Satan is busied about his concerns. But his mind, which had before been
disposed to scepticism, was now determined with such force to an extreme
of devotional feeling, as scarcely to retain its due balance. In what
manner the change was effected, it is not very material to inquire; but
the different accounts which Mr. Southey has given of the matter,
according to the information he received at different times, may serve
to shew how little dependance is to be placed on relations of this kind.
At first he tells us "that Mr. Pigott, the curate of St. Mary's,
Nottingham, hearing what was the bent of his religious opinions, sent
him, by a friend, Scott's Force of Truth, and requested him to peruse it
attentively, which he promised to do. Having looked at the book, he told
the person who brought it to him, that he would soon write an answer to
it; but about a fortnight afterwards, when this friend inquired how far
he had proceeded in his answer to Mr. Scott, Henry's reply was in a very
different tone and temper. He said, that to answer that hook was out of
his power, and out of any man's, for it was founded upon eternal truth;
that it had convinced him of his error; and that so thoroughly impressed
was he with a sense of the importance of his Maker's favour, that he
would willingly give up all acquisitions of knowledge, and all hopes of
fame, and live in a wilderness unknown till death, so he could ensure an
inheritance in heaven." In a subsequent correction of this statement,
Mr. Southey informs us that Scott's Force of Truth was put into his
hands by his friend and fellow-pupil Mr. Almond, since Rector of St
Peter's, Nottingham, with an entreaty that he would peruse it at his
leisure: that the book produced little effect, and was returned with
disapprobation; but that afterwards in a conversation with Mr. Almond,
he declared his belief with much vehemence and agitation. This was soon
after he had reached his eighteenth year. Maturer judgment "convinced
him that 'zeal was to be tempered with discretion; that the service of
Christ was _a rational service';_ that a strong assurance 'was not to be
resorted to as the _touchstone_ of our acceptance with God,' that it was
not even the necessary attendant of religious life;" as more experience
of his spiritual associates discovered to him that their professions of
zeal were too frequently accompanied by want of charity; and that in
matters of religion, as in every thing else, they who feel the most,
generally talk the least.
That even before his conversion, as it is rather improperly called, he
was not without a sense of religious duty, may be inferred from his
having already chosen the Church as a profession in preference to the
Law. To this alteration in his plan of life he might have been directed
by a love of study, or by the greater opportunities held out to him of
gratifying his literary ambition; but it is unreasonable to suppose that
he would have voluntarily taken such a measure, if his own conviction
had run counter to it. The attorneys to whom he was bound, were ready
enough to release him; since, though well satisfied with his conduct and
attention to their concerns, they perceived him to be troubled with a
deafness which would incapacitate him for the practice of the law. The
means of supporting him at the University were accordingly supplied by
the liberality of the friends whom he had gained; and after passing a
twelvemonth with the Rev. Mr. Grainger, of Winteringham in Lincolnshire,
to prepare himself, he was in 1805 entered a sizar of St John's,
Cambridge. Here his application to books was so intense, that his health
speedily sank under it. He was indeed "declared to be the first man of
his year;" but the honour was dearly purchased at the expense of
"dreadful palpitations in the heart, nights of sleeplessness and
horrors, and spirits depressed to the very depths of wretchedness." In
July, 1806, his laundress on coming into his room at College, saw him
fallen down in a convulsive fit, bleeding and insensible. His great
anxiety was to conceal from his mother the state to which he was
reduced. At the end of September, he went to London in search of
relaxation and amusement; and in the next month, returned to College
with a cough and fever, which this effort had encreased. His brother, on
being informed of his danger hastened to Cambridge, and found him
delirious. He recovered sufficiently to know him for a few moments; but
the next day sank into a stupor, and on the 19th of October expired. It
was the opinion of his medical attendants, that if he had lived his
intellect would have failed him.
He was buried in All-Saints Church, Cambridge, where his monument,
sculptured by Chantrey, has been placed by Mr. Francis Boott, a stranger
from Boston in America.
After his death all his papers were consigned to the hands of Mr.
Southey. Their contents were multifarious; they comprised observations
on law; electricity; the Greek and Latin languages, from their rudiments
to the higher branches of critical study; on history, chronology, and
divinity. He had begun three tragedies, on Boadicea, Ines de Castro, and
a fictitious story; several poems in Greek, and a translation of Samson
Agonistes. The selection which Mr. Southey has made, consists of copious
extracts from his letters, poems, and essays.
Mr. Southey has truly said of him, that what he is most remarkable for
is _his uniform good sense_. To Chatterton, with whom this zealous
friend and biographer has mentioned him, he is not to be compared.
Chatterton has the force of a young poetical Titan, who threatens to
take Parnassus by storm. White is a boy differing from others more in
aptitude to follow than in ability to lead. The one is complete in every
limb, active, self-confident, and restless from his own energy. The
other, gentle, docile, and animated rather than vigorous. He began, as
most youthful writers have begun, by copying those whom he saw to be the
objects of popular applause, in his own day. He has little distinct
character of his own. We may trace him by turns to Goldsmith,
Chatterton, and Coleridge. His numbers sometimes offend the ear by
unskilful combinations of sound, as in these lines--
But for the babe she bore beneath her breast:
And--
While every bleaching breeze that on her blows;
And sometimes, though more rarely, they gratify it by unexpected
sweetness. He could occasionally look abroad for himself, and describe
what he saw. In his Clifton Grove there are some little touches of
landscape-painting which are, as I think, unborrowed.
What rural objects steal upon the sight,
* * * * *
The brooklet branching from the silver Trent,
The whispering birch by every zephyr bent,
The woody island and the naked mead,
_The lowly hut half hid in groves of reed,
The rural wicket and the rural stile,
And frequent interspersed the woodman's pile_.
Among his poems of later date, there is one unfinished fragment in this
manner, of yet higher beauty.
Or should the day be overcast,
We'll linger till the show'r be past;
Where the hawthorn's branches spread
A fragrant cover o'er the head;
And list the rain-drops beat the leaves,
Or smoke upon the cottage eaves;
Or silent dimpling on the stream
Convert to lead its silver gleam.
THE END.
End of Project Gutenberg's Lives of the English Poets, by Henry Francis Cary