 comfort?  So  also  were  his.  You  can  scarcely  name 
 a  suffering,  or  conceive  a  trial  which  Christ  did  not  un- 
 dergo, that  we  might  partake  of  everlasting  life.  Behold 
 him,  to  whom  the  whole  universe  ow  ed  its  being,  to  whom 
 angels  and  archangels  ministered,  whom  the  Cherubim 
 and  Seraphim  obeyed,  voluntarily  exposing  himself  to  all 
 the  weakness  of  the  flesh.  Behold  the  Son  of  God 
 sleeping  in  the  manger  of  an  obscure  inn ;  survey  him 
 
131 
 
 ushered  into  lite,  and  persecution  while  yet  a  defence- 
 less infant,  fleeing  from  the  sword  of  murder  into 
 Bethlehem.  Contemplate  him  afterwards,  when  arrived 
 at  manhood,  going  about  doing  good,  and  yet  turning 
 aside  from  the  machinations  of  evil  men,  because  his 
 hour  was  «ot  yet  come.  Surrounded  with  a  few  poor 
 fishermen,  the  lowest  among  men,  see  him  exposed  to 
 the  most  violent  attempts  of  powerful  men.  You  have 
 all  your  sorrows;  but  what  are  they,  to  what  he  endured, 
 when  for  us  he  became  man  ?  What  can  convey  a  more 
 impressive  idea  of  the  sufferings  of  Jesus  than  the  me- 
 lancholy expression  of  Jesus,  when  a  certain  man  said 
 he  would  follow  him  wheresoever  he  went.  —  "  The 
 foxes  have  holes,  and  the  birds  of  the  air  have  nests,  but 
 the  Son  of  Man  hath  not  where  to  lay  his  head." 
 
 K  2 
 
13^ 
 
 I  AM  requested  to  state  the  reasons  for  my  wishing  to 
 enter  into  the  ministry.     I  will  do  it  as  briefly  as  I  can. 
 
 Since  the  time  I  was  awakened  to  a  true  sense  of 
 religion,  I  have  always  felt  a  strong  desire  to  become 
 useful  in  the  church  of  Christ;  a  desire  which  has 
 increased  daily,  and  which,  it  has  been  my  suppUcation, 
 might  be  from  God.  It  is  true,  before  I  began  to  be 
 solicitous  about  spiritual  things,  1  had  a  wish  to  become 
 a  clergyman,  but  that  was  very  different.  I  trust,  I  may 
 now  say,  that  I  isoould  be  a  minister,  that  I  may  do  good ; 
 and  although  I  am  sensible  of  the  awful  importance  of 
 the  pastoral  charge,  I  would  sacrifice  every  thing  for  it, 
 in  -the  hope  that  I  should  be  strengthened  faithfully  to 
 discharge  the  duties  of  that  sacred  office.  I  think  1 
 have  no  other  reason  to  offer  but  this;  the  hope  of 
 being  an  instrument  in  the  hands  of  God  to  the  pro- 
 motion of  his  glory  is  my  chief  motive.  With  regard 
 to  the  doctrines  of  the  church  contained  in  the  articles, 
 I  conceive  them  to  be  strictly  formed  upon  the  Gospel, 
 as  setting  forth  salvation  through  the  blood  of  Jesus 
 Christ  alone ;  the  original  depravity  of  man,  whereby 
 |ie  is  rendered  utterly  unfit  for  every  good  thing,  and 
 dead  to  the  light  of  Truth,  until  he  is  renewed  and 
 born  again  in  the  Holy  Spirit  by  the  free  grace  of  God ; 
 
133 
 
 and  as  leaching  that  no  man  can  claim  acceptation  on 
 account  of  his  works,  because,  being  of  ourselves  inca- 
 pable of  doing  good,  they  spring  from  the  grace  of  God, 
 and  to  hhn^  therefore,  nmst  be  assigned ;  but  that  they 
 are  the  fruits  and  testimony  of  sound  faith. 
 
 H.  K.  WHITE. 
 
 K    S 
 
134 
 
 Supposed  to  have  been  for  the  "  Christian  Observer.'' 
 
 Mr.  Editor, 
 
 The  Apostle  St.  Paul  has  said,  in  the  1st  Epistle  to 
 Timothy,  6th  chap.  10th  verse,  that  "  The  love  of  money 
 is  the  root  of  all  eviV  A  correspondent  who  signs 
 H.  T.  finds  a  great  difficulty  in  this  passage,  as  it  stands 
 in  our  version,  and  proposes  to  translate  it  "  For  the 
 love  of  money  is  the  root  of  all  these  evils"  meaning 
 some  particular  vices  which  the  Apostle  had  just  enu- 
 merated. In  support  of  this  emendation,  he  favours  us 
 with  some  critical  remarks  on  the  nature  of  the  Greek 
 article,  and  <'from  these  considerations,  and  from  no 
 objections  being  made  in  the  Christian  Observer,  he 
 apprehends,  it  may  be  concluded,  that  his  criticism  is 
 considered  as  admissible." 
 
 Now,  Mr.  Editor,  after  the  very  temperate  and  in- 
 dulgent attempts  of  your  correspondent  C.  L.  to  correct 
 the  error  into  which  H.  T.  had  fallen,  I  cannot  but  be 
 surprised  at  such  a  declaration  as  this  from  H.  T.,  and 
 I  cannot  help  deeming  it  my  duty  to  declare,  that  I,  for 
 one,  hold  his  criticism  to  be  perfectly  inadmissible  and 
 unnecessary.  The  passage  exhibits  no  difficulty.  Ava- 
 rice^ says  the  Apostle,  is  the  root  of  all  evil,  but  it  does 
 not  follow  from  this  that  avarice  is  the  sole  root  of  all 
 the  evils.  So  idleness  may  be  said  to  be  the  root  of  all 
 evil,   or  bad  company,    or  neglected  education.      The 
 
135 
 
 plainest  understanding  can  comprehend  the  sense  in 
 which  these  expressions  are  used.  The  river  produced 
 all  kinds  of  Jislics,  but  it  did  not  produce  all  Jislies, 
 Avarice  is  the  mother  of  all  manner  of  evil,  but  it  does 
 not  follow  that  she  is  the  only  origin,  and  rise  of  all 
 evils.  To  prove  this,  I  refer  to  St.  Chrysostom,  who 
 often  employs  the  phrase  in  connection  with  different 
 causes.  I  remember  an  instance  very  much  in  point, 
 but  which  I  cannot  now  refer  to,  in  one  of  the  Homilies 
 on  the  Epistle  to  the  Philippians.  St.  Gregory  Nazi- 
 anzen,  if  it  were  lie,  who  wrote  the  tragedy  entituled, 
 6  XpioToj  Tradcot/,  alludes  to  this  passage,  in  the  following 
 manner 
 
 H  pi^U  'TTUVTCOV  TMV     KUHOOV    TtBI^UXS    TTCO^ 
 
 where,  as  there  had  been  no  such  enumeration  of  par- 
 ticulars preceding,  as  in  the  passage  of  St.  Paul,  your 
 correspondent's  criticism  must  entirely  fail. 
 
 I  cannot  dismiss  this  subject,  without  adverting  to  the 
 subject  of  your  correspondent's  Greek  criticism-  His 
 object  seems  to  have  been  to  prove,  that  the  expression, 
 
 TTUVTMV    TWV     JCUJCMV,     \s  CquivalcUt    to  TTOCVTOCV  TOVTCOV    KCiKMV. 
 
 The  authorities  which  he  adduces  are  miserably  irre- 
 levant. Your  correspondent  ought  to  have  known,  that 
 the  Ionics  constantly  use  the  article  for  the  pronoun- 
 relative;  the  Attics  more  rarel3\  He  ought  also  to 
 have  known  that  the  pronouns  this,  and  that,  are  not 
 relatives. 
 
 K  4 
 
136 
 
 Mr.  Editor, 
 
 The  well  known  passage  in  Josephus,  wherein 
 honourable  mention  is  made  of  our  blessed  Saviour, 
 has  occasioned  much  controversy  amongst  the  learned ; 
 and,  though  few  valid  objections  have  been  sub- 
 stantiated against  it,  great  and  pious  defenders  of 
 Christian  faith  have  waved  this  evidence,  rather  than  be 
 supposed  to  insist  on  doubtful  or  disputed  ground.  The 
 positive  testimonies  to  the  verity  of  Christianity  are  so 
 abundant,  that  we  need  not  call  in  the  assistance  of 
 those  which  are  in  anywise  ambiguous. 
 
 Yet,  however  willing  we  may  be  to  dechne  the 
 adduction  of  proofs  like  this,  in  establishing  the  basis 
 of  Christian  truth,  it  may  not  be  unprofitable  to  fix 
 our  own  ideas  with  regard  to  them ;  and,  if  we  cannot 
 use  them  as  a  weapon  against  the  adversary,  apply  them 
 as  a  defence  and  support  to  ourselves.  In  settling  the 
 point  in  question,  external  evidence  has  failed.  The 
 greater  part  of  the  manuscripts  have  the  passage,  and 
 some  want  it,  though  these  latter  are  neither  formidable 
 for  their  number  nor  antiquity.  Let  us,  therefore,  leave 
 this  disputed  field,  and  try  what  internal  evidence  there 
 is  that  the  passage  is  genuine. 
 
 In  the  first  place,  I  would  ask  whether  it  is  probable 
 that  so  accurate  and  minute  an  historian  as  Josephus 
 would  pass  over  in  silence  so  important  an  event  as  the 
 
137 
 
 death  of  Jesus  Christ,  and  the  establishment  of  a  sect 
 which  had  run  with  amazing  celerity  over  the  cities  of 
 Syria,  Asia  Minor,  Greece,  and  Italy,  and  had  attracted 
 universal  attention  by  the  novelty  of  its  doctrines,  and 
 the  persecutions  of  its  followers?  In  the  next  place, 
 I  would  examine  the  passage  itself,  and  consider 
 whether  the  sentiments  are  such  as  Joseph  us  could 
 consistently  avow.     The  passage  runs  thus. 
 
 "  About  the  same  time  lived  Jesus,  a  wise  man,  if, 
 indeed,  we  may  call  him  a  man ;  for  he  was  the  doer  of 
 wonderful  works,  a  teacher  of  such  as  receive  the 
 truth  with  pleasure,  and  he  led  after  him  many  of  the 
 Jews,  and  many  of  the  Gentiles.  He  was  the  Christ. 
 And  after  Pilate  had  caused  him  to  be  crucified  upon 
 the  accusation  of  the  chief  men  amongst  us,  they  who 
 had  before  loved  him  did  not  cease  from  their  affection, 
 for  he  appeared  to  them  on  the  third  day,  being  restored 
 to  life ;  the  holy  Prophets  having  foretold  this,  and  a 
 thousand  other  wonderful  things  concerning  him.  The 
 sect  of  Christians,  called  from  him,  still  remains." 
 
