like the intermingling of smiles and tears in a fair human face, where the heart is at once conscious of delight and yet troubled with some lurking sadness. They are the unstrained, spontaneous utterances of a mind eminently gifted and accomplished; for Hartley is no mere rhapsodist, but a skilful and practised artist. He is not only endowed with the "vision or the faculty divine," but he has successfully attained to the "accomplishment of verse." His poems are the natural flowers of his emotions, but the forms and proportions in which they appear, their peculiar hues and shapened graces, are determined by the influences of a fostering cultivation.

It is the essence of poetical originality that a poem be the natural growth or emanation of the mind which gives it forth; that it partakes of the individuality of the writer, and is a spontaneous expression of his intellect and feelings. Tried by this test, the original qualities of Hartley Coleridge's poetry may be readily perceived. It is emphatically self-derived, intensely personal, and coloured by the peculiarities of his mental and moral constitution. You have in it a revelation of the soul of Hartley Coleridge. No poet has more intimately, and as it were unconsciously, seized the pith of Sydney's maxim: "Look in thy heart, and write." This personal interest is, perhaps, one of the principal charms of Hartley's poetry. Rich as it is in imagination, fancy, thought, and the subtle graces of a pure and cultivated taste, its highest beauty lies in the gentleness of heart and disposition which constantly runs through it, like a shining stream through a noble landscape. We have not space to illustrate all its peculiarities by quotation, but perhaps the following stanzas, descriptive of a state of lonely-heartedness, may convey an inkling of the sentiment and moral beauty which pervades the greater number of these poems:

She was a queen of noble Nature's crowning,
A smile of hers was like an act of grace;
She had no winsome looks, no pretty frowning,
Like daily beauties of the vulgar race:
But if she smiled, a light was on her face,
A clear cool kindliness, a lunar beam
Of peaceful radiance, silvering o'er the stream
Of human thought with unabiding glory;
Not quite a waking truth, not quite a dream,
A visitation, bright and transitory.

But she is changed,-hath felt the touch of

sorrow,

No love hath she, no understanding friend; Oh, grief! when heaven is forced of earth to borrow

What the poor niggard earth has not to lend; But when the stalk is snapt, the rose must bend.

The tallest flower that skyward rears its head, Grows from the common ground, and there must shed

Its delicate petals. Cruel fate, too surely,
That they should find so base a bridal bed,
Who lived in virgin pride, so sweet and
purely.

She had a brother, and a tender father,
And she was loved, but not as others are
From whom we ask return of love, but rather
As one might love a dream; a phantom fair
Of something exquisitely strange and rare,
Which all were glad to look on, men and
maids,

Yet no one claimed; as oft in dewy glades
The peering primrose, like a sudden gladness,
Gleams on the soul, yet unregarded fades ;
The joy is ours, but all its own the sadness.

'Tis vain to say, her worst of grief is only The common lot, which all the world have known;

To her 'tis more, because her heart is lonely,
And yet she hath no strength to stand alone,-
Once she had playmates, fancies of her own,
And she did love them. They are past away
As fairies vanish at the break of day-
And like a spectre of an age departed,
Or unsphered angel wofully astray,
She glides along, the solitary hearted.

Vol. i. p. 44.

We know not to what species of poetical composition to assign this poem; but in its compact unity and completeness it has the qualities which belong especially to the sonnet, and indeed it looks like a sonnet that has overflowed its bounds. Hartley's sonnets, which constitute the largest and most finished portion of his works, have many qualities to recommend them. One or two of these may be quoted, and will more profitably occupy our space than any critical observations which we could apply to them :

What was't awakened first the untried ear Of that sole man who was all human kind? Was it the gladsome welcome of the wind, Stirring the leaves that never yet were sere? The four mellifluous streams which flow'd so near,

Their lulling murmurs all in one combined? The note of bird unnamed? The startled hind

Bursting the brake, in wonder, not in fear,
Of her new lord? Or did the holy ground
Send forth mysterious melody to greet
The gracious pressure of immaculate feet!
Did viewless seraphs rustle all around,

Their passive substance, and their small proportion

Of fleeting life, in memory's backward view, Still dwindles to a point, a twinkling star, Long gleaming o'er the onward course of Being;

That tells us whence we came, and where we are,

And tells us too, how swiftly we are fleeing From all we were and loved, when life was new.-Vol. i., p. 14.

