MEMOIR OF THOMAS BEWICK. f>7 
what may be called the poetic bloom of nature, in 
which none have so sweetly succeeded as honest 
White of Selbome. 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, hut 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 fafe-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, aEow 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 twihght 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 Rosalind, 
