“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 consulting 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 Bloomfield, by the Rev. Mr. Plumtree, late Fellow of Clare Hall, Cambridge.
Hail, aged minstrel! well thine harp thou’st strong,
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.