nearly as large as that of Mary Pickford or Theda Bara. Then, to his
unspeakable anxiety, the miserable and fermenting Henry learned that all
parcels sent to the duchess, unless marked with a password known only to
her particular correspondents, were thrown into a closet by her porter
to be reclaimed at convenience, or not at all. "I am ruined," cried
Henry in agony; and the worthy Neville paid several unsuccessful visits
to Devonshire House in the attempt to retrieve the manuscript. Finally,
after waiting four hours in the servants' hall, he succeeded. Even then
undaunted, this long-suffering older brother made one more try in the
poet's behalf: he obtained a letter of introduction to the duchess, and
called on her in person, wisely leaving the manuscript at home; and with
the complaisance of the great the lady readily acquiesced in Henry's
modest request. Her name was duly inscribed on the proper page of the
little volume, and in course of time the customary morocco-bound copy
reached her. Alas, she took no notice of it, and Mr. Southey surmises
that "Involved as she was in an endless round of miserable follies, it
is probable that she never opened the book."

"Clifton Grove" was the title Henry gave the book, published in 1803.

It is not necessary to take the poems in this little volume more
seriously than any seventeen-year-old ejaculations. It is easy to see
what Henry's reading had been--Milton, Collins, and Gray, evidently. His
unconscious borrowings from Milton do him great credit, as showing how
thoroughly he appreciated good poetry. It seeped into his mind and
became part of his own outpourings. _Il Penseroso_ gushes to the surface
of poor Henry's song every few lines; precious twigs and shreds of
Milton flow merrily down the current of his thought. And yet smile as we
may, every now and then friend Henry puts something over. One of his
poems is a curious foretaste of what Keats was doing ten years later.