UNIVERSITY OF CALIFORNIA AT LOS ANGELES // UNIVEHSiTY of CALlFOKtt-Mii. ^^■ .(■\ LOS ANGELES RBRABY / r^^aved hy U . PeHon . :£! . iKiB.:Eii '5r:sr:i^is! „ MEMOIR AND POETICAL EEMAINS OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE; ALSO MELANCHOLY HOURS. J-'k.'V/N/* ■" WITH AN INTKODDCTION BY REV. JOHN TODD, AUTHOR OF THE "STUDENT'S MANUAL," » SABBATH SCHOOL TEACHER," &', &c. BOSTON: PHILLirS, SAMPSON, & COMPANY, 110 Washington Street. 1853. 4 5393 < c • • • e * .frittered according to the act of Congress, in the ye;ir 1844, by . '" S. DOUGLAS VVYETH, . fn (he Clerk's office of the district court of the Eastern District • * t • c * , e /^' of Pennsylvania, c • • CONTENTS. INTRODUCTION— BY REV. JOHN TODD . - 11 Lines, by Professor Smyth of Cambridge, on a nionu- ment erected by Frances Boot, Esq., an American Gentleman, in All Saints' Church, Cambridge, to the memory of Henry Kirke White - - . 5G ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE— BY ROBERT SOUTHEY ... 57 o POEMS INSERTED IN THE LIFE. To the Herb Rosemary ....-- To the Morning — written during Illness ... 73 Ode on Disappointment ..-•-. 88 CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS. Title 113 Dedication • H^ Preface - - - - - - • - -Ho To my Lyre - • - 117 Clifton Grove ......-- 119 JIISCELLANEOUS POEMS. Gondoline - - L3G Lines written on a survey of the heavens in the mor- ning before day -break . . - - - -148 Lines supposed to be spoken by a lover at the grave of his Mistress 1^0 iii IV CONTENTS. My Study, A letter in Hudibrastic Verse To an early Primrose - . - - . SONNETS. I. To the River Trent II. "Give me a cottage on some Cambrian wild" III. Supposed to have been addressed by a female lu natic to a lady ... IV. Supposed to be written by the unhappy poet Der mody, in a storm, while on board a ship in his Majesty's Service - . . . . V. The Winter Traveller VI. " Ye, whose aspirings court the muse of lays" VII. " Let the sublimer muse, who, wrapt in night' VIII. On hearing the sounds of an Eolian Harp IX. What art thou. Mighty One ! and where thy seat A Ballad. Be hushed, be hushed, ye bitter winds The Lullaby of a female Convict to her Child - rOEMS OF A LATER DATE. Ode, to H. Fuseli, Esq. R. A - Ode, addressed to the Earl of Carlisle R. G Description of a Summer's Eve To Contemplation ... Ode to the Genius of Romance The Savoyard's Return Lines. " Go to the raging sea, and say be Written in the Prospect of Death Pastoral Song ..... "When Pride and Envy, and the Scorn" Epigram on Robert Bloomfield . Ode to Midnight .... Ode to Thought. Written at Midnight Genius . . . . 152 156 157 157 158 159 159 IGO Ifil 162 162 163 164 169 172 175 177 182 183 185 187 189 190 191 191 193 194 CONTENTS. V Fragrncnt of an Ode to the Moon - - • - 198 " Loud rage the winds without" - - 200 " Oh thou most fatal of Pandora's train" - 201 SONNETS. To Capel LofFt, Esq. 202 To the Moon. Written in November ... 203 Written at the grave of a Friend .... 204 To Misfortune 204 " As tlms oppressed with many a heavy care" - - 205 To April- ... .... 206 "Yc unseen spirits, whose wild melodies" - - 206 To a Taper 207 To my Mother ■ 207 " Yes 'twill be over soon" 208 To Consumption - • - • • - -209 " Tiiy judgments, Lord, are just ; thou lovest to wear" 209 Hymn. " The Lord our God is clothed with miglit" 210 " The Lord our God is Lord of all" - - 211 • " Through sorrow's night, and danger's path" 212 " Much in sorrow, oft in woe" - - - 213 "Christians! brethren I ere we part" - - 213 Sonnet. " Poor little one ! most bitterly did pain" - 214 To a friend in distress .... 215 . Christmas Day - . - - - .216 Nelsoni Mors 219 Hymn. " Awake sweet Harp of Judah, wake"- - 220 " O Lord, another day is flown" ... 222 The Star of Bethlehem .... 224 O Lord our God in mercy turn ... 225 Melody. Yes, once more that dying strain - - 226 Song.— By Waller 227 " I am pleased, and yet I'm sad" .... 223 VI CONTENTS. Solitude ......... If far from me the fates remove .... Fanny I upon tliy breast I may not lie . POEMS OF VARIOUS DATES. CHILDHOOD Part I. ....... Part II The dance of the Consumptives. An eccentric Drama To a friend. Written at a very early age Lines, on reading the Poems of Warton ... To the Muse . . - - To Love - . - - . The Wandering Boy Fragment. The Western Gale Ode, written on Whit-Monday - Canzonet. " Maiden wrap thy mantle round thee Commencement of a Poem on Despair To the Wind at midnight Sonnet. To December The fair Maid of Clifton - Song. The Robin Red-breast • Winter Song . . . - Song. " Sweet Jessy I I would fain caress" Oh, that I were the fragrant flower that ki&ses Fragment. On Rural Solitude .... " In hollow music sighing through the glade" " Thou mongrel who dost show thy teeth, and yelp" --.-.. Ode to the Morning Star .... The Hermit of tlie Pacific ... Elogy occasioned by tlie death of Mr. Gill Extemporaneous Verses . . . - ^33 231 231 235 241 250 256 258 259 261 262 263 266 267 268 270 272 273 277 278 279 279 280 281 283 283 284 288 289 CONTENTS. Vll To Poesy 231 Fragment. "I have a wish, and near my heart" - 29.1 "Once more his beagles wake the slum- bering morn" .... - - 294 " Drear winter ! who dost knock" - - 2J4 " Behold the Shepherd boy, who homeward tends" 2:;G " Where yonder woods in gloomy pomp arise" --------- 297 . "To a friend" 300 " With slow step, along the desert sand" - 300 ^ " Oh had the soul's deep silence power to speak" 301 " The harp is still ! Weak though the spirit were" .------- 301 " Or should the day be overcast" - - 302 — " Mild Vesper ! favorite of the Paphian Queen" 302 ■ " In every clime from Lapland to Japan" 303 Ode to Liberty 303 — - " Who is it leads the planets on their dance" 305 — ''How beautiful upon the clement" - 307 ■ — " Ghosts of the dead in grim array" - 308 Ode on the death of the Duke D'Enghien - - 309 Versification of the XXII. Psalm - - - - 310 The eve of Death 312 Thanatos - - 313 Athanatos - - - - - - - -315 Music 318 On being confmed to school one pleasant nmrning in Spring - - - - - • - - -318 Vlll CONTENTS. To Contemplation ... - . 319 Ode to the Harvest Moon 322 Song-. " Softly, softly blow, ye breezes" . - - 324 The Shipwrecked Solitary's Song- to the night - - 326 Sonnet. " Sweet to the gay of heart is summer's smile" 328 My own Character 329 Ode on Disappointment ...-.- 331 Lines written in Wilford Church yard on recovery from sickness . . i . - - - 334 FRAGMENTS. THE CHRISTIAD - - - - - - 338 "Saw'stthou that light?" - - - - 355 "The pious man" .... 355 "Lo on the eastern summit, clad in gray" - 35G . "There was a little bird upon that pile" • 35G . " O pale art thou my lamp, and faint" - 357 . " O give me music — for my soul doth faint" 357 . "Ah! who can say, however fair his view" 358 " And must thou go and must we part" - 359 . " When I sit musing on the checker'd past" 359 . " When high romance o'er every wood and stream" - 360 . " Hushed is the lyre — the hand that swept" 300 . " Once more and yet once more" - - 361 . TIME ..---••- 36^ MELANCHOLY HOURS. NoL 385 NoIL 389 No III 31)5 No IV 403 NoV. 409 CONTENTS. IX No VI. 417 No VII. 4-33 No VIII.. - - 42!) No IX 436 NoX - 417 No XI 451 No XII 455 TRIBUTARY VERSES. Lines by Lord Byron inserted in "Introduction" - 21 To the memory of H. Kirke White. By a lady . 4()5 Stanzas written at the grave of IL Kirke White - 4G8 Ode on the late H. Kirke White - - - . 4G'J Verses occasioned by the death of H. Kirke White by Josiah Conder ....... 470 Sonnet by Arthur Owen 473 Sonnet in memory of H. Kirke White ... 474 Reflections on reading the Life of H. Kirke White hy William Holloway 474 On reading the Poem on Solitude — Josiah Conder - 47G To the memory of H. Kirke White by Rev. W. B. Collyer, A. M 477 Verses written in the Homer of Mr. H. Kirke White 470 On the Death of H. Kirke White by T. Park . . 4K0 INTRODUCTION. It is now nearly forty years since Henry KiRKE White finished his short course on earth. To those unaccustomed to read the providence of God in all events, it seemed a matter of mere accident that his literary " Remains" should be gathered up and em- balmed by the hand of friendship. His race was so brief, the difficulties which beset him, and the obstacles in his path, were so many and so great, that few supposed that the in- terest which was then awakened could be permanent. His warmest admirers claimed for him only the immortality which that generation, — perhaps which a single year, could bestow. And it has been a matter of surprise to many, that these relics have not long since passed away on the stream of oblivion. We well remember, in the warm days of boyhood, reading these volumes, and also with feelings of undefined indignation, the cold criticisms which were poured upon 11 12 INTRODUCTION. them in this and in their native country. It was predicted, with all the assurance and wise gravity of Reviews, that learning so meagre, youth so raw, and fragments of poetry so few, and so unfinished, must short- iy die. The writers of such criticisms have passed away unknown and forgotten, while poor White holds on his way with a wing untired, and a flight undepressed. The pre- dictions of some have failed, and the hopes of others have been more than fulfilled, be- cause the hand which was so early withered in death, struck two cords, — neither of which is slow to vibrate, or quick to cease vibrating. We mean genuine Poetry, and Evangelical Piety. We shall have occasion to illustrate this remark hereafter. Another thing that makes and will con- tinue to make White a favourite, is, that youth must ever he pleased with what youth writes. The old man retires into the cham- bers of his own thoughts, and there, in re- calling the past, in building again air-castles wliich have been retouched a thousand times, in living over the fresh days of his youth, or, if he has wisely sought and found the great object for which he was created, in looking forward to the time when he shall realize the INTRODUCTION. 1 3 promises of hope, — in these he finds his en- joyment. But the morning upon the hills, the sweet glories of the evening, the lonely water-fall, the dark ravine, the rugged moun- tain, and the wild lake of the woods, will ever give delight to youth. There is a pe- riod when these are the natural enjoyment of youth, as really and as certainly, as are the bounding leap, the fresh smile, and the joyous laugh. So in the taste for reading, for thought and meditation, there are different standards at different periods of life. We would not ask the man of sixty to sit down and read Robinson Crusoe, and expect him to be as'^much interested as his little Ben- jamin who has been all day poring over it with an interest so deep that time and food have been alike forgotten. We do not ex- pect the man of fifty to admire Henry Kirke White as does his son of eighteen ; and when we hear any one speak disparagingly of him, we are sure that he did not read him at the right age. There is a something, — no matter what we call it, in the writing of youth which will ever be popular with the young. We think therefore, that the mourn- ful question which Henry in his ambition asked — " fifty years hence, and who will think 14 INTRODUCTION. of Henry ?" — may be answered, that multi- tudes will ; and at this moment he stands more sure of the immortality for which he so ardently sighed, than ever before. What man who has passed through the different stages of life, does not know that there are periods in which a peculiar kind of reading is most agreeable ? There is, for example, the period for Magazines, when they are devoured with eagerness, and when it seems as if we could not subsist- without new and constant supplies of this food, and rather than not have it, we are willinix to swallow much that is unleavened, much that is unkneaded, and much that is unbaked. When we have passed through this period, we prefer reading of a graver cast, more un- diluted and are well content to substitute close, original thought for the raciness or the flippancy of modern composition. Yet the Magazine period is not without its use. We there use the mind as we would a large unfinished chamber, into which we tumble nil kinds of waTes and furniture, marring, defa- cing, and breaking some, yet as a great store- room out of which we may in after days draw materials that will be of great service. If the facts upon which the eye then falls, must INTRODUCTION. IS at once be poured out of the mind as Buo- naparte used to shoot nails, all heads to points, it would be a sad calamity, and the stores of the mind, like the wild lands, on which we pay taxes in a new country, would make us poor in proportion to their abun- dance. There is also the period of Novels. Would that with some it did not last through life ! With what greediness and insatiable appetite does the votary pore over the va- pid page ! Through what monstrous swamps does he wade, what dry hills does he climb, ever following a phantom and yet never satisfied that he is chasing shadows ! And it is well that to most people, if age does not bring wisdom, it brings an altered taste, and if the more wholesome appetite comes too late to allow them to pluck and feed on the fruit of wisdom, it comes in season to give bitter repentance for having wasted what was too precious to be lost. There is also in the life of almost every man, a period when he reads and loves and quotes poetry. At first all that comes within his reach is food, but as he advances, his taste leads him to select with greater care and ad- mit but little as worthy of his lasting ad- 16 INTRODUCTION. miration. It is to be regretted that poetry is not read more through life, especially by professional men. Poetry is a child of the skies. Non tetigit quod non ornavit. The appropriate quotation is not the only thing that is beautiful. . The mind through which poetry passes, like the clear channel in which the mountain brook runs, seems to be beau- tified by the waters that pass through it. The young then in admitting and cultivating a taste for poetry, are becoming their own benefactors, and they are putting the soul under the guidance of a teacher, whose voice will ever be as sweet as the silver trumpet, and whose robes hke those of the angel, will reflect the purity and drop the odors of heaven. It is not the rhythm, the cadence, the measure, nor the chosen words that thrill us, in the quotation of appropriate poetry, but it is, that we seem to be surroun- ded by a new light, — that in which the soul of the poet was constantly bathed. The glories of the rain-bow light are not pro- bably, best adapted to our daily wants, else had our bountiful Father thrown them over the whole creation, and every object that meets the eye had been thus gorgeously painted, yet who does not feel that he has INTRODUCTION. 