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.

Away, away, it shall not be,

Thou shalt not dare defile our plains;

The truly generous heart disdains,

Thy meaner, lowlier fires, while he

Joys at another's joy, and smiles at other's jollity.

Triumphant monster! though thy schemes succeed-
Schemes laid in Acheron, the brood of night,
Yet but a little while, and, nobly freed,

Thy happy victim will emerge to light;

When o'er his head in silence that reposes,
Some kindred soul shall come to drop a tear;
Then will his last cold pillow turn to roses,

Which thou hadst planted with the thorn severe;
Then will thy baseness stand confest, and all

Will curse the ungen'rous fate, that bade a Poet fall.

Yet, ah! thy arrows are too keen, too sure:
Could'st thou not pitch upon another prey?
Alas! in robbing him thou robb'st the poor,
Who only boast what thou would'st take away;
See the lorn Bard at midnight study sitting,

O'er his pale features streams his dying lamp;
While o'er fond Fancy's pale perspective flitting,
Successive forms their fleet ideas stamp.

Yet

say, is bliss upon his brow imprest;

Does jocund Health in thought's still mansion live?

Lo! the cold dews that on his temples rest,

That short quick sigh-their sad responses give.

And can'st thou rob a Poet of his song,

Snatch from the Bard his trivial meed of praise? Small are his gains, nor does he hold them long: Then leave, oh, leave him to enjoy his lays While yet he lives-for to his merits just,

Though future ages join his fame to raise,

Will the loud trump awake his cold unheeding dust?

TO MR. B. MADDOCK.

MY DEAR BEN,

Nottingham, 7th July, 1804.

THE real wants of life are few; the support of the body, simply, is no expensive matter; and as we are not mad upon silks and satins, the covering of it will not be more costly. The only superfluity I should covet would be books, but I have learned how to abridge that pleasure; and having sold the flower of my library for the amazing sum of Six Guineas, I mean to try whether meditation will not supply the place of general reading, and probably, by the time I am poor and needy, I shall look upon a large library like a fashionable wardrobe, goodly and pleasant, but as to the real utility, indifferent.

So much for Stoicism, and now for Monachism-I shall never, never marry! It cannot, must not be. As to affections, mine are already engaged as much as they will ever be, and this is one reason why I believe my life will be a life of celibacy. I pray to God that it may

be so, and that I may be happy in that state. I love too ardently to make love innocent, and therefore I say farewell to it. Besides, I have another inducement, I cannot introduce a woman into poverty for my love's sake, nor could I well bear to see such a one as I must marry struggling with narrow circumstances, and sighing for the fortunes of her children. No, I say, forbear! and may the example of St. Gregory of Naz. and St. Basil support me.

All friends are well, except your humble scribe, who has got a little too much into his old way since your departure. Studying and musing, and dreaming of every thing but his health; still amid all his studying, musings, and dreams,

Your true friend and brother,

H. K. WHITE

TO THE EDITOR.

Nottingham, July 9th, 1804.

I CAN now inform you, that I have reason to believe my way through college is clear before me. From what source I know not; but through the hands of Mr. Simeon I am provided with 301. per annum; and while things go on so prosperously as they do now, I can command 201. or 301. more from my friends, and this, in all probability, until I take my degree. The friends to whom I allude are my mother and brother.

My mother has, for these five years past, kept a boarding school in Nottingham; and, so long as her school continues in its present state, she can supply me with 151. or 201. per annum, without inconvenience; but should she die, (and her health is, I fear, but infirm,) that resource will altogether fail. Still, I think, my prospect is so good as to preclude any anxiety on my part; and perhaps my income will be more than adequate to my wants, as I shall be a Sizar of St. John's, where the college emoluments are more than commonly large.

In this situation of my affairs, you will perhaps agree with me in thinking that a subscription for a volume of poems will not be necessary; and, certainly, that mea