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mother, if she would let him have Robert, he would take him and teach him his own trade, shoemaking; another brother, Nathaniel, offered to clothe him; and the mother and Robert, who was then fifteen years old, took coach, and came to London to George Bloomfield. "I have him in my mind's eye," says George; "a little boy; not bigger than boys generally are at twelve years old. When I met him and his mother at the inn, (in Bishopsgate street,) he strutted before us, dressed just as he came from keeping sheep, hogs, &c. his shoes filled full of stumps in the heels. He, looking about him, slipt up-his nails were unused to a flat pavement. I remember viewing him as he scampered up-how small he was-little thought that little fatherless boy would be one day known and esteemed by the most learned, the most respected, the wisest, and the best men of the kingdom." Robert developed his talents under the fostering of George, to whose protection he was left by their mo ther. "She charged me," says George, as I valued a mother's blessing, to watch over him, to set good examples for him, and never to forget that he had lost his father." Her injunctions were strictly observed till Robert was eighteen, when George, having housed him, and taught him his trade, quitted London, and left Robert to pursue shoemaking and playing on the violin. "Robert told me in a letter," says George, “that he had sold his fiddle, and got a wife.' Like most poor men, he got a wife first, and had to get household stuff afterward. It took him some years to get out of ready furnished lodgings. length, by hard working, &c. he acquired a bed of his own, and hired the room up one pair of stairs, at No. 14, Bell-alley, Coleman-street. The landlord kindly gave him leave to sit and work in the light garret, two pair of stairs higher. In this garret, amid six or seven other workmen, his active mind employed itself in composing the Farmer's Boy." George, with filial piety and fondness, tells of his mother's pains to imbue Robert's mind in infancy with just principles. "As his reason expanded," continues George, "his love of God and man increased with it. I never knew his fellow for mildness of temper and goodness of disposition; and since I left him, universally is he praised by those who know him best, for the best of husbands, an indulgent father, and quiet neighbour."

At

The progress and melancholy termination of Robert Bloomfield's life are familiar to most readers of sensibility: they may

not know, perhaps, that his brother George has long struggled with poverty, and is now an aged man, overwhelmed by indigence.

Two letters, written to a friend by a gentleman of Thetford, Mr. Faux, and some manuscripts accompanying them in George Bloomfield's hand-writing, are now before me. They contain a few particulars respecting George Bloomfield and his present situation, which are here made known, with the hope of interesting the public in the behalf of a greatly distressed and very worthy man. The following extract from one of Mr. Faux's letters introduces George Bloomfield's circumstances, and conveys an idea of his character: it will be seen that he, too, is a versifier.

"Thetford, Oct. 15, 1827.

"I have found the letter you allude to, regarding his application to the overseers of St. Peter's. I was rather inclined to send you a bundle of his letters and poetry, but I hardly think it fair without first con sulting poor old George, and obtaining his permission. The letter enclosed, in answer to my invitation to him to be present on the day the duke of Grafton laid the first stone of the Pump-room, will show you what a shy bird he is. His presence on that occasion would have been highly beneficial to him; but his extreme modesty has been a drawback upon him through life, leaving him generally with a coat scarcely visible.' I believe he has been always poor, and yet a more temperate man never lived.".

The following is the note above referred to.

From GEORGE BLOOMFIELD to MR. FAUX

“Wednesday, 3 o'clock.

"I was just folding the papers to take them to Stone, when the Master Fauxes came in, with great good nature in their countenances, and delivered their father's very kind invitation. I feel truly grateful for the kindness: but when I can, without offence, avoid being seen, I have, through life, consulted my sheepish feelings. I have been accused of making myself scarce, and been always considered an 'unsocial fellow it is a task to me to go into a situation where I am likely to attract attention and the observation of men. In childhood I read of an invisible coat-I have sometimes worn a coat scarcely visible; but I

want a coat that would render me invisible. I hope to be excused without giving offence, as I should be very ill at ease.

“Mr. Faux would have been presented with the enclosed papers a fortnight back, but I waited a favourable opportunity. This week I had but little work to do.Lo, lo! here they are."

A poem by George Bloomfield, called The Spa," which, being of local interest, has scarcely passed beyond provincial circles, induced the following public testimonial to his talents and virtues.

LINES
ADDRESSED TO GEORGE BLOOM-
FIELD, BY THE REV. MR. PLUMTREE,
LATE FELLOW OF CLARE HALL, CAM-

BRIDGE.

Hail, aged minstrel ! well thine harp thou'st strung,
Tuneful and pleasingly of Thetford sung;
Her abbey nunnery, and her mounds of war,
Her late discovered, healing, blessed, Spa;
And with a skilful hand, and master's art,
Hast poured the tribute of a grateful heart.
Thy talent must not sleep. Resume thy lyre,
And bid it in some deeper notes respire.
Thy great Creator and thy Saviour claim
The emanations of a poet's flame.

Poets and prophets once were names entwin'd:
Ah, why was virtue e'er from verse disjoin'd ?
Ah, why have Christians lent a willing ear
To strains 'twas sin to sing, 'twas sin to hear?
Will Christians listen to a Byron's lay?
To Bloomfield, rather, admiration pay.
His simple verse, with piety enjoin'd,
More grateful steal on my attentive mind;
And if it thrills with less tumultuous joy,
It is a pleasure free from all alloy.
Then, aged minstrel, strike thy lyre again,
And o'er the land be heard thy pleasing strain.
And, oh ! may Britain's sons thy lay regard,
And give the aged minstrel his reward:
Not the cheap recompense of empty praise,
Nor e'en the crown of never-fading bays;
But such as may effectually assuage

The wants and cares of thy declining age;
And the last lay that shall thy lyre employ,
Accompany a "heart" that sings for joy.

The hand of the "aged minstrel" is now too weak to strike the lyre; nor will his voice again be heard. Mr. James Burrell Faux, of Thetford, Norfolk, is anxious for immediate assistance in George Bloomfield's behalf; and to that gentleman communications and contributions should be addressed. All that the Table Book can do, is thus to make known the necessity of the case, and to entreat pecuniary relief from those who have hearts to feel, and ability to give.

How miserable a thing is a Great Man!-
Take noisy vexing Greatness they that please;
Give me obscure and safe and silent ease.
Acquaintance and commerce let me have none
With any powerful thing but Time alone:
My rest let Time be fearful to offend,
And creep by me as by a slumbering friend;
Till, with ease glutted, to my bed I steal,
As men to sleep after a plenteous meal.

Oh wretched he who, call'd abroad by power,
To know himself can never find an hour!
Strange to himself, but to all others known,
Lends
every one his life, but uses none;
So, e'er he tasted life, to death he goes;
And himself loses, e'er himself he knows.

Crowne.

What is't we live for? tell life's finest taleTo eat, to drink, to sleep, love, and enjoy, And then to love no more!

To talk of things we know not, and to know Nothing but things not worth the talking of.

Sir R. Fane, jun.