Poole, and near Mr. Wordsworth. He was at this time in the habit of contributing verses to one of the London papers, as a means of subsistence; and it was while residing here that the greater part of his poems were composed, though many were not published till later: these were his "Lyrical Ballads," Christabel," the "Ancient Mariner," and his tragedy of "Remorse." In 1798, he was enabled, through the munificence of Mr. Thomas Wedgewood, to travel in Germany, and to study at some of its famed universities. He was very industrious in the study of the literature and philosophy of that country, and may be considered as the introducer of German philosophy to the notice of British scholars. After his return from Germany, Coleridge settled with his family at Keswick, in Cumberland, near the "Lakes," in which region Wordsworth and Southey resided, and hence the appellation of "Lake Poets," given to these three individuals. In the mean time, his habit of opium-eating, into which he had been seduced from its apparent medicinal effects, had gained tremendously upon him, and had undermined his health. There is no portion of literary history more sad than that which reveals the tyrannical power which that dreadful habit had over him, and his repeated but vain struggles to overcome it. It made him its victim, and held him, bound hand and foot, with a giant's strength. In consequence of his enfeebled health, he went to Malta in 1804, and returned in 1806. From this period till about 1816, he led a sort of wandering life, sometimes with one friend and sometimes with another, and much of the time separated from his family, supporting himself by lecturing, publishing, and writing for the London papers. The great defect in his character was the want of resoluteness of will. He saw that his pernicious habit was destroying his own happiness, and that of those dearest to him, entangling him in meanness, deceit, and dishonesty, and yet he had not the strength of will to break it off. 1 In 1816, he placed himself under the care of Mr. Gilman, a physician in Highgate, London, and with this generous family he resided till his death. Most of his prose works he published between the years 1817 and 1825the two Lay Sermons," the Biographia Literaria," the Friend," in three volumes, and the "Aids to Reflection," and the "Constitution of the Church and State." After his death, which took place on the 25th of July, 1834, collections were made of his "Table Talk," and other "Literary Remains."2 Read the painfully interesting account in "Cottle's Reminiscences," and the most faithful Christian letter of Cottle to Coleridge, together with the answer of the latter. A few months before his death, Mr. Coleridge wrote his own humble and affectionate epitaph : Stop, Christian passer-by! Stop, child of God, O, lift a thought in prayer for S. T. C.! He asked, and hoped in Christ. Do thou the same. Few men have exerted a greater influence upon the thinking mind of the nineteenth century than Samuel Taylor Coleridge, whether we regard his poetry or his prose writings. He wrote, however, for the scholastic few rather than for the reading many. Hence he has never become what may be called a popular writer, and never will be. But if he exerted not so great an influence upon the popular mind directly, he did indirectly through those who have studied and admired his works, and have themselves popularized his own recondite conceptions. His "Aids to Reflection in the Formation of a Manly Character," is a book full of wisdom, of sound Christian morality, and of the most just observations on life and duty; and from his "Series of Essays-the Friend," might be culled gems of rich, and beautiful, and profound thought that would make a volume of priceless worth. His poetry unites great vividness of fancy to a lofty elevation of moral feeling, and unsurpassed melody of versification; but then much of it must be said to be obscure. He himself, in fact, admits this, when he says, in a later edition of one of his poems, that where he appears unintelligible, "the deficiency is in the reader." Still, there is enough that is clear left to delight, instruct, and exalt the mind; and few authors have left to the world, both in prose and poetry, so much delicious and invigorating food on which the worn spirit may feed with pleasure and profit, and gain renewed strength for the conflicts of the world, as this philosophic poet and poetic philosopher. In conversation, Coleridge particularly shone. Here, probably, he never had his equal, so that he gained the title of the "Great Conversationalist." "It is deeply to be regretted," says an admiring critic, "that his noble genius was, to a great extent, frittered away in conversation, which he could pour forth, unpremeditatedly, for hours, in uninterrupted streams of vivid, dazzling, original thinking." "Did you ever hear me preach ?" said Coleridge to Lamb. "I never heard you do anything else," was his friend's reply. Certainly through this medium he watered with his instructions a large circle of discipleship; but what treasures of thought has the world lost by his unwillingness to make his pen the mouthpiece of his mind!" In reference to that singularly wild and striking poem, "The Ancient Mariner," he is said to have written the following epigram addressed to himself: "Your poem must eternal be, The following is the testimony of Dr. Dibdin to Coleridge's conversational powers: "I shall never forget the effect his conversation made upon me at the first meeting, at a dinner party. It struck me as something not only quite out of the ordinary course of things, but an intellectual exhibition altogether matchless. The viands were unusually costly, and the banquet was at once rich and varied; but there seemed to be no dish like Coleridge's conversation to feed upon-and no information so instructive as his own. The orator rolled himself up, as it were, in his chair, and gave the most unrestrained indulgence to his speech; and how fraught with acuteness and originality was that speech, and in what copious and eloquent periods did it flow. The auditors seemed HYMN BEFORE SUNRISE IN THE VALE OF CHAMOUNY. Besides the rivers Arve and Arveiron, which have their sources in the foot of Mont Blanc, five conspicuous torrents rush down its sides; and within a few paces of the glaciers the Gentiana Major grows in immense numbers, with its "flowers of loveliest blue." Hast thou a charm to stay the morning star Rave ceaselessly; but thou, most awful form! O dread and silent mount! I gaz'd upon thee, Till thou, still present to the bodily sense, Didst vanish from my thought: entranc'd in prayer, Yet, like some sweet beguiling melody, So sweet, we know not we are listening to it, Thou, the meanwhile, wast blending with my thought, Into the mighty vision passing-there, As in her natural form, swell'd vast to heaven. Awake, my soul! not only passive praise Thou first and chief, sole Sovran of the Vale! Or when they climb the sky or when they sink: Thyself earth's ROSY STAR, and of the dawn to be wrapt in wonder and delight, as one conversation, more profound or clothed in more forcible language than another, fell from his tongue. He spoke nearly for two hours with unhesitating and uninterrupted fluency. As I returned homewards to Kensington, I thought a second Johnson had visited the earth to make wise the sons of men; and regretted that I could not exercise the powers of a second Boswell to record the wisdom and the eloquence that fell from the orator's lips." Who sank thy sunless pillars deep in earth? And you, ye five wild torrents fiercely glad! Your strength, your speed, your fury, and your joy, And who commanded (and the silence came), Ye ice-falls! ye that from the mountain's brow Who made you glorious as the gates of heaven God! sing ye meadow-streams with gladsome voice! Ye living flowers that skirt the eternal frost! Utter forth God, and fill the hills with praise! Thou too, hoar Mount! with thy sky-pointing peaks, Oft from whose feet the avalanche, unheard, Shoots downward, glittering through the pure serene, Slow-travelling with dim eyes suffus'd with tears, TO MY INFANT. Dear babe, thou sleepest cradled by my side, Whose gentle breathings, heard in this deep calm, Fill up the interspersed vacancies And momentary pauses of the thought! My babe so beautiful! it thrills my heart Therefore all seasons shall be sweet to thee, Or if the secret ministry of frost Shall hang them up in silent icicles, Quietly shining to the quiet moon. QUALITIES ESSENTIAL TO THE TEACHER. O'er wayward childhood wouldst thou hold firm rule, |