17 known a pleasure indescribable, whenever he lias seen them. White too, win be read, because there will ever be a tender set of recollections grouped around his name. He has given us only a few drops of the first gushings of the vine. Goethe the poet of Germany, at the age of seventy or even eighty was great, and could pour forth song like a river im- measurably strong and deep and grand. Or to change the figure he stood like a tree, from which fruit, mature, large and delicious, dropped with wonderful profusion, but does this fact destroy the taste for that which grows upon the young tree, — too young to give any more than an earnest of what it may do. We admire the eflforts of mature and trained genius, and feel that they have a claim upon our admiration. Perhaps we are in danger of witholding somewhat, lest we pay that homage to labor and art, which we intend for genius, but in the case of the youthful bard, we have no such fears, and we therefore delight to bestow our unaffect- ed admiration on what we know must be the result of great talents, and these alone. The young poet on whom we are comment- ing, like a youthful orator, has our sympa- 18 INTRODUCTION. thies strongly enlisted in his favor, from the first moment of our acquaintance, and this surrender of sympathy grows more and more unreserved, so long as we cultivate it. There is a grace which mantles youth, which con- ceals defects, and magnifies excellencies. The few who become renowned on earth, have for the most part, some external cir- cumstances working in their favor, without which, apparently, they would have been un- known. The errors and sins of the popes, were the strange inheritance, by which Mar- tin Luther became renowned. The French Revolution, with all its horrors and atrocities, had to pass away, and the nation drunken and reeling with its own blood, was glad to give away all her liberties to Buonaparte, provided he could restrain her from destroy- ing herself. It was this that made him. And even our own Washington might have cultivated his farm, and measured the laud of his neighbours, unknown to posterity, had not the American Revolution called out his character, and reflected his greatness upon the world. While we allow that such men controlled and guided the circumstances which surrounded them, we cannot but feel that it is to these circumstances in a great INTRODUCTION. 19 degree, that they owe their celebrity. But when a mind comes forth from the deepest obscurity, with every circumstance untow- ard, and against it, witiiout one thing to aid it in coming into notice and yet breaking through a!l this, and by its own inborn en- ergy, and its own unaided power, rising up and compelhng notice and throwing off the difficukies which destroy most men, as the war-horse would throw off his market bur- dens, — we cheerfully bestow our admiration and applause. It was thus with Henry Kirke White. There was humanly speaking no one cir- cumstance which did not seem to say, that he must live and die in obscurity and un- known. His father was a butcher, and des- tined his son to the same occupation, and ac- tually had him carry the butcher's bask^et from door to door in his boyhood. In his school days, his instructors gave his parents the comforting assurance that their son was a dunce, whose only renown could be tha of being the greatest block-head in theii school. His destiny was then changed and he was doomed to be apprenticed to a stock- ing weaver, as the occupation of his life. But before this, when a mere child, he had 20 INTRODUCTION. crept unperceived into the kitchen and taught the servants to read, had lampooned his teachers, probably with no measured severity, and had gathered some few flowers, from the hill of Parnassus which, to-day, are as green as on the day of his plucking them. Born and educated amid poverty, in low life, with not one about him who could un- derstand or appreciate his character, with no hand to lift him up, and no voice which could call attention to him, he has chal- lenged, and has received the decision that his name shall stand on the roll of immor- tality. And if his life might be embodied in a single emblem, perhaps it should be that of a young lion, with an eye that glows and flashes fire, while he is bound with ivy and is led by the hand of one of the Graces. That must be one of God's own and bright- est stars, which can send its light down through the fogs and the damps which shut up all others, while to this, men involuntarily turn their eyes. Such a star was Henry, and our chief regret is, that an inscrutable Providence saw fit to allow it to do no ^ more than hang for a short time in the ho- rizon. There must be original greatness in the mind that can thus come into notice, INTRODUCTION. 21 with no one circumstance in its favor, but the reverse, and it is impossible but these struggles and this victory over difficulties should embalm his name as one that is sacred. He was born a Poet. Before he was six years old, he used to hang upon the lips of a poor damsel, whose attractions consisted in her being able to sing the simple ballad of the Babes in the Wood. While a mere boy he beautifully commemorates the cir- cumstance. " Many's the time I've scampered down the glade, To ask the promised ditty from the maid, Which well she loved and well she knew to sing, While we around her formed a little ring : She told of innocence foredoomed to bleed, Of wicked guardians bent on bloody deed, Of little children murdered as they slept ; While at each pause we wrung our hands and wept." * * 4j- * * " Beloved moment ! then 'twas first I caught The first foundation of romantic thought," * » * * * " Then first that poesy charmed mine infant ear; I hied me to the thick o'er-arching shade," etc. etc. It is not strange that childhood's heart should be touched by these ditties. It seems 22 INTRODUCTION. that they all formed a ring round the maid, and all wrung their little hands and wept, but there was only one among them, who went alone away to the " o'er-arching shade" to meditate and give his soul up to emotion. None but one born a poet would at that early age do that. Another instance. From the age of six to twelve he was at school, and used to take frequent walks with a playmate. In de- scribing these walks, he says it was one of their amusements, " To gaze upon the clouds, whose colour'd pride Was scatter'd thinly o'er the welkin wide, And tinged with such variety of shade, To the charm'd soul sublimest thoughts convey 'd. In these what forms romantic did we trace, While fancy led us o'er the realms of space ! Now we espied the Thunderer in his car, Leading I he enihattled Seraphim to war ; Then stately towers descried, sublimely high, In Gothic grandeur frowning on the sky ; Or saw, wide-stretching o'er the azure height, A ridge of glaciers dressed in mural white. Hugely terrific :" What child between the ages of six and twelve, has not gazed upon the glorious summer clouds, and seen them in all manner of fantastic shapes, representing almost INTRODUCTION. 23 every conceivable thing ? But how few are the children of this age, even if they were fresh from reading Milton, would have enousli of the Poet about them to see what White saw " The Thunderer in his car, Leading the embattled seraphim to war !" These are the emotions of the true poet, the eyes, as well as the power to describe what the eyes saw. It was at this very time that his wise teachers pronounced him a blockhead be- cause they knew not how to teach, and it was during these six years that the poor boy had another trial which must have tended to wither his genius, as " one whole day in the week and his leisure hours on other days, were employed in carrying the butcher's basket," his father being determined to bring him up to his own trade ! What indications of genius his lampoons on his stupid teach- ers would have aftbrded, we cannot know. Henry chiefly destroyed them himself. But as panegyric is always dull poetry, (sad comment on human nature !) and as satire is always the liveliest of which the author 24 INTRODUCTION. is capable, it is most probable that his whip would not have lacked a snapper. As we are speaking of Henry's claim to his popularity because he is a genuine poet, we may here introduce the testimony of one who will not be suspected of partiahty. It is the unsought and unexpected testimony of Byron, given in the days before his atra- bilious feelings led him to shun and trample on all that was virtuous — we had almost said, all that was decent. The heart which dictated this beautiful eulogy, had not then been the parent of such a monster as Don Juan. " 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 forever there. Oh ! what a noble heart was here undone. When Science self destroy'd her favourite son ! Yes, she too much indulged thy fond pursuit, She sow'd the seeds, but Death has reap'd the fruit. 'Twas thine own genius gave the final blow. And help'd to plant the wound that laid thee low : So the struck eagle, stretch'd upon the plain, No more through rolling clouds to soar again, View'd his own feather on the fatal dart, A.nd winged the shaft that quiver'd in his heart INTRODUCTION. 26 Keen were his pangs, but keener far to feel, He nursed the pinion which impeh'd the steel ; While the same plumage that had warm'd his nest, Drank the last life-drop of his bleeding breast." We are fully aware that poetry is some- thing to be enjoyed, rather than described. Like those exquisite essences which the French chemist prepares, — indescribably fragrant when properly used, but which evaporate by examining, or even handling. And yet we may take occasion to make one or two quotations which seem to us to evince the fact, that the Muses were present even from Henry's natal hour. We sup- pose that the brightest specimens of poetry must, from the very nature of things, be bordering on the obscure; that the Muse must take her flight midway between the visible and the invisible world, — so that she can dimly look into the latter, and then cull from the vocabulary of earth to find lan- guage with which to describe what she has seen. The following is a specimen of what we mean, and shows that White was a poet by nature. Common minds cannot soar like this, or if they can, they cannot stop on the very pinnacle of the mountain and there go out of sight. 26 INTRODUCTION, " Once more, and yet once more, I give unto my harp a dark-woven lay j I heard the waters roar, I heard the flood of ages pass away. thou, stern spirit, who dost dwell In thine eternal cell, Noting, gray chronicler ! the silent years ; I saw thee rise, — I saw the scroll complete, Thou spakest, and at thy feet The universe gave way." A single piece of a bone, will show that the creature of which it is a mere fragment, was a mammoth; and a single specimen of ore from a mine shows how rich is the bed from which it was dug. This single fragment shows that it came from a mine, which, if not inexhaustible, is of the richest quality. For some time previous to his death, Henry gave himself wholly to severe studies, and with such intensity of application, that his life was the forfeit. After his death there were found two stanzas of poetry writ- ten on the back of his mathematical papers, which for tender pathos, are seldom equalled. They are probably the last that his gifted mind ever produced. We shall be greatly mistaken if the reader shall regret that we quote them here, as one of the evidences INTKODUCTION. 27 that White was a Poet. It was probably a part of his poem on Time. " Thus far have I pursued my solemn theme With self-rewarding toil, thus far have sung Of godUke deeds, far loftier than beseem The lyre which 1 in 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 little 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 free." This affecting prayer of the "youthful traveller" was answered, as God frequent- ly answers prayer — not by giving the pre- cise thing for which in our darkness we ask. He entreated for hfe, in which he might 28 INTRODUCTION. serve his Redeemer : he received immoriaUl ij in Avhich he might be satisfied in the image of that Savior. At the time when these hnes were penned, the young Poet was surrounded by a host of admirers, who were goading him on in his studies, and with a frail body sinking under the pressure. He died a martyr to study : and while his friends were rejoicing that no honors were beyond his reach, and while his soul was of that order which even Death could not subdue, though it might crush the house in which it dwelt, and while his pure heart was panting only to be qualified for the holy functions of the min- istry of the Gospe], he sank suddenly and quickly away, and was laid in the grave at the early age of about twenty-one. What expectations were cut off by this mysterious dispensation ! But he lived to write that which will give him no mean place in the Temple of Fame as a Poet; and this is one reason why he has continued to live in spite of the predictions of those who were so confident and decided, that they felt it ne- cessary to try hard to render their pro- phesyings true. The other thing, in addition to poetical INTRODUCTION. 