kindled in him, if not the power, the love, of poetry, and beauty, and
kindness." He must be judged, however, by what he has actually _done_.

I am not here as the valuer of Coleridge's merits. I have no pretensions
and no desire to assume so delicate an office. His dreams and intentions
were undoubtedly good, and, had he been able to carry them out for the
benefit of the world, would have entitled himself to the name of a great
poet, a great genius. His readiness to discuss _all_ subjects, and his
ability to talk on most of them with ease, were marvellous. But he was
always infirm of purpose, and never did justice to his own capacity.

Amongst other men of talent who have sung Coleridge's praises should be
named Hazlitt, who knew him in 1798, and has enshrined him in the first of
his charming papers, entitled "Winterslow Essays." Hazlitt admits his
feebleness of purpose, but speaks of his genius, shining upon his own
(then) dumb, inarticulate nature, as the sun "upon the puddles of the
road." Coleridge at that time was a Unitarian minister, and had come to
preach, instead of the minister for the time being, at Shrewsbury. Hazlitt
rose before daylight (it was in January), and walked from Wem to
Shrewsbury, a distance of ten miles, to hear the "celebrated" man, who
combined the inspirations of poet and preacher in one person, enlighten a
Shropshire congregation. "Never, the longest day I have to live" (says
he), "shall I have such another walk as this cold, raw, comfortless one,
in the winter of 1798. When I got there [to the Chapel], the organ was
playing the one hundredth Psalm; and when it was done, Mr. Coleridge rose
and gave out his text--'And he went up into the mountain to pray, HIMSELF
ALONE.' The preacher then launched into his subject, like an eagle
dallying with the wind," &c. Coleridge was at that time only five and
twenty years of age; yet he seems even then to have been able to decide on
many writers in logic and rhetoric, philosophy and poetry. Of course he