 My  next  question  then  is,  whether  it  be  probable  that 
 Josephus,  a  Jew,  well  versed  in  the  Prophetic  writings, 
 and  who  cannot  be  imagined  ignorant  of  the  importance 
 of  the  Messiah's  mission,  would  or  could  so  cooll}'  say, 
 "  Koii  ovTo$  Yjv  6 ^pia-Tos,^^  "  and  this  was  the  Christ?" 
 I  think,  few  will  hesitate  to  answer  these  questions 
 in  the  negative.  I  think,  most  will  agree  that 
 Josephus  could  not  have  [passed  over  in  silence  the 
 death    of  Jesus    Christ,     and  the  origin  of   a   sect  so 
 
138 
 
 hostile  to  the  Jewish  institutions,  and  which  had  excited 
 such  commotions  over  all  Europe,  and  Asia,  wherever 
 the  Greek  language  was  received.  Certainly  he  would 
 have  said  something,  but  we  cannot  imagine  he  would 
 have  said,  "  and  this  was  the  Christ  /'  since  that  would 
 have  implied  a  direct  contradiction  of  his  religious  pro- 
 fession, and  an  acknowledgement  that  the  Messiah,  of 
 whose  divine  nature  and  kingdom  he,  as  a  Jew, 
 entertained  the  most  enlarged  notions,  had  been  amongst 
 them  a  despised  and  persecuted  man ;  had  been  put  to 
 death  without  effecting  any  of  the  great  temporal 
 revolutions  they  were  taught  to  expect  from  him  ;  and, 
 lastly,  that,  as  he  had  lived  despised  and  rejected  by  his 
 countrymen,  so  were  his  doctrines  and  precepts  even 
 then  despised  and  rejected  by  himself. 
 
 In  order  to  clear  up  these  contradictory  presumptions, 
 it  will  be  fair  to  apply  a  rule  of  criticism  universally 
 acknowledged  amongst  those  who  employ  themselves  in 
 the  elucidation  of  obscure  passages  in  the  ancient  writers; 
 namely,  that  the  notes  and  glosses  of  commentators, 
 which  were  commonly  written  in  the  margin  of  manu- 
 scripts, have  frequently,  in  the  course  of  repeated 
 transcription,  crept  into  the  text.  Admitting  this,  we  may 
 easily  resolve  the  difficulty.  Let  us  suppose  that  some 
 early  Jewish  convert,  gratified  by  the  testimony  of  an 
 elegant  writer,  who  was  himself  inimical  to  the  cause ; 
 let  us  suppose,  that  he  added,  as  a  marginal  note, 
 h  xpK^T^os  oJ^To^  ^h  "  ^^  ^t'«^  ^^^^  Christ.''  Any  Christian 
 transcriber  might  make  this  notCj  and  some  siihsequent 
 
ia9 
 
 transcriber  might,  by  accident  or  design,  incorporate  it 
 with  the  text.  The  words  stand  quite  insulated,  and 
 the  connection  of  the  preceding  and  following  clauses 
 does  not  require  them. 
 
 If  we  allow  this  reasoning  to  be  satisfactory,  the  pre- 
 sumption will  be  strongly  in  favour  of  the  passage,  nor 
 will  its  effect,  as  a  corroborating  testimony  to  the  truth  of 
 Gospel  history,  be  at  all  weakened.  Joseph  us  was  a 
 candid  and  polite  writer,  addressing  himself  to  Romans, 
 and  anxious  to  adduce  every  thing  which  could  aggran- 
 dize and  distinguish  his  country.  The  miracles  wrought 
 of  Christ,  his  resurrection,  and  the  fulfilment  of  the 
 prophecies  concerning  him,  were  well  adapted  to  this 
 end ;  and  it  is  probable  that  Josephus,  writing  not  to  his 
 own  countrymen,  but  to  Romans,  might  mention  these 
 wonders  upon  the  credit  of  his  followers,  although  he 
 might  not  himself  believe  them.     *     *     « 
 
110 
 
 Mr.  Editor, 
 
 I  DARE  say  you  will  coincide  with  me  in  thinking 
 that  enquiries  into  the  causes  and  first  springs  of  existing 
 evils  is  always  salutary;  and  particularly  so  in  the 
 Christian  world,  where  we  may  expect  to  find  such  a 
 rectitude  of  mind  as  will  render  it  sufficient  to  point  out 
 the  sources  of  evil,  in  order  to  its  discontinuance  or 
 prevention. 
 
 I  live,  sir,  in  a  parish  where  the  peculiar  doctrines  of 
 the  Gospel  are  preached  with  faithfulness  by  a  pious 
 and  conscientious  minister,  yet  without  any  visible  im- 
 pression or  effect.  Great  general  depravity  is  observable 
 in  the  majority  of  the  parishioners,  together  with  an 
 utter  disregard  for  religion;  the  church  is  thinly  and 
 negligently  attended;  and  the  want  of  decorum  occa- 
 sionally observable  in  the  younger  branches  of  those 
 families  who  do  attend  it,  indicates  the  little  reverence 
 in  which  divine  things  are  held  by  their  parents.  As  to 
 the  fruits  of  his  preaching,  I  believe  our  pious  pastor 
 has  the  grief  to  observe  little  or  none.  His  influence 
 even  seems  unequal  to  the  checking  of  glaring  breaches 
 of  decency,  and  it  is  plain  that  he  is  disregarded  and 
 despised  by  a  large  proportion  of  his  flock. 
 
 I  mention  these  points,  Mr.  Editor,  in  order  that 
 you  may  be  enabled  to  judge  what  is  the  condition  of 
 
141 
 
 our  parisli ;  but  there  are  other  points  which  render  its 
 situation  pecuhar.  You  must  know,  sir,  that  we  have 
 been  blessed  here,  for  a  long  term  of  years,  with  a 
 series  of  good  men  who  have  preached  the  word  with 
 zeal,  and,  until  of  late,  with  effect.  Now,  sir,  when 
 the  evils  I  have  been  speaking  of  are  brought  into  dis- 
 cussion, it  has  been  asserted  that  these  effects  are 
 always  observable  in  places  where  the  Gospel  has  been 
 long  preached.  Our  minister  himself,  as  I  am  told, 
 joins  in  this  opinion ;  and,  satisfied  that  it  is  in  the  order 
 of  things  that  it  should  be  so,  he  leaves  the  matter  with 
 God.  This  position  has  been  so  often  advanced,  and, 
 on  the  credit  of  appearances,  so  generally  received,  that 
 I  have  found  it  vain  to  argue  against  it,  and  the  only 
 answer  I  have  been  able  to  gain  is,  that  "it  is  fine 
 talking,  but  there  is  no  reasoning  against  experience." 
 I  confess,  however,  that  I  am  still  incredulous  on  this 
 point,  and,  from  the  little  examination  I  have  had  it  in 
 my  power  to  make,  I  think      *         *         *         *         * 
 
14^ 
 
 Mr.  Editor, 
 
 I  DO  verily  believe  that  the  nick-names  of  controver- 
 sial disputants  have  clone  as  much  harm  as  the  most 
 delusive  of  their  theories.  —  If  I  believe  in  salvation  by 
 free  elective  grace,  without  any  operation  on  the  part 
 of  man,  why  am  I  to  be  branded  with  the  name  of 
 Calvinist  F  or,  if  I  believe  that  man  hath  a  part  to  per- 
 form in  preparing  his  heart  for  the  reception  of  the 
 Holy  Spirit,  can  I  not  hold  this  without  being  saluted 
 on  all  hands  with  the  epithet  Arminian  P  I  am  a  Chris- 
 tian, a  disciple  of  the  Lord  Jesus,  and  I  know  of  no 
 other  leader,  either  supreme  or  subordinate,  but  Him, 
 I  am  no  follower  of  John  Calvin ;  I  am  no  follower  of 
 Arminius.  I  found  my  doctrine  in  the  Bible,  and  I 
 trust  they  found  their's  there  also ;  but  I  am  as  much 
 indebted  to  them  for  my  ideas  of  the  process  of  salvation 
 as  they  are  to  me,  and  no  more. 
 
 Again,  sir,  I  am  a  Christian,  and  I  trust  in  God 
 that  I  am  a  true  Christian :  what  then  does  a  man  mean 
 when  he  asks  me  whether  I  am  of  the  Laxv  or  of  the 
 Gospel  —  whether  I  am  legal  or  evangelical  P  If  I  be  a 
 Christian,  I  am  an  humble  believer  of  the  glad  tidings 
 of  salvation  contained  in  the  New  Testament ;  and  to 
 ask  me  whether  I  am  a  believer  in  the  Gospel,  is  to  ask 
 
143 
 
 whether  I  am  a  Christian.  But  say  some,  there  are 
 persons  in  the  churches  of  the  Lord  Jesus  who  dispute 
 these  leading  and  essential  points,  and  believe  that  a 
 man  is  saved  by  the  measure  of  his  works,  —  persons 
 who  discredit  the  sanctifying  influences  of  the  spirit 
 from  above.  How,  then,  are  we  to  distinguish  between 
 the  false  and  the  faithful,  except  by  these  appellations  ? 
 To  this,  I  answer,  that  the  man  who,  in  reality,  thinks 
 he  can  go  about  the  salvation  of  mankind  without  the 
 intervention  of  the  Redeemer  is  no  Christian.  The 
 term  Mahommedan  is  no  nick-name  for  a  follower  of 
 Mahommed,  or  Je'm  for  an  Israelite.  We  ought  to  be 
 carefully  exact  in  the  application  of  names.  It  is  a  mat- 
 ter of  some  importance,  and  we  must  not  let  a  spirit  of 
 dangerous  moderation  so  far  influence  us  as  to  set  us 
 about  seeking  a  new  epithet  for  true  Christians,  in  order 
 that  a  part  of  mankind  may  not  be  deprived  of  an 
 appellation  to  which  they  have  no  right. 
 
 You  may  think,  Mr.  Editor,  that  I  betray  an  unbe- 
 coming asperity  in  these  remarks ;  permit  me  to  assure 
 you  that  I  feel  none;  —  but  I  have  observed  among 
 some  persons,  an  attachment  to  names  in  the  church  of 
 Christ,  which  bodes  no  good  to  its  interests.  I  begin 
 to  fear  lest  religion  should  be  brought  to  consist  in  names 
 alone,  and  lest  the  too  frequent  use  of  doctrinal  terms 
 should  degenerate  into  a  mere  repetition  of  words  with- 
 out meaning  or  effect. 
 
 From  the  answers  to  correspondents  in  your  last 
 number,  I  find  a  writer,  whose  signature  is  Theodosius, 
 
144 
 
 disapproves  of  the  biographical  sketches  which  have 
 recently  ajipeared  in  your  work,  as  iincmngeUcal.  Per- 
 mit me  to  rem^ark,  Mr.  Editor,  that  every  thing  which 
 tends  to  the  establishment  of  virtue  and  morality,  and 
 whatever  discountenances  vice  upon  proper  grounds,  is 
 evano-elical.  You  yourself  allow,  in  your  notice  of  this 
 correspondent,  that  "  in  some  of  the  sketches  less  is 
 said  than  might  have  been  wished,  respecting  some 
 very  essential  doctrines  of  Christianity."  I  need 
 scarcely  lemark  that  Christianity  does  not  consist  in 
 doctrines  ;  or  that  a  man  may  be  a  very  good  Christian 
 who  has  very  little  notion  of  these  doctrines,  as  a  sys- 
 tem, or  plan  of  human  salvation.  There  are,  I  believe, 
 many  now  living,  and  in  former  times,  for  obvious  rea- 
 sons, there  have  been  many  more,  who  have  felt  a 
 fervent  and  lively  faith  in  the  Lord  Jesus ;  who  have 
 deplored  that  proneness  to  sin  which  is  incidental  to 
 our  fallen  and  depraved  natures;  who  have  sincerely 
 prayed  to  God  for  that  spiritual  assistance,  without 
 which  they  were  conscious  they  must  fall  into  all  man- 
 ner of  sin ;  and  who,  finally  have  walked  in  humble  con- 
 fidence with  the  Lord  their  God  all  the  days  of  their 
 lives,  without  ever  hearing  the  word  evangelical^  or  of 
 any  compendious  arrangement  of  the  Gospel  system, 
 such  as,  in  these  times,  is  considered  as  the  Shibbolelk 
 of  the  faithful. 
 