29 powers, which has made Henry a favorite, and to which allusion has already been made, is, that he had evangelical piety. Perhaps there is no one thing, excepting the horrors of the death-bed of the guilty, which is so gloomy in contemplation, as to witness the perversion of high powers of mind. When the traveller follows the mas'- niJicent St. Lawrence up towards those wonders, — the Falls, his soul is elevated at the thought that he is on the bosom of the river which empties half the waters of the globe ; but when, in a clear soft moonlight evening, he finds the floating palace on which he treads, winding her way among the " Thousand Isles" which stud these beautiful waters, he feels that it is indeed a fairy land : it is living poetry : it is consoli- dated romance, — and he retires to a lone part of the boat, that he may give himself up to emotions which are unutterable. He wants no one to break the charm by ex- claiming " how beautiful." Nothing ever conceived as belonging to earth can be com- pared to it, — and he cannot share his emo- tions with others. Now let these same Isles lie just as they now do, with the same soft moon hanging over them and the same 3* so INTRODUCTION. emerald waters flowing past them, and yet let them be occupied by banditti and refu- gees. Let the passengers and officers of the boat be on the lookout, expecting that outcasts will start out from behind every clump of trees, or will fire upon them from behind every rock. How different are the emotions now ! How different is that whole river, that veil of moonlight and these gems on the waters ! Such are the difierent feelinos with which we regard a mind full of poetry, full of emotion, full of the beautiful, the sublime and the great. If that mind with its powers and faculties and attainments be consecra- ted to religion and to God, we admire it as we do the islands as first described. We give our souls up to it without reserve, with a delight unmixed and with a confidence un- restrained. Such was the mind of Henry Kirke White. But when those glorious attributes of mind are given up to sin, filled with images of pollution, and crime, and death, we feel that the banditti and the refuorees have come and turned our paradise into hell. The pure temple of Parian marble becomes a charnel house. The thousand-lcavcd rose INTRODLCTION. 31 emits its fragrance only to conceal its poison. Such was Tliomas Dcrmody — a youthful poet who died about the time that Henry died. With powers of mind and with po- etical talent inferior, we had almost said to none, with friends admiring and urging him on, and a nation ready to applaud him, he prostituted all that he had, or might have had, to sin, to passion, and to death. He wore out his friends, all save one, who dis- graced himself by writing his Memoirs, and went down to the grave six years older than White, unlamented, unpraised, and forgot- ten. His memory perished with his ruined body. Perhaps few, if any of our readers ever heard of his name before. And yet if his heart had been sanctified by piety, and his powers consecrated to God, we have no reason to doubt, that he would have shared in the love and respect which are so freely given to White. We do not nov>^ mention his name to honor it, any more than the anatomist shows the scull of the felon to excite admiration. The mind recurs to Dermody because his circumstances were similar, and his powers of mind probably not inferior, to those of White — and because 32 INTRODUCTION. the fate which awaited his memory has been so very different. Seldom are we called to witness a more strikinix illustration of the promise, " them that honor me I will honor saith the Lord." How sure is the worm to destroy every plant which God has not planted ! How sure is the fate of those who prostitute their powers to sin, to be doomed to oblivion. Or if their names are preserved, they are preserved as the bodies of criminals, which are hung up in chains, that the passers-by may behold and shudder. A few, may for a short time, admire those who are great in wickedness ; but the hum- ble one, who pours the ointment on the feet of Jesus, shall have it told of her for a me- morial, that God will honor those who honor him through all time, and through all the world ! Blessed memorial ! And why will those, who pant after fame, and desire as the ruling passion of the soul, to live in the memory of men, why will they make war upon this unalterable law of God ? We have heard, we know not how many times — the sweet hymns of White sung by those whose esteem and love is indeed fame. How would that youth have felt could he have known, that when he had been in his INTRODUCTION. 33 grave nearly forty years, it could be said, that not a week, probably not a day passes, in which some one or more of his sweet Hymns is not sung to the music of Zion, and by those who are following him to the land of unclouded day ! In the forest, on the mountain-side, and in the great city, we have multitudes of times united in the song, « The Star of Bethlehem," " When marshall'd on the nightly plain, The glittering host bestud the sky," etc. The following Hymn we deem one of the best m the English language, and when sung to simple music, it is impossible for the heart not to have emotions of awe, and sub- limity, if not of devotion. « The Lord our God is clothed with 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 ; Without his high behest, 34 INTRODUCTION. Ye shall not in the mountain pine Disturb the sparrow's nest. " His voice sublime is heard afar, In distant peals it dies, He yokes the whirlwind to his car, And sweeps the howling skies. "Ye nations bend — in reverence bend; Ye monarchs wait his nod, And bid the choral song ascend To celebrate our God." White seems not to have had, what we in this country call, a religious education. As soon, therefore, as he became conscious of his superiority of intellect, he felt wise enough to be a Deist. Some pious friend, who well understood his case, put " Scott's Force of Truth" into his hands. He receiv- ed it with cold indifierence, and promised to answer it ; but when he came to read it, he found that in it which no infidel can begin to answer; viz, the enlightened experience of a Christian. It is this experience of the heart under the operation of the Holy Spirit, which utterly confounds men. Were it ar- gument alone, on -which the Christian rests, he might be met and vanquished by argu- ment. Were it on the reveries of imagi- INTRODUCTION. 35 nation alone, he might be laughed out of it. Were it only on a dream of an hour of en- thusiasm, he might be awaked when the hour of sober thinking should come. But who can meet experience — that which is a part of consciousness, and which abides through life — with argument or ridicule? Henry read the book ; and, on returning it, 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 so tho- roughly was he impressed with a sense of the importance of his Maker's favor, that he would willingly give up all acquisitions of knowledge and all hopes of fame, and live in a wilderness unknown till death, so that he could insure an inheritance in Hea- ven." To the clergyman who had put this little volume into his hands, he afterwards said, that, when he found that the Scrip- tures demanded purity oUhought a.ndfeeli7ig^ as well as pure outward conduct, he could find no comfort in his penitence, till he fled to the atonement for sin, which was made through the blood of the everlasting Re- deemer. To this unfailing refuge he fled, and the desire to become like him grew upon 36 INTRODUCTION. him till he was called home to his presence. His biographer held different views from Henry as to the depravity of the heart and the great doctrines of evangelical religion ; yet he bears this noble testimony : that the piety of Henry " was in him a living and quickening principle of goodness, which sanctified all his hopes and all his affec- tions, which made him keep watch over his own heart, and enabled him to correct the few symptoms which it ever displayed of human imperfection." However few may have been the outward " symptoms of hu- man imperfection," which his heart dis- played, we have no doubt that his was like all other hearts, depraved and unholy ; and we esteem the conversion of a heart so vain and so elated with a consciousness of ta- lent, as his must have been, one of the tro- phies of the grace of God. It is an in- stance of the high look and the lofty imagina- tion being brought into the obedience of the faith in Christ Jesus; and to eternity will his glorified spirit ascribe all the glory to the sovereign mercy of God in Christ Jesus. Who can read his life and not be impressed with the belief that he possessed a towering pride and an ambition that was boundless ? INTRODUCTION. S7 And what but supernatural power could bring these down to sit meekly at the feet of Jesus, and make him feel that all was lighter than air, compared with the appro- bation of his Maker? There are many cvidences that the piety of Henry was ge- nuine and deep. Among them, we may no- tice that his temper, which was naturally irritable, became placid and controllable ; that he was uniformly trying to make others happy by doing them good ; that he was unalterably fixed in his determination to de- vote his life to the propagation of the gos- pel as his highest aim and desire, though his friends did all in their power to dissuade him ; that he was uniformly most conscien- tious and devotional, till death dismissed him from earth. All wish to be remembered after they are in the cold grave ; all wish to have an influ- ence that shall linger on earth, and be felt long after they have passed away; and, could they know that this influence would increase for a century, or even for a thou- sand years, how would they rejoice ! Who would not try hard to climb the mountain- side, if, when he had reached the summit, he could open a fountain which would flow <±.J 38 INTRODUCTION. and carry fertility and blessings down to the end of time, and have his name asso- ciated with that fountain? It is on this principle that men, who can hardly read themselves, found schools and colleges. Perhaps this desire to speak after death is peculiarly strong in the bosom of the poet. By a mysterious law of God, every son and daughter of Adam, whether he be Alex- ander the conqueror,Buonaparte the wonder of modern times, or the poor slave in the mud-built cottage, is to have this influence. The grave receives the body, but the tomb does not take all away. Something is left to speak. Two youths may feed their flocks on the plains of Campania, and they may quarrel, though brothers. The more savage may kill the meek one, and this sa- vage character shall be impressed on a mighty empire, and this scene of violence shall be the influence which shall increase tin the spirit of Romulus is breathed into all that mighty kingdom, and Rome treads her way over nations with an iron heel, a dagger in her hand, and the savageness of murder in her heart. Had Remus stamped his character upon the infant colony, who can say that shepherds, instead of warriors, INTRODUCTION. 39 had not occupied the plains of Campania ? When we look at the influence which mind must have upon mind, we are almost ready to shudder at one side of the picture, while we rejoice at the other. The influence of such a man as Richard Baxter upon his own generation was great; but, pro- bably, not a hundredth part of what it has been on every generation since. The streams of influence, which he began to pour upon the human mind, have been widening and deepening ever since. The number who wifl be brought to Jesus Christ by his pen, makes us feel as if his voice had been multiplied a thousand fold, and his tongue had become the tono:ue of an anofel. And what shall we say of Bunyan, the man who was the scorn and the lauffhino;- stock of his generation, and the admiration of every generation that has succeeded ? His beautiful allegory will guide many a pilgrim through the slough of Despond up to the city of the New Jerusalem, and, being dead, he will influence to the end of time. If there be a joy purer than that of the sinless angels, it would seem to belong to that glorified spirit, who, from the walls of the golden city, can look down and see his in- 40 INTRODUCTION. fluonce on earth, like an angel of mercy, still brino-ing sons and daugrhters to the Lamb of God. There may be periods in which, owing to some peculiar taste of the age, such writers will be almost forgotten ; but the next generation will call them back to their place and influence. We may not doubt, however, that this influence is felt, even when not perceived, just as the moon lays her unseen hand on the tides and moves and controls them, when she is lost to us and we forget her, till the time for her re- turn comes, when she is welcomed in all her brightness, and her influence is acknow- ledged. And what is worthy of note and of gratitude, a single thought or a single paragraph may do wonders upon the heart of man. Probably no tongue can estimate the number of souls which will be brought back to God indirectly, in consequence of the sweet eulogy of Cowper upon the pulpit, commencing with the words : « The pulpit — and I named it," etc. etc. It win never be known till the great day how many feet have been turned to the house of God, and how many hearts have had a reverence for the pulpit awa- INTRODUCTION. 