As I was to leave very early in the morning, I had told Harrington that I should depart for the neighboring town (whither his servant was to drive me) without disturbing him.  But I could not tear myself away, after the singular close of our interview on the last evening, without a more express farewell.  I tapped at his chamber door, but, receiving no reply, gently entered.  He was resting in unquiet slumber.  A table, lamp, and books, by his bedside, bore witness to his perseverance in that pernicious habit which he had early formed!  I gently drew back one of the curtains, and let in the light of the summer morning on his pallid, but most speaking features, and gazed on them with a sad and foreboding feeling.  I recalled those days when I used nightly to visit the slumbers of the little orphan, and trace in his features the image of his mother.  He was not aroused by 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. ____