capricious recklessness of self-indulgence, which will lead the world to identify him henceforth with his _Vathek_, as inextricably as it has long since connected Harold with the poet that drew him; and then, that there may be no limit to the inconsistencies of such a strange genius, this spirit, at once so capable of the noblest enthusiasm, and so dashed with the gloom of over-pampered luxury, can stoop to chairs and china, ever and anon, with the zeal of an auctioneer--revel in the design of a clock or a candlestick, and be as ecstatic about a fiddler or a soprano as the fools in Hogarth's _concert_. On such occasions he reminds us, and will, we think, remind everyone, of the Lord of Strawberry Hill. But even here all we have is on a grander scale. The oriental prodigality of his magnificence shines out even in trifles. He buys a library where the other would have cheapened a missal. He is at least a male Horace Walpole; as superior to the "silken Baron," as Fonthill, with its York-like tower embosomed among hoary forests, was to that silly band-box which may still be admired on the road to Twickenham ... We have no discussions of any consequence in these volumes: even the ultra-aristocratical opinions and feelings of the author--who is, we presume, a Whig--are rather hinted than avowed. From a thousand passing sneers, we may doubt whether he has any religion at all; but still he _may_ be only thinking of the outward and visible absurdities of popery--therefore we have hardly a pretext for treating these matters seriously. In short, this is meant to be, as he says in his preface, nothing but a "book of light reading"; and though no one can read it without having many grave enough feelings roused and agitated within him, there are really no passages to provoke or justify any detailed criticism either as to morals or politics ... We risk nothing in predicting that Mr. Beckford's _Travels_ will henceforth be classed among the most elegant productions of modern literature: they will be forthwith translated into every language of the Continent--and will keep his name alive, centuries after all the brass and marble he ever piled together have ceased to vibrate with the echoes of _Modenhas_. ON COLERIDGE [From _The Quarterly Review_, August, 1834] _The Poetical Works of S.T. Coleridge_. 3 vols. 12mo. London, 1834.