end. Not so Mr. Godwin.

That is best to

him, which he can do best. He does not waste himself in vain aspirations and effeminate sympathies. He is blind, deaf, insensible to all but the trump of Fame. Plays, operas, painting, music, ball-rooms, wealth, fashion, titles, lords, ladies, touch him not— all these are no more to him than to the magician in his cell, and he writes on to the end of the chapter, through good report and evi report. Pingo in eternitatem-is his motto. He neither envies nor admires what others are, but is contented to be what he is, and strives to do the utmost he can. Mr. Coleridge has flirted with the Muses as with a set of mis tresses: Mr. Godwin has been married twice, to Reason and to Fancy, and has to boast no short-lived progeny by each. So to speak, he has valves belonging to his mind, to regulate the quantity of gas admitted into it, so that like the bare, unsightly, but well-compacted steam-vessel, it cuts its liquid way, and arrives at its promised end while Mr. Coleridge's bark, "taught with the little nautilus

:

to sail," the sport of every breath, dancing to

every wave,

"Youth at its prow, and Pleasure at its helm," flutters its gaudy pennons in the air, glitters in the sun, but we wait in vain to hear of its arrival in the destined harbour. Mr. Godwin, with less variety and vividness, with less subtlety and susceptibility both of thought and feeling, has had firmer nerves, a more determined purpose, a more comprehensive grasp of his subject, and the results are as we find them. Each has met with his reward for justice has, after all, been done to the pretensions of each; and we must, in all cases, use means to ends!

:

It was a misfortune to any man of talent to be born in the latter end of the last century. Genius stopped the way of Legitimacy; and therefore it was to be abated, crushed, or set aside as a nuisance. The spirit of the monarchy was at variance with the spirit of the age. The flame of liberty, the light of intellect was to be extinguished with the sword-or with slander, whose edge is sharper

than the sword. The war between power and reason was carried on by the first of these abroad, by the last, at home. No quarter was given (then or now) by the Government-critics, the authorised censors of the press, to those who followed the dictates of independence, who listened to the voice of the tempter, Fancy. Instead of gathering fruits and flowers, immortal fruits and amaranthine flowers, they soon found themselves beset not only by ahost of prejudices, but assailed by all the engines of power, by nicknames, by lies, by all the arts of malice, interest, and hypocrisy, without a possibility of their defending themselves from the "pelting of the pitiless storm," that poured down upon them from the strong-holds of corruption and authority. The philosophers, the dry abstract reasoners, submitted to this reverse pretty well, and armed themselves with patience "as with triple steel" to bear discomfiture, persecution, and disgrace. But the poets, the creatures of sympathy, could not stand the frowns both of king and people. They

did not like to be shut out when places and pensions, when the critic's praises and the laurel-wreath were about to be distributed. They did not stomach being sent to Coventry, and Mr. Coleridge sounded a retreat for them by the help of casuistry and a musical voice" His words were hollow, but they pleased the ear" of his friends of the Lake School, who turned back disgusted and panicstruck from the dry desert of unpopularity, like Hassan the camel-driver, and

"Curs'd the hour, and curs'd the luckless day,

When first from Schiraz' walls they bent their way."

They are safely enclosed there, but Mr. Coleridge did not enter with them; pitching his tent upon the barren-waste without, and having no abiding city nor place of refuge.

· MR. SOUTHEY.

MR. SOUTHEY, as we formerly remember to have seen him, had a hectic flush upon his cheek, a roving fire in his eye, a falcon glance, a look at once aspiring and dejected -it was the look that had been impressed upon his face by the events that marked the outset of his life, it was the dawn of Liberty that still tinged his cheek, a smile betwixt hope and sadness that still played upon his quivering lip. Mr. Southey's mind is essen