ctor, has picked up an
undoubtable picture of Milton. [2] He gave a few shillings for it, and
could get no history with it, but that some old lady had had it for a
great many years. Its age is ascertainable from the state of the canvas,
and you need only see it to be sure that it is the original of the heads
in the Tonson editions, with which we are all so well familiar. Since I
saw you, I have had a treat in the reading way which conies not every
day,--the Latin poems of V. Bourne, which were quite new to me. What a
heart that man had, all laid out upon town scenes!--a proper
counterpoise to _some people's_ rural extravaganzas. Why I mention him
is, that your "Power of Music" reminded me of his poem of "The
Ballad-singer in the Seven Dials," Do you remember his epigram on the
old woman who taught Newton the A B C, which, after all, he says, he
hesitates not to call Newton's "Principia"? I was lately fatiguing
myself with going through a volume of fine words by Lord
Thurlow,--excellent words; and if the heart could live by words alone,
it could desire no better regales. But what an aching vacuum of matter!
I don't stick at the madness of it, for that is only a consequence of
shutting his eyes and thinking he is in the age of the old Elizabeth
poets. From thence I turned to Bourne. What a sweet, unpretending,
pretty-mannered, _matter-ful_ creature, sucking from every flower,
making a flower of everything, his diction all Latin, and his thoughts
all English! Bless him! Latin wasn't good enough for him. Why wasn't he
content with the language which Gay and Prior wrote in?

I am almost sorry that you printed extracts from those first poems, or
that you did not print them at length. They do not read to me as they do
altogether. Besides, they have diminished the value of the original
(which I possess) as a curiosity. I have hitherto kept them distinct in
my mind, as referring to a particular period of your life. All the rest
of your poems are so much of a piece they might have been written in the
same week; these decidedly speak of an earlier period. They tell more of
what you had been reading. We were glad to see the poems "by a female
friend." [3] The one on the Wind is masterly, but not new to us. Being
only three, perhaps you might have clapped a D. at the corner, and let
it have past as a printer's mark to the uninitiated, as a delightful
hint to the better instructed. As it is, expect a formal criticism on
the poems of