Whether we shall ever, hereafter, have occasion to advert to any new poetical efforts of Mr. Coleridge, or not, we cannot say. We wish we had a reasonable cause to expect it. If not, then this hail and farewell will have been well made. We conclude with, we believe, the last verses he has written-- _My Baptismal Birth-Day._ God's child in Christ adopted,--Christ my all,-- What that earth boasts were not lost cheaply, rather Than forfeit the blest name, by which I call The Holy One, the Almighty God, my Father? Father! in Christ we live, and Christ in Thee; Eternal Thou, and everlasting we. The heir of heaven, henceforth I fear not death: In Christ I live: in Christ I draw the breath Of the true life:--Let then earth, sea, and sky Make war against me! On my heart I show Their mighty Master's seal. In vain they try To end my life, that can but end its woe. Is that a death-bed where a Christian lies? Yes! but not his--'tis Death itself there dies.--Vol. ii, p. 151. SIR WALTER SCOTT ON JANE AUSTEN [From. _The Quarterly Review_, October, 1815] _Emma; a Novel_. By the Author of _Sense and Sensibility, Pride and Prejudice_, etc. 3 vols. 12mo. London. 1815. There are some vices in civilized society so common that they are hardly acknowledged as stains upon the moral character, the propensity to which is nevertheless carefully concealed, even by those who most frequently give way to them; since no man of pleasure would willingly assume the gross epithet of a debauchee or a drunkard. One would almost think that novel-reading fell under this class of frailties, since among the crowds who read little else, it is not common to find an individual of hardihood sufficient to avow his taste for these frivolous studies. A novel, therefore, is frequently "bread eaten in secret"; and it is not upon Lydia Languish's toilet alone that Tom Jones and Peregrine Pickle are to be found ambushed behind works of a more grave and instructive character. And hence it has happened, that in no branch of composition, not even in poetry itself, have so many writers, and of such varied talents, exerted their powers. It may perhaps be added, that although the composition of these works admits of being exalted and decorated by the higher exertions of genius; yet such is the universal charm of narrative, that the worst novel ever written will find some gentle reader content to yawn over it, rather than to open the page of the historian, moralist, or poet. We have heard, indeed, of one work of fiction so unutterably stupid, that the proprietor, diverted by the rarity of the incident, offered the book, which consisted of two volumes in duodecimo, handsomely bound, to any person who would declare, upon his honour, that he had read the whole from beginning to end. But although this offer was made to the passengers on board an Indiaman, during a tedious outward-bound voyage, the _Memoirs of Clegg the