THERE is no question many of our readers will think we are doing a very useless, if not a very absurd thing, in writing, at this time of day, any thing like a review of the poetry of Mr Coleridge. Several years have elapsed since any poetical production, entitled to much attention, has been published by him-and of those pieces which the true strength and originality of his genius have been expressed, by far the greater part were presented to the world before any of the extensively popular poetry of the present day existed. In the midst, however, of the many new claimants which have arisen on every hand to solicit the ear and the favour of the readers of poetry, we are not sure that any one has had so much reason to complain of the slowness and inadequacy of the attention bestowed upon him as this gentleman, who is, comparatively speaking, a veteran of no inconsiderable standing. It is not easy to determine in what proportions the blame of his misfortunes should be divided between himself and his countrymen. That both have conducted themselves very culpably-at least very unwisely-begins at length, we believe, to be acknowledged by most of those whose opinion is of any consequence. As for us, we can never suppose ourselves to be ill employed when we are doing any thing that may serve in any measure to correct the errors of the public judgment on the one hand, or to stimulate the efforts of ill-requited, and thence, perhaps, desponding or slumbering genius on the other. To our Scottish readers we owe no apology whatever; on the contrary, we have no hesitation in VOL. VI.

saying, that in regard to this and a very great number of subjects besides, they stand quite in a different situation from our English readers. The reading-public of England (speaking largely) have not understood Mr Coleridge's poems as they should have done The reading-public of Scotland are in general ignorant that any such poems exist, and of those who are aware of their existence, the great majority owe the whole of their information concerning them to a few reviews, which, being written by men of talent and understanding, could not possibly have been written from any motives but those of malice, or with any purposes but those of misrepresentation.

The exercise of those unfair, and indeed wicked arts, by which the superficial mass of readers are so easily swayed in all their judgments, was, in this instance, more than commonly easy, by reason of the many singular eccentricities observable in almost all the productions of Mr Coleridge's muse. What was already fantastic, it could not be no difficult matter for those practised wits, to represent, as utterly unmeaning, senseless, and absurd. But perhaps those who are accustomed to chuckle over the ludicrous analysis of serious poems, so common in our most popular reviews, might not be the worse for turning to the Dictionnaire Philosophique, and seeing with what success the same weapons have been employed there, (by much greater wits, it is true) to transform and degrade into subjects of vulgar merriment all the beautiful narratives of the sacred books-their A 2