It is not merely that you may not be of accord on the objects and circumstances that present themselves before you--these may recall a number of oNects，and lead tO associations too delicate and refined to be possibly communicated to others．Yet these I love to cherish，and sometimes still fondly clutch them，when I can escape from the throng to do SO．To give way to our feeling before company seems extravagance or affectation；and on the other hand，to have to unravel this mystery of our being at every turn，and to make others take an equal interest in it(otherwise the end is not answered)，is a task to which few are competent．We must“give it an understanding，but no tongue．’’My old friend Coleridge，however，could do both．He could go on in the most delightful explanatory way over hill and dale a summer’S day，and convert a landscape into a didactic poem or a Pindaric ode．“He talked far above singing．’’If I could clothe my ideas in sounding and flowing words．I might perhaps wish tO have some one with me to the swelling theme；or I could be more content，were it possible for me still tO bear his echoing voice in the woods of All—Fox～den．They had“that finemadness in them which our first poets had”；and if they could have beencaught by some rare instrument，would have breathed such strains as thefollowing：