snapped by its abrupt termination. Fragment as it is, and altogether different from "The Ancient Mariner," the close observer can discern the same hand in the two poems. Not a single idea have they in common, but the same powerful imagination, the same exquisite sense of melody, is everywhere visible in each. The idea is suggested to the reader of a half-chiselled marble, from whose beauty as a fragment we might fancy its splendour as a whole. To attempt to complete it would be as idle as to lament its deficiency; the result would be a failure. Coleridge's touch was peculiar; his mantle has not fallen on any of his numerous imitators. What he has left, however, is unexceptionable; in point of merit there is nothing to be desired. The skill of the artist is combined with the genius of the poet. Whatever Coleridge wrote never failed to leave a favourable impression behind; his words linger in the memory long after the eye has ceased to dwell upon the page. There was a magic in his pen which transmuted to gold whatever it touched, and never was that pen wielded in happier mood than when the "Christabel" was begun. The music of the following lines, particularly, places them beyond the reach of imitation : The night is chill, the forest is bare. To move away the ringlet curl There is not wind enough to twirl Hanging so light, and hanging so high, On the topmost twig that looks up at the sky." Then Christabel descries a strange lady standing in the wood, "A damsel bright, Drest in a silken robe of white That shadowy in the moonlight shone." At length she brings the stranger into the castle, stealing past Sir Leoline's door, "As still as death, with stifled breath," until they reach the chamber of Christabel. "The moon shines down in the open air, The lamp, with twofold silver chain, She trimmed the lamp and made it bright, While Geraldine, in wretched plight, No wonder the poem is matchless when it contains such writing. Other passages might be selected of equal power and beauty, but those which have been given are sufficient examples. Of the excellence of his minor poems it is difficult to convey a correct idea without actually presenting them before the reader, but this space does not permit. It is sufficient to say that they are all more or less distinguished by the same fine imagination and grace of diction: for classic eloquence, both in idea and expression, the " Monody on the Death of Chatterton" and the "Ode to the Departing Year" remain without a rival. 66 Before concluding this brief notice of Coleridge's poetic genius it may not be amiss to allude to a work to which he owes no small portion of his reputation, namely, his translation of Schiller's Wallenstein." This is said to be the only instance known of a translation being superior to its original-a proud distinction. Coleridge loved both Germany and its people, and he was amongst the first to attempt to introduce their literature, and to foster a taste for it among those circles to whose delight his own pen had so often contributed. His efforts were not crowned with the success they deserved; whatever emanated from Deutschland was viewed in this country as heavy and unattractive, and it was extremely difficult to root out the old conventional idea. By the exertions, however, of Mr. Carlyle, who has done infinitely more than any man of his time to render the literature of Germany popular amongst us, that idea has to a great extent disappeared; as year after year rolls by, the taste for German writers becomes more and more developed. But considering the adverse circumstances against which Coleridge had to contend, we cannot wonder at, although we may regret, the failure of a work on which unquestionably much pains were bestowed. The "Wallenstein" was not calculated to excite much interest; if attempted to have been put upon the stage, it would have proved an utter failure; and even in the closet the number of its readers was never large. There was too great a want of dramatic incident about it to excite the interest of the generality of people; many passages even sounded flat and laboured, a fault which is no doubt sometimes unavoidable when a translator adheres closely to his original, but which is never pardoned by the reader. Moreover, the drawing of the characters had not that boldness which frequently sustains the interest in works of the kind, even though deficient in other and finer qualities. With Wallenstein himself there is but little sympathy; and the Piccolomini, notwithstanding the prominent part they are made to play, seem after all but mere sketches. But with all its numerous drawbacks the work is undoubtedly one of exalted merits, not the least of which is the fidelity with which Coleridge has followed out the conceptions of Schiller; and there are numberless quiet touches throughout, which win the reader's admiration by the accuracy with which they portray the different workings of the passions. Taking it as a whole, the work is an excellent one; and although, for the reasons which have been given, it can never become popular, it will hold a high position in the estimation of that class of readers who despise bombast, and are content with unaffected simplicity. Coleridge's reasoning faculties were of the very first order. To grapple with him on a point of logical analysis required a mind of rare power. The great flow of words at his command frequently enabled him to defeat his antagonist with ease, although right might have been on the side of the latter. But Coleridge never knowingly used his powers against what was right: his efforts were directed rather towards the proving of accepted truths, not towards building new theories or laying the foundations of new religious creeds. In reading he was not content merely with examining the propositions which the writer had placed before him on the face of the book; his mind was ever on the