The reflux of the tide had not yet commenced, and Pantisocracy was still Mr. Coleridge's favourite theme of discourse, and the banks of the Susquehannah the only refuge for permanent repose. It will excite great surprise in the reader to understand that Mr. C.'s cooler friends could not ascertain that he had received any specific information respecting this notable river. "It was a grand river;" but there were many other grand and noble rivers in America; (the Land of Rivers!) and the preference given to the Susquehannah, seemed almost to arise solely from its imposing name, which, if not classical, was at least poetical; and it probably by mere accident became the centre of all his pleasurable associations. Had this same river been called the Miramichi or the Irrawaddy, it would have been despoiled of half its charms, and have sunk down into a vulgar stream, the atmosphere of which might have suited well enough Russian boors, but which would have been pestiferous to men of letters. The strong hold which the Susquehannah had taken on Mr. Coleridge's imagination may be estimated by the following lines, in his Monody on Chatterton. "O, Chatterton! that thou wert yet alive; Sure thou would'st spread the canvass to the gale, And love with us the tinkling team to drive O'er peaceful freedom's UNDIVIDED dale; And we at sober eve would round thee throng, Hanging enraptured on thy stately song! And greet with smiles the young-eyed POSEY All deftly masked, as hoar ANTIQUITY. Alas, vain phantasies! the fleeting brood Of woe self-solaced in her dreamy mood! Yet I will love to follow the sweet dream, Where Susquehannah pours his untamed stream, And on some hill, whose forest-frowning side Waves o'er the murmurs of his calmer tide; And I will build a cenotaph to thee, Sweet harper of time-shrouded minstrelsy! And there soothed sadly by the dirgeful wind, Muse on the sore ills I had left behind." In another poem which appeared only in the first edition, a reference is again made to the American "undivided dell," as follows: TO W. J. H. While playing on his flute. Hush! ye clamorous cares! be mute. Again, dear Harmonist! again, Through the hollow of thy flute, Breathe that passion-warbled strain: Till memory each form shall bring The loveliest of her shadowy throng; And hope that soars on sky-lark whig, Carol wild her gladdest song! O skill'd with magic spell to roll The thrilling tones, that concentrate the soul! Breathe through thy flute those tender notes again, While near thee sits the chaste-eyed maiden mild; And bid her raise the poet's kindred strain In soft empassioned voice, correctly wild.