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genius, when in fact I had only the longing, with- terms, of what he had suffered from the unfeeling out the afflatus. I mustered resolution enough, and iniquitous criticism:

however, to write spiritedly to them: their an- "The unfavorable review (in the Monthly swer in the ensuing number was a tacit acknow- of my unhappy work, has cut deeper than you ledgment that they had been somewhat too un- could have thought; not in a literary point of view. sparing in their correction. It was a poor attempt but as it affects my respectability. It represents to salve over a wound wantonly and most un-me actually as a beggar, going about gathering generously inflicted. Still I was damped, because money to put myself at college, when my wais I knew the work was very respectable; and there- worthless; and this with every appearance of fore could not, I concluded, give a criticism gross- candor. They have been sadly misinformed m ly deficient in equity-the more especially, as I specting me: this review goes before me wherever knew of no sort of inducement to extraordinary I turn my steps: it haunts me incessantly; and l severity. Your letter, however, has revived me, am persuaded it is an instrument in the band and I do again venture to hope that I may still Satan to drive me to distraction. I must lear produce something which will survive me. Nottingham."

"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

"With regard to your advice and offers of as- It is not unworthy of remark, that this very sistance, I will not attempt, because I am unable, reviewal, which was designed to crush the hyp to thank you for them. To-morrow morning I de- of Henry, and suppress his struggling genius, has part for Cambridge; and I have considerable been, in its consequences, the main occasion of hopes that, as I do not enter into the University bringing his Remains to light, and obtaining for with any sinister or interested views, but sincere-him that fame which assuredly will be his por ly desire to perform the duties of an affectionate tion. Had it not been for the indignation which and vigilant pastor, and become more useful to I felt at perusing a criticism at once so cruel and mankind, I therefore have hopes, I say, that I shall so stupid, the little intercourse between Heary find means of support in the University. If I do and myself would not have taken place; his not, I shall certainly act in pursuance of your re- papers would probably have remained in oblivion, commendations; and shall, without hesitation, and his name in a few years have been forgotten. avail myself of your offers of service, and of your I have stated that his opinions were, at one directions. 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 matters of speculation, they indicate, whatever their eccentricities, only an active mind; "I have only one objection to publishing by and it is only when a propensity is manifested to subscription, and I confess it has weight with such principles as give a sanction to immorality, me; it is, that, in this step, I shall seem to be that they show something wrong at heart. One acting upon the advice so unfeelingly and contu- little poem of Henry's Remains, which was written meliously given by the Monthly Reviewers, who in this unsettled state of mind, exhibits much of say what is equal to this—that had I gotten a sub- his character, and can excite no feelings towards scription for my poems before their merit was him, but such as are favorable. known, I 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 penny sheet for your sixpence, by way of halfpurchase, half-charity.

result.

MY OWN CHARACTER.

"I have materials for another volume; but they were written principally while Clifton Grove was in the press, or soon after, and do not now at all satisfy me. Indeed, of late, I have been obliged to desist, almost entirely, from converse with the Well, first, I premise, it's my honest conviction, You can't, for the soul of you, learn how to frown. dames of Helicon. The drudgery of an attorney's That my breast is the chaos of all contradiction; office, and the necessity of preparing myself, in Religious-deistic,-now loyal and warm, case I should succeed in getting to college, in Then a dagger-drawn democrat hot for reform; what little leisure I could boast, left no room for This moment a fop, that, sententious as Titus; the flights of the imagination."

ADDRESSED (DURING ILLNESS) TO A YOUNG LADY.
DEAR Fanny, I mean, now I'm laid on the shelf,
To give you a sketch-ay, a sketch of myself.
T is a pitiful subject, I frankly confess,
And one it would puzzle a painter to dress;
I'll tell all my faults like a penitent nun,
But however, here goes, and, as sure as a gun,
For I know, for my Fanny, before I address her,
She won't be a cynical father confessor.
Come, come, 't will not do! put that purling brow down;

Democritus now, and anon Heraclitus;
Now laughing and pleased, like a child with a rattle;
In another letter he speaks, in still stronger Then vex'd to the soul with impertinent tattle;

Now moody and sad, now unthinking and gay,
To all points of the compass I veer in a day.

