by the context, whether he ever has or not experienced in himself a corresponding feeling; and, therefore, undoubtedly, this is an obscurity which strict criticism cannot but condemn. But, if an author be obscure, merely because this or that reader is unaccustomed to the mode or direction of thinking in which such author's genius makes him take delight-such a writer must indeed bear the consequence as to immediate popularity; but he cannot help the consequence, and if he be worth anything for posterity, he will disregard it. In this sense almost every great writer, whose natural bent has been to turn the mind upon itself, is-must be-obscure; for no writer, with such a direction of intellect, will be great, unless he is individual and original; and if he is individual and original, then he must, in most cases, himself make the readers who shall be competent to sympathize with him. The English flatter themselves by a pretence that Shakspeare and Milton are popular in England. It is good taste, indeed, to wish to have it believed that those poets are popular. Their names are so; but if it be said that the works of Shakspeare and Milton are popular-that is, liked and studied-among the wide circle whom it is now the fashion to talk of as enlightened, we are obliged to express our doubts whether a grosser delusion was ever promulgated. Not a play of Shakspeare's can be ventured on the London stage without mutilation-and without the most revolting balderdash foisted into the rents made by managers in his divine dramas; nay, it is only some three or four of his pieces that can be borne at all by our all-intelligent public, unless the burthen be lightened by dancing, singing, or processioning. This for the stage. But is it otherwise with the reading public?' We believe it is worse; we think, verily, that the apprentice or his master who sits. out Othello or Richard at the theatres, does get a sort of glimpse, a touch, an atmosphere of intellectual grandeur; but he could not keep himself awake during the perusal of that which he admires ―or fancies he admires-in scenic representation. As to understanding Shakspeare-as to entering into all Shakspeare's thoughts and feelings as to seeing the idea of Hamlet, or Lear, or Othello, as Shakspeare saw it-this we believe falls, and can only fall, to the lot of the really cultivated few, and of those who may have so much of the temperament of genius in themselves, as to comprehend and sympathize with the criticism of men of genius. Shakspeare is now popular by name, because, in the first place, great men, more on a level with the rest of mankind, have said that he is admirable, and also because, in the absolute universality of his genius, he has presented points to all. Every man, woman, and child, may pick at least one flower from his garden, the name and scent of which are familiar. To all which must of course be added, the effect of theatrical representation, be that representation what it may. There are tens of thousands of persons in this country whose only acquaintance with Shakspeare, such as it is, is through the stage. We have been talking of the contemporary mass; but this is not all; a great original writer of a philosophic turn-especially a poet-will almost always have the fashionable world also against him at first, because he does not give the sort of pleasure expected of him at the time, and because, not contented with that, he is sure, by precept or example, to show a contempt for the taste and judgment of the expectants. He is always, and by the law of his being, an idoloclast. By and by, after years of abuse or neglect, the aggregate of the single minds who think for themselves, and have seen the truth and force of his genius, becomes important; the merits of the poet by degrees constitute a question for discussion; his works are one by one read; men recognize a superiority in the abstract, and learn to be modest where before they had been scornful; the coterie becomes a sect; the sect dilates into a party; and lo! after a season, no one knows how, the poet's fame is universal. All this, to the very life, has taken place in this country within the last twenty years. The noblest philosophical poem since the time of Lucretius was, within time of short memory, declared to be intolerable, by one of the most brilliant writers in one of the most brilliant publications of the day. It always put us in mind of Waller-no mean parallel-who, upon the coming out of the Paradise Lost,' wrote to the duke of Buckingham, amongst other pretty things, as follows:- Milton, the old blind schoolmaster, has lately written a poem on the Fall of Man-remarkable for nothing but its extreme length! Our divine poet asked a fit audience, although it should be but few. His prayer was heard; a fit audience for the 'Paradise Lost' has ever been, and at this moment must be, a small one, and we cannot affect to believe that it is destined to be much increased by what is called the march of intellect. Can we lay down the pen without remembering that Coleridge the poet is but half the name of Coleridge? This, however, is not the place, nor the time, to discuss in detail his qualities or his exertions as a psychologist, moralist, and general philosopher. That time may come, when his system, as a whole, shall be fairly placed before the world, as we have reason to hope it will soon be; and when the preliminary works-the Friend,' the Lay Sermons,' the Aids to Reflection,' and the Church and State,' -especially the last two-shall be seen in their proper relations 6 as as preparatory exercises for the reader. His Church and State, according to the Idea of Each'—a little book—we cannot help recommending as a storehouse of grand and immovable principles, bearing upon some of the most vehemently disputed topics of constitutional interest in these momentous times. Assuredly this period has not produced a profounder and more luminous essay. We have heard it asked, what was the proposed object of Mr. Coleridge's labours as a metaphysical philosopher? He once answered that question himself, in language never to be forgotten by those who heard it, and which, whatever may be conjectured of the probability or even possibility of its being fully realized, must be allowed to express the completest idea of a system of philosophy ever yet made public. My system,' said he, if I may venture to give it so fine a name, is the only attempt that I know, ever made, to reduce all knowledge into harmony. It opposes no other system, but shows what was true in each; and how that which was true in the particular in each of them, became error, because it was only half the truth. I have endeavoured to unite the insulated fragments of truth, and therewith to frame a perfect mirror. I