Say, What is Freedom? What the right of souls

Which all who know are bound to keep, or die;

And who knows not, is dead? In vain ye pry
In musty archives, or retentive scrolls,
Charters and statutes, constitutions, rolls,
And remnants of the old world's history :-
These show what has been, not what ought
to be,

Or teach at best how wiser Time controls
Man's futile purposes. As vain the search
Of restless factions, who, in lawless will,
Fix the foundations of a creedless church-
A lawless rule, an anarchy of ill;
But what is Freedom? Rightly understood,
A universal licence to be good.
Vol. i., p. 149.

Who is the Poet? Who the man whose lines
Live in the souls of men like household words?
Whose thought, spontaneous as the song of
birds,

With eldest truth coeval, still combines With each day's product, and, like morning, shines

Exempt from age? "Tis he, and only he,
Who knows that truth is free, and only free;
That virtue, acting in the strict confines
Of positive law, instructs the infant spirit
In its best strength, and proves its mere
demerit

Rooted in earth, yet tending to the sky;
With patient hope surveys the narrow bound,
Culls every flower that loves the lonely
ground,

And, fraught with sweetness, wings his way on high.-Vol. i., p. 150.

We have noted many pieces for especial remark and commendation, but lack of room for their insertion obliges us to overlook them. The following, which Hartley calls, "Sense, if you can Find it," is all that we can add to the quotations already given :—

Like one pale, flitting, lonely gleam
Of sunshine on a winter's day,
There came a thought upon my dream;
I know not whence, but fondly deem
It came from far away.

Those sweet, sweet snatches of delight
That visit our bedarken'd clay,
Like passage-birds, with hasty flight,
It cannot be they perish quite,
Although they pass away.

They come and go, and come again;

They're ours, whatever time they stay: Think not, my heart, they come in vain, If one brief while they soothe thy pain Before they pass away.

But whither go they? No one knows
Their home; but yet they seem to say,
That far beyond this gulf of woes,
There is a region of repose

For them that pass away.

Vol. i., p. 54.*

We have introduced enough to exhibit our poet's claims to consideration, and to indicate some of the main characteristics of his genius. We think that no discriminating reader can open these volumes without perceiving that he has to deal with a pure and exquisite kind of poetry. A great poet Hartley cannot properly be considered, but that he is a true one is not likely to be doubted. His position among the poets of his age is yet to be determined by the suffrages of his contemporaries and of posterity, but ultimately, we think, it will be high; and that, if he is not permitted to rank. with his father and with Wordsworth, he will still take a place not very far below them. He was possessed of a kindred genius and a kindred culture to that which distinguished them. He saw as far as either into the beauty an the mystery of the universe; and he needed only a severer discipline and closer application to have rivalled their best performances. Of no man, however, must be asked more than he has to give. The want of a steady, comprehensive purpose seems to have been in him a constitutional defectan incompleteness of his nature; and, perhaps, from this resulted his marked deficiency in creative grasp the power which is required for the conception and execution of a great and perfect whole. Yet, on the other hand, Hartley was, on a small scale, a highly successful artist. His sonnets are among the most finished and admirable compositions of the kind to be found in

* Poems. 2 Vols. Moxon.

our language. Most of his other pieces, too, are exquisitely versified. We need not care to canvass his capacity for larger things; though we do not doubt that, with more strength of will and character, he might have accomplished greater and more important works. He might, perhaps, have become as great a poet as any of his generation. But we must be content to take him with all his shortcomings and imperfections; being satisfied, for our part, that he is well worth knowing as he is, and that, being known, he will be admired and delighted in, and that the truth and beauty which he has won for us will survive, to benefit and bless the world.

HARRIET MARTINEAU. "WHO is that well-protected old lady trudging along there on the road, with an umbrella under her arm?" "She is not so old," grumbled out our coachman, to whom the question was addressed, just as we drew near to that sacred spot in the Lake district around which cluster the immortal names of Wordsworth, Arnold, and Martineau. "Well, old or young, who is she?"

66

Why, sir, that little stuggy woman is Miss Martineau. I dare say you have heard of her; there she goes off to the post-office. I meet her every morning, no matter what the weather; they say she has written a world of books; but if so, she's a deal wiser than most of your book people, for she is much out of doors." "Is she liked in the neighbourhood?" "Not so well; though I don't think it's her own fault. Some of the church people try to pick holes in her coat, or I should say her cloak. You saw her cloak, sir; aye, that's what she always wears in sharp weather like this." "But what have the church people' against her? "Lord bless you, sir, you can't please everybody. Now, there's that offleader of mine, I drove her four years on this bit of road, and she never made a stumble, and went right ahead in good style. Well, my master took it into his head one day to put her into Tom Cumber's team: Tom's dead now, poor fellow, he was a good whip; but, somehow, Tom and the mare did not agree, and so she came back to me, and we go on together as sweetly as ever. No, sir, you can't please everybody; and for myself, I