 The  doctrinal  part  of  the   Gospel  is   much  too  ex- 
 clusively insisted  upon  by  zealous  ministers,  and  zealous 
 writers.     Christian  preachers  should,  for  the  most  part, 
 1* 
 
145 
 
 take  these  doctrines  as  the  data^  or  given  foundations  of 
 their  discourses,  and  while  they  pay  more  particular 
 attention  to  the  elucidation  of  the  practical  part  of  our 
 duties,  and  the  enforcement  of  the  moral  rules  laid  down 
 by  the  Lord  Jesus  and  his  disciples,  they  will  do  more 
 good,  by  allusions  to  the  sole  spring  of  all  human  virtue 
 in  the  Grace  of  God,  and  the  means  of  attaining  that 
 grace  through  faith,  than  if  they  had  made  these  things 
 the  leading  topics  of  their  sermons.  If  a  congregation 
 be  constantly  taught  to  look  to  God  for  ability  to  per- 
 form their  respective  duties,  and  meet  their  several  trials, 
 and  that  too  through  faith  in  the  blessed  author  of  our 
 salvation,  they  will  be  insensibly  led  to  doubt  their  own 
 strength,  to  lament  their  own  weakness,  and  to  pray 
 earnestly  to  God  to  aid  and  assist  them  for  Jesus  Christ's 
 sake.  We  all  know  to  what  such  dispositions  as  these 
 are  the  prelude,  and  we  have  reason  to  believe  that  a 
 conversion  of  mind  from  the  world  to  God,  wrought  in 
 this  manner,  will  be  more  stiable  than  any  effect  of  sud- 
 den impressions,  or  supernatural  agitations  of  the  grosser 
 part  of  our  natures.  Let  any  man  observe  the  propor- 
 tion which  the  doctrinal  bears  to  the  practical  part  of 
 the  Scriptures,  and  then  decide  as  to  the  propriety  of 
 these  observations. 
 
 Besides,  there  are  other  advantages  attending  this  mode 
 of  preaching  and  writing,  which,  though  inferior,  are  not 
 altogether  trifling.  The  great  features  of  the  system  of 
 salvation  contained  in  the  New  Testament,  by  being  less 
 argued,  will,   in   process   of  time,  come   to  be  less  dis- 
 
 VOL.   in.  L 
 
146 
 
 puted.  All  logicians  are  aware  of  the  evils  which  result 
 from  attempting  to  prove  acknowledged  truths,  and  the 
 unwary  hearer  is  sometimes  led  to  imagine,  that  what 
 is  so  often  and  laboriously  defended  must  stand  in 
 need  of  defence.  Few  are  able  to  comprehend  a  train 
 of  intricate  reasoning,  but  all  can  understand  tliat  there 
 must  be  great  need  of  vindication,  where  vindication  is 
 so  frequently  attempted.  By  this  means,  also,  another 
 evil  will  be  obviated,  a  great  source  of  spiritual  pride 
 will  be  stopped.  Congregations  will  see  more  of  the 
 true  spirit  of  Christianity,  and  of  the  extent  of  their 
 duties,  and  will  here  have  proper  encouragement  to  the 
 performance  of  them,  at  the  same  time  that  there  will 
 not  be  so  great  an  opportunity  of  attaining  a  superficial 
 knowledge  of  generals,  with  which  we  often  see  Chris- 
 tians puffed  up,  to  the  exclusion  of  better  things.  They 
 will  learn,  under  circumstances  like  these,  to  think  more 
 and  talk  less,  and  they  will  not  be  quite  so  prone  to 
 make  comparisons  favourable  to  themselves,  with  people 
 who  may  be  less  enlightened.  The  Christian  virtues  of 
 humility,  love,  and  charity,  will,  it  may  fairly  be  expected, 
 be  more  attended  to,  because  they  will  be  more  insisted 
 upon  ;  and  so  long  as  an  assembly  of  Christians  maintain 
 these  cardinal  virtues  unsullied  amongst  them,  who  will 
 doubt  that  they  are  under  the  guidance  of  the  spirit 
 from  above  ? 
 
 I  have  extended  these  remarks,  Mr.  Editor,  to  a 
 greater  length  than  I  at  first  intended.  If  you  think 
 they  are  likely  to  be  useful,  I  shall  be  glad  to  see  them 
 
147 
 
 printed.  The  subjects  are  undoubtedly  of  importance, 
 and  I  should  be  happy  to  see  them  undertaken  by  an 
 abler  hand.  For  the  present,  I  feel  satisfaction  at  having 
 brought  them  forward  for  public  discussion,  and  if  I 
 have  pressed  them  with  earnestness,  I  hope  it  will  be 
 construed  not  into  the  acrimony  of  controversy,  but 
 zeal  for  the  cause  of  the  great,  Captain  of  our  Salvation, 
 and  for  the  welfare  of  my  Christian  Brethren. 
 
 L  2 
 
148 
 
 Mr.  Editor, 
 
 It  lias  been  remarked,  that  infidelity  and  contempt 
 for  religion  have,  in  all  ages,  kept  pace  with  the  im- 
 provements of  science.  The  remark  is,  perhaps,  rather 
 too  general,  and  the  inferences,  which  are  commonly 
 drawn  from  it,  by  unbelievers  on  the  one  hand,  and  by 
 Christians  on  the  other,  are  alike  mischievous  and  un- 
 sound. It  is  not,  that,  increasing  in  intelligence,  as  we 
 improve  in  science,  we  pierce  through  the  mists  of 
 superstition,  and  thus  liberate  ourselves  from  the  tram- 
 mels of  education  and  early  prejudice  ;  but  rather,  that 
 our  minds  become  bewildered,  as  the  scene  extends 
 before  them,  and  thus  draw  conclusions  which  savour 
 more  of  their  first  narrowness  and  prejudice,  than  of 
 their  present  state  of  improvement.  It  is  not,  on  the 
 other  hand,  that  God  disapproves  of  the  enquiries  of 
 philosophy,  and  visits  the  presumption  of  those  who 
 would  penetrate  into  its  recesses,  with  a  blindness  where 
 it  most  concerns  them  to  see ;  but  rather  that  we  stop 
 short  in  our  investigations,  rest  with  too  much  con- 
 fidence on  deductions  hastily  formed,  and  slightly  exa- 
 mined, and  are  thus  plunged  into  the  depth  of  error, 
 by  knowing,  not  too  mucli^  but  too  little. 
 
 True  philosophy,  which   is   the  result  of   calm  and 
 patient  investigation,   s\\v  })roduc(^  of  a  mind  expanding 
 
149 
 
 as  its  views  are  extended,  and  accurately  ac(jiiainted  with 
 its  own  powers  and  dependencies,  will  very  rarely  stop 
 short  of  a  belief  in  the  Christian  Religion.  We  have 
 many  vouchers  to  the  truth  of  this  remark.  No  human 
 beinjr  ever  saw  farther  into  the  secrets  of  nature  than 
 Sir  Isaac  Newton,  nor  has  the  world  seen  many  more 
 indefatigable  philosophers  than  Boyle,  Bacon,  Tycho 
 Brahe,  and  Boerhaave:  for  various  and  profound 
 learning.  Sir  William  Jones  may  rank  with  the  first 
 scholars  of  any  age ;  as  for  clearness  and  profundity  of 
 thought.  Monsieur  Pascal  can  have  few  equals.  Yet 
 all  these  men  found  their  enquiries  terminate  in  a 
 thorough  conviction  of  the  truth  of  Christianity.  These 
 were  all  Laymeii,  and  several  of  them,  in  the  earlier 
 parts  of  their  lives,  had  many  doubts  upon  the  subject  of 
 Religion.  But  they  were  then  only  in  the  vestibule  of 
 the  temple  of  science;  when  they  had  reached  its 
 innermost  recesses,  they  found  all  their  doubts  disap- 
 pear in  the  light  of  full  conviction. 
 
 Philosophy  introduces  us  into  a  new  world,  i»he 
 unveils  the  mysteries  of  creation,  and  continually 
 expands  the  field  of  vision,  and  multiplies  the  objects 
 of  our  contemplation,  till  we  sink  under  a  sense  of  our 
 own  insignificance,  and  of  our  infinite  unimportance  in 
 the  scale  of  created  beings.  Philosophy,  therefore,  does 
 well,  inasmuch  as  she  humbles  us;  but  if,  to  these 
 expanded  views  of  the  Majesty  of  the  Almighty,  as 
 displayed  in  his  works,  we  bring  those  imperfect 
 auii    contracted  apprehensions  of  his  other  attributes, 
 
 L  3 
 
150 
 
 which  so  commonly  prevail  among  the  ignorant  and 
 unenlightened,  then  these  discoveries  of  the  Majesty  of 
 God  will  only  tend  to  bewilder  and  mislead  us. 
 
 It  is  thus  that  many  unhappy  men  have  been  seduced 
 into  infidelity,  by  reasonings,  apparently  founded  on 
 mathematical  research,  but  which  have  been,  in  reality, 
 nothing  more  than  the  deductions  of  a  confined  under- 
 standing, bewildered  with  a  little  learning,  and  swelled 
 with  the  pride  of  imaginary  erudition. 
 
 It  is  thus  that  we  reason,  when,  in  the  moments  of 
 retirement  and  meditation,  we  cast  our  eyes  on  the 
 glorious  firmament  of  the  Heavens,  clothed  in  all  the 
 brilliancy  of  a  star-light  evening:  we  consider,  that 
 every  litde  sparkle  which  we  behold,  is  either  a  world 
 like  our  own,  or,  what  is  still  more  astonishing,  a  sun, 
 round  which  some  other  mighty  sisterhood  of  planets 
 hold  their  everlasting  courses.  We  call  to  mind,  that 
 the  telescope  reveals  to  us  innumerable  other  stars, 
 other  planets,  and  other  suns,  which  are  too  distant  to 
 be  seen  by  the  naked  eye,  and  that  the  more  perfect  our 
 glasses,  and  the  more  extended  our  vision,  the  greater 
 is  the  number  of  worlds  which  seem  to  surround  us. 
 Every  step  we  make  into  the  remote  fields  of  ether, 
 discovers  to  us  some  new  stratum  of  stars ;  and  when, 
 stretching  our  imaginations  beyond  the  ken  of  our 
 corporeal  vision,  we  contemplate  the  realms  of  space, 
 and  pursue  the  analogy  we  have  thus  discovered  to  its 
 fullest  extent,  we  are  led  to  conclude,  that  their  number 
 is,  indeed,  immeasurable;  as  immeasurable  as  the  iiekb 
 