I'm proud and disdainful to Fortune's gay child,
But to Poverty's offspring submissive and mild:
As rude as a boor, and as rough in dispute;
Then as for politeness-oh! dear-I'm a brute!
I show no respect where I never can feel it;
And as for contempt, take no pains to conceal it;
And so in the suit, by these laudable ends,
I've a great many foes, and a very few friends.

And yet, my dear Fanny, there are who can feel
That this proud heart of mine is not fashion'd like steel.
It can love (can it not-it can hate, I am sure;
And it's friendly enough, though in friends it be poor.
For itself though it bleed not, for others it bleeds;
If it have not ripe virtues, I'm sure it's the seeds:
And though far from faultless, or even so-so,
I think it may pass as our worldly things go.

Well, I've told you my frailties without any gloss;
Then as to my virtues I'm quite at a loss!
I think I'm devout, and yet I can't say,
But in process of time I may get the wrong way.
I'm a general lover, if that's commendation,
And yet can't withstand you know whose fascination.
But I find that amidst all my tricks and devices,
In fishing for virtues, I'm pulling up vices;
So as for the good, why, if I possess it,
I am not yet learned enough to express it.

You yourself must examine the lovelier side,
And after your every art you have tried,
Whatever my faults, I may venture to say,
Hypocrisy never will come in your way.

I am upright, I hope; I am downright, I'm clear!
And I think my worst foe must allow I'm sincere;
And if ever sincerity glow'd in my breast,
"Tis now when I swear-

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 regard 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 confidence of great intellectual powers, and, as yet, ignorant of his own ignorance, found himself unexpectedly called upon to act the monitor; and, putting into his hands Scott's "Force of Truth," which was lying on the table, entreated him to take it with him, and peruse it at his leisure.

The book produced little effect, and was returned with disapprobation. Men differ as much in mind as in countenance: some are to be awakened by passionate exhortation, or vehement reproof, appealing to their fears and exciting their imagination; others yield to force of argument, or, upon slow inquiry, to the accumulation of historical testimony and moral proofs; there are others, in whom the innate principle of our na.

At this time, when Henry doubted the truth of ture retains more of its original strength, and Christianity, and professed a careless indifference these are led by their inward monitor into the concerning it which he was far from feeling, it way of peace. Henry was of this class. His inhappened that one of his earliest and most inti- tellect might have been on the watch to detect a mate friends, Mr. Almond, was accidentally pres- flaw in evidence, a defective argument, or an ent at a death-bed, and was so struck with what illogical inference; but, in his heart, he felt that he then saw of the power and influence, and in- there is no happiness, no rest, without religion; estimable value of religion, that he formed a firm and in him who becomes willing to believe, the determination to renounce all such pursuits as root of infidelity is destroyed. Mr. Almond was were not strictly compatible with it. That he about to enter at Cambridge: on the evening bemight not be shaken in this resolution, he with-fore his departure for the University, Henry redrew from the society of all those persons whose quested that he would accompany him to the ridicule or censure he feared; and was particu- little room, which was called his study. "We larly careful to avoid Henry, of whose raillery had no sooner entered," says Mr. Almond, "than he stood most in dread. He anxiously shunned he burst into tears, and declared that his anguish him, therefore; till Henry, who would not suffer of mind was insupportable. He entreated that I an intimacy of long standing to be broken off he would kneel down and pray for him; and most knew not why, called upon his friend, and desired cordially were our tears and supplications mingled to know the cause of this unaccountable conduct at that interesting moment. When I took my towards himself and their common acquaintance. leave, he exclaimed:- What must I do?—You Mr. Almond, who had received him with trem-are the only friend to whom I can apply in this bling and reluctance, replied to this expostulation, agonizing state, and you are about to leave me. that a total change had been effected in his reli- My literary associates are all inclined to deism. gious views, and that he was prepared to defend I have no one with whom I can communicate!"

