was as pure as our own; they were pious and godly men, men who loved virtue, and who cultivated religion and all its attributes for their worth, and the purity of their precepts; yet their minds and the minds of their proselytes were dark when compared with our own. And why? Not from want of purity of religion was their intellect clouded; it was from want of science. They wanted something to lead them out of their ordinary train of thought-some proof-some proof that man was not on a level with the beast, but that it was intended that he should know some of the secrets of nature, and not live under that old ludicrous impression, that everything came directly from above.

It is even supposed by some that science, instead of raising the standard of the intellect, lowers it; but how and why we do not know. Science was given us that we might learn to know ourselves, what we are, and whence we came, and is such that we cannot abuse it, for we can go no further than a given climax.

"Est quadam prolire tenus si non datur ultra."*

With religion it is far different; we may run riot wildly from the fanatic to the infidel.

Did the Crusades bring any advantages to Europe? They were undertaken wholly from religious fervour, and only drained the blood of Christendom's best warriors, doing no service to Europe as regards civilization, or furthering and developing the intellect of her sons.

Religion did not aid men in crossing the sea, and by this and other means obtaining intercourse with others, and increasing civilization. All our inventions and manufactures are due to science, through which everything that shows the march of intellect is formed. Religion has, in fact, had very little to do with the intellectual development of Europe; and in those cases in which it has interfered, it has never produced any remarkable change in the refinement of the intellect.

Let us look at England in the days of the Republic, when fanaticism subdued everything, and scarcely a sentence was spoken but it was interwoven with some religious antagonism. At that time religion was supposed to be first and foremost, and if religion was such a civilizer of the mind, such a promoter of the peaceful arts, why did it not work some of its kindlier effects on those lawless minds? No! religion then appeared in one of its worst phases-it was abused; and instead of developing the intellect, it lowered and debased it. And now we will leave one question to be answered by our friends on the opposite side,-Has science ever been thus grossly abused? Has science ever instituted and maintained persecution? Has it ever produced such effects on the minds of MARWOOD H.

men?

* There is a certain point which we may attain, if we can go no further.

The Essayist.

THE GENIUS OF COLERIDGE.

THE genius of Coleridge was manifested in different ways. In him the poet and the metaphysician were combined; and his powers of conversation were such as are seldom given to men who are much in the habit of reflection. This was a rare versatility, which was all the more wonderful because the organization of the poet differs from that of the metaphysician. To attain proficiency in either capacity a distinct order of genius is necessary; and even when the genius is great that proficiency cannot be attained without long and careful study, not only of books, but of men. It is seldom, however, that perfection is found even in men of the finest mental endowments; and Coleridge was no exception to the general rule. In him their brilliancy was marred by habitual indolence; and it is only by judging from the fragments which he has left behind him that we may endeavour to realize what might have been done by him, had his industry been equal to his gifts.

Like that of Wordsworth, there is little in the life of Coleridge to interest the general reader; but to those who delight to observe the progress of genius, and to study the varieties of its workings, it is one from which a good deal of instruction may be derived. One of the few events in his life which may be considered as adventures was in leaving his college (Jesus') at Cambridge, and enlisting in a regiment of dragoons, in his twenty-second year. For the greater part of his life he was an invalid. The last nineteen years were spent in the house of Mr. Gillman, a surgeon at Hampstead, who afterwards wrote his memoirs, to which there will be occasion to refer hereafter. The work was a feeble and unsatisfactory one, as the first volume was all that made its appearance. Although this period was one of bodily suffering, mentally it was the happiest of his life, inasmuch as it was spent in the society of friends who were dear to him, and who loved to hear him talk. Mr. Gillman mentions that when a student in college, Coleridge's chambers were the resort of young men of his own age, who came to enjoy the pleasures of his conversation. His reading, though desultory and without method, was extensive, and the amount of information he could impart in the course of an evening was incredible in a youth of his age. In after life, when years and experience had ripened his judgment, the reputation of his talents attracted friends from every

quarter to hear him. For whole hours he would sit with them, and pour forth with fluency the stores of a memory whose resources were inexhaustible. By those who had once heard or seen him he was never forgotten. With a voice whose tone was music itself, and a countenance fitted to express every inflection of his feelings; with the beauty of his ideas, and the splendour of his language, he fascinated all who heard him. Nor was this feeling confined alone to his presence. Thirty years have now elapsed since his death, and there are men living to-day who seem to grow young again at the very name of Coleridge, and to whom the recollection of an hour spent in his society seems like a thing of yesterday; so mighty was the magic of his eloquence and learning.

But these very powers of conversation, splendid though they were, proved an effectual bar to his real progress in letters. Men who excel in conversation are, in the majority of cases, more or less superficial. It is no doubt a good thing to talk well and with success, but to do this requires not only an extended course of reading, but a positive talent, which does not belong to every man who attempts it. There are numbers of men of learning and good sense who do talk well, but who, from the simple want of that indescribable something which passes under the name of tact or address, do not talk with success; and others with far less penetration and research who do talk with success, but by no means well. This is true of men who have won an undying renown in the literature of England. Addison was a quiet, unobtrusive man in society; and Goldsmith was so deficient in this species of tact, that his talk became on occasions absolutely silly. There can be no doubt, however, that conversation is an art, which may be cultivated with various degrees of success, according to the inclination and powers of those who aspire to a reputation for it; but when we find a man of real genius and real powers of thought, as Coleridge undeniably was, spending his gifts in a way which can delight at most but a few, it is impossible to avoid a feeling of sincere regret. To appreciate a man's conversation properly it should be heard from his own lips; when it is retailed second-hand through the medium of print, two-thirds of the fire is lost. Volumes of table-talk have at different times been sent forth into the world, some of them containing diamonds of priceless value, though buried beneath heaps of rubbish. But books of this kind, taken on the whole, are seldom found to repay the reading. Unquestionably, there are many ideas to be found in them at once brilliant and instructive; and if the author is blessed with a keen wit, it sparkles perhaps on every page; but even the best of them may be compared to a dish of knickknacks, which may answer well enough as a change, but will never do as substantial food for the mind.