151 
 
 of   space  which   they  diversify,   and  which  are  to   be 
 comprehended  alone,  by  the  eternal  mind.     When  we 
 have  enlarged  our  conceptions  to  the  uttermost,  and 
 swelled  out  our  thoughts,  until  they  appear  to  embrace 
 the  whole  universe,  we  still  ask,  what  is  there  beyond 
 that?  we  are  still  unable  to  assign  the  limits  of  space, 
 or  to  determine  where  extension  shall  cease  to  be.     Yet 
 the   same    analogy,    which   has   hitherto    guided    our 
 reasonings,  would  lead  us  to  infer,  that  however  far  we 
 might  travel   into   infinite   space,    the  same   circlet  of 
 worlds  would  surround  us.     We  see  nothing  in  that 
 part  of  the  creation,  which  falls  under  our  observation, 
 without  its  use,  nor  can  we  conceive  that  there  is  any 
 portion    of   the     Universe     unappropriated    to    some 
 distinct  purpose  of  the  Almighty  Framer.    The  number 
 of  worlds  is,  therefore,  most  probably,  as  infinite  as  are 
 the  fields  of  space.     If  every  grain  of  sand  which  com- 
 poses our  globe  were   itself    an  Earth,    their  number 
 would,  probably,  bear  no  more  proportion  to  the  x<ohole 
 mass  of  ^worlds,  than  any  Jinite  magnitude  does  to  an 
 infinite.     And    that   these  innumerable  worlds  are  all 
 inhabited  by   beings    like    ourselves,    is    a   conclusion 
 which    reason    and    analogy  alike  confirm.      A  more 
 awful  and   humiliating  consideration  than   this  cannot 
 be  presented  to  the  human  mind.     We  all  immediately 
 exclaim,  "  What  are  we  ?  What  is  the  globe  we  inhabit  ? 
 what  even  is  the   system  of  which  it  forms  a   part  ?" 
 The  humble  and  pious  mind  is  filled  with  gratitude  to 
 God  at  the  consideration,  and  \vonders,    with   David, 
 
 L  4 
 
152 
 
 how  the  Governor  and  Creator  of  so  stupendous  a 
 scene,  can  have  such  regard  for  "  man  the  son  of  man." 
 The  presumptuous  reasoner,  on  the  contrary,  the  slave 
 of  his  passions,  his  pride,  or  his  sensuaHty,  shields 
 himself  under  the  covert  of  his  own  insignificance. 
 *'  Surely,"  he  exclaims,  "  God  can  have  no  regard  to 
 the  actions  of  a  being  like  me,  who  am  infinitely  less, 
 in  comparison  with  the  universe,  than  a  grain  of  dust 
 is  to  the  whole  earth.  The  Divine  mind  is  engaged  in 
 loftier  speculations  than  the  blind  wanderings  of  a 
 worm  like  me.  I  may  live  as  1  please,  and  do  as  I 
 please,  without  the  animadversion  of  so  stupendous  a 
 being  as  the  great  God.  As  for  Religion  it  fades  into 
 insignificance,  it  appears  like  the  babblings  of  an  idiot, 
 after  such  an  insight  as  1  have  gotten  into  the  mystery 
 of  nature :  nor  can  I  ever  believe,  that  the  Son  of  God 
 died  for  the  inhabitants  of  this  little  world,  when  it 
 might  have  been  annihilated  without  making  any  blank 
 in  the  system  of  the  universe,  or  being  missed  among 
 the  innumerable  orbs  with  which  it  is  encompassed." 
 
 Such  are  the  reasonings  of  proud  and  ignorant  men, 
 when  slightly  tinctured  with  philosophy.  I  will  now 
 endeavour  to  show  the  folly  of  such  conclusions,  and 
 to  prove  that  these  considerations,  instead  of  inducing 
 us  to  hope  for  impunity  on  account  of  our  insignificance, 
 ought  to  convince  us  of  the  awful  importance  of  the 
 soul  of  man. 
 
Oo 
 
 Addressed  to  tlie  Members  of  a  Society  for  visiting  and  relieving  the  Sick 
 Poor  ;  and  of  which  Henry  was  a  very  active  Member. 
 
 The  difference  which  has  lately  taken  place  between 
 certain  members  of  the  "  Sick  visiting  Society!'  has  oc- 
 casioned much  pain  to  the  pious  members  of  the  Church 
 of  England ;  who,  without  being  actively  engaged  in 
 that  Society's  affairs,  are  still  anxious  for  its  prosperity, 
 and  for  the  interests  of  religion  in  general. 
 
 They  anticipate  consequences  from  this  dispute,  more 
 important  than  the  disunion  of  a  charitable  body,  or  the 
 diversion  of  the  streams  of  public  benevolence :  —  they 
 anticipate  those  feuds  and  intestine  divisions,  against 
 which  our  Saviour  has  solemnly  cautioned  us,  and  which, 
 as  they  are  pernicious  to  houses  and  nations  in  general, 
 so  are  they  ruinous  to  the  house  and  people  of  Christ  in 
 particular. 
 
 Under  these  circumstances,  it  becomes  a  matter  of 
 serious  importance  to  enquire,  whether  the  existing 
 differences  be,  or  be  not  such,  as  a  trifling  mutual  con- 
 cession will  entirely  remove ;  and  if  these  differences  be 
 such,  and  if  the  concessions  to  be  made  by  each  party 
 be  so  trifling,  that  no  scrupulosity  can  take  offence  at 
 them,  surely,  then,  little  exhortation  will  be  wanting  to 
 re-instate  the  harmony  of  tliis  religious  society,  and  heal 
 the  ugly  wound,  which,  while  it  appears  to  extend  no 
 
154 
 
 farther  than  a  few  individuals,  does,  in  fact,  reach  the 
 very  vitals  of  religion  itself. 
 
 The  original  ground  of  cbmplaint  against  the  late 
 visitors  of  the  society,  seems  to  be,  that,  setting  aside  the 
 form  appointed  by  the  church  for  the  visitation  of  the 
 sick,  they  have  made  use  of  extemporaneous  prayers.  In 
 this  practice,  it  seems,  they  were  not  sanctioned  by  the 
 rules  of  the  society.  These  rules  restricted  the  visitors  to 
 Dr.  Stonehouse's  prayers,  along  with  his  directions  for 
 supplying  the  deficiencies,  which  must  be  found  in  every 
 pre-composed  form  when  applied  to  particular  cases. 
 If  the  visitors  have  presumed  so  far  as  to  neglect  these 
 restrictions  altogether,  and  without  being  guided  by  the 
 form  of  our  church,  or  the  directions  of  Dr.  Stonehouse, 
 have  trusted  wholly  to  their  own  resources,  they  have 
 undoubtedly  been  guilty  of  imprudence,  and  are  liable  to 
 just  reprehension,  for  having  violated  a  rule  which  had 
 their  previous  assent.  Such  a  misconduct,  on  the  part  of 
 the  visitors,  called  for  the  animadversions  of  the  Com- 
 mittee ;  and  it  may  be  supposed,  that  no  visitor  would  be 
 displeased  with  animadversions  so  just,  or  would  again 
 violate  so  explicit  a  law.  But  the  misconduct  of  the 
 visitors  in  this  respect  does  not  seem  to  afford  any 
 colour  for  the  rescinding  the  original  regulation,  and 
 substituting  another,  confining  them  solely  to  the  ordi- 
 nance of  our  church.  If  the  public  were  contented  with 
 the  regulation  as  it  originally  stood,  and  are  only  dis- 
 pleased with  its  infraction,  the  correction  of  the  abuse  is 
 all  the  public  can  expect  or  desire;  and  it  is  difficult  to 
 
155 
 
 see  how  their  confidence  will  be  restored  by  the  esta- 
 blishment of  a  rule,  which,  as  it  is  stricter,  is  more  liable 
 to  infraction  than  the  former. 
 
 The  form  of  prayer  appointed  by  our  church  for  the 
 visitation  of  the  sick,  is  truly  excellent ;   but  it  never 
 could  enter  into  the  minds  of  the  framers  of  it,  that  it 
 would  so  far  answer  every  emergency,  and  adapt  itself  to 
 every  case,  as  to  render  all  addition  superfluous  and  im- 
 pertinent.    The  very  service  itself  proves  this;  for  it 
 presumes  the  sick  person  to  be  a  member  of  the  Church 
 of  Christ,  and  in  the  last  prayer,  it  presumes  him  to  be 
 a  penitent;  and  as  many  sick  persons  are  neither  oi these ^ 
 the  form  cannot  be  adapted  to  all  cases ;  and,  therefore, 
 to  confine  the  visitor  to  this  one  form,  t^ill  be  to  ordain, 
 that  they  should  pray  for  one  description  of  persons 
 only;  and  that  as  to  the  hardened  and  reprobate,  and 
 those  who   most  need  the  prayers  of  the  pious,  they 
 should  either  not  pray  by  them  at  all,  or  pray  lyy  them, 
 without  praying  for  them.     The   form  of  our  church, 
 therefore,  is  not  of  universal  application;  and  it  seems 
 most  certain,  that  it  entered  not  into  the  contemplation 
 of  the  framers  to  provide  for  every  case.     I  believe  the 
 practice  of  the  most  orthodox  divines  from  the  period  of 
 the  Reformation  confirms  this  opinion ;  and  if  we  advert 
 to  the  earlier  ages  of  Christianity,  it  is  very  manifest^ 
 not  only  from   Tertullian,  but  from   St.  Cyprian,   that 
 prayers  adapted  to  particular  cases  were  in  use  in  social 
 worship,  and  were  highly  approved  by  the  bishops,  at 
 a  period  when  the  church  did  not  want  ils  eblablished 
 
156 
 
 and  sanctioned  forms.  A  zeal  for  every  branch  of  our 
 established  ordinances  is  certainly  laudable,  and  ought  to 
 be  cherished ;  but  we  must  not  permit  that  zeal  to  carry 
 us  into  such  an  attachment  to  them,  as  to  exalt  them  out 
 of  their  proper  sphere,  and  make  them  objects  of  super- 
 stitious observance,  rather  than  of  rational  esteem.  But 
 dismissing  all  argument,  one  circumstance  alone  ought 
 to  prevent  too  tenacious  an  adherence  to  this  forms  of 
 prayer  employed  by  our  church  in  the  visitation  of  the 
 sick ;  namely,  that,  in  the  present  instance,  they  are  no 
 more  sanctioned  to  their  use,  than  any  other  Jbr?ns  which 
 contain  nothing  contrary  to  the  truth,  since  the  whole 
 service  is  a  ministerial  service,  and  is  no  more  calculated 
 lor  private  use  amongst  laymen  than  is  the  service  of 
 matrimony.  To  enjoin,  therefore,  the  sole  use  of  these 
 church  forms,  would  be  to  enjoin  a  thing  in  itself  im- 
 proper as  well  as  unprofitable ;  every  churchman  will 
 delight  to  use  them,  when  they  appear  fitted  for  the 
 occasion  ;  and,  surely,  no  Christian  would,  out  of  blind 
 regard  to  a  particular  system,  wish  them  to  be  used 
 where  they  do  not  appear  so  adapted.  The  question, 
 therefore,  now  seems  to  be,  whether  forms  of  prayer, 
 and  that,  too,  such  as  have  been  approved  by  the  Com- 
 mittee, should  be  alone  permitted  to  be  used  by  the 
 visitors.  And  here,  I  hope,  that  after  a  little  conviction 
 all  parties  will  coincide.  We  have  seen,  in  numerous 
 instances,  the  wildness  and  extravagance  which  have 
 arisen  from  the  habit  of  extemporaneous  prayer ;  and,  as 
 churchmen,  we  see  daily  the  admirable  ellects  of  a  pre- 
 
 I 
 
157 
 
 composed  form.  To  say  that  a  Christian  feels  more 
 warmth  of  affection,  and  fervour  of  spirit,  while  lie 
 pours  forth  his  unpremeditated  petition  in  unpremedi- 
 tated words,  than  when  he  merely  runs  over  a  form 
 of  words,  which  may  not  be  in  exact  unison  with  his 
 feelings,  is  no  conclusive  argument  in  favour  of  extem- 
 poraneous effusions.  A  man  may  offer  up  his  peti- 
 tions with  great  warmth  of  feeling,  when  he  is  not 
 necessarily  more  spiritual  and  devout.  There  is  animal 
 feeling  as  well  as  spiritual,  and  the  one  may  very  easily 
 be  mistaken  for  the  other.  An  orator,  or  a  poet,  reciting 
 his  own  compositions,  may  feel  a  similar  flame  kindling 
 in  his  bosom. 
 
