. 
8 Life, Genius, and Personal Habits of Bewick. 
the dghghtsome Romances of Shakspeare’s Congener (not to 
speak profanely), Sir Walter Scott. It has been supposed by 
many, and publicly asserted by a few, that Bewick never 
wrote his own works, but was wholly and solely employed on 
the designs; to this I have his positive contradiction, which 
would be enough; but that in addition to his own Memorr, 
which I have read in his own MS., I have seen him compose, 
extract, and translate passages for each bird he has engraved 
while I was in his house. If his works have any great defect, 
*tis the defect of omission; every one laments he has given so 
little of the history of each bird. I have often offered him to 
rewrite the whole of the birds wherewith from early and 
lasting habits I was well acquainted, their characters and 
manners, interspersed with anecdotes and poetry, particularly 
from good old Chaucer, the bard of birds, and passages of 
every Dearing brought together, flinging over the whole what 
may be gallica the poetic bloom of natur e, 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 did he write 
his own language, but I often ‘thought his talent in that depart- 
ment not surpassed even by the other effusions of his genius ; 
witness his unparalleled Preface to his Fables, and his other 
Introductions. He said, even to the last, he felt no deficiency 
of his imaginative powers, in throwing-off subjects for his 
éale-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 in- 
ventive faculty his imagination revelled. 
Lingering, and loth to depart, I had now to enter on a 
long, dreary, and restless travel of three days and nights ; 
through a country the very diametrically reverse of my be- 
loved Reotlond? in every thing physical smoral, and intellectual; 
alone; and immediately leaving the warm precincts of seh 
cheerful and bright society ; ; and deprived of the solace and 
conversation of my kind and intelligent friend, Bowman, with 
whom I had just been journeying (I may truly say) some 
thousands of miles. I felt depressed with a cloud of melan- 
choly to which my merry spirit is unused ; yet not unimbued 
with a sort of soothing glow, that Osc. beautifully calls 
** the joy of grief.” My venerable friend having fondly re- 
quested a few verses of mine in his Memoir, I feebly broke off 
{as Ido now), leaving, a foil to the gems of far brighter pages, 
bel 
the following ‘“ FoOURTEENER : ?— 
