ach!' (the
name he had assumed.) 'What do you come here for, sir?' as if doubting
whether he had any business there. 'Sir,' said Coleridge, 'for what most
other persons come--to be made a soldier.' 'Do you think,' said the
general, 'you can run a Frenchman through the body?' 'I do not know,'
replied Coleridge, 'as I never tried; but I'll let a Frenchman run me
through the body before I'll run away.' 'That will do,' said the
general, and Coleridge was turned in the ranks."

The poet made a poor dragoon, and never advanced beyond the awkward
squad. He wrote letters, however, for all his comrades, and they
attended to his horse and accoutrements. After four months service,
(December 1793 to April 1794), the history and circumstances of
Coleridge became known. He had written under his saddle, on the stable
wall, a Latin sentence (Eheu! quam infortunii miserrimum est fuisse
felicem!) which led to an inquiry on the part of the captain of his
troop, who had more regard for the classics than Ensign Northerton, in
_Tom Jones_. Coleridge was, accordingly, discharged, and restored to his
family and friends.

* * * * *

COBBETT'S BOYHOOD.

Perhaps, in Cobbett's voluminous writings, there is nothing so complete
as the following picture of his boyish scenes and recollections: it has
been well compared to the most simple and touching passages in
Richardson's _Pamela_:--

"After living within a hundred yards of Westminster Hall and the
Abbey church, and the bridge, and looking from my own window into
St. James's Park, all other buildings and spots appear mean and
insignificant. I went to-day to see the house I formerly occupied.
How small! It is always thus: the words large and small are
carried about with us in our minds, and we forget real dimensions.
The idea, such as it was received, remains during our absence from
the object. When I returned to England in 1800, after an absence
from the country parts of it of sixteen years, the trees, the
hedges, even the parks and woods, seemed so small! It made me
laugh to hear little gutters, that I could jump over, called
rivers! The Thames was but 'a creek!' But when, in about a month
after my arrival in London, I went to Farnham, the place of my
birth, what was my surprise! Every thing was become so pitifully
small! I had to cross in my postchaise the long and dreary heath
of Bagshot. Then