Alfred left us about a week since, homeward bound, but meaning to touch at Brookfield's on his way. The weather has been much finer since he went; certainly, while he was here, our northern sun did not display himself to advantage. Nevertheless, I think he took in more pleasure and inspiration than any one would have supposed who did not know his almost personal dislike of the Present, whatever it may be. Hartley Coleridge is mightily taken with him; and, after the fourth bottom of gin, deliberately thanked Heaven (under me, I believe, or me under Heaven, I forget which) for having brought them acquainted. Said Hartley was busy with an article on "Macbeth," to appear (the vegetable spirits permitting) in the next _Blackwood_. He confessed to a creed touching Destiny which was new to me: denying Free Will (if I understood him right) _in toto_; but at the same time maintaining that man is solely and entirely answerable for whatever evil he does: not merely that he is to suffer for it, which I could understand, but that he is _answerable_ for it which I do not. Now this, I think, is not fair. I could not get Alfred to Rydal Mount, he would and would not--sulky one, although Wordsworth was hospitably minded towards him; and would have been more so had the state of his household permitted, which I am sorry to say is full of sickness.... By a letter from D. D. H[eath] received to-day I infer that _Subscription no Bondage_ is out; which I shall accordingly send for. I am sorry it is not to be understood in the sense of "Killing no Murder," which seems to me, till I be further enlightened, the only sort of construction which will make sense of it. D. D. H. looketh on this pamphlet as the final cause of the system of subscription at Oxford, and, now that the effect hath been accomplished doth heartily wish that custom may be discontinued. Euge, D. D. H.! For myself, since Alfred went, my time has been chiefly employed (that is, all my time which was not occupied in exercising the puppies) upon three several books: to wit, _Ralph Esher_, a sort of novel by Leigh Hunt, containing a most graceful and lively portraiture of Charles II.'s times, a good deal of rot about Truth and Love, and a good deal of metaphysics, hard to understand in parts, but in parts (to me, at least) very deep and touching. Item, _Isaac Comnenus_, a Play (Murray, 1827): by Henry Taylor, as Southey who lent me the book informs me; a work much in the tone and [style of] _P. v. A._, and though far behind in design and execution by [no means] an unworthy precursor. It has some passages as fine as anything in _Philip_. Item, thirdly and lastly, Basil Montagu's _Life of Bacon_, a work of much labour both on the writer's part and the reader's, but well meant, and if not itself a good one containing all