watch to probe out some hidden meaning; and were no such meaning to be found, he endeavoured to supply, in his own imagination, ideas which either had not struck the author or were incompletely expressed. To such an extent had this habit gained upon him, that who many did not know him personally, or knew him incompletely, viewed him as a virulent hypercritic. Ideas to which this kind of analysis had given birth came to him copiously, and when uttered were valuable in the extreme; but so averse was he to the drudgery of systematically recording his ideas, that comparatively few have been rescued from oblivion. His favourite plan was to note down his thoughts in the margin of his book, careless whether they ever saw the light again, or whether they were so completely expressed as to stand the test of criticism in their turn. Scores of volumes containing these random pencil notes have been knocked for years about the second-hand book-stalls, frequently falling into the hands of people who had little mind to appreciate their great value, and only occasionally rescued by some industrious book-hunter. So far from his being a man naturally inclined to look out for blemishes in the writings of others, the case was quite the reverse; he was without a particle of malice in his composition. Added to his many other accomplishments, he was a skilful reader of the mind. It requires no superficial knowledge of human nature to appreciate properly a work which portrays it well: a man possessed only of that superficial knowledge may indeed be capable of admiring the work, but he can never become a correct judge; he must be continually observing, continually studying the different phases of life as they come before him. Coleridge's lectures on Shakspere exhibit this habit of observation in a prominent degree. They are chiefly distinguished by their minuteness of analysis, and by their admirable reasoning on the conceptions of the plays. A series of his essays, published under the name of "The Friend," manifest the same close study. The language of the moralist is combined throughout with that of the observer. After the lapse of so many years it is singular that no biography has appeared which can be considered worthy of this great man. It is true that as long as his works remain before the public his name will be remembered and his genius admired, but the want of a regular record of his life must be felt by the lovers of what is pure and graceful in literature. Few can read the writings of Coleridge without wishing to know more of him, and of such a man as Coleridge none could write a really valuable biography without having been frequently in contact with him. Perhaps the fittest person for the task would have been the nephew and son-in-law of the poet, the late Rev. Henry Nelson Coleridge, a man who, in addition to many other qualifications, possessed a finely cultivated taste for literature, and under whose auspices editions of more than one of his uncle's works have been issued from the press, particularly the "Table Talk" and the "Aids to Reflection." The generation which can connect the present day with that of Coleridge is passing rapidly away, and ere many years have rolled over us, those who can recollect to have shaken him by the hand will be few and far between. No further delay, then, should occur without the work being undertaken. The task has been accomplished for hundreds of men who were far less worthy; and if there ever was a man who, independently of his genius, deserved attention for the purity and virtue of his life, it was surely Samuel Taylor Coleridge. 0. The Reviewer. The Dramatic Works of William Shakspere. In Six Volumes. With Biographical Introduction by HENRY GLASSFORD BELL. Glasgow: Porteous Brothers. The Dramatic Works, &c. 1 Vol. London: Wm. Collins. THE two works above noted contain the same text and the same introduction. The printing in each is beautifully clear, and the get-up is highly praiseworthy. They each contain the text, without note or comment, but only, we are sorry to say, the text of the dramatic works. They do not supply the entire volume of Shakspere's mighty mind. This is almost the only matter of regret about these two splendid works. Criticism of the plays is quite out of place here; but the Introduction which has been prefixed to these editions falls legitimately enough within its range. Henry Glassford Bell, the author of the Biographical Introduction, is one of the Literary Sheriffs of the city of Glasgow,-the other and elder and chief being the historian of Europe, Sir Archibald Alison. 66 Sheriff Bell, son of the late James Bell, advocate, was born at Glasgow 8th November, 1805. He was educated for the law at Edinburgh University, and was called to the bar in 1832. In 1829 he established and conducted the Edinburgh Literary Journal, and contributed to Constable's Miscellany a "Life of Mary Queen of Scots." He has issued a volume of poetry, entitled, "Summer and Winter Hours ;" and a volume of mingled prose and verse, My Old Portfolio." In 1839 he was appointed first sheriff substitute of Lanarkshire, and it is understood that he has a volume of poems now in the press. He is a gentleman of excellent taste, an authority in his native city in art and literature, and one whose reputation is spread pretty widely as an orator, a lawyer, a judge, and a poet. The Biographical Introduction here given is finely critical regarding the literature of Shakspere's works, but not at up to the mark in regard to the facts of his life, on which so much new light has of late been thrown. This extract will show how eloquently composed this Shaksperian tribute is : all 86 ere is no name in the world of literature like the name of William Shakspere. Homer broke as a sudden dawn through the darkness of the earlier ages, and sang the grandest of heroic songs. Dante, when the gods of Homer were no |