66

think the parson ought to be satisfied with that young woman, for she does a plaguy deal of his work; she is kind and attentive to the sick and the poor, sir, and she is just now instructing the people in I think they call it history." "What people?" Why, the people of this here town." "Ambleside ? "Yes." "How did she instruct them?" "Did? nay does, she's at it now; she just goes and, like a tight, clever little body that she is, she stands up and talks to them what they call a lecture; and sure enough she knows how to talk. Will, our head ostler, went one evening to hear her. Will, sir, comes from the north of Ireland. Well, as he told me himself, he'd heard much talking about King William of glorious memory,' but knew nothing whatsoever about him, till that clever little woman made it all as clear to him as the water there in the brook."

"Well

that was a good work." "A right, good work, sir; on a cold winter's day, when I've little or no companions on this coach, I often wish I knew something about these things; I should think about them as I drive on, and that would do instead of companions, and ale too; but I never had a day's schooling in all my life; besides I dont't think they learnt them sort of things at Cockermouth." "Did you ever drive Miss Martineau ?" "O yes, many a time; but you can get nothing out of her but civility, for she's as deaf as a post; I tried her, but it was of no use.' 66 "Why, what subject did you broach?" "Subject! What subject should I broach but one? Yes, sir, she knows a horse from a cow, I warrant you. Why, she's been trying to get an idea or two into the thick heads of the farmers hereabouts, but I fear she has not had much success. She has a little farm, there it is; and there's her house standing a little back, there off the road." "What, that on the right ?" "Yes; and just up there under the hill is Dr. Arnold's house." "Well, but about the farm ?" "O you may read all about it, it's in print; she farms cheaper and better than anybody else, that's all I know; except that the clodhoppers grumble, and ask what a woman has to do with farming; but here we are at Ambleside."

Not long after this conversation took place, it was our good fortune to meet

Harriet Martineau at the house of a common friend. We had first formed her acquaintance within learned walls more than a quarter of a century before. Already she had a reputation. At the moment her studies lay in theology. She had just mastered that cyclopædia of ecclesiastical antiquities, "Lardner's Works." We found her a plain, sprightly-looking woman, of no outward promise or pretension, distinguished for logical dexterity and charming flights of imagination, with a rather strong bias to the Esprit fort, yet deeply-religious in spirit, however tinged with free-thinking. In her sentiments there was a boldness, and in her tone a decision, which foretold mental pre-eminence and social distinction, and intimated the possibility of eccentricity, if not extravagance. Five-and-twenty years had made a change in Harriet Martineau as well as in ourselves. She had, when seen at a distance, sunk into the respectable, comfortable-looking, almost old lady; but in geniality she was younger than of yore. O we love genial age; would we were more genial ourselves! Well, there we were on a cold winter night, in a small snug room, gathered round a good North Country fire-(if, reader, you want a good fire in cold weather, put yourself into "the Express," and рор. about 9 o'clock, a.m., on an old friend somewhere in Lancashire; in that county was our recent interview with Miss Martineau)—well, there we were, the master and mistress of the house, a parson and his wife, your humble servant with his wife and eldest son; six of us, all friends; all imbued with literature; glad to see and hear each other; and withal delighted to have the prophetess by our side.

For

ourselves we expected to hear an oracle, but did not anticipate conversation, for we had been told that Miss Martineau had long grown accustomed to speak and to lecture in private, and could in no way listen. Had the word been "hear," instead of "listen," there would have been some truth in it, for she is so afflicted with deafness as to be incapable of hearing, unless by means of a trumpet, which, of necessity, confines her attention to one person at a time. With the restriction that this infirmity imposes, she is a good listener as well as a good

speaker. She has mingled intimately with persons of all ranks, and is almost more than any other distinguished author acquainted with the great and the lowly; the rich and the poor; the noble, the citizen, the artisan, the farm labourer; the learned, the ignorant; the patriotic, the philanthropic; the old, the middle-aged, and the young. Her mind is most richly and variously stored. She is full of book-knowledge and literary anecdote. When we add that, at least near our friend's warm hearth, she was overflowing with spirits, with kindness, with life, the reader may easily imagine what a delightful, what a glorious, evening we spent. From the ample resources of her head, and the generous affections of her heart, she, as occasion served, poured forth unpretendingly, but charmingly, rivulet after rivulet of information, sentiment, and principle, on which the freest discussion often ensued. And no sooner had she come to a stand-still on one topic, than a question, or a remark, set her tongue and her soul in motion on another; while, over all, from time to time, gleamed beams of kind, pure, and lofty feeling, and shot flashes of wit and imagination, which seemed as spontaneous as we felt they were enrapturing. The occasion stands for ever as 66 a gaudy day" in our calendar.

