had his tea and hot rolls in the morning, while we were battening upon
our quarter of penny loaf--our 'crug' moistened with attenuated small
beer in wooden piggins, smacking of the pitched leathern jack it was
poured from. On Monday's milk porritch, blue and tasteless, and the
pease-soup of Saturday, coarse and choking, were enriched for him with
a slice of 'extraordinary bread and butter,' from the hot-loaf of the
Temple. The Wednesday's mess of millet, somewhat less repugnant--(we
had three banyan to four meat-days in the week)--was endeared to his
palate with a lump of double-refined, and a smack of ginger, (to make
it go down the more glibly) or the fragrant cinnamon. In lieu of our
'half-pickled' Sundays, or 'quite fresh' boiled beef on Thursdays,
(strong as caro equina), with detestable marigolds floating in the
pail to poison the broth--our scanty mutton crags on Fridays--and
rather more savoury, but grudging, portions of the same flesh,
rotten-roasted or rare, on the Tuesdays (the only dish which excited
our appetites, and disappointed our stomachs, in almost equal
proportion) he had his hot plate of roast veal, or the more tempting
griskin (exotics unknown to our palates), cooked in the paternal
kitchen.

"I (Coleridge) was a poor friendless boy, my parents, and those who
should have cared for me, were far away. Those few acquaintances of
their's, which they could reckon upon being kind to me in the great
city, after a little forced notice, which they had the grace to take
of me on my first arrival in town, soon grew tired of my holiday
visits. They seemed to them to recur too often, though I thought them
few enough; one after another, they all failed me, and I felt myself
alone among six hundred playmates--O the cruelty of separating a poor
lad from his early homestead! The yearnings which I used to have
towards it in those unfledged years! How in my dreams would my native