permitted to peruse the Day Book of the Recording Angel, to contemplate the memory of God which forgets nothing, in which the very abortions of time, the thoughts which we think we never thought, the meanings which we never meant to mean, live everlastingly-if he may look in that book, or rather, if an intimate knowledge of its contents be consubstantiated with the essence of his beatitude, then will he know that among my many sins it was not one that I loved him not; and wherever the final bolt of judgment may drive me, it will not be into the frozen regions of sons that loved not their fathers.

"That I did not pray with him when he uttered his last prayer, that I partook not with him the blessed Sacrament, that I heard not his last words, I shall ever regret; for I had not, as you have, imperative duties to withhold me, and had I known ; but what use is it now to say what I might, or would, or ought to have done? He is gone-gone from earth for ever, and to whom can I pay the huge debt of duty which I owe him?”

These sentiments, with the feelings which they engendered, self-reproach, and a passionate desire to find in himself an image of the Good and Holy, -The only Good and Holy-to the knowledge of Whom he had been guided by his earthly parent now departed, were never extinguished, and speedily awoke, if they appeared to sleep. But the spell was not broken. It is needless to remark how little mere feeling can do, however correct, to break through the despotism of habit, or to reinstate the broken springs of action. Yet the struggle was perpetually renewed, and as the sun of life went down, he looked forward with prayerful

hope to a gradual restoration and a final reconcilement in death.

It may be proper to record here the peculiar provision made for him by his father in his will. The instrument is dated Grove, May 2nd, 1830, four years before the death of the testator.

"This is a codicil to my last will and testament. "S. T. COLERIDGE.

"Most desirous to secure as far as in me lies for my dear son Hartley the tranquillity indispensable to any continued and successful exertion of his literary talents, and which, from the like characters of our minds in this respect, I know to be especially requisite for his happiness, and persuaded that he will recognise in this provision that anxious affection by which it is dictated, I affix this codicil to my last will and testament; and I hereby give and bequeath to Joseph Henry Green, Esquire, to Henry Nelson Coleridge, Esquire, and to James Gillman, Esquire, and the survivor of them, and the executors and assignees of such survivor, the sum whatever it may be which in the will aforesaid I bequeathed to my son Hartley Coleridge after the decease of his mother, Sara Coleridge, upon trust. And I hereby request them (the said trustees) to hold the sum accruing to Hartley Coleridge from the equal division of my total bequest between him, his brother Derwent, and his sister Sara Coleridge, after his mother's decease, to dispose of the interest or proceeds of the same portion to or for the use of my dear son Hartley Coleridge at such time or times, in such manner, and under such conditions as they the trustees above named know to be my wish, and shall deem conducive to the attainment of my object in adding this codicil, namely, the anxious wish to ensure for my son the continued means of a home, in which I comprise board, lodging, and raiment. Providing that nothing in this codicil shall be so interpreted as to interfere

with my son Hartley Coleridge's freedom of choice respecting his place of residence, or with his power of disposing of his portion by will after his decease according as his own judgment and affections may decide.

A home he never wanted in the sense intended by his father; and on the death of his mother in 1845, he was placed, by means of an annuity on his life, on a footing of complete independence. But he survived this arrangement little more than three years.

It is difficult to pass in narrative without a jar from the discussion of such feelings and such interests to more ordinary topics. In life the transition is natural and easy from the deepest seriousness to every-day occupation, to cheerfulness and gaiety.

It appears that, when acting for another, and relieved from personal responsibility, he could discharge the duties of a preceptor with great ability. In the year 1837, he assisted his friend, the Rev. Isaac Green, in the school at Sedbergh for several months, and in the following year he took the place of the Head Master from March to the Midsummer Vacation. Here he found a school already organised, discipline established, and a class

of intelligent youths prepared and anxious to profit by his instructions. His lessons were now in the higher classics; and I have heard from one of his scholars that they were highly appreciated by the boys themselves, his teaching being eminently distinct, impressive, and interesting. My informant dwelt particularly on the clearness of his explanations. This was characteristic of his mind. The following letter from one of his pupils, afterwards his admiring friend, refers to this period. of his life :

"8, Beaufort-terrace, Seacombe, near Liverpool, Oct. 25, 1850.

"DEAR SIR, "The few letters that Hartley Coleridge wrote to me, with a sonnet or two, were left at Mrs. Nelson Coleridge's in the spring of this year, to be used in what way his literary executors might think best. Some time I should like to have them again, for I have no other record of such kindness and such friendship as I cannot hope to find again. I first saw Hartley in the beginning, I think, of 1837, when I was at Sedbergh, and he heard us our lesson in Mr. Green's parlour. My impression of him was what I conceived Shakspere's idea of a gentleman to be, something which we like to have in a picture. He was dressed in black, his hair, just touched with grey, fell in thick waves down his back, and he had a frilled shirt on; and there was a sort of autumnal ripeness and brightness about him. His shrill voice, and his quick, authoritative 'right! right!' and the chuckle with which he translated ‘rerum repetundarum' as 'peculation, a very common vice in governors of all ages,' after which he took a turn round the sofa-all struck me amazingly; his readiness astonished us all, and even himself, as he afterwards told me; for, during the time he was at the school, he never

had to use a Dictionary once, though we read Dalzell's selections from Aristotle and Longinus, and several plays of Sophocles. He took his idea, so he said, from what De Quincy says of one of the Eton masters fagging the lesson, to the great amusement of the class, and, while waiting for the lesson, he used to read a newspaper. While acting as second master he seldom occupied the master's desk, but sat among the boys on one of the school benches. He very seldom came to school in a morning, never till about eleven, and in the afternoon about an hour after we had begun. I never knew the least liberty taken with him, though he was kinder and more familiar than was then the fashion with masters. His translations were remarkably vivid; of μoyepà μoyepŵs 'toiling and moiling;' and of some ship or other in the Philoctetes, which he pronounced to be 'scudding under main-top sails,' our conceptions became intelligible. Many of his translations were written down with his initials, and I saw some, not a long while ago, in the Sophocles of a late Tutor at Queen's College, Oxford, who had them from tradition. He gave most attention to our themes; out of those sent in he selected two or three, which he then read aloud and criticised; and once, when they happened to agree, remarked there was always a coincidence of thought amongst great men. Out of school he never mixed with the boys, but was sometimes seen, to their astonishment, running along the fields with his arms outstretched, and talking to himself. He had no pet scholars except one, a little fair-haired boy, who he said ought to have been a girl. He told me that was the only boy he ever loved, though he always loved little girls. He was remarkably fond of the travelling shows that occasionally visited the village. I have seen him clap his hands with delight; indeed, in most of the simple delights of country life, he was like a child. This is what occurs to me at present of what he was when I first knew him; and, indeed, my after recollections are of a similarly fragmentary kind, consisting only of those little, numerous, noiseless, everyday acts of kindness, the sum of which makes a Christian