ion of Cowper and the beginning of the Life; the last work, he says, he shall ever do for the booksellers.
Among the materials was the autograph manuscript of John Gilpin, and many letters .. . . . He read us, too, about three cantos of his Oliver Newman,—the poem on American ground,—some of it fine, but the parts intended to be humorous in very bad taste.
He showed me as many curious and rare manuscripts and books as I could look at, and told me that he means now to finish his history of Portugal and Portuguese literature; and if possible write a history of the Monastic Orders.
If he does the last, it will be bitter enough.
He says he has written no Quarterly Review for two years, and means to write no more; that reviews have done more harm than good, etc. In politics I was surprised to find him less desponding than Wordsworth, though perhaps more excited.
He says, however, that Ireland will not be tranquillized without bloodshed, admits that Sir Robert Peel is not a great man,