158 
 
 ON  THE  DIGNITY  OF  THE  PULPIT. 
 
 The  dignity  of  the  pulpit  cannot  be  too  energetically 
 enforced  upon  ministers,  and  those  destined  for  the 
 holy  office.  The  lamentable  effects  which  we  daily  ob- 
 serve to  ensue  from  the  prostitution  of  this  dignity,  are 
 a  sufficient  proof  that  it  is  highly  displeasing  in  the  eyes 
 of  God,  and  deleterious  to  the  true  interests  of  religion. 
 It  is  to  the  defection  of  this  dignity  that  I  attribute  a 
 great  portion  of  the  undisguised  contempt,  and  profane 
 ridicule,  with  which  the  profession  of  the  gospel  of 
 Jesus  Christ  is  now  so  universally  treated.  Truth  in 
 her  native  garb  mil  command  respect ;  but  when  she  is 
 either  tricked  out  in  vulgar  ornaments,  or  concealed 
 beneath  the  coarse  habiliments  of  meanness  and  igno- 
 rance, it  is  not  to  be  wondered  at  that  she  be  received 
 by  the  world  with  derision  and  contumely. 
 
 A  preacher  ought  to  regard  himself,  in  scripture 
 phrase,  as  a  "  vessel  of  honour  set  apart  to  God ;"  as 
 a  mean  by  which  the  Almighty  Father  of  the  universe 
 makes  known  his  will  to  mankind,  and  directs  his  people 
 into  the  paths  of  truth  and  holiness.  He  ought,  there- 
 fore, to  take  heed  that  he  be  duly  qualified  by  learning, 
 and  a  chaste  and  correct  taste,  to  fill,  with  })ropriety, 
 the  sacred  function  to  which  he  has  been  called  by  the 
 Divine  Will.     I  say,  he  ought  to  beware,  with  all  pos- 
 
159 
 
 sible  anxiety,  lest,  by  any  negligence  or  carelessness  on 
 his  part,  lie  disgrace,  instead  of  honouring,  the  sacred 
 office,  and  tempt  the  God  before  whom  he  ministers 
 to  withdraw  from  him  that  countenance,  without  which 
 all  his  exertions  will  avail  nothing.  The  qualifications 
 of  human  learning  are  not  of  trivial  importance  to  a 
 priest. 
 
IGO 
 
 ON  OUR  ESTIMATE  OF  HAPPINESS. 
 
 The  estimates  which  we  make  of  human  Yi^e,  its 
 pleasures,  and  its  pains,  are  commonly  inaccurate. 
 That  which  seems  desirable  is  not  always  good,  nor  is 
 the  possession  of  the  objects  of  our  warmest  wishes 
 always  a  real  benefit.  This  is  true,  not  only  when  we 
 covet  the  means  of  animal  gratification,  and  pursue 
 objects  which  from  their  agreeableness,  and  the  delights 
 they  promise,  are  most  likely  to  blind  our  judgments 
 and  lull  our  vigilance;  but  even  in  instances  where 
 the  passions  seem  to  be  enlisted  on  the  side  of  the 
 virtues,  and  when  the  heart  pants  only  for  the  fair,  the 
 beautiful,  and  the  honourable. 
 
 The  most  ignorant  of  men  can  conceive  that  the 
 possession  of  learning,  wit,  and  genius  is  honourable 
 and  gratifying;  and  those  who  think  with  more  pre- 
 cision, reckon  the  pleasures  of  intellect  the  most  ex- 
 quisite, at  the  same  time  that  they  are  the  most  innocent, 
 and  the  farthest  removed  from  what  is  sensual  and  gross. 
 Yet  it  would  admit  of  much  controversy,  whether  the 
 happiness  of  mankind  has  been  increased  or  diminished 
 by  the  progress  of  science ;  and  still  more,  whether  the 
 gifts  of  genius,  and  the  acquirements  of  study,  confer 
 any  additional  happiness  on  liim  by  whom  they  are 
 possessed.     If  it  be  granted,  that  the  arts,  (which  are 
 
161 
 
 the  parents  of  science),  have  administered  much  to  the 
 comforts  and   enjoyments  of  life,    they   have   likewise 
 t^reated  wants,  of  which  we  were  before  ignorant,  and 
 have  fostered  luxury,  by  the  readiness  with  which  they 
 have  adapted  themselves  to  every  inconvenience.     If  the 
 increase  of  knowledge  has  opened  to  us  new  sources  of 
 gratification,    and    increased   our  stock    of    untainted 
 pleasures,  it  has  likewise  opened  our  eyes  to  the  miseries 
 of  our  station ;  given  us  a  keener  susceptibility  of  the 
 calamities  of  life,  and,  by  inducing  habits  of  continued 
 reflection,  has  exaggerated  our  sympathies,  and  stretched 
 out,  to  a  greater  extent,  those  fine  threads  of  social  and 
 relative  attachment,   which   are   continually   conveying 
 some  jarring  vibration  to  the  heart.     That  the  increase 
 of  knowledge  has  a  progressive  influence  on  our  feelings 
 and  sympathies,  is  manifest  from  the  history  of  nations,  as 
 well  as  from  that  of  mdividuals.  The  savage  in  the  rudest 
 state  of  humanity  has  few  sympathies  ;  his  cares  and  fears 
 extend  but  little  beyond  himself;  he  exposes  his  aged 
 parents   when    they   become   useless   to   him,   and   he 
 murders  the   infant   whose  deformity  disgusts  him,  or 
 whose  puny  appearance  gives  cause  to  apprehend  that 
 it  may  be  burthensome  to  him.     As  he  becomes  more 
 civilized,  the  relative  attachments  grow  stronger,  yet  still 
 not  so  strong  as  entirely  to  overcome  the  love  of  self. 
 Thus,  though  Niobe  weeps  herself  to  stone  over   the 
 bodies   of  her  dead  children,  yet   Medea    imbrues  her 
 hands  in  the  blood  of  her  infant  brother,  and  scatters 
 his  limbs  in  her  flight,  in  order  to  retard  the  pursuit  of 
 
 VOL.    III.  ^^ 
 
16s 
 
 her  father.  In  the  next  stage,  the  bonds  of  attachment 
 l>ecome  wider  than  those  of  blood.  Pylades  persists 
 in  bis  resolution  of  dying  with  Orestes,  in  spite  of  the 
 entreaties  and  remonstrances  of  his  friend ;  and  the 
 servants  of  the  younger  Cyrus,  at  a  period  of  barbaric 
 history,  which  may  answer  to  that  of  Pylades  and 
 Orestes  in  Grecian  annals,  enthusiastically  immolate 
 themselves  on  the  body  of  their  benevolent  master.  The 
 attachment  of  the  sexes  also  grows  more  refined  and 
 sentimental,  as  knowledge  and  civilization  extend  them- 
 selves, and  differs  as  widely  from  that  passion,  whose 
 only  gratifications  are  se7isual,  as  a  covenant  of  mutual 
 convenience,  from  a  covenant  of  affection. 
 
 In  process  of  time,  as  the  mind  begins  to  soar  above 
 material  things,  and  penetrate  into  the  obscure  regions 
 of  the  moral  world,  it  makes  new  discoveries  as  to  the 
 condition  of  man,  busies  itself  with  the  probable  chances 
 of  futurity,  anticipates  a  thousand  ills,  which  it  per- 
 ceives are  but  too  inseparable  from  our  unhappy  state, 
 and  feels,  in  the  apprehension  of  calamity,  all  the 
 miseries  of  its  reality.  In  this  way,  when  the  mind 
 has  been  long  accustomed  to  dwell  with  melancholy 
 attention  on  the  ills  of  life,  to  examine  its  promises  and 
 their  issues ;  to  contemplate  the  speedy  termination  of  all 
 its  cares,  and  to  consider  the  dark  cloud  which  envelopes 
 that  termination;  it  becomes  too  well  skilled  in  the 
 chances  and  changes  of  mortality,  and  neglects  to  enjoy 
 the  present  good,  through  the  apprehension  that  it  may 
 be  dashed  from  its  lips  l^efore  it  be  tasted. 
 
163 
 
 The  enlargement,  therefore,  of  our  views,  and  the  in- 
 crease of  our  powers,  while  it  exalts  the  human  character, 
 and  draws  it  a  step  nearer  to  its  great  original,  does  not 
 necessarily  augment  the  happiness  of  life.  The  con- 
 dition of  the  wealthy  and  potent  is  more  enviable  than 
 that  of  the  poor  and  despised  only  in  appearance. 
 Wealth  has  its  cares,  and  dominion  its  anxieties  ;  and 
 wealth  and  power  often  serve  but  to  increase,  by  in- 
 dulgence, those  evils  which  are  the  fundamental  causes 
 of  all  human  misery.  So  likewise,  wisdom,  and  learning, 
 and  science,  though  they  may  exalt  the  condition  of 
 humanity,  can  do  litde  towards  the  alleviation  of  its 
 woes,  or  the  prevention  of  its  misfortunes. 
 
 Yet  it  must  be  allowed,  that  the  evils  of  learning  do 
 not  extend  so  much  beyond  its  immediate  votaries, 
 while  its  benefits  are  felt  over  the  whole  community. 
 Though  the  pale  suitor  of  wisdom  may  find  by  daily 
 experience  that  the  fruit  of  the  tree  of  knowledge  is 
 still  the  fruit  of  bitterness,  and  though  he  may  languish 
 under  the  pressure  of  imaginary  ills,  and  find  every 
 joy  shadowed  with  melancholy,  and  every  prospect 
 clouded  with  care  and  apprehension,  yet  society  at  large 
 will  feel  the  good  effects  of  his  pains.  To  his  labours, 
 will  men  owe  the  downfall  of  superstition  and  bigotry, 
 the  general  diffusion  of  reason,  the  confirmation  of  moral 
 truth,  and  the  substitution  of  the  pleasures  of  intellect 
 for  those  of  sense.  These  are  benefits  of  such  a  magni- 
 tude, that  we  might  be  induced  to  deify  the  author  of 
 them ;  but  their  abuse  is  so  common,  and  so  certainly 
 
 M  2 
 
164 
 
 consequent  on  their  possession,  that  we  again  hesitate 
 to  place  them  in  the  list  of  benefits,  or  their  author  in 
 the  roll  of  benefactors.  We  no  sooner  dispel  the  mists 
 of  superstition,  than  infidelity  rears  aloft  her  standard, 
 and  beats  to  arms.  We  cannot  teach  men  to  make 
 reason  their  guide,  but  presently  they  disdain  every 
 other  help,  and  immolate  religion  on  the  altars  of  their 
 pride.  And  when  at  length  we  have  proved  that  the 
 pleasures  of  *  *  * 
 
165 
 
 ON  THE  HUMAN  MIND. 
 
