George Bloomfield is in his seventy-third year, and surely this fact,
with the contents of the preceding columns, will be sufficient to excite
commiseration in feeling and liberal minds. Mr. Faux, a respectable
resident at Thetford, in Norfolk, is represented to me as being his
friend. George Bloomfield’s own address at Bury St. Edmund’s is prefixed
to his letter above. Either to Mr. Faux for him, or to himself direct,
the remittance of a little money immediately would be highly
serviceable. Something, however, beyond that is clearly requisite, and
his statement of his brother Nathaniel’s equal necessities should be
considered at the same time. There are names dignified by rank and
talents in the list of individuals who admire the works of Robert
Bloomfield, and should this sheet fall into their hands it is natural to
presume that some of them may seek out and assist his surviving brothers
in sorrowing old age. This, however, may not happen, and is not
therefore to be relied upon.
The case of the family of the Bloomfields, altogether, is distressing.
As this is a season for present-making and social-meeting, I venture to
suggest that no gift can be better bestowed than on those who are in the
utmost need; nor will the pleasures of a convivial party be lessened,
if, while “the glasses sparkle on the board,” a subscription be
volunteered towards keeping the last two brothers of Robert Bloomfield
from the workhouse during their few remaining years of life. I have done
my best to make their distress publicly known, and it remains with
individuals to do their best to relieve it. Anything left at Messrs.
Hunt and Clarke’s, 4, York-street, Covent Garden, shall be appropriated
as the donors may direct. A _meeting_, and a few active individuals,
would effect much.
_1st January, 1828._
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~Travellers~