letter from honest Henry accompanied it,
begging leave of her Grace to dedicate his "trifling effusions" to her.

Henry's letters to Neville while his book was in preparation are very
entertaining, as those of minor poets always are under such
circumstances. Henry was convinced that at least 350 copies would be
sold in Nottingham. He writes in exultation that he has already got
twenty-three orders even before his "proposals" are ready:

"I have got twenty-three, without making the affair public at all, among
my immediate acquaintance: and mind, I neither solicit nor draw the
conversation to the subject, but a rumour has got abroad, and has been
received more favourably than I expected."

But the matter of the dedication unfortunately lagged far behind the
poet's hopes. After the manuscript was left at the house of her Grace of
Devonshire there followed what the Ancient Mariner so feelingly calls a
weary time. Poor Henry in Nottingham hung upon the postman's heels, but
no word arrived from the duchess. She was known to be assaulted from all
sides by such applications: indeed her mail seems to have been very
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 an