41 kcned by that brief paragraph. But we shall not be disappointed, if it shall be found that it has done more good than many great volumes of divinity, and the whole ministry of many really valuable ministers of the gospel. How little did Moses think that the songs which his soul poured out here, would be sung even in Heavoa ! Turn now to the influence which unsanc- tijicd.mind has upon the world. A wicked heart is frequently accompa- nied by genius, which it soon brings to its own subjection. The man writes and is read, and becomes an acknowledged author. He spends years upon his work ere it comes from the press. He brings the results of diligence, of learning, and of genius, and lays them before the v/orld. They have passages of undeniable beauty and power, and they are popular. It is in the power of genius to dress up the vilest highway- man, (we have Paul Cliftbrd in our eye,) so that the hideousness of crime and of blood shall be covered up, and young hearts shall sigh that they cannot be such highwaymen, or cannot marry such men. Alas ! the poi- son of the soul is mingled in every stream 4-* 42 INTRODUCTION. which such a mind sends out, thouo;h so art- fully covered up and so skilfully prepared, that the young heart does not perceive it. The book goes out upon the world, and a demon sits among its leaves and laughs. The press comes to the aid of ruin, and seals its perpetuity, and insures its wide cir- culation, and the demon's laugh is echoed from ten thousand different portions of the earth. The author thus acquires an influ- ence, a deep, decided influence, in the world, which will widen and extend after he has long been an inhabitant of the eternal world. He dared take the mhul which God gave him for purposes so high and noble that eternity alone can fulfil them, and with it, pour a living curse over his species ; and, in awful severity, God has decreed that the curse shall flow and continue to flow on- ward, and lie shall be made accountable for all the mischief he thus does. Oh ! if the covering could be removed from the dark world, so that we could see what is now concealed, we believe the human spirit might there be found who would think the price of a world cheap, could he with it, purchase the privilege of blotting out one of those profane jests at the cross of Jesus, which INTRODUCTION. 43 lie left on earth to do the work of deatli. And there would be found the unholy genius who came as an angel in intel- lect, and sung in strains that an angel might admire, but who used his harp only to ahure down to hell. What a fearful gift the possession of such an intellect ! and such a harp! — a harp that can entrance nations, open undiscovered fountains in the human heart, and pour out its numbers fresh as the morning dew, when other harps would shatter by being over-strained ! Such an one has just left its influence on earth. Wonderful being ! « With Nature's self He seemed an old acquaintance, free to jest, At will with all her glorious majesty. He laid his hand upon the 'ocean's mane,' And played familiar with his hoary locks ; Stood on the Alps, — stood on the Appenines, And with the thunder talked as with a friend, And wove his garland of the light'ning's wing. ***** Suns, moons, and stars and clouds his sisters were ; Rocks, mountains, meteors, seas, and winds and storms, His brothers — younger brothers, whom he scarce As equals deemed. 44 INTRODUCTION. On the loftiest top Of Fame's dread mountain sat; not soiled and worn, As if he from the earth had labored up, But as some bird of heavenly plumage fair, He looked, which down from higher regions came, And perched it there, to see what lay beneath." Alas, we say again, that it should be so ; that the lofty genius, before whom the spe- cies all bow in wonder and amazement, should put out the lamp of life, and cause his own beacon to loom up, fiery and red, amid the darkness which he continued to create — a beacon whose only use is to de- coy the ship, laden with a cargo more pre- cious than rubies, upon the rocks and the reefs, that he should revel in the luxury of witnessing the awfulness of the wreck! Oh! if the heavens above, and the caverns be- neath us, could be turned into whispering gal- leries, what ecstacy of bliss and of wo should we hear, consequent upon the influence left on earth! Had we the power of the painter, and were it our object to paint despair, we should select the author who prostituted his powers to destroy the souls of men. We would put on him no chains ; he should wear no fetters. He should sit down alone INTRODUCTION. 45 in his agony, while at a distance should stand a multitude of all ages who are point- ing to him with curses and despair in their faces. He should see them, and his very countenance should seem to say — "Ah! ye need not point and curse. Ye are not all that I have ruined. There are many more to come and hail me as their marshal to destruction. I was once witty and keen, and could so gracefully thrust the spear into the side of Jesus, that my hand was hardly seen. But oh ! my folly ! What would I not give, could my name and my influence be now swept from the earth and the blight- ing curse cease. Oh! that I could now shut down those flood-gates of death which my own right hand lifted up, and stay the streams of ruin which I caused to flow. But, alas ! I have been here centuries, and yet I am living and speaking and destroy- ing on the earth, and my burden of guilt already heavier than mountains, is every hour becoming heavier still !" This would be Despair. We speak of the simple, child-like piety of White as almost a phenomenon. It must be recollected, that, in a short mo- ment, he came from poverty, obscurity, and 46 INTRODUCTION. almost degradation, into notice, respect, and adulation. The fact that he was a master-spirit, was fully made known to him. Is it easy for such a mind to walk in the valley of humiliation ? Some suppose, that, if they could stand high and aloft among men, have distinctions and notice, so that they could tower above their species, they should most cheerfully consecrate it all to God, though they find it hard to do so with the single talent. And is a powerful intel- lect, such as can dive into the mysteries and depths of nature, so capacious that it can grasp the past, the present, and the fu- ture, and hold them out in a new light, — is such an intellect the thing that will lead men to humility and self-renunciation ? No. The intellect of the archancjel might be in the possession of an unsanctified heart, and it would be a heavy curse. Adding to the possessions of such a heart does not tend to make it better. Judas would rob his master of a few shillings. Would placino- him over the treasures of an empire make him an honest man ? Does adding to the wealth of a selfish heart render it benevo- lent ? Would the gift of enviable and en- vied talents tend to kill that pride which is INTKODUCTION. 47 now the god which we are so ready to serve ? Increase the intellect, the powers of the mind, exalt the mortal and make him feel that he has what others admire and covet, and you do as much towards bringinix the soul down to the foot of the cross, as you would towards reducing the fort which already seems impregnable, by sending more cannon and more powder and ball into it. The acknowledged transcend- ent powers of mind which White possessed, were one of the greatest obstacles in his way of becoming an humble and meek disciple of Christ. But all this was brought down by the grace of God, and he stands forth a monument of the mercy and of the power of the gospel of Jesus Christ. How immeasurably high does the Poet stand compared with others, who conse- crates his gifts to the cross of Jesus. We speak not here of the guilt of making po- etry the vehicle in which the gifted mind may carry the curses of a blighted heart, and the fires of passions kindled from the pit, but we speak of the advantage which he has in three important particulars, viz. : range of thought, immortality among men, and the rciuards of doing good. Suppose a 4S INTRODUCTION. poet has no piety, and he is about to task his powers of mind to the utmost, what is his field ? He may read and study and converse with men — travel and examine cities and battle-fields — gather the costumes and the customs of all nations and ages and languages ; he may lay before him the map of time, and at a glance read all the past. He may then look for imagery, and the world is full of it. Not a plant grows by the hedo^e, but it is full of life ; not a flower opens in his garden, but it is pencilled with the most exquisite skill. He goes to the desert and to the mountain-side, and a hand has already been there to plant and paint the flower which smiles at his approach ; he looks into the dark, deep lake of the forest, and nimble swimmers, all mottled with gold and purple and carmine, are there to excite his wonder and admiration ; he looks into the deeper chambers of the ocean, and there the coral and the shell, inimitably beautiful and in unmeasured pro- fusion, astonish his inquiring mind ; or, he looks abroad on the surface of the earth, and the mountains heave up their huge rocks like the skeletons of worlds not yet made ; or the ocean hfts its awful voice and shuts out INTRODUCTION. 49 the limits between what is finite and what is infinite ; or the storm comes through the forest Uke a destroying spirit, and sports with what seems immoveable, and the hoarse voice of the thunder and the bright flash of its fire, are all his, and he may press them all into the service of his song, and make them all sit at his feet and tune their harps at his bidding. But these are all finite in space, in time, in measure, and, at the very point where the sublime begins, the materials are exhausted and the poet must stop. The soul can never be satisfied with what is finite. Now, at the spot at which the poet who rejects the Bible stops, because the poor elements which he handles pall upon him like the toys which children have turned over until they loathe them, the Christian poet starts. He can use all these ; but all these materials, the hills, the mountains, the ocean, the pla- nets, and the heavens, all that the eye sees, are only images of what is yet to be seen — the mere scaffoldincr of the buildino-, which is yet to be reared. What poem could Milton have produced, had he been confined to all that God has revealed through his works, provided he nmst shut out the Bible ? 5 50 INTRODUCTION. As to materials, then, the Christian poet stands on ground as much superior to the poet of this world as spirit is superior to matter, as the infinite is g'reater than the finite, and as eternity is greater than time. Tlien, as to fame. The gospel carries light in its path. It will not long have dis- ciples who cannot read and reflect; who are not intelligent, virtuous, and rising in the scale of knowledge. There will bo more intelligent readers amomj Christians, ten fold at least, than among those who reject the Bible. The number of readers and admirers of thinking minds, which will attend to the song of the Christian poet, is altogether in his favor. And what is more, love is the genius of the gospel. While others admire and gaze as they would upon an iceberg, the Christian takes his poet to his heart and gives him his heart and love. Who would not prefer to have the warm hearts that have been given to the pages of tlie sweet Cowper, than to have all the ditty-music and all the bacchanalian admi- ration that has been bestowed upon all the amatory songs that have ever been written 1 Who would not prefer the warm-hearted admiration which is so cheerfully given to INTRODUCTIOX. 51 Milton, than all the praises which have been ever meted out to old Homer — father of sons? It is one tliinnj to walk around a temple and gaze and admire its cold marble, and another to view it with a beating heart, because it contains the shrine at which the heart worships. The irreligious poet may, at immense expense, erect his splendid mau- soleum, but it contains only the bones of dead men ; the Christian poet shaU be at the same expense, and living angels shall walk there, and Hope, in the mantle of undecaying youth, shall be there to receive the offering made to the God of hope. How short is the life of almost every book, — and how little does it effect ! « Thou wonderest how the world contained them all! Thy wonder stay : like men, this was their doom : — That dust they were, and should to dust re- turn. And oft their fathers, childless and bereaved, Wept o'er their graves, when they themselves were green ; And on them fell, as fell on every age, As on their authors fell, oblivious Night, — Which o'er the past lay darkling, heavy, still. Impenetrable, motionless and sad, 52 INTUODUCTION. Having his dismal, leaden plumage stirred By no remembrancer, to show the men Who after came, what was concealed beneath." As to the good done, and the rewards of that good, it were vain to attempt any com- parison between the Christian and the mere poet of time. All honors drop at the grave, and the voice of fame and applause falls dead as it strikes the tomb. Then, at the very spot af which the creature of time has emptied his cup and received his re- ward, the rivers of pleasure begin everlast- ingly to flow for the servant of Christ. What worms of earth can bestow shall be the reward of the one, while the eternal smile of the infinite God shall be the re- ward of him who gives his powers to Christ. We cannot close these remarks upon the gifted young poet, without distinctly holding him up as an example of encouragement to youth in humble life. He was the son of a poor butcher, as were also Dr. Moore, arch- bishop of Canterbury of the present day, and Cardinal Woolsey of former days ; but this was a barrier that could be easily sur- mounted. The most favored and honored of men, and the choicest instruments raised INTRODUCTION. 