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.
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