Woe for him that, fettered fast
In the dim dungeon of the past,
Cannot stir a limb or sinew,
Nor a course of hope begin new;
It is useless to regret-

Teach, oh! teach me to forget." *

He sought strength by a divine renewal. He wished, he prayed, that the former things might pass away—that he might be disentangled and set free from himself. But with this clear perception and full acceptance of evangelical truth, he had not been led sufficiently to regard the Christian life in its disciplinary aspect, or perhaps to set a due value on those means and processes of selfregulation, which are accommodated to this view. His short-comings were obvious,-open to all eyes: yet if all could be known, it may well be questioned whether he did not differ as much from ordinary men in the bitterness of his self-reproach, as in the extent of his failings.

A few months before his death, he wrote the following affecting lines in a copy of his poems, alluding to his intention of publishing another volume :

"FOLLOWED BY ANOTHER.'

"Oh! woeful impotence of weak resolve,
Recorded rashly to the writer's shame.

*These lines were afterwards remodelled, and published under the title Regeneration (Vol. i., p. 133).

Days pass away, and Time's large orbs revolve,
And every day beholds me still the same,
Till oft neglected purpose loses aim,
And hope becomes a flat unheeded lie,

And conscience, weary with the work of blame,
In seeming slumber droops her wistful eye,
As if she would resign her unregarded ministry."

His last years, though not marked by any decided change in his state of mind, exhibited upon the whole an increase of activity,—of the wish and effort to make his labours profitable, and exert his talents to advantage. His mind became more cheerful,—at least his memoranda are less desponding. He appears conscious of a progress in himself, which he records, inter alia, with his usual humility, but with a certain satisfaction.

"17th.-Sunday,—At Rydal chapel. Alas! I have been Parcus Deorum cultor et infrequens of late. Would I could say with assurance, Nunc iterare cursus cogor relictos. I never saw Axiologus (Wordsworth) look so venerable. His cape cloak has such a gravity about it. Old gentlemen should never wear light great coats unless they be military; and even then Uncle Toby's Roquelaure would be more becoming than all the frogs in Styx. On the other hand, loose trowsers should never invest the nether limbs of eld. It looks as if the Septuagenarian were ashamed of a diminished calf. The sable silk is good and clerical, so are the grey pearl and the partridge. I revere grey worsted and ridge and furrow for å μakapíτns his sake, but perhaps the bright white lamb's wool doth most set off the leg of an elderly man. The hose should be drawn over the knees,

VOL. I.

n

unless the rank and fortune require diamond buckles. Paste or Bristol stones should never approach a gentleman of any age. Roomy shoes, not of varnished leather. Broad shoebuckles, well polished. Cleanliness is an ornament to youth, but an indispensable necessity to old age. Breeches, velvet or velveteen, or some other solid stuff. There may be serious objections to reviving the trunk breeches of our ancestors. I am afraid that hoops would follow in their train. But the flapped waistcoat, the deep cuffs, and guarded pocket-holes, the low collar, I should hail with pleasure; that is, for grandfathers and men of grandfatherly years. I was about to add the point-lace ruffles, cravat, and frill, but I pause in consideration of the miseries and degraded state of the lacemakers.

"I sat in a pew directly opposite to Pupilia, her mama, and sisters. He that left the receipt of custom, might have called to mind Juvenal's 'digitis aut septem aut quatuor,' the thin light partition applying to both cases. I have felt such a separation myself. The text, Romans ii. v. 16, 'In the day when God shall judge the secrets of men,' &c. Sermon good-not too long. The secrets of men taken for their thoughts. More might have been said about the means of excluding evil thoughts, and procuring good ones, as prayer, reading, employment, lawful diversions-for introverted self-watchfulness, thinking about one's thoughts, is a morbid state.

"Dined with Montanus, who was about to dine with the betrayer of Wallace. Weather soaking, smoking, misty, and disagreeable, yet not altogether without beauty. The opening mists have shown some fine effects of light in the hills, and the perfect stillness of the lakes in the early morning, beneath the overhanging steam, looked patient and devout. I have been very steady, tolerably diligent, but not very successful; yet on the whole I shall enter chapel to-morrow with a consciousness that my last Sunday's prayers have not been unanswered."

In the year 1845, he lost his mother, an event to which allusion has already been made. The following beautiful verses, addressed to a lady in a letter, may suffice to show his feelings on this occasion :

"Sweet Lady, 'twas my wish to write unto thee

In such quaint wise as we were wont to talk,
When I was fain, in quaint odd stuff, to woo thee
To mirth with wit, that was like ball-room chalk.
But since I saw thee I have had a loss-
I am alone, of hope and kin bereaven;
Another nail is struck into my cross,

To drive my lagging soul from earth to heaven.
Oh, Anna, hadst thou but my sister been,
And plucked with me the foxglove, tall and gay,
I might have told thee all my heart does mean,
And all the worth of her that's gone away.

Had I a sister, or a sister's friend,

Though mute in sorrow, sitting by my side,
Then tears, soft tears and holy, would descend,
And sorrows gush in self-o'ertaking tide.

But unto thee a sister not akin

In blood, but yet a sister of my soul,

(For rarely have I met among the din

Of the world's wheels that aye impetuous roll;

A spirit quiet, mirthful yet sedate,

Queen of itself, and just as mine should be,-
Had I sustained aright the awful weight

And duty of my place and destiny,

As thine, kind partner of my hope and creed)-
What can I say? In very truth, 'tis sad

To show the drear November seed

To one who saw the April flower so glad.

Far off we are. I cannot bid thee sigh,

Though well thou mayest, for sorrows sharp and near;
So long we laughed together, thou and I,

How can we manage to combine a tear?

"HARTLEY COLERIDGE."

The same event is thus referred to in a marginal note to the life of Roscommon, by Anderson, in which the following passage occurs :—

"At Caen he is said by Aubrey to have had some preternatural intelligence of his father's death; but the name of Aubrey cannot recommend any account of that kind to credit in the present age." Upon this my brother observes"I do not reject all tales of this kind. I do believe that there is a mysterious sympathy between all nature and all created beings, which sometimes rises above the horizon of consciousness. Though I cannot say that I had a distinct consciousness of my dear mother's departure, yet I had for some days previous to it so strong a boding of approaching ill, that, when the black letter came, I recognised the fulfilment of a dark oracle."

In the year 1847, he was invited to deliver a lecture on poetry at Kendal, a task which he performed very much to the delight and satisfaction. of his audience. His own account of his performance, contained in a letter to his sister, is as follows:

"DEAR SARA,——

"Nab, April 10, 1847.

"This is not the long letter which I have been so long engaged upon, but it may serve to explain why that epistle is not forthcoming according to promise.

"You have probably been informed that I delivered a lecture in the Museum of the Natural History Society, of