Miss Martineau is of French extraction, belonging to a family driven from France by the revocation of the Edict of Nantes. Like many of their fellow-exiles, her ancestors settled in Norwich, which they greatly contributed to enrich and distinguish by the skill and taste, especially in the silk manufacture, which they brought with them into the land that gave them a hospitable welcome. The name of

Martineau has retained the honour which led to its being transplanted to an English soil. Banished for the assertion of their religious liberty, the family have in England proved stanch friends of the sacred rights which it guarantees. To be free is to be powerful; to be free and to be powerful is to be truly respectable. And so there never have been wanting members of the family, who, with greater or less prominence, have deservedly enjoyed the esteem of their fellow-subjects, and rendered services to their neighbou their friends, their kind. In th

native city of Norwich, the Martineaus have, from generation to generation, done very much to call into existence, and to sustain, a healthy spirit of free inquiry, an intelligent love of liberty, and a hearty spirit of practical benevolence. Such a parentage is an object of legitimate pride.

"Howe'er it be, it seems to me

'Tis only noble to be good;
Kind hearts are more than coronets,

And simple faith than Norman blood." There is, in the history of Harriet Martineau, one feature which, in a work like THE BIOGRAPHICAL MAGAZINE, specially intended to help the helpless,-one feature which must be brought out in all the prominence that we can give it. Harriet Martineau is self-educated; she is self-raised. From what has been already said it will be understood that she was under the valuable impulse of pure and high family memories. She also enjoyed the advantages of such a school training as, some forty years ago, was given to the daughters of genteel families in the middle ranks; but she received only such superior intellectual advantages as she procured for herself. Excluded by her sex from the classes of our colleges and universities, she had no instructors but the great British classics, with whom she soon became familiar, and no guide except in a wide circle of cultivated friends. In intercourse with her brother, James Martineau, who received the benefits of a learned education, she found impulse, counsel, and strength. But, while she communicated scarcely less than she received, she, of necessity, found the aid of one who lived at a distance from her, and was absorbed in study and active duties, occasional and imperfect, and was, in the main, left to take her own course, be her own teacher, and form her own mind. And the more was she thrown on her own resources, because her father, not being a prosperous tradesman, was unable to supply her with the advantages which may accrue from fortune. an early period Miss Martineau had to create her own means of subsistence. The necessity, however conducive to her self-culture in one way, precluded her from many sources of instruction swnd improvement. As illustrative of pleas narrowness of her means, we may

At

ation that she had great difficulty

in procuring the publication of one of her most successful works, her "Stories on Political Economy." At first she attempted to raise for that purpose a subscription, to be paid in advance, in the then comparatively narrow circle of her private friends; nor did she succeed in getting the work before the public, except by the surrender to the bookseller of advantages which, in virtue of the authorship, she ought to have been able to retain for herself. Her triumph over this difficulty and others of a similar kind, and the constant progress which she has made in self-discipline, self-culture, usefulness, reputation, and pecuniary ease, offer the greatest encouragement, and a noble example to such as are endeavouring to struggle into light.

Harriet Martineau, one of a family of eight children, was born on the 12th of June, 1802, at Norwich, in the county of Norfolk. Never, except for a few hours, has she had the sense of smell. In consequence, her sense of taste has remained in the most rudimentary state. Before she had attained the age of twenty, she had lost the greater part of her hearing. When now any companions give her notices of distant objects or occurrences by means of any of these senses, when they tell her what is growing in an invisible field or garden, or when there is music, or what people are saying on the further side of a reach of a lake on a calm summer evening, she feels a sort of start, as if she were in company with sorcerers; and it is as if she had once lived in a land of magie when she remembers reading on her little stool in a corner, and being disturbed by hearing visitors whispering about her. Speaking of herself in regard to her sensuous defects, she writes:

"It seems to me that for want of the 'distraction' commonly enjoyed through the play of the senses, there is too little relief (in her system) to the action of the busiest parts of the brain; and life is made more laborious than can, perhaps, be conceived of by those who are using their five senses through all their waking hours. Among the faculties thus intensified, if not overwrought, is that of consciousness."

It has been often said, that there are few events in a student's life. It would be less incorrect to declare, that a student's life is nothing but events; only, the events differ from that which commonly bears the name. Phenomena, or, in the original Greek sense of the