MEMOIR OF THOMAS BEWICK. 67 



what may be called the poetic bloom of nature, in 

 which none have so sweetly succeeded as honest 

 "White of Selborne. But this he always resolutely 

 refused; alleging that his descriptions, whether 

 original, copied, or compared, were Unimpeachably 

 accurate ; and that was enough. And not only aiu 

 he write his own language, but I often thought his 

 talent in that department not surpassed even by the 

 other effusions of his genius ; witness his unpa- 

 ralleled Preface to his Fables, and his other Intro- 

 ductions. He said, even to the last, he felt no 

 deficiency of his imaginative powers, in throwing-off 

 subjects for his tale-pieces (as I named them), 

 which were always his favourite exercise ; the bird 

 or figure he did as a task, but was relieved by 

 working the scenery and back-ground ; and after 

 each figure he flew to the tail-piece with avidity, 

 for in the inventive faculty his imagination revelled. 

 " Before I conclude this familiar account of my 

 friend Bewick, you must, in justice, allow me to 

 inform the public, that it was commenced, and 

 (after its first portion) very considerably lengthened, 

 at your request. Yet still, under the continual 

 fear of dilation, I reluctantly omit innumerable in- 

 cidents that are sparkling about the twilight of my 

 memory, and hurry on to my last interview with 

 my esteemed friend. Early in June 1827, he wrote 

 to me from Buxton, that, for the gout in his sto- 

 mach, he was hurried there by his medical friends, 

 accompanied by his daughters Jane and Isabella. 

 At sunrise I mounted the high-pacing Kosalind, 



