New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1882-09-10

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play is over in what oblivion our crumbling relies
are hidden away. Yet to most human creatures
these are sacred thugs and many loving heat,
for all time to come, will echo the tender words OF
Lcnpfellow.-so truly expressive Of a universal
and reyerent sentiment:
Take them. o grave, aud letthem lie
Folded upon thy narrow shelves,
As garments by the soul Ind by
And precious only to ourselves"
One Of the pleasantest and saddest of all the
literary pilgrmagcs that | have made was that
which brought me to the house in which Coerdge
did and the place where he was buried. The
student need not be told that his poet. born in
1772, the year after Gray's death, bora the white
lilies of pure literature tl 1884, when he too en-
tered into his rest The last nineteen years OF tire
life of COleridge were spent in house ut liShgate
and here, within n few steps of each other, the
visitor may behold his dwelling and his tomb. The
house is ono in "a block OF dwellings. situated in
what is called The GrOve-a broad and emboWered
street a little way OIL from the centre of the vii
LACE There are gardens attached to these houses,
both in the front and the rear, and the smooth and
pea reful roadside walks in The Grove itself
pleasantly shaded by cms OF noble size and abun-
daut foliage These were young trees whom Cole
ridge saw them. and all this neishbOrhOod m his
day was but thiuly settled. Looking from his
chamber window lie could see the dusky outlines
of somble London, crowned with the dome of st.
PauTS on the southern horizon, while, more near
across II fertile aud smiling valley, the gray spre
Of HAMPSTEAD Church would bound his prospect
rising above the vcrdaut woodland of Caen In
front were beds of flowers, and all around he might
hear the songs of birds that hlled tho frag ant air
with their happy, careless music Not far away
stood the old church of EIighgate long since de-
4 LII l.,
was the Gate House Inn, primitive, quaint and
cosy which still is standing to comfort the weary
traveller with its wholesome hospitality. High
gate, with all its rural peace must have been
hnstlng place in the old times for all the travel
went through it that passed either into or ont of
London by the great northern road,-that road IN
which Wilmington heard the prophetic summons
of the bells and where may still he seen, suitably
and rightly marked, the site OF the stone on which
ne sat 20 rest. Here indeed. I'll the coaches used
to stop either To BAIT to change horses. and here
the many neglected little taycrns still remaining.
with their odd names and their swinging signs.
tc.tify to the discarded customs OF by gone age.
Some years ago a new road was cut, 50 that
travellers might winl around the hill, and avoid
clubbing the steep ascent 10 the village; ana since
then the grass has begun to grow IN tue streets.
But such hustle rs olcc euiycncd the solitude Of
agreeable diversion to its inhabitants; while tor
Cocrdse himself As We can well imagine, the
ondon coach was welcome indeed that brought
to his door such wcll-oyed friends as Charles
Lamb. Leigh Hunt. he Quincy, Carlyle. Allston,
Wordsw orth or Taituurd.
To this retreat the author of The Ancient
Mariner Withdrew in 1915, to live with his
friend James Gilman. surgeon. who had under
taken to rescue HIN from the demon Of opium, but
who. as Do Quincy ntmGtes. was lured by the
poet into the service % the very tenl whom both
hal strIyen to subdur. 1t was his last refuge and
he never left it till he WAS released from iife As
yOu raubie in this quiet ncighb0rhoOd your fancy
wal not TAIL to coniurc up his placid hgurc-thc
silver hair, tho pale face, the great luminous.
changcful blue eyes the sOmeN hat portiy form
clothed in black raimen the slow, feeble walk, the
sweet. benlgnaut manner, he voice that as perfect
melody. and the nexhaustible talk that was the
flow of Il golden sea of eoqurnce aud wisdom.
COerilge was often seen walking here, with book
in his hand; and all tho little children of the VII
lage knew hin and loved him. HIS presence is i'm
pressed forever upon this place, 10 haunt and TO
hallow it, He was very great man. The wings
of his agnation wave easily in the opal air of
the highest heaven. The power and majesty OF his
thought are such rs establish forever in the human
MUD the conviction Of personal Immortality. No
man who reads Colorilgo can doubt the destiny of
the soul. Yet how fotlOrn the ending that this
stately spirit was enforced to make! For more
than thirty years he the slave of opium. 1t
broke up his home it aenated his wife it ruined
his health; 1t made him utterly wretched. Il
have been, through large portion of my later
life" he wrote. in 1884 sufferer sorely afflicted
with bodily pains. languor and manifold infrui-
ties But back of all this,-mvrc dreadful still
and harder to bear.-was he not the slave of some
ingraned peryersty OF tho mind itself, some help
less and hopeless irresoluton Of character, some
cneryating spell of that sublime detection OF Ham
let when kept him forever at war with himself,
and. last of all. cast him out upon the homeless
ocean Of despair, to DRIFT away into ruin and
death! There are shapes more awful than his. In
the records of literary history.-the ravaged,
agoniEing form of Swift, for instance aud the