my entrance; most likely he had sunk to slumber at a late hour.
Presently he began to talk in his sleep, which was almost a constant
habit in his younger days, and which I used to consider one of the
symptoms of that intense cerebral activity by which he was
distinguished. On the present occasion I thought I could interpret
the fitful and fleeting images which were chasing each other by the
laws of association through his mind. "But how shall I know that
these thing which I call real, are different from the phenomena
of sleep which I call real?" Alas! thought I, the ruling passion
is strong in sleep, as in waking moments! How I dread lest it should
be strong "in death" itself, of which this sleep is the image! After
a pause, an expression of deepest sadness crept over the features,
and he murmured, with a slight alteration, two lines from Coleridge's
translation of that glorious scene in which Wallenstein looks forth
into the windy night in search of his "star," and thinks of that
brighter light of his life which had been just extinguished.
Harrington used to say, that he preferred the translation of that
scene even to the magnificent original itself. These lines, (now a
little varied,) I had often heard him quote with delight:--

"Methinks
If I but saw her, 't would be well with me;
She was the star of my nativity."

Was he, by the magic of dream-land, transported back to childhood? Was
he as an orphan child thinking of his mother, the image of whose dying
hours I had so recently called up before him? Or was it the
recollection of a still brighter and more recently extinguished "star,"
which thus troubled his wandering fancy?--There was another pause, and
again the fitful breeze of association awakened the sad and plaintive
melody of the AEolian lyre; but I could not distinguish the words.

Presently the scene again changed; and he suddenly said, "Beautiful
shadow! if thou art a shadow,--thou hast said, Come to me all ye
that are weary,--and surely if ever man was weary--To whom can I
go--" It was with intense feeling that I watched for something more;
but to my disappointment, (I may almost call it anguish,) he continued
silent. I could not find it in my heart to rouse him, and, softly
leaving the chamber, departed for home.
____

October 31. The young Sceptic has since gone where doubts are solved
for ever; but I am not without hope, that in his last hours he was
able to finish the sentence which his dream-lef