show to each system that I fully understand and rightfully appreciate what that system means; but then I lift up that system to a higher point of view, from which I enable it to see its former position, where it was indeed, but under another light and with different relations, so that the fragment of truth is not only acknowledged, but explained. So the old astronomers discovered and maintained much that was true; but because they were placed on a false ground, and looked from a wrong point of view, they never did they never could-discover the truth-that is, the whole truth. As soon as they left the earth, their false centre, and took their stand in the sun, immediately they saw the whole system in its true light, and the former station remaining-but remaining as a part of the prospect. I wish, in short, to connect by a moral copula, natural history with political history; or, in other words, to make history scientific, and science historical;-to take from history its accidentality, and from science its fatalism.' Whether we shall ever, hereafter, have occasion to advert to any new poetical efforts of Mr. Coleridge, or not, we cannot say. We wish we had a reasonable cause to expect it. If not, then this hail and farewell will have been well made. We conclude with, we believe, the last verses he has written: 6 My Baptismal Birth-Day. 'God's child in Christ adopted,-Christ my all,— What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather Than forfeit that blest name, by which I call The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father?. Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee; The The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death: Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies? Yes! but not his 'tis Death itself there dies.'-vol. ii. p. 151. ART. II.-Journey to the North of India overland from England, through Russia, Persia, and Affghaunistaun. By Lieut. Arthur Conolly. 2 vols. 8vo. London. 1834. IT T is not very long since the grand vizier of the King of Persia asserted that a man's head would not be worth ten shahis (10d.) who would venture to go to Balkh. Behold, in the face of that assertion, a young Englishman arriving at Tehran, with the safe and beaten road of Ispahan, Shiraz, and the Persian Gulf before him, determines to abandon it, and facing an almost unknown region teeming with barbarous fanatics of every sort, to encounter the numberless dangers by which it is thronged, and so seek his way to his countrymen in India. Lieutenant Conolly tells us in the most modest of prefaces, that his apology for submitting this work to the notice of the public must rest upon the circumstance of his having travelled by a new route and through very interesting countries.' When it is recollected how full of difficulty was the undertaking, we are quite certain that the public will appreciate the spirit and enterprise which impelled him. In truth we owe him a great deal—the usual overland routes to India, both by Egypt and through Persia, are too well known to require more information concerning them; but the Russian road, if we may so call it, is still open to much investigation. It has hitherto been but little travelled-the passage of a Frank along it, should he adhere to his shaven chin, his tight pantaloons, and his swallowtailed-coat, would be as great a curiosity to the inhabitants which border it, as the elephant which walked all the way through Russia, equipped in boots, sent as a present from the Shah to the Emperor Alexander, was to the Muscovites. Mr. Conolly is the first, we believe, who has ventured to adopt this route proceeding from Europe, and we consider this undertaking more difficult than that of the traveller who comes from India. In the one case he arrives from a quarter more open to suspicion, for the impression which a stranger creates upon the ignorant Turcoman and Affghaun is, that he is a Rus; while in the other, the traveller who during his sojourn in India has had time to imbue himself in the character of of an Asiatic, comes from a less suspected region, and can more easily pass unnoticed. Leaving London in August, 1829, Mr. Conolly proceeded to Petersburg, whence he had at first determined to pursue the usual line by the south of Persia; but conceiving that he might get to India by a more direct overland route, and being desirous of adding to the information already obtained respecting certain interesting and little-travelled countries, he resolved to attempt a journey via Khiva, Bokhara, and Cabul, through Khorassan and Affghaunistan, to the Indus. He, therefore, abandoned his English party, and engaged as a companion, Syud Karaumut Allee, an unprejudiced, very clever, and gentlemanly native of Hindoostan. We must take this early opportunity of saying that we do not approve of Lieutenant Conolly's mode of writing Oriental names, some of which are so universally adopted in European literature, that it is quite absurd to think of altering their aspect to our eyes. Why write Allee for Ali, and why should our old friend Turk be now introduced as Toork? Throughout we have Vuzeer for Vizier-and so on. All this sort of thing is silly affec tation. Upon reaching Tabreez, he engaged two servants, purchased three ambling galloways, and hired mules, and on the 6th March, 1830, took leave of his friends, and rode away from that city. At Tehran, he shaved his head, and having allowed his beard to get two months start, he flattered himself that, as soon as the weather should have tanned his neck, he might exhibit himself in the face of all Asia as an accomplished Kizzilbash. He then proceeded to Asterabad, where he assumed the character of a merchant bound to Khiva, and bought red silk scarfs, Kerman shawls, furs, large bags of pepper, ginger, and other spices. Happy are we who can travel further than from Asterabad to Khiva, with no other baggage than an umbrella, a cloak, and a portmanteau, and that we do not require the pomp and circumstance of pepper, ginger, and other spices, to announce who we are! But all this was absolutely necessary in the case of Lieutenant Conolly;-or rather, so he thought; for indeed, had we been his advisers on this occasion, and we have had some experience of the Eastern world, we would have said, take no such things-they announce wealthyour object is to assert poverty-make yourself as poor a wretch as you can-look as much like an Irishman coming to seek service in Marylebone as possible. You tell us that among your comforts you have taken a small bag of raisins, tea and sugar, and a bottle of vinegar-how is this? these are unpermitted luxuriesthey may lead to your destruction-you must live as you can— a blue shirt, a pair of trousers, a sheep's skin and a staff, are all that |