[Footnote A:  Shaftesbury made this an objection to Christianity, which was answered by Foster, Leland, and other eminent divines, on the ground that Christianity had a higher object in view, namely, general philanthropy.]

[Footnote B:  Mr. Fuseli used to object to this striking delineation a want of historical correctness, inasmuch as the animating principle of the true chivalrous character was the sense of honour, not the mere regard to, or saving of, appearances.  This, we think, must be an hypercriticism, from all we remember of books of chivalry and heroes of romance.]

[Footnote C:  We had forgotten the tragedies of Antonio and Ferdinand.  Peace be with their manes!]

[Footnote D:  To be sure, it was redeemed by a high respect, and by some magnificent compliments.  Once in particular, at his own table, after a good deal of badinage and cross-questioning about his being the author of the Reply to Judge Eyre’s Charge, on Mr. Godwin’s acknowledging that he was, Mr. Tooke said, “Come here then,”—­and when his guest went round to his chair, he took his hand, and pressed it to his lips, saying—­“I can do no less for the hand that saved my life!”]

* * * * *

MR. COLERIDGE.

The present is an age of talkers, and not of doers; and the reason is, that the world is growing old.  We are so far advanced in the Arts and Sciences, that we live in retrospect, and doat on past atchievements.  The accumulation of knowledge has been so great, that we are lost in wonder at the height it has reached, instead of attempting to climb or add to it; while the variety of objects distracts and dazzles the looker-on.  What niche remains unoccupied?  What path untried?  What is the use of doing anything, unless we could do better than all those who have gone before us?  What hope is there of this?  We are like those who have been to see some noble monument of art, who are content to admire without thinking of rivalling it; or like guests after a feast, who praise the hospitality of the donor “and thank the bounteous Pan”—­perhaps carrying away some trifling fragments; or like the spectators of a mighty battle, who still hear its sound afar off, and the clashing of armour and the neighing of the war-horse and the shout of victory is in their ears, like the rushing of innumerable waters!

Mr. Coleridge has “a mind reflecting ages past:”  his voice is like the echo of the congregated roar of the “dark rearward and abyss” of thought.  He who has seen a mouldering tower by the side of a chrystal lake, hid by the mist, but glittering in the wave below, may conceive the dim, gleaming, uncertain intelligence of his eye:  he who has marked the evening clouds uprolled (a world of vapours), has seen the picture of his mind, unearthly, unsubstantial, with gorgeous tints and ever-varying forms—­

  “That which was now a horse, even with a thought
  The rack dislimns, and makes it indistinct
  As water is in water.”