There was a special charm in Coleridge's conversation. His ideas were so elegant, his language so pure, his reasoning so deep, and his powers of expression so felicitous, as to leave him without a rival. He was also singularly absent on occasions, which is no uncommon

thing in men of genius. Certain portions of his table-talk which have been published read more like a continuation of soliloquies ; now flowing on evenly and logically, and now breaking off into another and far different subject. This absence of mind told by no means in his favour. His friend Mr. Cottle, of Bristol, who has left some recollections of Coleridge behind him—which are now, by the way, out of print,-relates a rather amusing instance of it. An eminent medical man of that city, who was a warm admirer of Mr. Coleridge's conversation, was resolved to give his friend a treat; and, accordingly, invited him to dinner one evening, as also a large number of acquaintances, who were anxious for an introduction to the poet. Mr. Coleridge having accepted the invitation, great delight was anticipated by all the parties concerned. On the evening appointed the guests were all assembled, but although they waited a considerable time past the hour fixed, until the dinner became cold, Coleridge did not make his appearance, greatly to the annoyance of the host and his friends. It appeared the poet had forgotten all about the engagement; and as he was then delivering a course of lectures in the city, his biographer states that he lost a dozen subscribers from this unlucky slip of his memory.

Nor is this the only instance recorded of the same trait. On another occasion he had undertaken to deliver in Bristol a lecture on the "Rise, Progress, and Decline of the Roman Empire." Accordingly, on the appointed evening the room was filled, and the audience, after waiting till long after the hour, began to lose all patience at the lecturer's non-appearance, when somebody at length announced that "a certain circumstance would prevent Mr. Coleridge from giving his lecture that evening as intended." The company then separated, but not without expressing loudly their disappointment. The truth was, poor Coleridge had entirely forgotten the matter. The lecture was, however, afterwards delivered by his friend Mr. Robert Southey, who, being a man of more regular habits than Coleridge, took care to prevent the recurrence of a similar misfortune.

When a very young man, Coleridge, with two other young men of genius, one of whom was destined in after years to obtain the very highest honours of his profession, formed a scheme which could have emanated only from very youthful and very inexperienced persons. Those two young men were Robert Southey and Robert Lovell. This scheme which they had proposed to themselves was one to which they gave the name of Pantisocracy. Its objects were these-To proceed to some remote region on the banks of the Susquehannah, in North America, and there to found a colony, which it was determined should be composed, to use their own words, of men of tried character and sound principles. The simplicity of their manners, and the virtues of their lives, would be an example to the rest of mankind. It was conceived that, by fixing on some secluded spot away from the regular thoroughfare of men, they would not be influenced by the events of the world beyond. It

was, moreover, conceived that, by holding land and other property in common, and by avoiding anything approaching to selfishness, they would be enabled to exclude anger, envy, and other evil passions which had rendered mankind unhappy from the beginning of time. In short, by this chimerical project they hoped not only to establish a state for themselves, but in course of time to regenerate the entire system of society.

It is unnecessary here to offer any remark on the folly of such an idea; to any man of common sense, who possesses an ordinary ac quaintance with human nature, it is evident at once. A good deal has been written by the critics and admirers of Coleridge on the scheme of pantisocracy; nor, to say the least of it, is the matter unworthy of attention. It is, however, mentioned here simply as an instance of the singular notions which are sometimes entertained by men of genius, and held tenaciously against all the arguments which logic and common sense can bring against them. Many were the discussions which Mr. Coleridge had with his friends on this vexed question, and many were the endeavours made to root the idea out of his head; but all their arguments proved unavailing save one, which was found insurmountable, namely, the want of money to prosecute their scheme. Let a man be ever so sanguine, his enthusiasm cannot long withstand the want of that most necessary article; and although the three young poets possessed a fair share of enthusiasm between them, they were, after all, but men. It was not long, however, before Southey and Lovell perceived the absurdity of the plan they proposed, but Coleridge refused obstinately to be convinced. Whether Coleridge really believed in its feasibility, or whether he had merely persuaded himself into a belief in its supposed advantages, cannot, of course, be determined. It is certain, however, that for a considerable time after he had ostensibly abandoned the project his mind was known to dwell at intervals upon it; and many an evening his friends found him in the solitude of his chamber, composedly smoking his pipe, and musing on the happiness to be enjoyed on the banks of the distant Susquehannah.

Coleridge loved to dream. From his youth he was a projector of schemes which were never destined to be realized. During his literary career he planned the execution of more works than could be achieved by any one man, were the period of his life extended to double the length allotted by the Psalmist. The writer of an able article on Coleridge in the "Encyclopædia Britannica," in speaking of the memorials of Coleridge's genius, refers to them as a splendid fragment, and never was an expression more judiciously applied. His nature was far too indolent, far too averse to the labour of composition, for the case to be otherwise. When, however, he did write, he did so from the sheer feeling of pleasure he experienced in committing his ideas to paper, and for that reason do we find such a large proportion of the sterling gold of genius in what he has written. More than once he started projects which might have secured him independence, if not wealth, had they been successfully carried