312 



MEMOIK OF JOHN WILSON. 



until the sound of his far-off footsteps gradually died away in the 

 distance, and he himself was hidden, not in the groves of the valley, 

 but in some obscure den, where, drinking among low companions, 

 his mind was soon brought to a level with theirs. Then these 

 clouds would after a time pass away, and he again returned to the 

 society of those who could appreciate him, and who never ceased 

 to love him. 



Every one loved Hartley Coleridge ; there was something in his 

 appearance that evoked kindliness. Extremely boyish in aspect, 

 his juvenile air was aided not a little by his general mode of dress — 

 a dark blue cloth round jacket, white trousers, black silk handker- 

 chief tied loosely round his throat ; sometimes a straw hat covered 

 his head, but more frequently it was bare, showing his black, thick, 

 short, curling hair. His eyes were large, dark, and expressive, and a 

 countenance almost sad in expression, was relieved by the beautiful 

 smile which lighted it up from time to time. The tone of his voice 

 was musically soft. He excelled in reading, and very often read 

 aloud to my mother. The contrast between him and the Professor, 

 as they walked up and down the drawing rooms at Elleray, was 

 very striking. Both were earnest in manner and peculiar in expres- 

 sion. My father's rapid sweeping steps would soon have distanced 

 poor Hartley, if he had not kept up to him by a sort of short trot ; 

 then, standing still for a moment, excited by some question of phil- 

 osophical interest — perhaps the madness of Hamlet, or whether or 

 not he was a perfect gentleman — they would pour forth such tor- 

 rents of eloquence that those present would have wished them to 

 speak forever. After a pause, off again through the rooms, back- 

 wards and forwards, for an hour at a time would they walk ; the 

 Professor's athletic form, stately and free in action, and his clear 

 blue eyes and flowing hair, contrasting singularly with Hartley's 

 diminutive stature and dark complexion, as he followed like some 

 familiar spirit, one moment looking vengeance, the next humble, 

 obeisant. Is it not true that the sins of the fathers are visited upon 

 the children ? Certain it is that the light of genius he inherited 

 was dimmed from its original source. He found no repose upon 

 earth, but wandered like a breeze, until he was laid down in the 

 quiet churchyard of Grasmere, close beside the resting-place of 

 William Wordsworth.* 



* Hartley Coleridge, son of Samuel Taylor Coleridge, bom 179G, died 1851. 



