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 your female friend, and she must expect it. I should have
written before, but I am cruelly engaged, and like to be. On Friday I
was at office from ten in the morning (two hours dinner excepted) to
eleven at night, last night till nine; my business and office business
in general have increased so; I don't mean I am there every night, but I
must expect a great deal of it.
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