This calm and holy musing, this deep and intimate communion with Nature, this spirit of peace, should sometimes visit us. There are periods when passionate poetry wearies, and a lively measure is discordant. There are times when we are calmed and softened, and it is a luxury to pause and forget the promptings of desire and the cares of life when it is a relief to leave the crowd and wander into solitude, when, faint and disappointed, we seek, like tired children, the neglected bosom of Nature, and in the serenity of her maternal smile, find rest and solace. Such moments redeem existence from its monotony, and refesh the human heart with dew from the urns of Peace. Then it is that the bard of Rydal Mount is like a brother, and we deeply feel that it is good for us to have known him.

COLERIDGE.

COLERIDGE appears to have excelled all his cotemporaries in personal impressiveness. Men of the highest talent and cultivation have recorded, in the most enthusiastic terms, the intellectual treat his conversation afforded. The fancy is captivated by the mere description of his fluent and emphatic, yet gentle and inspired language. We are haunted with these vivid pictures of the old man eloquent,' as by those of the sages of antiquity, and the renowned improvisatores of modern times. Hazlitt and Lamb seem never weary of the theme. They make us realize, as far as description can, the affectionate temper, the simple bearing, and earnest intelligence of their friend. We feel the might and interest of a living soul, and sigh that it was not our lot to partake directly of its overflowing gifts.

Though so invaluable as a friend and companion, unfortunately for posterity, Coleridge loved to talk and read far more than to write. Hence the records of his mind bear no proportion to its endowments and activity. Illhealth early drew him from "life in motion, to life in thought and sensation." Necessity drove him to literary labour. He was too unambitious, and found too much enjoyment in the spontaneous exercise of his mind, to assume willingly the toils of authorship. His mental tastes were not of a popular cast. In boyhood he "waxed not pale at philosophic draughts," and there was in his

soul an aspiration after truth—an interest in the deep things of life-a 'hungering for eternity,' essentially opposed to success as a miscellaneous writer. One of the most irrational complaints against Coleridge, was his dislike of the French. Never was there a more honest prejudice. In literature, he deemed that nation responsible for having introduced the artificial school of poetry, which he detested; in politics, their inhuman atrocities, during the revolution, blighted his dearest theory of man; in life, their frivolity could not but awaken disgust in a mind so serious, and a heart so tender, where faith and love were cherished in the very depths of reflection and sensibility. It is, indeed, easy to discover in his works ample confirmation of the testimony of his friends, but they afford but an unfinished monument to his genius. We must be content with the few memorials he has left of a powerful imagination and a good heart. Of these his poems furnish the most beautiful. They are the sweetest echo of his marvellous spirit ;

A song divine, of high and passionate thoughts,

To their own music chaunted.

The eye of the ancient Mariner holds us, in its wild spell, as it did the wedding guest, while we feel the truth that

He prayeth best, who loveth best

All things both great and small;
For the dear God who loveth us,
He made and loveth all.

The charm of regretful tenderness is upon us with as sweet a mystery, as the beauty of the "lady of a far countrie," when we read these among other musical lines of Christabel :

Alas! they had been friends in youth;

But whispering tongues can poison truth;
And constancy lives in realms above;

And life is thorny; and youth is vain
And to be wroth with one we love,

Doth work like madness in the brain.

"No man was ever yet a great poet, without being at the same time a profound philosopher." True as this may be in one sense, we hold it an unfortunate rule for a poetical mind to act upon. It was part of the creed of Coleridge, and his works illustrate its unfavourable influence. His prose, generally speaking, is truly satisfactory only when it is poetical. The human mind is so constituted as to desire completeness. The desultory character of Coleridge's prose writings is often wearisome and disturbing. He does not carry us on to a given point by a regular road, but is ever wandering from the end proposed. We are provoked at this waywardness the more, because, ever and anon, we catch glimpses of beautiful localities, and look down most inviting vistas. At these promising fields of thought, and vestibules of truth, we are only permitted to glance, and then are unceremoniously hurried off in the direction that happens to please our guide's vagrant humour. This desultory style essentially mars the interest of nearly all the prose of this distinguished man. Not only the compositions, but the opinions, habits, and experience of Coleridge, partake of the same erratic character. His classical studies at Christ's hospital were interwoven with the reading of a circulating library. He proposed to become a shoemaker while he was studying medicine. He excited the wonder of every casual acquaintance by his schoolboy discourse, while he provoked his masters by starting an argument instead of repeating a rule. He incurred a chronic rheumatism by swimming with his clothes on, and left the sick ward to enlist in a regiment of dragoons. He laid magnificent plans of primitive felicity to be realized on the banks of the Susquehanna, while he wandered pen

man.

niless in the streets of London. He was at different times a zealous Unitarian, and a high Churchman-a political lecturer-a metaphysical essayist-a preachera translator-a traveller-a foreign secretary-a philosopher-an editor-a poet. We cannot wonder that his productions, particularly those that profess to be elaborate, should, in a measure, partake of the variableness of his mood. His works, like his life, are fragmentary. He is, too, frequently prolix, labours upon topics of secondary interest, and excites only to disappoint expectation. By many sensible readers his metaphysical views are pronounced unintelligible, and by some German scholars declared arrant plagiarisms. These considerations are the more painful from our sense of the superiority of the He proposes to awaken thought, to address and call forth the higher faculties, and to vindicate the claims of important truth. Such designs claim respect. We honour the author who conscientiously entertains them. We seat ourselves reverently at the feet of a teacher whose aim is so exalted. We listen with curiosity and hope. Musical are many of the periods, beautiful the images, and here and there comes a single idea of striking value; but for these we are obliged to hear many discursive exordiums, irrelevant episodes and random speculations. We are constantly reminded of Charles Lamb's reply to the poet's inquiry if he had ever heard him preach- I never knew you do any thing else,' said Elia. It is highly desirable that the prose-writings of Coleridge should be thoroughly winnowed. A volume of delightful aphorisms might thus be easily gleaned. Long after we have forgotten the general train of his observations, isolated remarks, full of meaning and truth, linger in our memories. Scattered through his works are many sayings, referring to literature and human nature, which would serve as maxims in philosophy and criticism.