"Lines written near Tintern Abbey" (I know nothing more beautiful than this), the "Cumberland Beggar," and a little poem - I think he calls it the "Yew Tree" or the "Yew Tree Seat" (for I have not the book with me) - in which there are some lines beginning, "The man whose eye is ever on himself doth look on one the least of Nature's works," etc. I like Coleridge's poetry but less well. Of all his long pieces I like his translation of Schiller's Wallenstein the best. It is admirable as a poem, while it is perfect as a translation. His "Ancient Mariner" and his "Love" or "Geneviève" are very beautiful. I hope you will be able to read my friend's play, which my sister told you of.1 I longed to send it to you. It is a work of genius, and at the same time of great labour. He is a man of humble birth, but of an exalted mind; and that, I am sure, you will think better than being "some tenth transmitter of a foolish face"! In religious works I have best liked Butler's "Analogy" and "Sermons," Taylor's and South's sermons, Paley's "Evidences," all Whateley's works - especially his "Romish Errors" and the "Peculiarities of Christianity" - and Davison on prophecy. This is a work which will survive the present day. Its author is just dead, prematurely. He was a man of great powers of mind, but his health prevented him from sustaining any great intellectual labour. Sumner's "Records of the Creation" is a very instructive work as well as a most interesting one. I should like to recommend to you also Southey's "Life of Wesley." It is not very easy to get it, but I am sure it would well repay you for reading. Among lighter books I will mention Scott's "Lives of the Novelists." It is not only a very interesting book, but there is a great deal of sound criticism in it - particularly, for instance, in his lives of Richardson and Fielding - and it would be well if the generality of novel-readers had some fixed and firm certain principles of taste by which to judge of the merits of what they read. I was much struck, I assure you, with your remarks upon the "Admiral's Daughter" to my sister. The criticism seemed to me as just as it was well expressed. What I had objected to in the work was the intention of placing the man of intellect and of cultivation in unfavourable contrast with the man of impulse and feeling. You will say that religion made the difference; but I am not aware that anything which is good in the good man is supposed to arise from the presence of religion. But I will not write you a letter, though I feel as if I could go on for ever. No. I fear, for so long as you desire it, all direct communication must cease between us. I doubt not you are right. Heaven grant that it may be renewed at no distant time and under happy circumstances! May God for ever bless and protect you! '

1 Philip van Artvelde.

In 1835 they were married, and had eight short years of great happiness. This was constantly described to me in a way to make a deep impression on a child's mind, and to account for a sentimental vein in me that was perhaps beyond what was usual even in the days when a very different tone was prevalent among girls than at present. Though my recollection of my father was of the faintest, my hero-worship for him amounted almost to idolatry all through my childhood. I so venerated the few of his written sayings that my mother brought to my notice that I think they powerfully affected my character. I confess it gave me great pleasure when a few years ago I saw two references to him in a volume of Lady Carlisle's letters written from Paris in 1832. The allusion was in a letter dated 'Paris, September 1st, 1832,' and was as follows: 'Edward Villiers is here, only for one day. He is the image of George ' (his eldest brother), 'only handsomer and graver. I think him uncommonly pleasing.' The other notice was on November 5th, when the old lady says: 'Edward Villiers is my love. He is delightful, excellent, and interesting. A Villiers without any of the shades.' He died of consumption at Nice in October 1843. In Charles Greville's 'Memoirs' is the obituary notice which he wrote for the 'Times ' of November 7th. It has a certain literary interest, as being so much more personal in tone and more deliberately the act of a friend than is usual in notices of the same kind to-day:

'Last night came intelligence from Nice that Edward Villiers was dead. He went there in a hopeless state, was worse after his arrival; then an abscess broke in his lungs, which gave a momentary gleam of hope, but he expired very soon after. I had a very great regard for him, and he deserved it. He was a man little known to the world in general - shy, reserved to strangers, cold and rather austere in his manners, and, being very short-sighted, made people think he meant to slight them when he had no such intention. He was not fitted to bustle into public notice, and such ambition as he had was not of the noisy and ostentatious kind. But no man was more beloved by his family and friends, and none could be more agreeable in any society when he was completely at his ease. He was most warm-hearted and affectionate, sincere, obliging, disinterested, unselfish, and of unscrupulous integrity; by which I mean integrity in the largest sense, not merely that which shrinks from doing a dishonourable or questionable action, but which habitually refers to conscientious principles in every transaction of life. He viewed things with the eye of a philosopher, and aimed at establishing a perfect consistency between his theory and his practice. He had a remarkably acute and searching intellect, with habits of patient investigation and mature deliberation; his soul was animated by ardent aspirations after the improvement and the happiness of mankind, and he abhorred injustice and oppression, in all their shapes and disguises, with an honest intensity which produced something of a morbid sentiment in his mind and sometimes betrayed him into mistaken impressions and erroneous conclusions.