53 up by a superintending Providence, were from the shades of humble hfe. Pascal and Bowditch, immortal for their accurate minds, were the sons of mechanics. Why go over the catalogue of great ones who have sprung from similar origin, which catalogue has been repeated until it is al- most offensive to good taste ? We might, in the twilight of our wisdom, go to a palace to select a hand that could tear down the pillars which the superstition of ages had reared; but God goes to the mines and takes the collier's son — the boy who begged food from door to door, while pursuing his studies — and raises him up to be the instru- ment who should usher in the glorious re- formation. There is no aristocracy of talent, and mind is so much more esteemed than matter ; intellect is so much more highly prized than the mere circumstances of birth or of wealth, that they sink into nothing. If the quill can write a powerful sentence, it is of httle consequence v.'hether it came from the wing of the eagle or the goose. And let no youth feel that he can be depressed by mere external circum- stances. If he has the vis vikr, the un- speakable gift of great talents, and a heart 5* 54 INTRODUCTION. consecrated to the good of men and the honor of God, there will be no lack of op- portunity to have these called out. And vv^e hold up Henry Kirk White as a monu- ment of what perseverance, a right enthusi- asm, and a pure heart can accomplish. We hold him up as a monument of the power of the gospel and of the grace of God, and we commemorate him as an example of the powers of the human soul. He died at the early age of twenty-one ; but the warm breathings of his soul are still upon us, and will never grow cold. If, in that short period, his spirit could master so much of learning ; if it could drink so much at so many fountains of knowledge ; if it could stamp itself upon the earth, so that its lineaments will remain, perhaps till the archangel's trumpet shall sound, what may not be its powers, its faculties, its light, and its glory, in the eternal kingdom of God, where it can see and study and know all that comes within the province of a finite being ? What songs of love and of gratitude will not the tongue sinor as it mingles eter- nally with that bright circle who will for- ever be drawing nearer the throne of the Ivedecmcr ? INTRODUCTION. 55 Henry lies buried in Cambridge — tbe spot on which he fell a martyr to a noble enthu- siasm. One of our own countrymen, Fran- cis Boot, has erected a monument there to his memory. But he needs not marble. We admire the feeling which did it; and yet we are almost sorry that it is done. We would prefer that it might still be said : " No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep ; Atfliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb — Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom." The name, the character, and the writings of White, are the legacy of the young. To them we commend them, as we would the pure waters that gush from the mountain- side. They cannot be tasted without in- vigorating. And, if these remarks, penned with diffidence, shall add any thing to the value of the beautiful edition which our respected publishers now put forth, our gratification will be immeasurably greater than our labor. PiTTSFiELD, Mass., Mny, 1811. INSCRIPTION BY WILLIAM SMYTH, ESQ. PROFESSOK OP MODERN HISTORY, CAMBRIDGE ; ON A MONUMENTAL TABLET, WITH A MEDALLION BY CHANTREY, ERECTED IN ALL-SAINT's CHURCH, CAMBRIDGE, AT THE EXPENSE OF FRANCIS BOOTT, ESQ. OF BOSTON, UNITED STATES. HENRY KIRKE WHITE, BORN MARCH 21st, 1785; DIED OCTOBER 10th, 1806. Warm with foni hope, and learning's sacred flame. To Graiila's bowers the youthful Poet came; UnconquerM powers, the immortal niiiid display'd, But worn with anxious thought the fi-ame decay 'd: Pale o'er his lamp and in his cell retired, The Mai-tyr Student faded and expired. O Genius, Taste, and Piety sincere, Too early lost, midst duties too severe ! Foremost to mourn was generous SOUTHEY seen, He told the tale and show'd what WHITE kid beer.. Kor told in vain — f.ir o'er th' Atlantic wave, A Wanderer came and s:'Ught the Poet's grave ; On yon low stone be saw his lonely name, Add ^ai^ed this fond memorial to his fame. W. S. ACCOUNT OF THE LIFE OF HENRY KIRKE WHITE. BY ROBERT SOUTHEY. Not alone by the Muses, But by the Virtues loved, his soul in its youthful aspirings Sought the Holy Hill, and his thirst was for Siloah's waters. Vision of Judgment. No marble marks thy couch of lowly sleep, But living statues there are seen to weep. Affliction's semblance bends not o'er thy tomb. Affliction's self deplores thy youthful doom ! Byron. Henry Kirke White, the second son of John and Mary White, was born in Nottingham, March 21st, 1784. His father was a butcher ; his mother, whose maiden name was Neville, is of respectable Staffordshire family. From the years of three till five, Henry learnt to read at the school of Mrs. Garrington ; whose name, unimportant as it may appear, is mentioned because she had the good sense to perceive his ex- traordinary capacity, and spoke of what it pro- mised with confidence. Slie was an excellent wo- 57 58 LIFE OP man, 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 be- ing regarded, that she was obliged to change the tone of her voice before she could rouse him." When he was about seven, he would creep unper- ceived 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. And perhaps, no forward child, however extraordinary the promise of his childhood, ever produced any thing truly great. When Henry was about six, he was placed un- der the Rev. John Blanchard, who kept, at that time, the best school in Nottingham. Here he learnt writing, arithmetic, 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 express ing his astonishment at the excellence of Henry's. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 59 It was considered as a great thing for him to be at so good a school, yet there were some circum- stances 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 arrangement 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 em- ployed 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 in- forming Mrs. White what an incorrigible son she had, and that it was impossible to make the lad do any thing. This information made his friends very uneasy : they were dispirited about him ; and had they relied wholly upon this report, the stu- pidity or malice of this man would have blasted 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 pain- ful suspicions of his family. While his schoolmasters were complaming 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 60 LIFE OF any, except his most particular friends, who say tliat tliey were pointed and severe. They are enumerated in the table of contents to one of his manuscript vohimes, 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 un- der these feelings, is preserved. (See " Lines on being confined to school one pleasant morning in spring," page 318.) About this time his mother was induced, by the advice of several friends, to open a Ladies' Board- ing and Day School in Nottingham, her eldest daughter having previously 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, thougl 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 ware- house. During the time that he was thus employ- ed, he might be said to be truly unhappy ; he went to his work with evident reluctance, and could not refrain from sometimes hinting his extreme aver- sion to it ; but the circumstances of his family obliged them to turn a deaf ear. His mother, however, secretly felt that he was worthy of bettei 1 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 61 things : to her he spoke more openly ; he could not bear, he said, the thought of spending seven years of his life in shining and folding up stock- ings ; he wanted something to occupy his brain, 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 com- plaints, after a year's application, or rather mis- application (as his brother says), at the loom, con- vinced her that he had a mind destined for nobler pursuits. To one so situated, and with nothing 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 pos- sible effort to effect his wishes, his father being very averse to the plan ; and at length, after over- coming a variety of obstacles, he was fixed in the office of Messrs. Coldham and Enfield, attorneys and town-clerks of Nottingham. As no premiuni 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 1S02. On his thus entering the Law, it was recommend- ed to him by his employers, that he should en- deavour to obtain 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 6 62 LIFE OP ardent mind no obstacles were too discouraging. He received some instruction in the first rudiments of this language from a person who tlien resided at Nottingham under a feigned name, but was soon obliged to leave it, to elude the search of govern- ment, who were then seeking to secure him. Henry discovered him to be Mr. Cormick, from a print affixed to a continuation 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 himself to read Horace with tolerable facility, and had made some progress in Greek, which indeed he began first. He used to exercise himself in declining the Greek nouns and verbs as he was going to and from the oflice, so valuable was time become to him. From this time he contracted a habit of employing his mind in study during his walks, which he continued to the end of his life. He now became almost estranged from his fam- ily ; even at his meals he would be reading, and his evenings 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 efl'ects of this severe and unremitting application. The Law was his first pursuit, to which his papers show he had ap- HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 63 plied himself with such industry, as to make it wonderful that he could have found lime, 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 ac- quired some knowledge both of tne Spanish and Portuguese. His medical friends say that the knowledge he had obtained 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 bass to the air he was play- ing ; 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 v/ork of his own hands. At a very early age, indeed soon after he was taken from school, Henry Avas ambitious of being admitted a member of a Literary Society then ex- isting in Nottingham, but was objected to on ac- count of his youth. After repeated attempts and repeated failures, he succeeded in his wish, through the exertions of some of his friends, and was elect- ed. There were six Professors in this Society ; and, upon the first vacancy, he was appointed to the chair of Literature. It may well appear strange that a society, in so large a town as Not- tingham, instituted for the purpose of acquiring and diffusing knowledge, and respectable enough to be provided with a good philosophical appara- 64 LIFE OF tiis, should have chosen a boy, in the fifteenth year of his age, to deliver lectures to them upon general literature. The first subject upon which he held forth was Genius. Having taken a day to con- sider the subject, he spoke upon it extempore, and harangued for two hours and three quarters : yet, instead of being wearied, his hearers passed a unanimous resolution, " That the most sincere thanks be given to the Professor for his most in- structive and entertaining lecture ; at the same time assuring him that the Society never had the pleasure of hearing a better lecture delivered from that chair which he so much honoured :" and they then elected him one of their committee. There are certain courts at Nottingham, in which it is ne- cessary for an attorney to plead ; and he wished to qualify himself for a speaker as well as a sound lawyer. With the profession in which he was placed he was well pleased, and suffered no pursuit, nume- rous as his pursuits were, to interfere in the slight- est 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, however faint. There was at this time a magazine in publication, called the INIonthly Preceptor, which proposed prize-themes for boys and girls to write upon ; and which was encouraged by many schoolmasters, some of whom, for their own credit, and that of the impor- tant institutions in which they were placed, ought HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 65 to have known better than to encourage it. But in schools, and m all practical systems of educa- tion, 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 dilute- ment — this vacci7ie virus of envy. True it is, that we need encouragement in youth; that though our vices spring up and thrive in shade and dark- ness, like poisonous fungi, our better powers re- quire 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 debarred from it, will push forth in contortions and deformity. But such practices as that of wri- ting 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 effectof such stimulants is todwarf thehumanmind, as lap-dogs are said to be stopt in their growth by being dosed with gin. Thus forced, it becomes like the sapling which shoots up when it should be striking its roots far and deep, and which there- fore never attains to more than a sapling's size. To Henry, however, the opportunity of distin- guishing 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 aim- niff at every distinction within his little sphere. At 0' * 66 LIFE OF tlie 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 Toar from London to Edinburgh. He determined npon trying for this prize one evening when at tea with his family, and at supper he read to them his performance, to which seven pages were granted in the magazine, though they had limited the al- lowance of room to three. Shortly afterwards he won several books for exercises on different sub- jects. Such honours were of great importance to him ; they were testimonies of his ability, which could not be suspected of partiality, and they pre- pared his father to regard with less reluctance that change in his views and wishes which afterwards took place. It appears by a letter written soon after he had completed his fifteenth year, that many of his pieces in prose and verse, under feigned sig- natures, had gained admission in the various mag- azines of the day, more particularly in the Month- ly Magazine and the Monthly Visitor : " In pro- saic composition," he says, " I never had one ar- ticle refused: in poetic, many." — "I am conscious," he observes, at this time, to his brother, " that if I chose I could produce poems infinitely superior to any you have yet seen of mine ; but I am so indolent, and at the same time so much engaged, that I cannot give the time and attention necessary for the formation of correct and accurate pieces." Less time and attention are necessary for correct- ing prose, and this may be one reason why, con- trary to the usual process, a greater prematurity is HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 67 discernable in his prose than in his metrical com- positions. "The reason," lie says, "of the num- ber of erasures and corrections in my letter is, that it contains a rough transcript of the state of my mind, without my having made any sketch on another paper When I sit down to write, ideas crowd into my mind too fast for utterance upon paper. Some of them I think too precious to be lost, and for fear their impression should be effaced, I write as rapidly as possible. This accounts for my bad writing." He now became a correspondent in the Monthly JNIirror, a magazine which first set the example of typographical neatness in periodical publications, which has given the world a good series of por- traits, and which deserves praise also on other ac- counts, having among its contributors some per- sons of extensive erudition and acknowledged tal- ents. 