 The  economy  of  creation  is  every  where  pregnant 
 with  wonder ;  but  nature  has  no  mystery  so  astonishing, 
 no  secret  so  dark,  as  the  human  mind.  It  was  in  this 
 respect,  in  respect  to  his  reasoning  powers,  that  man 
 was  originally  made  in  the  express  image  of  God ;  and 
 it  is  from  hence  that  the  same  inscrutable  gloom  hangs 
 over  that  wonderful  part  of  our  being  which  is  called 
 MIND,  as  shrouds  the  king  of  the  universe  himself,  and 
 all  his  attributes,  from  the  vulgar  gaze. 
 
 Although  we  are  sometimes  able,  obscurely,  to  trace 
 our  ratiocinative  faculties  in  the  course  of  their  opera- 
 tions, yet  our  observations  tend  to  little  more  than  to 
 excite  astonishment  at  the  subtelty  of  their  transitions, 
 and  the  swiftness  with  which  they  traverse  all  nature, 
 and  connect,  by  an  almost  imperceptible  link,  ideas  the 
 most  distant.  Being  thus  little  acquainted  with  the 
 mind  at  large,  we  know  it  merely  by  its  effects,  and 
 consider  genius,  or  natural  superiority  of  intellect,  only 
 in  connection  with  the  object  to  which  it  is  directed,  and 
 in  which  it  excels  ;  but  the  ethereal  and  evanescent 
 quality  in  which  genius  more  particularly  consists,  seems 
 to  elude  our  keenest  observation.  The  power  of  com- 
 bining a  larger  number  of  ideas  must  always  be  re- 
 
 M  3 
 
166 
 
 garded  as  a  characteristic  of  a  great  mind ;  but  it  is  so 
 far  from  being  the  sole  constituent  of  genius,  that  alone, 
 it  would,  probably,  produce  no  movements  of  excel- 
 lence. If  it  were  unattended  with  the  warmth  and 
 enthusiasm,  which  is  another,  and  more  universal  mark 
 of  genius,  it  would  want  an  adequate  motive  for  exer- 
 tion ;  it  would  soon  grow  cold  and  languid  in  its  efforts, 
 and  would  achieve  nothing,  because  it  would  plan  little. 
 There  are  even  adventitious  circumstances,  which,  though 
 they  add  nothing  to  the  powers  of  the  mind  themselves, 
 are,  perhaps,  necessary  to  call  them  into  action,  and 
 without  which  they  might  lie  unnoticed  and  undis- 
 covered. I  believe  that  even  Pascal  himself,  although 
 so  many  wonders  are  told  of  the  irresistible  impulse  by 
 which  he  was  led  to  the  mathematics,  was  indebted  for 
 his  first  inclination  to  those  studies  to  the  conversation 
 of  his  father,  who  was  deeply  versed  in  them. 
 
 Milton  was  blind,  and  Homer  is  supposed  to  have 
 been  blind,  and  where  do  we  meet  with  such  strong 
 and  characteristic  painting  as  in  Milton  and  Homer. 
 Those  works  of  the  former  poet  which  were  written 
 before  the  loss  of  his  sight,  beautiful  and  glowing  and 
 as  they  are,  do  not  possess  either  the  strength  of  deli- 
 neation or  the  bold  sublimity  of  conception,  remarkable 
 in  his  epics.  It  may  be  thought  paradoxical  to  assert 
 that  he  would  never  have  produced  the  Paradise  Lost 
 had  he  never  lost  his  sight,  but  that  it  had  considerable 
 influence  on  that  work,  will,  on  reflection,  appear  not 
 improbable. 
 
167 
 
 A  tliousand  springs,  unseen  even  to  the  eye  of  the 
 minute  observer,  contribute  to  the  production  of  a  work 
 of  genius.  The  sophists  imagine  that  man  was  once  a 
 monkey,  and  inhabited  the  woods,  but  that  he  acciden- 
 tally learned  the  use  of  the  muscle,  by  the  contraction 
 of  which  the  thumb  is  brought  in  contact  with  the  fore- 
 finger ;  that,  from  the  dexterity  which  this  discovery 
 gave  him,  he  gradually  improved  his  faculties,  and 
 heaped  discovery  upon  discovery,  until  he  arose  to 
 the  summit  of  science  and  of  art.  This  ridiculous 
 story  may  be  applied  with  more  propriety  to  the  mind, — 
 The  energies  of  a  mighty  genius  lie  dormant,  like  a 
 treasure,  hidden  even  from  its  owner,  until  some  happy 
 chance,  some  fortunate  accident,  gives  them  the  first 
 impulse,  and  awakes  their  owner  to  a  sense  of  his  unob- 
 served powers.  From  this  period  the  progress  of 
 genius  may  be  gradual,  but  it  is  sure :  when  once  the 
 enchanted  spring  has  been  touched,  the  mind  will  recur 
 with  eagerness  to  its  newly  discovered  pursuit ;  it  will 
 hang  with  a  secret  and  inexpressible  fondness  over  its 
 hidden  beauties;  it  will  expatiate  on  all  its  varying 
 appearances,  and  trace  its  unfolding  graces,  until  it 
 comes  forth  prepared  to  astonish  mankind  with  pure 
 and  original  excellence.  In  works  of  mere  genius,  the 
 fire  and  animation  which  stamps  their  sterling  worth 
 upon  them  is  often  caught  from  the  mere  reflection  of 
 these  first  transports ;  a  kind  of  sacred  sublimity  seems 
 to  dwell  upon  every  thing  connected  with  that  object  to 
 
 M  4 
 
170 
 
 ON  HUMAN  LIFE. 
 
 We  may  with  justice  term  this  life  a  state  of  expec- 
 tation. Though  all  human  happiness  be  at  best 
 comparative  only,  it  is  made  to  consist  more  in  anticipa- 
 tion than  in  actual  enjoyment.  The  things  we  looked 
 forward  to  with  longing,  become  insipid  in  possession. 
 Every  new  acquisition  serves  only  to  open  new  prospects, 
 until  the  life  of  man  languishes  to  its  close,  and  the 
 still  unsatisfied  eye  turns  to  a  state  of  future  existence, 
 and  rests  at  length  on  objects  exempt  from  human 
 vicissitude.  Sad  as  this  representation  may  seem,  it  is 
 yet  the  fairer  side  of  the  picture  of  our  mortal  affairs. 
 There  is  something  pleasing  in  the  contemplation  of 
 successful  exertion,  however  unsatisfactory  its  object, 
 when  attained ;  but  even  this  source  of  pleasure  is 
 denied  to  a  considerable  portion  of  mankind,  the 
 numerous  children  of  disappointment,  and  misfortune, 
 who  only  form  schemes  of  happiness  to  see  them 
 frustrated,  and  build  hopes  but  to  lament  over  their 
 untimely  destruction. 
 
 The  sanguine  principle  implanted  in  our  bosoms  by 
 the  wise  author  of  our  being,  is  the  joint  source  of  our 
 sweetest  pleasures,  and  our  most  cruel  woes.  Disap- 
 pointment treads  swiftly  on  the  heels  of  hope.    We  ibrm 
 
171 
 
 projects,  and  see  them  blasted.  Again  from  the  ashes 
 of  the  former  arises  some  new  pursuit,  which  is  again 
 destroyed,  and  again  renewed,  in  a  perpetual  series  of 
 annihilation,  and  re-production,  until  the  mind,  like  the 
 long-used  bow,  loses  its  elasticity,  and  the  eyes  are  at 
 length  opened  when  their  late  acquired  clearness  can 
 no  longer  avail. 
 
 If  the  position  be  true,  that  our  happiness  consists 
 rather  in  anticipation  than  in  enjoyment,  it  is  also  true, 
 that,  with  regard  to  earthly  bliss,  the  man  of  obtuse 
 faculties  and  sluggish  disposition  has  infinitely  the  advan- 
 tage of  the  man  of  talents  and  exalted  understanding 
 The  one  founds  his  plans  in  mediocrity  and  moderation ; 
 he  follows  his  aim  tardily,  but  with  certainty.  His  pro- 
 bation is  fortunately  for  him  extended,  and  it  is  free 
 alike  from  the  anxiety  of  uncertainty,  and  the  appre- 
 hension of  danger.  But  the  other  grasps  at  worlds. 
 He  would  wield  the  thunders  of  Jehovah,  and  direct 
 the  fate  of  the  Universe;  he  aims  at  improbabilities, 
 and  he  expends  all  his  strength  on  a  stroke ;  his 
 expectations  grow  with  his  failures,  until  at  length  the 
 bubble  is  dispelled,  and  he  looks  on  the  past  as  the 
 uneasy  tracings  of  a  feverish  dream. 
 
 Here,  then,  are  the  tables  turned  upon  wisdom. 
 The  very  philosopher,  who  surveys,  as  from  an 
 eminence,  the  deluded  crouds  who  are  pursuing  the 
 rainbow  of  promise  beneath  him,  falls  into  the  very 
 folly  he  allects  to  pity,  and  while   he   shakes  his   head 
 
172 
 
 at  the  vagaries  of  his  poor  fellow  sojourners,  turns 
 to  contemplate  with  flattering  delight  some  visionary 
 fabric  of  his  own,  ten  thousand  times  more  unsub- 
 stantial, as  it  is  infinitely  more  refined. 
 
173 
 
 OMNIPRESENCE. 
 
 If  we  allow  that  there  is  a  God,  It  will  follow  that 
 he  is  infinite  in  all  his  attributes.  Since  he,  who  is  the 
 fountain  of  all  perfection  in  created  things,  cannot  but 
 be  himself  perfect,  and  as  his  being  is  infinite,  so  are 
 his  attributes.  They  cannot  be  less  than  infinite, 
 because  God  is  an  infinite  being ;  if  he  have  power,  it 
 must  be  unbounded;  if  he  be  present  any  where,  he 
 must  be  present  every  where ;  if  his  knowledge  extend 
 to  one  thing,  or  to  one  period,  it  must  extend  to  all 
 things,  and  to  all  times.  Again,  we  cannot  doubt 
 that  God's  power  is  infinite,  and,  if  his  power  be 
 infinite,  all  his  other  attributes  are  infinite,  for  infinity 
 is  the  perfection  of  any  quality,  and  we  cannot  suppose 
 that  a  God  of  infinite  power  would  possess  any  quality 
 in  an  imperfect  degree-  Considering  it  proved  that 
 God  is  omnipresent,  it  follows  that  he  is  omniscient ; 
 for  as  God  is  an  immaterial  being  in  a  mode  incompre- 
 hensible to  the  human  understanding,  his  knowledge  is 
 not  confined  to  any  particular  place,  but  is  in  all  places 
 at  once,  and  that  too  in  its  fullest  perfection.  In  the 
 human  mind  the  brain  is  the  seat  of  reason  and 
 perception,  and  our  ideas  are  conveyed  to  it  by  the 
 senses  of  sight,  feeling,  hearing,  taste,  and  smell ;  but 
 the  mind  of  God  is  in  all  parts  of  space  at  once.  The 
 whole  Universe  is,  as  it  were,  his  sensorium. 
 
