I had seen human nature in a new
phase; and I engaged several of my schoolfellows to keep up a literary
correspondence with me. This improved me in composition. I had met
with a collection of letters by the wits of Queen Anne's reign, and
pored over them most devoutly. I kept copies of any of my own letters
that pleased me, and a comparison between them and the composition of
most of my correspondents flattered my vanity. I carried this whim so
far that, though I had not three farthings' worth of business in the
world, yet almost every post brought me as many letters as if I had
been a broad plodding son of the day-book and ledger.
My life flowed on much in the same course till my twenty-third year.
The addition of two more authors to my library gave me great pleasure:
Sterne and Mackenzie--"Tristram Shandy" and the "Man of Feeling"--were
my bosom favourites. Poesy was still a darling walk for my mind, but
it was only indulged in according to the humour of the hour. I had
usually half a dozen or more pieces on hand; I took up one or other, as
it suited the momentary tone of the mind, and dismissed the work as it
bordered on fatigue. My passions, when once lighted up, raged like so
many devils, till they got vent in rhyme; and then the conning over my
verses, like a spell, soothed all into quiet! None of the rhymes of
those days are in print, except "Winter, a Dirge," the eldest of my
printed pieces; "The Death of Poor Maillie," "John Barleycorn," and
Songs First, Second, and Third.
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