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 tliey should try their strength before the public, without danger of any shame from failure, is highly desirable. Henry's rapid improvement was now as remark- able as his unwearied industry. The pieces which had been rewarded in the Juvenile Preceptor might have been rivalled by many boys ; but what he produced a year afterwards, few men could eqital. Those which appeared in the Monthly Mirror attracted some notice, and introduced him 68 LIFE OF to the acquaintance of Mr. Capel Lofft, and of Mr. Hill, the proprietor of tire work, a gentleman who was himself a lover of English literature, and who possessed one of the most copious col- lections of English poetry in existence. Their encouragement 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 publica- tion might either, by the success of its sale, or the notice which it might excite, enable him to pro- secute his studies at college, and fit himself for holy orders. For, though so far was he from feeling 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 worse, threatened to preclude all possibility of ad- vancement ; and his opinions, which had at one time inclined to infidelity, had now taken a strong devotional bias. Henry was earnestly advised to obtain, if pos- sible, some patroness for his book, whose rank in life, and notoriety in the literary world, might afford it some protection. The days of such dedi- cations are happily well-nigh at an end ; but this was of importance to him, as giving his little vol- ume consequence in the eyes of his friends and townsmen. The Countess of Derby was first ap- plied to, and the manuscript submitted to her pe- rusal. She returned it with a refusal, upon the ground that it was an invariable rule with her HENRY KIRKE ^VHITE. 69 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 failure of his application : a 2l. note was in- closed as her subscription to the work. The mar- gravine of Anspach was also thought of. There is among his papers the draught of a letter ad- dressed to her upon the subject, but I believe it was never sent. He v/as then recommended to apply to the Duchess of Devonshire. Poor Hen- ry felt a fit of 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 waiting four hours in the servants' hall, his perseverance conquered their idle insolence, and he got possession of the man- uscript. And here he, as well as his brother, sick of "dancing attendance" upon the great, would have relinquished all thoughts of the dedication, but they were urged to make one more trial ; — a letter to her Grace was procured, with which Ne- 70 LIFE OF rille obtained audience, wisely leaving the man uscript 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 title-page, and a copy was trans- mitted to her in due form, and in its due morocco livery, — of which no notice was ever taken. In- volved as she was in an endless round of miserable follies, it is probable 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 let- ter, wherein he stated what his disadvantages had been, and what were the hopes which he proposed lo himself from the publication : requesting from them that indulgence of which his productions 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 opinions, and with what feelings he read the following article in the Monthly Review for February, 1804. Monthly Review, February, 1S04. " The circumstances under which this little vol- ume is offered to the public, must, in some measure, disarm criticism. We have been informed that HENRi KIRKE WHITE. 71 Mr, White has scarcely attained his eighteenth year, has hitherto exerted himself in the pursuit of knowledge under the discouragements of pen- ury and misfortune, and now hopes, by this early authorship, to obtain some assistance in the pro- secution of his studies at Cambridge. He appears, indeed, to be one of those young men of talents and application who merit encouragement ; and it would be gratifying to us to hear that this publi- cation 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 ex- igencies as a student at the university. A sub- scription, with a statement of the particulars of the author's case, might have been calculated to have answered his purpose ; 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 endeavors to excel; but we cannot compliment 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. 72 LIFE OP « If Mr. White should be instructed by Alma- mater, he will, doubtless, 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- humor, turned over the leaves to look for faults, and finding that Boy and Sky were not orthodox rhymes, according to his wise canons of criticism, sat down to blast the hopes of a boy, who had confessed to him all his hopes and all his difficul- ties, and thrown himself upon his mercy. With 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 good man would not have said so : he would have avoided censure, if he had found it impossible to bestow praise. But that the reader may perceive the wicked injustice, as well as the cruelty of this re- vie wal, a few specimens of the volume, thus con- temptuously condemned because Boy and Sky are used as rhymes in it, shall be inserted in this place. TO THE HERB ROSEMARY.* 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 shall form my nosegay now, And I will bind thee round my brow ; * The Rosemary buds in January, It is the flower commonly put in the coffins of the dead. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 73 And as I twine the mournful wreath, I'll weave a melancholy son"^ : And sweet the strain shall be and long, The melody of death. Come, funeral flow'r ! who lovest to dwell With the pale corse in lonely tomb, And throw across the desert gloom A sweet decaying smell. 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 ! 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. TO THE MORNING. WRITTEN DURINQ 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. 7 71 LIFE OP Tired 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 wreaths 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 ray way, Where high o'erhead the wild briers 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 colors drest. Blithe Health ! thou soul of life and ease, Come thou too on the balmy breeze, Invigorate my frame : I'll join with thee the buskin'd chase, 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 burnish'd gold. Behind the twilight's hue. The misls which on old Night await. Far to the west they hold their state. HENRY KIUKE WHITE. 75 They shun the clear blue face of Morn ; Along the fine cerulean sky, Tlie fleecy clouds successive fly, '•Vhile bright prismatic beams their shadowy folds adorn. And hark ! the Thatcher has begun 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. o Who would not ratlier take his seat Beneath these clumps of trees, The early dawn of day to greet, And catch the healthy breeze. 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 1 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 whispering 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. 76 LIFE OP An author is proof against reviewmg, when, .ike myself, he has been reviewed some seventy limes; 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 answer in the next number : Monthly Review, March, 1804. ADDRESS TO CORRESPONDENTS. " In the course of our long critical labors, we liave necessarily been forced to encounter the re- sentment, or withstand the lamentations, of many disappointed authors ; but we have seldom, if ever, been more affected than by a letter from Mr. White, of Nottingham, complaining of the ten- dency of our strictures on his poem of Clifton Grove, in our last number. His expostulations are written with a Avarmth of feeling in which we truly sympathise, 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 mitigating the pain of that de- cision which our public duty required us to pro- nounce. We spoke with the utmost sincerity HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 77 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, hke Mr. GitFord (see preface to his translation of Juve- nal,) some Mr. Cookesley may yet appear to foster a capacity which endeavours to escape from its present confined sphere of action ; and let the op- ulent inhabitants of Nottingham reflect, that some portion of that wealth which they have worthily acquired by the habits of industry, will be lauda- bly applied in assisting the efibrtsof mind." Henry was not aware that reviewers are infal- lible. His letter seems to have been answered by a different writer ; the answer has none of the commonplace and vulgar insolence of the criti- cism : 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 them to two of my friends, than whom no persons living better understand what poetry is, nor have given better proofs of it ; and their opinion coincided with my own. I was indignant at the injustice of this pretended 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 thougli I was well aware how imprudent it 7 * 78 LIFE OP was in young poets to publish their productions, his circumstances seemed to render that expedient, from whicli 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 undertaking. To this he replied in the following letter : — * * « « * " I dare not say all I feel respecting your opin- ion of my little volume. The extreme acrimony with which the Monthly Review (of all others the most important) treated me, threw me into a state of stupefaction ; I regarded all that had passed as a dream, and 1 thought I had been deluding my- self into an idea of possessing poetic genius, when in fact I had only the longing, without the afflatus. I mustered resolution 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 correc- tion. 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 respectable ; and therefore could not, I concluded, give a criticism grossly deficient in equity — the more especially, as I knew of no sort of mduce- ment to extraordinary severity. Your letter, however, has revived me, and I do again venture to hope that I may still produce something which will survive me. " With regard to your advice and offers of as- HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 79 sistancc, I will not attempt, because I am miable, to thank you for them. To-morrow morning I de- part for Cambridge ; and I have considerable hopes 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, 1 therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall find means of support in the University. If I do not, T shall certainly act in pursuance of your recommenda- tions ; 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 acquainted 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, 1 might have succeeded ; provided, it seems, I had made "a, particular statement 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 pen- ny sheet for your sixpence, by way of half-pur- chase, half-charity. " I have materials for another volume ; but they were written principally while Clifton Grove was 80 LIFE OF in the press, or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obHged to desist, almost entirely, from converse with the dames of Helicon. The drudgery of an attorney's office, and the necessity of preparing myself, 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 unfeeling and iniquitous criticism : "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 work is worthless ; and this with every appearance of candor. 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 Nottingham." It is not unworthy of remark, that this very re- viewal, which was designed to crush the hopes of Henry, and suppress his struggling genius, has been, in its consequences, 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 I I perusing a criticism at once so cruel and so HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 81 Stupid, the little intercourse between Henry and myself would not have taken place ; his papers would probably have remained in oblivion, and his name in a few years have been forgotten. I have stated that his opinions were, at one time, inclining towards deism : it needs not be said on what slight grounds the opinions of a youth must needs be founded : while they are confined to mat- ters of speculation, they indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only an active mind ; and it is only when a propensity is manifested 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 un- settled state of mind, exhibits much of his char- acter, and can excite no feeUngs towards him, but such as are favourable. (See " My own Charac- ter," page 329.) At this time, when Henry doubted the truth of Christianity, and professed a careless indifference concerning it which he was far from feeling, it happened that one of his earliest and most intimate friends, 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 determina- tion to renounce all such pursuits as were not strictly compatible with it. That he might not be shaken in this resolution, he withdrew fi'om the society of all those persons whose ridicule or cen- sure he feared ; and was particularly careful to avoid Henry, of whose raillery he stood most in 82 LIFE OP dread. He anxiously shunned him, therefore ; 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 the cause of this unaccountable conduct towards him- self and their common acquaintance. Mr. Almond, who had received him with trem- bling and reluctance, replied to this expostulation, that a total change had been effected in his reli- gious views, and that he was prepared to defend his opinions and conduct, if Henry would allow the Bible to be the word of truth and the standard of appeal. Upon this Henry exclaimed in a tone of strong emotion : — " Good God, you surely re- gard me in a worse light than I deserve !" — 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 dramatic, poem. He then stated what the change was which had taken place in his own views and intentions, and the motives for his present conduct. From the manner in which Henry listened, it became evident that his mind was ill at ease, and that he was noways 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 con- fidence of great intellectual powers, and, as yet, ignorant of his own ignorance, found himself un- expectedly called upon to act the monitor; and, putting into his hands Scott's "Force of Truth," HENRY KIRKE WUITE. 