174 
 
 Tlie  omniscience  and  omnipresence  of  God,  then, 
 ought  to  fill  our  hearts  with  fear  and  trembling.  These 
 sovereign  perfections  of  his  nature  ought  to  be  uninter- 
 mittingly  before  our  eyes,  that  so  we  might  walk  with 
 more  wariness  and  circumspection,  and  might  be 
 anxious  to  chase  every  image  and  idea  of  pollution 
 from  entering  into  breasts  on  which  the  eye  of  God  is 
 incessantly  fixed.  What  would  the  wicked  man  say 
 could  he  perfectly  comprehend  the  exquisite  perfection 
 of  God's  omniscience ;  he  would  then  know,  that,  in 
 moments  of  debasing  and  guilty  pleasure,  the  eye  of 
 the  all-pure  God  is  fixed  steadfastly  upon  him ;  that  in 
 darkness  and  in  solitude  God  is  with  him,  and  that 
 his  justice  has  only  to  say,  strike^  and  the  uplifted  arm 
 of  his  vengeance  falls  heavy  upon  him.  What  terrors 
 would  agitate  the  mind  of  the  Hypocrite  did  he  fully 
 comprehend,  and  believe  the  omniscience  of  God  ! 
 could  he  bear  to  think,  that,  in  the  very  acts  of  dis- 
 sembled adoration,  the  scrutinizing  gaze  of  the  Lord  of 
 Truth  was  penetrating  into  the  innermost  recesses  of  his 
 vile  and  corrupted  heart.  But  wherefore  do  I  speak 
 of  the  profligate  or  deceitful  only.  Let  the  man  here 
 stand  forth  who  can  say  he  doth  not  shrink  from  the 
 idea,  that  the  inspecting  view  of  the  Almighty  is 
 unceasingly  fixed  upon  his  heart.  Ypu,  who  have  on 
 this  day  joined  in  the  worship  of  your  Lord  and 
 Saviour,  have  your  thoughts  never  wandered,  or  hath 
 no  imagination  obtruded  itself  into  your  hearts  which 
 you  would  blush   to  expose   to   the  eye  of  your  fellow 
 
175 
 
 mortals  ?  And  if  they  would  disgrace  you  in  their  eyes, 
 if  you  would  recoil  from  the  animadversions  of  your 
 companions  in  sin,  how  shall  you  dare  to  expose  them 
 to  the  examination  of  him,  who  is  All-Holy,  All-Righ- 
 teous, and  All- Wise  !  But  in  Truth,  you  neither  believe 
 nor  understand  this  important  attribute  of  the  Deity. 
 We  are  apt  at  all  times  to  reason  of  things  spiritual  by 
 things  temporal^  and  to  compare  infinite  things  with 
 Jiuite.  Thus  arguing  of  God,  as  if  his  capacities  were 
 like  our  own,  we  conceive  that  he  is  too  much  engaged 
 with  the  government  of  the  Universe,  the  regulation  of 
 the  Heavenly  bodies,  or  the  revolutions  of  States  and 
 Empires,  to  bestow  any  attention  to  the  actions  of  poor, 
 passing  worms  like  us.  But  is  this  reasonable  ?  We 
 know  that  God  is  omniscient.  We  know  his  knowledge 
 extends  every  where,  that  he  dwells  every  where,  that 
 he  is  found  in  the  atom  as  completely  as  in  the  universe, 
 ^f  then  he  know  every  thing,  he  must  know  every  thing 
 perfectly ;  for  if  he  knew  any  thing  partially,  or  not 
 entirely,  he  would  have  something  imperfect,  which  is 
 contrary  to  his  nature.  God,  therefore,  knows  every 
 thing  that  passes  in  our  inmost  souls  letter  than  we  do 
 ourselves,  he  reads  our  most  secret  thoughts,  all  the 
 cogitations  of  our  hearts  pass  in  review  before  him;  and 
 he  is  as  perfectly  and  entirely  employed  in  the  scrutiny 
 of  the  thoughts  and  actions  of  an  individual  as  in  the 
 regulation  of  the  most  important  concerns  of  the  uni- 
 verse. This  is  what  we  cannot  comprehend,  but  it  is 
 what,    according  to   the  light  of  reason,   must  be  true, 
 
176 
 
 and,  according  to  revelation,  is  indeed  true.  God  can 
 do  nothing  imperfectly,  and  we  may  form  some  idea  of 
 his  superintending  knowledge,  by  conceiving,  what  is 
 indeed  the  truths  that  all  the  powers  of  the  Godhead  are 
 employed,  and  solely  employed,  in  the  observation,  and 
 examination  of  the  conduct  of  one  individual.  I  say 
 this  is  indeed  the  case,  because  all  the  powers  of  the 
 Godhead  are  employed  upon  the  least  as  well  as  upon 
 the  greatest  concerns  of  the  universe,  and  the  whole 
 mind  and  power  of  the  Creator  are  as  exclusively  em- 
 ployed upon  the  formation  of  a  grub,  as  of  a  world. 
 God  knows  every  thmg  perfectly,  and  he  knows  every 
 thing  perfectly  at  once.  This,  to  a  human  understanding, 
 would  breed  confusion,  but  there  can  be  no  confusion 
 in  the  Divine  understanding,  because  confusion  arises 
 from  imperfection.  Thus  God,  without  confusion,  be- 
 holds as  distinctly  the  actions  of  every  man,  as  if  that 
 man  were  the  only  created  being,  and  the  Godhead  werfe 
 solely  employed  in  observing  him.  Let  this  thought 
 fill  your  minds  with  awe  and  with  remorse.     *         * 
 
177 
 
 "  And  Moses  was  learned  in  all  the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians." 
 
 Acts,  vii.  22. 
 
 The  natural  weakness  of  the  human  understanding, 
 and  the  circumstance  of  its  being  confined,  in  all  its  ope- 
 rations, to  reasoning  from  material  objects,  or  things 
 see7i  alone,  sufficiently  prove  the  necessity  of  revelation 
 to  inform  us  concerning  the  things  which  are  not  seen. 
 Mere  animal  instinct,  or  the  light  of  nature,  might  have 
 sufficed  for  regulating  the  economy  of  our  bodily  exist- 
 ence; but  as  our  being  was  endowed  with  an  immortal 
 principle,  and  we  were  taught,  almost  by  intuition,  to 
 look  forward  to  a  time  when  the  bonds  of  matter  should 
 be  dissolved,  and  we  yet  live,  —  some  better  information 
 was  to  be  expected  concerning  this  future  life  and  its 
 conditions,  than  we  could  gather  from  our  own  confined 
 and  defective  reasonings.     The  moment  we  regard  our- 
 selves   as  creatures  destined  to  outlive  the  wreck    of 
 matter,  and  fill  a  station  in  that  spiritual  world  which 
 shall  rise  upon  the  ruins  of  this  material  one,  a  new 
 view  opens  before  our  eyes,  and  we  become  anxious  to 
 be  informed  of  the  nature  of  the  fiiture  state,  and  in 
 what  degree  our  happiness  therein  may  be  dependant  on 
 ourselves.      That  our  felicity  hereafter  is  conditional, 
 the  most  barbarous  nations  seem  to  understand ;  and  that 
 there  is  any  condition,  except  those  of  moral  life,  and 
 benevolence  towards  our  fellows,  ike  most  etilightenedy 
 
 VOL.  HI.  N 
 
178 
 
 when  unvisited  by  the  Gospel,  Imve  not  discovered. 
 Keen  and  penetrating  philosophers  among  the  heathen 
 have  conjectured  that  man  must  have  fallen  from  a  hap- 
 pier condition,  since  the  existing  depravity  and  misery 
 of  the  race  could  only  be  reconciled  with  the  benevo- 
 lence of  the  Supreme  being  on  such  a  supposition. 
 
 The  golden  age  of  the  poets  is  only  a  figurative  re- 
 presentation of  this  primitive  state,  and  they  represent 
 the  occasion  of  the  declension  of  mankind  from  their 
 first  happy  condition  to  have  been  the  gradual  desertion 
 of  their  deities,  of  whom  Astrea,  or  Justice,  was  the 
 last  who  lingered  amongst  them,  and  whose  departure 
 closed  the  age  of  Gold,  and  introduced  that  of  Iron. 
 
 So  far,  then,  has  the  light  of  reason  been  able  to 
 penetrate.  Yet  ^  mystery  still  hangs  over  this  period 
 in  the  history  of  the  world ;  there  is  yet  something  which 
 the  eye  of  man  cannot  reach,  there  is  yet  a  gulph  he 
 cannot  penetrate.  The  tradition  of  a  fall  from  a  state  of 
 primitive  innocence  is  universal :  but  how  far  has  this 
 event  affected  our  hopes  of  the  future  ?  How,  in  our 
 present  lapsed  condition,  over-run  with  vice  and  wicked- 
 ness, are  we  to  be  rendered  acceptable  in  the  eyes  of  an 
 all-pure  God?  No  answer  could  be  given  to  these 
 questions,  except  by  a  revelation  from  Almighty  God 
 himself;  and  such  a  revelation  was  in  due  time  given  to 
 mankind.  These  mysteries,  so  far  as  they  really  con- 
 cerned us,  were  cleared  up,  and  God  condescended  to 
 explain  to  us  the  course  of  his  dealings  with  us,  and  to 
 point  out  the  means  of  attaining  everlasting  life. 
 
 1* 
 
179 
 
 While  men  were  yet  few  and  simple,  God  enabled 
 tliem  to  walk  according  to  his  will,  and  instructed  them 
 where  to  look  for  the  reparation  of  the  damages  their 
 nature  had  sustained  at  the  fall  by  immediate  revelation 
 of  the  Holy  Spirit :  but  when  mankind  had  increased  in 
 numbers,  and  in  refinement,  near  2600  years  after  the 
 Creation,  He  deposited  in  the  hands  of  the  people,  whom 
 for  this  purpose  he  had  peculiarly  chosen  to  himself^ 
 the  written  revelation  of  his  will ;  and  to  this  people  he, 
 from  time  to  time,  made  himself  known  by  the  mouths 
 of  holy  men,  until  the  coming  of  the  Messiah,  who 
 was  the  completion  of  prophecy,  the  key  to  all  mystery, 
 and  the  herald  of  light  and  life  to  the  whole  human 
 race. 
 
 The  first  revelation  given  from  God  to  man,  was  that 
 of  Moses,  wherein  the  history  of  the  world,  from  the 
 creation,  was  shordy  and  clearly  deduced ;  the  situation 
 of  mankind,  in  consequence  of  the  transgression  of  our 
 first  parents,  delineated ;  and  a  rule  of  life  and  religion 
 laid  down,  adapted  to  the  condition  of  the  people  for 
 whom  it  was  more  immediately  intended. 
 
 The  books  of  the  Pentateuch  contain  the  foundation 
 of  our  religion  and  our  hopes.  It  is  true,  the  glorious 
 dispensation  of  the  Gospel  is  in  them  but  darkly 
 shadowed ;  yet  they  sufficed  for  the  salvation  of  the 
 chosen  seed,  until  the  fulfilment  of  God's  purposes 
 came  to  pass.  In  them  we  trace  evident  and  undoubtful 
 marks  of  the  Divine  hand ;  and  if  they  did  not  sufficiently 
 attest  themselves  to  the  hearts  and  understandings  of  all 
 
 N   2 
 
180 
 
 Christians,  by  their  intimate  connection  with  the  first 
 principles  of  our  rehgion,  if  all  other  evidence  of  their 
 divine  orimn  were  lost  or  thrown  aside,  there  would  be 
 sufficient  ground  for  believing  them  to  be  the  work  of 
 a  man  inspired  by  God  from  external  circumstances; 
 from  a  comparison  with  the  manners,  laws,  and  religion 
 of  other  nations  at  this  period ;  from  their  ideas  of  the 
 Deity ;  their  traditional  accounts  of  the  creation ;  and 
 from  the  general  state  of  learning  and  knowledge  in  the 
 world  at  the  period  they  were  written.  On  the  present 
 occasion,  we  mean  to  examine  more  particularly  into  the 
 wisdom  of  the  Egyptians  mentioned  in  the  text ;  to  com- 
 pare their  superstitions  and  traditions  with  the  Mosaic 
 history  and  religion  ;  and  to  examine,  as  far  as  the  lapse 
 of  years,  and  the  particular  mode  of  transmitting  their 
 knowledge  adopted  by  the  Egyptians,  will  permit ;  how 
 far  it  was  possible  for  Moses  to  have  availed  himself  of 
 the  wisdom  of  the  Egyptians  in  framing  the  Divine 
 books. 
 
