G58 
fancy of juvenile life, from the temples 
of an immortal muse, like Pallas from the 
head of Jove. , 
Nor should it be forgotten, that Cole- 
ridge’s Ode to the Departing Year is 
sublimer throughout than any part of 
Cowper’s Task; that the~ stripling, 
Southey, has written ‘an epic poem, full 
of strength as to idea, and grandeur as to 
imagery; that both those writers, in their 
rbyme-productions, far outshine Cowper’s 
prosaic couplets. . ’ 
When these claims are made, without 
mentioning the various and charming 
Mason, since his poetic sun was setting 
when Cowper’s rose—when they are 
poized in the scale, surely you will resign 
your Colossal claim for the muse of Cow- 
per, destined as she is. to immortal re- 
membrance. That destiny I asserted for 
her to Dr. Darwin, and Sir Brooke 
Boothby, ten years ago, when I heard 
them: decide that the Task was too pro- 
saic to survive its century, and that they 
could not read it through. 
NERSELF. 
Ah, my friend, I have a sad account 
to give you of my situation, and of my 
hopes of ever being able to accept your 
kind invitation to Cantley. Too much 
reason have I to apprehend a total loss 
of all ability to travel. You know that 
the strength of my youth was blighted by 
the accident which broke the patella of 
iny right knee, though I obtained the 
power of walking on even ground, with. 
out perceptible lameness; “but I re- 
mained, through life, subject to the con- 
stantly impending danger of falling. Fre- 
quent have been those falls, producing 
temporary pain and confinement, but ge- 
nerally a few days restored me to the 
usual level of my, at best, feeble exertion, 
On the 27th of last month, deceived by 
an imperfect moonlight, 1 fell with vio- 
Tence down steps into the street, after 
paying an evening visit. ‘Then, alas! it 
was, that I so violently sprained the 
muscles and tendons of my, till then, un- 
injured left knee, as to reduce it to an 
equal degree of weakness with that which 
4s broken. Unable to stand, T was care 
ried by two men from my sedan to m 
bed; which my surgeon ordered I should 
not leave ull the swelling and discolora- 
tion subsided. He flattered ‘me that, 
since nothing was absolutely broken, a 
fortnight or three weeks would repair the 
mischief. When, at the four days expi- 
ration, 1 was got up, T found I had utterly 
lost all power of rising from my bed, or 
Litters of Anna Seward. 
/ 
chair, even though a very high one, witlte” 
“out the assistance of two people; and’ 
also of ascending or descending stairs.” 
Hitherto time, in whose name lavish pro- 
mises were made me by the faculty, has 
done nothing towards the restoration of 
that power, though I can walk, with a 
servant’s aim, through the range of those 
fortunately large and airy rooms, which 
are level with my bed-chamber and dres- 
sing-room. Thus I contrive, by a quar- 
ter of an hour at a time, to walk my al- 
lotted two miles every day, though I have 
not attempted to go down stairs. 
Within these last twelve years, my cons 
stitution has struggled with various mala- 
dies, but under them I always hoped re- 
lief, and often, through the goodness of 
God, obtained it. Nowa deep internal 
conviction of life-long imbecility sickens 
at my heart, and withers the energy of 
my mind,—while the gloom of appreliens 
sion, more than selfish, often darkens 
my spirit. The oldest, the most esteem- 
ed, the most valued of my friends, finds 
his long précarious health more fres 
quently assailed by nervous malady, be- 
neath which bis strength and cheerful- 
ness decline. I will not apologize for 
this exuberance of wailful egotism, but 
rest it securely on your sympathy. — 
BLOOMFIELD. 
I estimate the Farmer’s Boy, as on y 
level with Rogers* Pleasures of Memory } 
and consider each as being amongst 
poetic compositions, what green is 
amongst colours; that they have not the 
richness of the golden yellow, the splen- 
dour of red, the elegance of pink and 
azure, the spirit of scarlet, or the gran- 
deur of purple, but are of that hue on 
which the eye delights to dwell, which is 
lively without gaiety, and serious without 
melancholy. gt é 
‘ANDRE, 
In the first paroxysm of anguish for 
the fate of my beloved friend, 1 wrote 
that Monody under the belief that he - 
was basely murdered rather than reluce 
tantly sacrificed to the belligerent cus- 
toms and laws. I have since understood 
the subject better. General Washing- 
ton allowed his aide-de-camp to return 
to England after peace was established, 
and American independence acknow- 
ledged; and he commissioned him to see 
me, and request my attention to the pa- 
pers he sent for my perusal; copies of 
his letters to André, and André’s ane 
swers, in his own hand, were amongst 
them, 
ee Oe ee ee ee ee 
——— 