83 which was lying on the table, entreated him to take it with him, and peruse it at his leisure. The book produced little effect, and was return- ed with disapprobation. Men differ as much in mind as in countenance : some are to be awaken- ed by passionate exhortation, or vehement reproof, appealing to their fears and exciting their imagi- nation ; others yield to force of argument, or, upon slow inquiry, to the accumulation of historical tes- timony 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 way of peace. Hen- ry was of this class. His intellect 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 believe, the root of infidelity is destroy- ed. Mr. Almond was about to enter at Cambridge ; on the evening before his departure for the Uni- versity, Henry requested that he would accompa- ny 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 anguishof mind was insupportable. He en- treated that 1 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 ? — You are the only friend to whom I can apply in this agonizing state, and you are about to leave 84 LIFE OF me. My literary associates are all inclined to deism; I have no one witn whom I can communi- cate !" A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he engaged 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 ap- peared to himself not yet to have taken a step, en- gaged all his anxiety, as of all concerns the most important. He could not rest satisfied till he had formed his principles upon the basis of Christianity, 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 adopt- ed, and the standard of practice which he had set up for himself, was the purity of mind which he perceived was everywhere inculcated in the Holy Scriptures, and required of every one who would become a successful candidate for future blessed- ness. He had supposed that morality of conduct was all the purity required ; but when he observed that purity of the very thoughts and intentions of the soul also was requisite, he was convinced of his deficiencies, and could find no comfort to his HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 85 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, pro- mised to those who seek such from above in the sincerity of earnest prayer." From the moment when he had fully contracted these opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his life to the promulgation of them ; and therefore to leave the law, and, if possible, place himself at one of the universities. Every argument was used by his friends to dissuade him from his purpose, but to no effect ; his mind was unalterably 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 AVas articled : his entrance and continuance in the profession had been a great expense to his family ; and to give up 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 com- petency, 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 be*st and purest motives. Without ambition he could not have existed ; but his ambi- tion now was to be eminently useful in the min- istry. 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. 8 86 LIFE OF 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 get- ting through the university were such as he might reasonably trust to ; but, till then, they felt them- selves bound, for his own sake, to detain him. Mr. Dashwood, a clergyman, who at that time re- sided in Nottingham, exerted himself in his favour: he had a friend at Queen's College, Cambridge, who mentioned him to one of the fellows of St. John's, and that 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 held out to him, his employers gave him a month's leave of ab- sence, 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 retreat the village of Wilford, which is situated on the banks of the Trent, and at the foot of Clifton Woods. These woods Viad ever been his favourite place of resort, and were the subject of the longest poem in his little volume, from which, indeed, the volume was named. He delighted to point out to his more in- timate 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 sat 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 was HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 87 far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure of having once been overtaken there by a thunder- storm at midnight, 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, ex- cept from his nearest friends. Soon after the ex- piration of the month, intelligence arrived that the plans which had been formed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mo- ther : " 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 I am determined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must endeavour to recover what I have lost." The consequence was, that he applied himself more severely than ever to his studies. He now allowed himself no time for relaxation, httle 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 chamber. Many nights he never lay down at all. It was in vain that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destruc- tive application. In this respect, and in this only one, was Henry undut.iful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, co'uld check his desperate and deadly ardor. 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 88 LIFE OF 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 indebted to the hours of repose, they would not wonder that night-images are, as they judge, so ridiculously 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 away 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. Come, Disappointment, come ! Though from Hope's summit hurl'd, HENRY KIIIKE WHITE. 89 Still, rigid Nurse, tliou art forgiven, Fur 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. 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 1 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. The most beloved 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 beloved is laid. Then since the world is vain, And volatile and fleet. Why should I lay up earthly joys. Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys, 8 * 90 LIFE OF And cares and sorrows eat 1 Why fly from ill With anxious skill, When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart be still. 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 ! On another paper are a few lines, written pro- bably 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 me in glooms * * * * His health soon sunk under these habits : he be- came pale and thin, and at length had a sharp lit of sickness. On his recovery he wrote the beau- tiful " Lines written in Wilford clmrch-yard on re- covery from sickness." See page 334. Ilis friends are of opinion that he never tho- roughly recovered from the shock which his con- stitution then sustained. Many of his poems in- dicate that he thought himself in danger of con- sumption ; he was not aware that he was genera- HENRY KIHKE WHITE. 91 ting or fostering in himself another disease little Jess 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, pro- duced 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. His friend Almond, who had recently entered at Trinity College, had already endeavoured to interest in his behalf some persons who might be able to assist him in 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 cen- sured, 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 promises of early genius are to be relied upon : it is among the mortifying truths which we learn from experience, and no common spirit of benevo- lence is required to overcome the chilling effect of repeated disappointments. He found, however, 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 rendered intolerant of other pursuits more congenial to youthful imagi- nations, consented to look at Henry's poem of '•' T/wie," a manuscript of which was in Almond's possession. The perusal interested him greatly 92 LIFE OF he entered with his wonted benignity into the con cerns of the author: and would gladly have be- friended hiin, if the requisite 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 kin- dred spirit ; read some' of his letters, and under- took 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 dnring his stay at the University. To in- sure 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 doubt- ful 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 intro- duction to Mr. Simeon. That gentleman, being in correspondence with Martyn's friend in London, expressed displeasure at his arrival ; but the first interview removed all objection, Mr. Simeon, from Mr. Dashwood's recommendation, and from what he saw of his principles and talents, pro- mised to procure for him a sizarship at St. John's, HENUY KIUKE WHITE. 93 and, with the additional aid of a friend, to supply him with 30/. annually. His brother Neville pro- mised 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 prospect had not been opened to him, he would probably have turned his thoughts towards the orthodox Dissenters. On his return to Nottingham, the Rev. Robinson of Leicester, and some other friends, ad- vised him to apply to the Elland Society for assist- ance, conceiving that it would be less oppressive to his feelings to be dependent on a Society insti- tuted for the express purpose of training up such young men as himself (that is, such in cncumstan- ces and opinions) for the ministry, than on the 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 members. He was examined, for several hours, by about five-and-twenty clergy- men, as to his religious views and sentiments, his theological knowledge, and his classical attain- ments. In the course of the inquiry it appeared that he had published a volume of poems : their questions now began to be very unpleasantly in- quisitive 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 re- ferring 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 testi- 94 LIFE OF moiiy in his favour. They did me the honour to say that it was quite stifticient, and pursued tliis part of their inquiry no farther. Before he left Elland, he was given to understand, that they were well satisfied with his theological knowledge ; that they thought his classical proficiency prodi- gious for his age, and that they had placed him on their books. He returned little pleased with his journey. His friends had been mistaken : the bounty of an individual calls forth a sense of kind- ness as well as of dependence ; 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 obliged him to decline the assist- ance of the Society, which he very willingly did. This being finally arranged, he quitted his em- ployers in October, 1S04. How much he had con- ducted himself to their satisfaction, will appear by this testimony of Mr. Enfield, to his diligence and uniform 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 connexion with Mr. Coldham and myself, of his diligent applica- tion, his ardor 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 exe- cution of every thing wliich was intrusted to him. His diligence and punctual attention were um'e- HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 95 raitted, and his services became extremely valua- ble, 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 profession, or in private study. With his fondness for literature we were well acquainted, but had no reason to offer any check to it, for he never permitted the indulgence of his literary pur- suits to interfere with the engagements of business. The difficulty of hearing, under which he labour- ed, 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 re- solving to relinquish the law. I can, with truth, assert, that his determination was matter of serious regret to my partner and myself." I may here add, as at the same time showing Henry's aspirations after fame and the principles 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 ESTIN MOTSA 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 "i " The Holy Scripture does not teach us to slight 96 LIFE OF honour ; but rather, in its fit order and just mea- sure, to love and prove it. It directs us not to make a regard thereto our chief principle ; not to propound it as our main end of action. It charges us, to bear contentedly the 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 wil- lingly to prostitute and sacrifice it, choosing rather to be infamous than impious; in disgrace with man, rather than in disfavour with God. It, in fine, commands us to seek and embrace it only ia subordination, and with final reference to God's honour." 