of soul and body by a solid mass of human form floating off,
God knows how, from a lumpish mass (fac Simile to itself) left behind on
the dying bed. He paints in water colours marvellous strange pictures,
visions of his brain, which he asserts that he has seen. They have great
merit. He has _seen_ the old Welsh bards on Snowdon--he has seen the
Beautifullest, the strongest, and the Ugliest Man, left alone from the
Massacre of the Britons by the Romans, and has painted them from memory
(I have seen his paintings), and asserts them to be as good as the
figures of Raphael and Angelo, but not better, as they had precisely the
same retro-visions and prophetic visions with themself [himself]. The
painters in oil (which he will have it that neither of them practised)
he affirms to have been the ruin of art, and affirms that all the while
he was engaged in his Water paintings, Titian was disturbing him, Titian
the III Genius of Oil Painting. His Pictures--one in particular, the
Canterbury Pilgrims (far above Stothard's)--have great merit, but hard,
dry, yet with grace. He has written a Catalogue of them with a most
spirited criticism on Chaucer, but mystical and full of Vision. His
poems have been sold hitherto only in Manuscript. I never read them; but
a friend at my desire procured the "Sweep Song." There is one to a
tiger, which I have heard recited, beginning--

"Tiger, Tiger, burning bright,
Thro' the desarts of the night,"

which is glorious, but, alas! I have not the book; for the man is flown,
whither I know not--to Hades or a Mad House. But I must look on him as
one of the most extraordinary persons of the age. Montgomery's book I
have not much hope from. The Society, with the affected name, has been
labouring at it for these 20 years, and made few converts. I think it
was injudicious to mix stories avowedly colour'd by fiction with the sad
true statements from the parliamentary records, etc., but I wish the
little Negroes all the good that can come from it. I batter'd my brains
(not butter'd them--but it is a bad _a_) for a few verses for them, but
I could make nothing of it. You have been luckier. But Blake's are the
flower of the set, you will, I am sure, agree, tho' some of Montgomery's
at the end are pretty; but the Dream awkwardly paraphras'd from B.

With the exception of an Epilogue for a Private Theatrical, I have
written nothing now for near 6 months. It is in vain to spur me on. I
m