prove himself a more reasonable and virtuous man, than him who binds himself down to a business which he dislikes, because it would be accounted strange, or foolish, to abandon so good a concern, and who heaps up wealth, for which he has little relish, because the world accounts it policy. I will refrain from pursuing this tone of reasoning. I know the weakness of human nature, and I know that we may argue with a deal of force, to show the folly of grief, when we ourselves are its passive victims. But whether strength of mind prevail with you, or whether you still indulge in melancholy bodings and repinings, I am still your friend, nay, your sympathizing friend. Hard and callous, and unfeeling" as I may seem, I have a heart for my ever dear Benjamin. HENRY KIRKE WHITE. TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. Wilford, near Nottingham, 1804. DEAR NEVILLE, I Now write to you from a little cottage at Wilford, where I have taken a room for a fortnight, as well for the benefit of my health, as for the advantage of uninterrupted study. I live in a homely house, in a homely style, but am well occupied, and perfectly at my ease. And now, my dear Brother, I must sincerely beg pardon for all those manifold neglects, of which I cannot but accuse myself towards you. When I recollect innumerable requests in your letters which I have not noticed, and many enquiries I have not satisfied, I almost feel afraid that you will imagine I no longer regard your letters with brotherly fondness, and that you will cease to exercise towards me your wonted confidence and friendship. Indeed, you may take my word, they have arisen from my peculiar circumstances, and not from any unconcern or disregard of your wishes. I am now bringing my affairs (laugh not at the word) into some regularity, after all the hurry and confusion in which they have been plunged, by the distraction of mind attending my publication, and the projected change of my destination in life. TO HIS BROTHER NEVILLE. Wilford, (near Nottingham), 1804. DEAR NEVILle, I HAVE run very much on the wrong side of the past here; for having sent copies round to such persons as had given me in their names as subscribers, with compliments, they have placed them to the account of presents! And now, my dear Neville, I must give you the most ingenious specimen of the invention of petty envy you perhaps ever heard of. When Addison produced "Cato," it was currently received, that he had bought it of a vicar for 401. The Nottingham gentry, knowing me too poor to buy my poems, thought they could do no better than place it to the account of family affection, and lo! Mrs Smith is become the sole author, who has made use of her brother's name as a feint! I heard of this report first covertly it was said that Mrs Smith was the principal writer: next it was said that I was the author of one of the inferior smaller pieces only, (" My Study;") and, lastly, on mentioning the circumstances to Mr A, he confessed that he had heard several times "sister was the sole quill-driver of the family, that my and that master Henry, in particular, was rather shallow," but that he had refrained from telling me, because he thought it would vex me. Now, as to the vexing me, it only has afforded me a hearty laugh. I sent my compliments to one great lady, whom I heard propagating this ridiculous report, and congratulated her on her ingenuity, telling her, as a great secret, that neither my sister or myself had any claim to any of the poems, for the right author was the Great Mogul's 'cousin-german. The best part of the story is, that my good friend, Benj Maddock, found means to get me to write verses extempore, to prove whether I could tag rhymes or not, which, it seems, he doubted. The following are the verses referred to in the foregoing letter they were composed extempore in the presence of this friend, as an evidence of Henry's ability to write poetry : THOU base repiner at another's joy, Whose eye turns green at merit not thine own, Oh, far away from generous Britons fly, And find in meaner climes a fitter throne. Thou shalt not dare defile our plains; Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity. J Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed→→ Yet but a little while, and, nobly freed, Thy happy victim will emerge to light; When o'er his head in silence that reposes, Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear; Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe; Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure: Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor, O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp; Yet say, is bliss upon his brow imprest; Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion live? Lo! the cold dews that on his temples rest, That short quick sigh-their sad responses give. And can'st thou rob a Poet of his song, Snatch from the Bard his trivial meed of praise ? Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust? |