what he had by indulgence in opium, to which he was at one time a fearful victim. The great and unquestionable genius of Coleridge was expended chiefly on projections. He was a man who was capable of greatly adorning the literature of his time, and of creating an altogether new era in its history; but he could not or would not work, and his life was passed in dreamy idleness, in self-inflicted poverty, often in poignant misery, in gloomy regrets, and in unfulfilled designs. We fear the life of Mrs. Coleridge was not a happy one, good and affectionate though she was as a wife and mother. MY NOVEL: OR, VARIETIES IN ENGLISH LIFE.[11] BY PISISTRATUS CAXTON. CHAPTER XIII. Leonard and Helen settled themselves in two little chambers in a small lane. The neighborhood was dull enough--the accommodation humble; but their landlady had a smile. That was the reason, perhaps, why Helen chose the lodgings; a smile is not always found on the face of a landlady when the lodger is poor. And out of their windows they caught sight of a green tree, an elm, that grew up fair and tall in a carpenter's yard at the rear. That tree was like another smile to the place. They saw the birds come and go to its shelter; and they even heard, when a breeze arose, the pleasant murmur of its boughs. Leonard went the same evening to Captain Digby's old lodgings, but he could learn there no intelligence of friends or protectors for Helen. The people were rude and sturdy, and said that the Captain still owed them £1 17s. The claim, however, seemed very disputable; and was stoutly denied by Helen. The next morning Leonard set off in search of Dr. Morgan. He thought his best plan was to inquire the address of the Doctor at the nearest chemist's, and the chemist civilly looked into the _Court Guide_, and referred him to a house in Bulstrode-street, Manchester Square. To this street Leonard contrived to find his way, much marvelling at the meanness of London. Screwstone seemed to him the handsomest town of the two. A shabby man-servant opened the door, and Leonard remarked that the narrow passage was choked with boxes, trunks, and various articles of furniture. He was shown into a small room, containing a very large round table, whereon were sundry works on homoeopathy, Parry's _Cymbrian Plutarch_, Davies' _Celtic Researches_, and a Sunday newspaper. An engraved portrait of the illustrious Hahnemann occupied the place of honor over the chimneypiece. In a few minutes the door to an inner room opened, and Dr. Morgan appeared, and said politely, "Come in, sir." The Doctor seated himself at a desk, looked hastily at Leonard, and then at a great chronometer lying on the table. "My time's short, sir--going abroad; and now that I am going, patients flock to me. Too late. London will repent its apathy. Let it!"