A new pursuit was thus opened to him, and he have existed; but his ambition now was to be engaged in it with his wonted ardor. "It was eminently useful in the ministry.

a constant feature in his mind," says Mr. Pigott, It was Henry's fortune through his short life, "to persevere in the pursuit of what he deemed as he was worthy of the kindest treatment, always noble and important. Religion, in which he now to find it. His employers, Mr. Coldham and Mr. appeared to himself not yet to have taken a step, Enfield, listened with a friendly ear to his plans, engaged all his anxiety, as of all concerns the most and agreed to give up the remainder of his time, important. He could not rest satisfied till he had though it was now become very valuable to them, formed his principles upon the basis of Christi- as soon as they should think his prospects of get anity, and till he had begun in earnest to think and ting through the university were such as he might act agreeably to its pure and heavenly precepts. reasonably trust to; but, till then, they felt thenHis mind loved to make distant excursions into selves bound, for his own sake, to detain biz. the future and remote consequences of things. Mr. Dashwood, a clergyman, who at that time reHe no longer limited his views to the narrow con- sided in Nottingham, exerted himself in his f. fines of earthly existence; he was not happy till vor: he had a friend at Queen's College, Cam he had learnt to rest and expatiate in a world to bridge, who mentioned him to one of the fellows come. What he said to me when we became in- of St John's, and that gentleman, on the repre timate is worthy of observation: that, he said, sentations made to him of Henry's talents and which first made him dissatisfied with the creed piety, spared no effort to obtain for him an adhe had adopted, and the standard of practice equate support. which he had set up for himself, was the purity of mind which he perceived was everywhere in culcated in the Holy Scriptures, and required of every one who would become a successful candidate for future blessedness. He had supposed that morality of conduct was all the purity required; but when he 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 penitence but in the atonement made for human frailty by the Redeemer of mankind; and no strength adequate to his weakness, and sufficient for resisting evil, but the aid of God's spirit, promised to those who seek them from above in the sincerity of earnest prayer."

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 had ever been his favorite 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 intimate friends the scenery of this poem: the islet to which he had often forded when the river was not knee-deep; and the little hut wherein he had sat for hours, and sometimes all day long, reading From the moment when he had fully contracted or writing, or dreaming with his eyes open. He these opinions, he was resolved upon devoting his had sometimes wandered in these woods till night life to the promulgation of them; and therefore was far advanced, and used to speak with pleasure to leave the law, and, if possible, place himself of having once been overtaken there by a thunat one of the universities. Every argument was der-storm at midnight, and watching the lightused by his friends to dissuade him from his pur-ning over the river and the vale towards the town. pose, but to no effect; his mind was unalterably In this village his mother procured lodgings for fixed, and great and numerous as the obstacles he was determined to surmount them all. He had now served the better half of the term for which he was articled: his entrance and continuance in the profession had been a great expense to his family; and to give up this lucrative profession, in the study of which he had the University are now blasted; in preparing advanced so far, and situated as he was, for one myself for it, I have lost time in my profession; wherein there was so little prospect of his ob- I have much ground to get up; and as I am detaining even a decent competency, appeared to termined not to be a mediocre attorney, I must them the height of folly or of madness. This de- endeavor to recover what I have lost." The contermination cost his poor mother many tears; sequence was, that he applied himself more sebut determined he was, and that by the best and verely than ever to his studies. He now allowed purest motives. Without ambition he could not himself no time for relaxation, little for his meals,

were,

him, and his place of retreat was kept secret, except from his nearest friends. Soon after the expiration of the month, intelligence arrived that the plans which had been formed in his behalf had entirely failed. He went immediately to his mother: "All my hopes," said he, "of getting to

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

Oh, what is beauty's power?

It flourishes and dies;

Will the cold earth its silence break
To tell how soft, how smooth a cheek
Beneath its surface lies?

