derstood_ her right. She loved her, as she
loved us all, with a mother's love; but in opinion, in feeling and
sentiment and disposition, bore so distant a resemblance to her daughter
that she never understood her right,--never could believe how much _she_
loved her, but met her caresses, her protestations of filial affection,
too frequently with coldness and repulse. Still, she was a good mother.
God forbid I should think of her but _most_ respectfully, _most_
affectionately. Yet she would always love my brother above Mary, who was
not worthy of one tenth of that affection which Mary had a right to
claim. But it is my sister's gratifying recollection that every act of
duty and of love she could pay, every kindness (and I speak true, when I
say to the hurting of her health, and most probably in great part to the
derangement of her senses) through a long course of infirmities and
sickness she could show her, she ever did. I will some day, as I
promised, enlarge to you upon my sister's excellences; 't will seem like
exaggeration, but I will do it. At present, short letters suit my state
of mind best. So take my kindest wishes for your comfort and
establishment in life, and for Sara's welfare and comforts with you. God
love you; God love us all!

C. LAMB.

VIII.

TO COLERIDGE.

_November_ 14, 1796.

Coleridge, I love you for dedicating your poetry to Bowles. [1] Genius of
the sacred fountain of tears, it was he who led you gently by the hand
through all this valley of weeping, showed you the dark green yew-trees
and the willow shades where, by the fall of waters, you might indulge in
uncomplaining melancholy, a delicious regret for the past, or weave fine
visions of that awful future,--

"When all the vanities of life's brief day
Oblivion's hurrying hand hath swept away,
And all its sorrows, at the awful blast
Of the archangel's trump, are but as shadows past."

I have another sort of dedication in my head for my few things, which I
want to know if you approve of and can insert. [2] I mean to inscribe
them to my sister. It will be unexpected, and it will gire her pleasure;
or do you think it will look whimsical at all? As I have not spoke to
her about it, I can easily reject the idea. But there is a monotony in
the affections which people living together, or as we do now, very
frequently seeing each other, are apt to give in to,--a sort of
indifference in the expression of kindness for each other, wh