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It was sent to Allan Cunningham, together with an enclosure containing Bloomfield's short note to 'Neighbour John, already given. 'To Allan Cunningham, 93, Fleet Street, London. Helpston, September 9th, 1824. Brother Bard And Fellow Labourer, I beg your acceptance according to promise of this autograph of our English Theocritus, Bloomfield. He is in my opinion our best Pastoral Poet.
Bloomfield's was but a small voice crying in the wilderness, and he was indeed a small singer in the day of our greatest singers.
Bloomfield's, both in age, size, and magnificence: the garden was not so tastefully laid out; but instead of the smooth-shaven lawn, the young trees guarded by palings, the grove of upstart poplars, and the plantation of firs, there was a wide park, stocked with deer, and beautified by fine old trees.
How a man ripens with the years! The intelligent reader will perceive the ravages of Miss Hazeltine. Gideon had carried Julia straight to Mr Bloomfield's house; and that gentleman, having been led to understand she was the victim of oppression, had noisily espoused her cause. He worked himself into a fine breathing heat; in which, to a man of his temperament, action became needful.
I dare say it will only provoke a smile of amusement in readers of literary taste when I confess that Bloomfield's memory is dear to me; that only because of this feeling for the forgotten rustic who wrote rhymes I am now here, strolling about in the shade of the venerable trees in Troston Park-the selfsame trees which the somewhat fantastic Capel knew in his day as "Homer," "Sophocles," "Virgil," "Milton," and by other names, calling each old oak, elm, ash, and chestnut after one of the immortals.
Riddell, too, was embarrassed, for the last time they met they had parted on anything but cordial terms. However, that had nothing to do with his duty now. "Good-morning," he said, in reply to Bloomfield's nod. "Do you mind taking a turn? I want to tell you something."
"I told you to go to Bloomfield," said Game, growing hot. "Bloomfield's not the captain," retorted Telson, beginning to enjoy himself. "Riddell's captain." "You were fighting in the `Big," said Game, looking uneasily at Riddell while he spoke. "I know I was. Riddell's potted me for it, haven't you, Riddell?" "I've given Telson fifty lines, and stopped his play two days," said Riddell, quietly.
Now, Willoughby well run indeed! Lam it on, Bloomfield, you're gaining. Keep it up, Ashley. Now, Wyndham; now!" Ashley drops gradually to the rear, and before the final lap is half over has retired from the race, covered with glory for his useful piece of work. But anxious eyes are turned to the other three. The Londoner holds his own, and Bloomfield's rush up seems to have come to nothing.
The above letter, as will be seen from the date, was written little more than a year before Bloomfield's death, he living at the time in great retirement, broken in mind and body.
If I hadn't found out about it from Parson and Telson, who saw the three of them coming out, I shouldn't have known it till now." Bloomfield's face brightened. "Then you found it out quite independently?" asked he. "To be sure." "All right. Then the best thing you can do is to report him for it at once." "What?" exclaimed Riddell, aghast, "report him?" "Yes.
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