who used to toddle there to bring me good things, when I,
schoolboy-like, only despised her for it, and used to be ashamed to see
her come and sit herself down on the old coal-hole steps as you went
into the old grammar-school, and open her apron, and bring out her
basin, with some nice thing she had caused to be saved for me, [2]--the
good old creature is now lying on her death-bed. I cannot bear to think
on her deplorable state. To the shock she received on that our evil day,
from which she never completely recovered, I impute her illness. She
says, poor thing, she is glad she is come home to die with me. I was
always her favourite;

"No after friendship e'er can raise
The endearments of our early days;
Nor e'er the heart such fondness prove,
As when it first began to love."

[1] In Mackenzie's tale, "Julia de Roubigne."

[2] See the essay, "Christ's Hospital Five-and-Thirty Years Ago."

XII.

TO COLERIDGE.

_January_ 10, 1797.

I need not repeat my wishes to have my little sonnets printed _verbatim_
my last way. In particular, I fear lest you should prefer printing my
first sonnet, as you have done more than once, "did the wand of Merlin
wave," it looks so like Mr. Merlin, [1] the ingenious successor of the
immortal Merlin, now living in good health and spirits, and flourishing
in magical reputation, in Oxford Street; and, on my life, one half who
read it would understand it so.

Do put 'em forth finally, as I have, in various letters, settled it; for
first a man's self is to be pleased, and then his friends,--and of
course the greater number of his friends, if they differ _inter se_.
Thus taste may safely be put to the vote. I do long to see our names
together,--not for vanity's sake, and naughty pride of heart altogether;
for not a living soul I know, or am intimate with, will scarce read the
book,--so I shall gain nothing, _quoad famam_; and yet there is a little
vanity mixes in it, I cannot help denying.--I am aware of the unpoetical
cast of the last six lines of my last sonnet, and think myself
unwarranted in smuggling so tame a thing into the book; only the
sentiments of those six lines are thoroughly congenial to me in my state
of mind, and I wish to accumulate perpetuating tokens of my affection to
poor Mary. That it has no originality in its cast, nor anything in the
feelings but what is common and natural to thousands, nor ought properly
to be called poetry, I see; still, it will te