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 Winteringham, in Lincolnshire, and there, notwithstanding all the entreaties of his friends, pursuing the same unrelenting course of study, a second illness was the consequence. When he was recovering, he was prevailed upon to relax, to ride on horseback, and to drink wine : these latter remedies he could not long afford, and he would not allow himself time for relaxation when he did not feel its immediate necessity. He fre- quently, at this time, studied fourteen hours a-day : the progress which he made in twelve months 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 HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 97 had so long looked on with hope, served unhap- pily as a hot-house to ripen them.* During his first term one of the university- scholarships became vacant, and Henry, young as he was in college, and almost self-taught, was ad- vised, by those who were best able to estimate his chance of success, to offer himself as a candidate for it. He passed the whole time 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 decline : but this was not the 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 * 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, unassu- ming, and affectionate. He attended, with great cheerful- ness, a Sunday School which I was endeavouring to estaolish in the village ; and was at considerable pains in the instruc- tion of the children: and I have repeatedly observed, that he was most pleased, and most edified, with such of my ser- mons and addresses to my people as were most close, plain, and familiar. When we parted, we parted with mutual r^ gret ; and by us his name will long be remembered with affection and delight. 9 98 LIFE OP 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 Hen- ry is not the first young man to whom such ho- nours have proved fatal. He said to his most in- timate friend, almost the last time he saw him, that were he to paint a picture of Fame crowning a distinguished under-graduate, after the Senate- house examination, he would represent her as concealing a death's-head under a mask of beauty. When this was over he went to London. Lon- don was a new scene of excitement, — and what his mind required was tranquillity and rest. Be- fore he left college, he had become anxious con- cerning his expenses, fearing that they exceeded his means. JNlr. 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, etc. and dinner, and HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 99 WoUaston, and chapel to six. Six to nine, read- ing — 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 week, except- ing on Sundays, unless there appear some good reason for so doing. I will never pass a ^ay without reading some por- tion of the Scriptures. I will labour diligently in my mathematical stu- dies, because I half suspect myself of a dislike to them. I will walk two hours a day, upon the average of every week. Sit mihi gratia addita ad hoec facienda.''^ About this time, judging by the handwriting, he wrote down the following admonitory sen- tences, 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. When the waters are come over thy soul, 100 LIFE OP and when, in the midst of much bodily anguish, thou distinguishest the dim shores of Eternity be- fore thee, what wouldst thou not give to be lighter by this one sin. 5. God has long withheld his arm; what if his forbearance be now at an end ? Canst thou not contemplate 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 summons when it comes ? — to turn with horror and despair from the future being ? Think what strains of joy and tranquillity 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 ani- mated with a few remaining sparks of life, yet how full of love, pity, and tranquillity ! A tear is trickling down his cheek, and his lip quivers. — He is praying for his murderers ! 0, my soul ! it is thy Redeemer — it is thy God ! And this, too, for Sin — for Sin ! and wilt thou ever again sub mit to its yoke ? HENRY KIUKE WHITE. 101 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. 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 pleasant- ness 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 relaxa- tion : he still continued the habit of studying while he walked ; and in this manner, while he was at Cambridge, committed to memory a whole tragedy of Euripides. Twice he distinguished himself in the following year, being again pro- nounced first at the great college-examination, and also one of the three best theme-writers between whom the examiners could not decide. The col- lege 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 £66 per annum, enabled him to give up the pecuniary assistance which he had received from Mr. Simeon and other friends. This inten- tion 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 9* 102 LIFE OF inform you, that I shall be obUged, in strict recti tude, to waive the offers of many of my friends. I shall not even need the sum Mr. Simeon men- tioned 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 at the thought of this, not through 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 obligation or grati- tude. I shall always feel as much indebted for intended as for actually afforded assistance ; and thousfh I should never think a sense of thankful- ncss an oppressive burden, yet I shall be happy to evince it, when, in the eyes of the world, 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 sit- uation became truly miserable : to his brother, and to his motlier, he wrote always that he had relaxed in his studies, and that he was better ; al- ways holding out to them his hopes, and his good fortune ; but to the most intimate of his friends (Mr. B. 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 UENIIY KIRKE WHITE. 103 that he went from one acquaintance to another, imploring society, even as a starving beggar en- treats for food. During the course of this sum- mer, 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 town ; he suggested to them what an advantageous situation it would be for Henry, and offered to secure for him the necessary inter- est. But though the salary and emoluments are estimated at from £400 to £600 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 for- tune, 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 com- fortable in their declining years. The indulgence shown him by his college, in providing him a tutor during the long vacation, was peculiarly unfortunate. His only chance of life was from relaxation, and home was the only place where he would have relaxed to any pur- pose. Before this time he had seemed to be gain- ing 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 agitated him ; and when he returned to college, he was so completely ill, that no power of mediciuQ 101 LIFE OP could save him. His mind was worn out ; and it was the opinion of his medical attendants, that if he had recovered, his intellect 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 the feelings of a most affectionate family, which always appeared in his letters, that he thought himself recovering ; but his disorder in- creased 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 danger: 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 10th, 1806, it pleased God to remove him to a better world, and a higher state of existence. ■pjc yp iv "ft * The will which I had manifested to serve Hen- ry, he had accepted as the deed, and had express- ed 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 decease, Mr. B. Maddock ad- dressed a letter to me, informing me of the event, as one who had professed an interest in his friend's fortunes. I inquired, 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 HENRT KIRKE WHITE. 105 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 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 chemistry, upon the Latm and Greek Languages, from their rudiments to the higher branches of critical study, upon history, chronology, divinity, the fathers, etc. Nothing seemed to have escaped him. His poems were numerous : among the earliest was a sonnet addressed to myself, long before the little intercourse which had subsisted 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 ficti- tious subject. He had planned 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 sepa- rate pamphlet. It was written to confute the ab- surd stories of the Tree of Liberty, and the God- dess of Reason ; with the most minute knowledge of the circumstances, and a not improper feeling of indignation agamst so mfamous a calumny : 106 LIFE OF and this came with more weight from him, as his party inclinations seemed to have leaned towards the side which he was opposing. This was his only finished compositton 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 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 admi- rable as his industry and genius. All his letters to his family have been communicated to me Avithout reserve, and most of those to his friends. They make him his own biographer, and lay open as pure and as excellent a heart as it ever pleased the Almighty to warm into life. It is not possible to conceive a human being more amiable in all the relations of life. Pie was the confidential friend and adviser of every mem- ber 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 complaints were abating: his letters to her are always of hopes, of consolation, and of HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 107 love. To Neville he writes with the most broth- erly intimacy, still, however, in that occasional tone of advice which it was his nature to assume, 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 communication, he writes to direct their studies, to inquire 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 lay 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 selec- tion 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 ranlf among English poets which would assuredly have been within his reach, 1 also should then have rejected among his post- humous 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 dis- cover 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 admira- tion for Henry, will take some interest 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 con- sidered as making up his history. But the greater 108 I'IPE OF number are of such beauty, that Chatterton 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 important studies; to lay a billet on the embers until he had taken his degree, 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 mathemati- cal papers, are all which he produced at the Uni- versity. The greater part, therefore, of these poems, indeed nearly the whole of them, were writ- ten 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 lat- ter fragments bearing all those marks of improve- ment which were to be expected from a mind so rapidly and continually 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 de- Ught to contemplate him, — ih'the fair morning oT 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 per- HENRY KIRKE WHITE. 109 mancnt. To the young poets who come after him, Henry will be what Chatterton was to him ; and they will find in him an example of hopes with regard to worldly fortune, as humble, and as ex- alted 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 neglcj^ted, 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 coun- try, 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 fo his piety and religious opinions as to his genius : but assist- ance was offered him from other quarters. Mr. P. Thomson (of Boston, Lincolnshire,) merely upon perusing his little 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 provided. 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 10 110 LIFE OF a letter to his brother, — " I can venture to say, with certainty, there was no member of the Uni- versity, however high his rank or talents, who would not have been happy to have availed them- selves of the opportunity of being acquainted with Mr. Henry Kirke White. I mention this to introduce 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 pretensions, and to his rational and fervent piety, as to his various ac- quirements, 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 its eccentricities." Of fervent piety, indeed, his let- ters, his prayers, and his hymns, will afford ample and interesting proofs. 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 over- come : the marks of youthful confidence, which appear in his earliest letters, had also disappeared ; HENRY KIRKE WHITE. Ill and it was impossible for any man to be more tenderly patient of the faults of others, more imiformly meek, or more unaffectedly humble. He seldom discovered any sportiveness of imagina- tion, though he would very ably and pleasantly rally any one of his friends for any little peculi- arity ; 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 knowiL It would be idle, too, to say what hopes were entertained of him, and what he might have accom- plished in literature. This volume contains 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 h* 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 ! Words worth. Keswick, 1807. CLIFTON GROVE AND OTHER POEMS, BY HENRV KIRKE WHITE. 10* (IT!) TO HER GRACE THE DUCHESS OF DEYONSHIllE, 'J' II E FOLLOWING T R I F L I N O EFFUSIONS OF A VERY YOUTHFUL MUSE ARE BY PSRMISSIOM DEDICATED B Y H E R G R A ES MUCH OBLIGED AND GR.VTEFUL SERVANT HENRY KIRKE WHITE. (Ill) PREFACE. The following attempts in Verse are laid before the public with extreme diffidence. The Author is very conscious that tiie juvenile efforts of a youth, who has not received the polish of Academ- ical discipline, and who has been but sparingly blessed with opportunities for the prosecution of scholastic pursuits, must necessarily be defective in the accuracy and finished 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 advan- tage The unpremeditated effusions of a boy, from his thirteenth year, employed, not in the acquisi- tion of literary information, but 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 be- stow much labour on their amusements: and these Poems were, most of them, written merely to be- guile a leisure hour, or to fill up the languid in- tervals of studies of a severer nature, n