sion made by the living author. And no wonder. Those who remember him in his more vigorous days, can bear witness to the peculiarity and transcendant power of his conversational eloquence. It was unlike any thing that could be heard elsewhere; the kind was different, the degree was different, the manner was different. The boundless range of scientific knowledge, the brilliancy and exquisite nicety of illustration, the deep and ready reasoning, the strangeness and immensity of bookish lore -were not all; the dramatic story, the joke, the pun, the festivity, must be added—and with these the clericallooking dress, the thick waving silver hair, the youthful coloured cheek, the indefinable mouth and lips, the quick yet steady and penetrating greenish gray eye, the slow and continuous enunciation, and the everlasting music of his tones, all went to make up the image and constitute the living presence of the man. He is now no longer young, and bodily infirmities, we pressed heavily upon him. His natural force is indeed abated; but his eye is not dim, neither is his mind yet enfeebled. 'O youth!' he says in one of the most exquisitely finished of his later poems regret to know, have 'O youth! for years so many and sweet, It cannot be that thou art gone! Even "Mr. Coleridge's conversation, it is true, has not all the brilliant versatility of his former years; yet we know not whether the contrast between his bodily weakness and his mental power does not leave a deeper and more solemnly affecting impression, than his most triumphant displays in youth could ever have done. To see the painstricken countenance relax, and the contracted frame dilate under the kindling of intellectual fire alone-to watch the infirmities of the flesh shrinking out of sight, or glorified and transfigured in the brightness of the awakening spirit-is an awful object of contemplation; and in no other person did we ever witness such a distinction-nay, alienation of mind from body-such a mastery of the purely intellectual over the purely corporeal, as in the instance of this remarkable man. now his conversation is characterized by all the essentials of his former excellence; there is the same individuality, the same unexpectedness, the same universal grasp; nothing is too high, nothing is too low for it: it glances from earth to heaven, from heaven to earth, with a speed and a splendour, an ease and a power, which almost seem inspired: yet its universality is not of the same kind with the superficial ranging of the clever talkers, whose criticism and whose information are called forth by, and spent upon, the particular topics in hand. No; in this, more perhaps than in any thing else, is Mr. Coleridge's discourse distinguished: that it springs from an inner centre, and illustrates by light from the soul. His thoughts are, if we may so say, as the radii of a circle, the centre of which may be in the petals of a rose, and the circumference as wide as the boundary of things visible and invisible." Coleridge died while the proceeding notice was in the press; the following note was added. "It is with deep regret that we announce the death of Mr. Coleridge. When the foregoing article on his poetry was printed, he was weak in body, but exhibited no obvious symptoms of so near a dissolution. The fatal change was sudden and decisive; and six days before his death, he knew assuredly, that his hour was come. His few worldly affairs had been long settled, and, after many tender adieus, he expressed a wish that he might be as little interrupted as possible. His sufferings were severe and constant, till within thirty-six hours of his end! but they had no power to affect the deep tranquillity of his mind, or the wonted sweetness of his address. His prayer from the beginning was, that God would not withdraw his spirit, and that by the way in which he would bear the last struggle, he might be able to evince the sincerity of his faith in Christ. If ever man did so, Coleridge did."-The Quarterly Review, "It was, I think, in the month of August, but certainly in the summer season, and certainly in the year 1807, that I first saw this illustrious man, the largest and most spacious intellect, the subtlest and the most comprehensive, in my judgment, that has yet existed amongst men. "I had received directions for finding out the house where Coleridge was visiting; and, in riding down a main street of Bridgewater, I noticed a gateway corresponding to the description given to me. Under this was standing, and gazing about him, a man whom I shall describe. In height he might seem to be about five feet eight (he was, in reality, about an inch and a half taller, but his figure was of an order that drowns the height); his person was broad and full, and tended even to corpulence; his complexion was fair, though not what painters technically style fair, because it was associated with black hair; his eyes were large, and soft in their expression; and it was from the peculiar appearance of haze or dreaminess which mixed with their light that I recognized my object. This was Coleridge. I examined him steadfastly for a minute or more; and it struck me that he saw neither myself nor any other object in the street. He was in a deep reverie; for I had dismounted, made two or three trifling arrangements at an inn-door, and advanced close to him, before he had apparently become conscious of my presence. The sound of my voice, announcing my own name, first awoke him: he started, and for a moment seemed at a loss to understand my purpose, or his own situation; for he repeated rapidly a number of words which had no relation to either of us. There was no mauvaise honte in his manner, but simple perplexity, and an apparent difficulty in recovering his position amongst daylight realities. This little scene over, he received me with a kindness of manner so marked, that it might be `called gracious. The hospitable family with whom he was domesticated, were distinguished for their amiable manners and enlightened understandings; they were descendants from Chubb, the philosophic writer, and bore the same name. For Coleridge they all testified deep affection and esteem-sentiments in which the whole town of Bridgewater seemed to share; for in the evening, when the heat of the day had declined, I walked out with him; and rarely, perhaps never, have I seen a person so much intercepted in one hour's space as Coleridge, on this occasion, by the courteous attentions of young and old. All the people of station and weight in the place, and apparently all the ladies, were abroad to enjoy the lovely summer evening; and not a party passed without some mark of smiling recognition; and the majority stopping to make personal inquiries about his health, and to express their anxiety that he should make a lenghthened stay amongst them."-Tait's Mag. By the English Opium Eater. "As a great poet, and still greater philosopher, the world has hardly yet done justice to the genius of Coleridge. It was, in truth, not of an order to be appreciated in a brief space. A far longer life than that of Coleridge shall not suffice to bring to maturity the harvest of a renown like his. The ripening of his mind, with all its golden fruitage, is but the seed-time of his glory. The close and consummation of his labours (grievous to those that knew him, and even to those that knew him not,) is the mere commencement of his eternity of fame. As a poet, Coleridge was unquestionably great; as a moralist, a theologian, and a philosopher, of the very highest class, he was utterly unapproachable. As a poet Coleridge has done enough to show how much more he might and could have done, if he had so thought fit. It was truly said of him, by an excellent critic, and accomplished judge, Let the dullest clod that ever vegetated, provided only he be alive and hears, be shut up in a room with Coleridge, or in a wood, and subjected for a few minutes to the ethereal influence of that wonderful man's monologue, and he will begin to believe himself a poet. The barren wilderness may not blossom like the rose; but it will seem, or rather feel to do so, under the lustre of an imagination exhaustless as the sun. "At the house of the attached friend, under whose roof this illustrious man spent the latter years of his life, it was the custom to have a conversazione every Thursday evening. Here Coleridge was the centre and admiration of the circle that gathered round him. He could not be |