Mute, mute is all
O'er beauty's fall;

The most beloved on earth

Not long survives to-day;
So music past is obsolete,

nights he never lay down at all. It was in vain Her praise resounds no more when mantled in her pall. that his mother used every possible means to dissuade him from this destructive application. In this respect, and in this only one, was Henry undutiful, and neither commands, nor tears, nor entreaties, could check his 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 it in When in forsaken tomb the form beloved is laid.

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 everything to me; and did the world know how I have been indebted to the hours of

And yet 't was sweet, 't was passing sweet,
But now 't is gone away.

Thus does the shade
In memory fade,

Then since this world is vain,

And volatile and fleet,

Why should I lay up earthly joys,
Where rust corrupts, and moth destroys,
And cares and sorrows eat?
Why fly from ill

With anxious skill,

repose, they would not wonder that night-images When soon this hand will freeze, this throbbing heart

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,
Still, rigid Nurse, thou art forgiven,
For thou severe wert sent from heaven

To wean me from the world:

To turn my eye

From vanity,

And point to scenes of bliss that never, never die.

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.

be still.

Come, Disappointment, come!

Thou art not stern to me;
Sad Monitress! 4 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 probably in the freshness of his disappointment.

I dream no more-the vision flies away,
And Disappointment * * * *

There fell my hopes-I lost my all in this,
My cherish'd all of visionary bliss.

Now hope farewell, farewell all joys below;
Now welcome sorrow, and now welcome woe
Plunge me in glooms *

His health soon sunk under these habits: he became pale and thin, and at length had a sharp fit of sickness. On his recovery, he wrote the following lines in the church-yard of his favorite village.

LINES

WRITTEN IN WILFORD CHURCH-YARD ON
RECOVERY FROM SICKNESS.

Here would I wish to sleep.-This is the spot
Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in;
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavors vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. "Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.
Come, I will sit me down and meditate,

For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey 's o'er,
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth-worm
Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie
Beneath a little hillock, grass o'er-grown,
Swathed down with oziers, just as sleep the cotters.
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;
But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,

The good man's benison-no more I ask.
And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,

The earth), then will I cast a glance below
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.

Yet 't was a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide
A decent residence for its clayey shell,
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay
His body in the city burial-place,

To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,
And yield its narrow house another tenant,
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?
No, I will lay me in the village ground;
There are the dead respected. The poor hind,
Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen
The laborer, returning from his toil,

Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,
And, in his rustic manner, moralize.

I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honors which he paid the grave,
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones
May lie or in the city's crowded bounds,

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,
Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant,--yet still,
(For why should sober reason cast away

A thought which soothes the soul?--yet still my spirit
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn ruinination; and will smile
With joy that I have got my long'd release.

His friends are of opinion that he never thoroughly recovered from the shock which his con

stitution then sustained. Many of his poems indicate that he thought himself in danger consumption; he was not aware that he was generating or fostering in himself another disease little less dreadful, and which threatens intellect as well as life. At this time youth was in his favor, and his hopes, which were now gir renewed, produced perhaps a better effect than medicine. Mr. Dashwood obtained for him an introduction to Mr. Simeon, of King's College, and with this he was induced to go to Cambridge. His friend Almond, who had recently entered a Trinity College, had already endeavored to is terest 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 quali fying himself for holy orders. It is neither to be wondered at, nor censured, that his representations, where he had an opportunity of making them, were for the most part coldly received. They who have been most conversant with youth best understand how little the 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 benevolence is required to overcome the chilling effect of repeated disap pointments. 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 imaginations, consented to look at Henry's poem of "Time," a manuscript of which was in Almond's possession. The perusal interested him greatly: he entered with his wonted benignity into the concerns of the author: and would gladly have befriended him, 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 kindred spirit; read some of his letters, and undertook to enter his name upon the boards of St. John's, (of which college he was a fellow), saying that a friend in London, whose name he was not at liberty to communicate, had empowered him to assist any deserving young man with thirty pounds a year during his stay at the University. To insure success, one of Henry's letters was transmitted to this unknown friend; and Martyn was not a little surprised and grieved, to learn in reply, that a passage in that letter seemed to render it doubtful whether the writer were a

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