 I.  The  religion  of  the  Egyptians,  even  at  this  early 
 period,  as  may  be  collected  from  the  Greek  historians, 
 was  Polytheism,  in  its  wildest  and  most  extravagant 
 degree.  They  worshipped  an  infinite  variety  of  deities, 
 of  whom  the  chief  seem  to  have  been  Osiris  and  Isis. 
 After  these  the  bull  Apis  was  held  in  sovereign  adora- 
 tion, and  the  long  catalogue  of  their  gods  was  filled 
 with  other  animals,  and  every  plant  of  the  most  ignoble 
 and  contemptible  species.  To  such  folly  and  blindness 
 had  God  given  up  this  unhappy  people,  that  they  paid 
 
181 
 
 all  kinds  of  slavish  and  servile  obeisance  to  the  shrines 
 of  these  senseless  and  stupid  divinities ;  they  maintained 
 their  priests  in  the  greatest  opulence,  and  held  all  other 
 reliijfions,  even  that   of  the    true    God,  in    the   utmost 
 abhorrence  for  their  sakes.    Although  it  does  not  appear 
 that,  in  Egypt,  as  in  Chaldea,  the  priests  were  the  sole 
 guardians  of  their  knowledge  as  well  as  their  religion ; 
 but,  on  the  other  hand,  that  they  were  distinct  orders  of 
 men,  yet  the  two  interests  were  so  far  blended,  that, 
 while  they  asserted  the  antiquity  of  their  science,  they 
 maintained  that  their  religion  was  coeval.     The  spirits, 
 by  whose  power  they  professed  to  perform  wonders  and 
 invert  the  order  of  nature,  must  have  been  the  objects 
 of  adoration  from  the  first  cultivation  of  the  magical 
 arts  amongst  them.     Now,  it  is  observed,  that  the  con- 
 juration of   spirits   is    the    first   species    of  knowledge 
 affected  amongst  micivilized  nations,  and  the  Egyptians 
 pretended  to  have  traces  of  science  amongst  them  for 
 several  hundred  thousand  years  beyond  the  period  of  the 
 creation,  according  to  Moses.  Of  the  traditions  concern- 
 ing the  creation,  preserved  among  the  Egyptians,  we  know 
 nothing.     Scarcely  any  of  the  ancient   religions  made 
 their  gods  even  older  than  the  world  we  inhabit ;  and 
 we  cannot  for  a  moment  suppose,  that  they  attributed 
 the  creation  of  the  universe  to  gods,  whom  they  them- 
 selves saw  born  and  expire,  and  who  were  but  branches ; 
 and,  moreover,  subordinate  branches  of  the  animal  crea- 
 tion.    They  probably,  therefore,  like  many  of  the  an- 
 cient philosophers,   believed  the  world  eternal,  or  else 
 N   3 
 
182 
 
 ascribed  its  origin  to  the  natural  and  spontaneous  pro- 
 perties of  pre-existent  matter ;  a  doctrine  which  had 
 hkewise  its  abettors  among  the  hnninaries  of  the  hea- 
 then world.  They  never  thought  of  affixing  to  their 
 gods  more  than  a  mundane  and  temporal  dominion, 
 and  their  worship  was  rather  to  be  considered  as  a  series 
 of  rites,  on  which  they  believed  their  good  fortune  de- 
 pended, than  the  heartfelt  adoration  of  an  All-intelligent 
 and  Almighty  Deity. 
 
 II.  As  for  the  sciences  on  which  the  Egyptians  so 
 greatly  prided  themselves,  we  shall  find  that  their  pre- 
 tensions to  them  were  unquestionably  legitimate,  but  that 
 their  knowledge  was  still  deformed  with  superstition  and 
 clouded  with  mystery.  They  appear  to  have  derived 
 their  knowledge  of  astronomy  from  the  Chaldeans. 
 This  people,  who  inhabited  a  plain  and  level  country, 
 particularly  adapted  to  the  observation  of  the  heavenly 
 bodies,  early  addicted  themselves  to  this  study ;  and 
 although  Belus,  the  reputed  inventor  of  the  science 
 amongst  them,  is  placed  by  some  chronologers  after 
 Moses  in  the  order  of  time,  yet  on  the  testimony  of  the 
 Greeks,  who  were  jealous  of  their  pre-eminence,  they 
 had  observations  on  record  to  a  much  earlier  period. 
 Geometry  is  another  art  which  they  must  early  have 
 cultivated ;  for  as  the  annual  inundations  of  the  Nile  des- 
 troy or  obliterate  the  boundary  line  and  land-marks, 
 they  would  otherwise  have  had  no  means  of  ascertaining 
 every  man's  individual  property  after  the  reflux  of  the 
 waters-     That  land  had  been  appropriated  long  before 
 
183 
 
 Moses'  time,  is  plain  from  the  policy  oi^  Joseph,  who, 
 during  the  seven  years  of  famine,  bought  all  the  land  of 
 Egypt  for  Pharaah  in  return  for  corn,  and  then  restored 
 it  to  the  proprietors,  on  condition  of  their  paying  a  pro- 
 portion of  the  annual  increase  into  the  treasury.  Be- 
 sides these,  we  may  gather  from  what  was  known  in 
 after  times,  that  they  had  a  particular  predilection  for 
 many  branches  of  physics,  and  endeavoured  to  penetrate 
 into  the  mysteries  of  the  material  and  immaterial  world. 
 Their  physicians  were  early  distinguished.  We  read  of 
 them  embalming  the  body  of  Israel,  and  we  are  told, 
 that  they  cultivated  the  medical  art  with  so  much  care 
 and  minute  attention,  that  they  had  separate  physicians 
 for  every  part  of  the  body.  These  arts,  however,  seem 
 to  have  been  but  subordinate  pursuits.  The  great  ob- 
 jects of  attention  were  the  occult  sciences.  It  was  the 
 magicians  who  swayed  the  minds  of  the  people  with  a 
 power  almost  imperial.  It  was  the  magicians  who  spread 
 their  fame  over  all  the  civilized  world,  and  attached  a 
 reverential  awe  to  the  name  of  an  Egyptian.  The  mys- 
 teries of  these  arts,  the  magi  preserved  with  the  most 
 scrupulous  care,  they  were  imparted  to  none  but  their 
 immediate  descendants,  they  were  not  entrusted  to  writ- 
 ing, but  were  locked  up  in  the  breasts  of  their  jealous 
 possessors.  There  is  reason  to  believe,  that  a  portion 
 of  judicial  astrology  was  mixed  with  their  magic,  but 
 they  seem  to  have  relied  more  on  the  incantation  of 
 spirits  for  the  accomplishment  of  their  purposes.  ^  M^ho 
 does  not  read  the  accounts  contained  in  the  book  of 
 
184 
 
 Exodus  of  the  wonders  they  performed  in  emulation  of 
 Moses,  with  surprise  and  astonishment?  This  prompt  re- 
 duplication of  the  miracles  wrought  by  the  power  of  God, 
 is  such,  as  we  cannot  readily  conceive  to  have  been  effect- 
 ed by  art,  or  simulated  by  deception ;  and  there  remains 
 no  other  possible  mode  of  accounting  for  their  power,  than 
 by  presuming  that  they  did  really  maintain  that  inter- 
 course with  fallen  spirits  to  which  they  pretended.  I  am 
 aware  that  the  sneers  of  vain  philosophy  will  be  directed 
 against  such  a  supposition,  but  the  course  of  all  history, 
 sacred  and  profane,  countenances  the  idea;  and  after 
 the  body  of  evidence  afforded  by  the  ancient  writers  on 
 this  point,  to  express  unqualified  and  unhesitating  dis- 
 belief, can  only  argue  an  utter  ignorance  of  the  grounds 
 on  which  we  can  alone  judge  in  this  mysterious  subject. 
 Let  any  one,  however,  read  with  attention  the  history  of 
 the  ancient  world,  and  he  will  see  strong  reason  for 
 believing  that  a  very  great  part  of  mankind  was  given  up 
 to  the  government  of  unclean  spirits.  He  will  find  that 
 their  gods  were  rather  devils,  worse  than  the  very  worst 
 of  their  followers ;  that  their  religious  institutions  were 
 a  compound  of  imposture,  avarice,  and  the  most  abomi- 
 nable wickedness ;  yet  he  will  find  their  oracles  often 
 true  in  their  predictions,  and  maintaining  for  a  long 
 series  of  years  the  reputation  of  being  inspired.  It  was 
 thus  in  Egypt  at  the  time  of  the  Exodus ;  the  spirits  of 
 darkness  held  uncontrolled  dominion  over  the  people 
 through  the  medium  of  the  magicians,  and  had  arrived 
 at  such  a  pitch  of  audacity,  as  almost  to  fly  in  the  face 
 2* 
 
18;j 
 
 of  Almighty   God   himself,  and   measure  their  powers 
 with  his.  —  But  we  see  in  the    Scripture    how    they 
 were  defeated.     They   could  not  follow  the  arm  of  the 
 Lord  in  his  wonders.    They  could  not  even  save  their 
 unhappy  votaries  from  his  plagues,  for  "  the  magicians 
 could  not  stand  before  Moses,  because  of  the  boils,  for  the 
 boil  xvas  tvith  the  magician"     That  they  knew  the  evil 
 character  of  the  spirits  they  served,  and  were  aware  of 
 their  subordination  to  the  true  Jehovah,  is  manifest  from 
 the   confession   extorted  by  the  wonders  wrought  by 
 Moses,  when,  unable  to  equal  him  in  his  miracles,  they 
 exclaimed  to  Pharaoh,   "  This  is  thefnger  of  God." 
 
 II.  Under  such  masters  as  these,  then,  was  Moses 
 educated ;  such  was  the  wisdom,  in  which  he  is  stated 
 by  the  text  to  have  been  instituted.  Now,  we  might 
 fairly  expect  to  find  some  traces  of  this  his  first  learning 
 in  the  historical,  and  philosophical  parts  of  the  Penta- 
 teuch. We  can  conceive  no  reason  which  could  induce 
 him  to  discredit  the  antiquity  of  the  world,  as  main- 
 tained by  his  masters,  the  Egyptians,  or  why  he  should 
 expose  himself,  and  his  countrymen,  to  contempt,  by 
 affixing  the  date  of  the  creation,  at  a  period  compara- 
 tively so  recent,  except  he  knew,  and  confided  in  the 
 authority  and  direction  of  a  power  that  could  not  err. 
 But  Moses  ***** 
 
 THE    END. 
 
London'  : 
 
 Printed  by  A.  &  R.  Spottiswoode, 
 
 New-Street-S(iuare. 
 
#