day, when sixty-two, the eloquent centre of all companies, and the standard of intellectual greatness to hundreds of affectionate disciples far and near. Had Coleridge been master of his genius, and not, alas! mastered by it; - had he less romantically fought a single-handed fight against the whole prejudices of his age, nor so mercilessly racked his fine powers on the problem of a universal Christian philosophy—he might have easily won all that a reading public can give to a favourite, and have left a name · not greater nor more enduring indeed but better known, and more prized, than now it is, amongst the wise, the gentle, and the good, throughout all ranks of society. Nevertheless, desultory as his labours, fragmentary as his productions at present may seem to the cursory observer-my undoubting belief is, that in the end it will be found that Coleridge did, in his vocation, the day's work

of a giant. He has been melted into the very heart of the rising literatures of England and America; and the principles he has taught are the master-light of the moral and intellectual being of men, who, if they shall fail to save, will assuredly illustrate and condemn, the age in which they live. As it is, they 'bide their time.

I might here properly end what will, perhaps, seem more than enough of preface for such a work as this; but I know not how I could reconcile with the duty, which I owe to the memory of Coleridge, a total silence on the charges which have been made against him by a distinguished writer in one of the monthly publications. I allude, of course, to the papers which have appeared since his death in several numbers of Tait's Magazine. To Mr. Dequincey (for he will excuse my dropping his other name) I am unknown; but many years ago I learned

to admire his genius, his learning, his pure and happy style-every thing, indeed, about his writing except the subject. I knew, besides, that he was a gentleman by birth and in manners, and I never doubted his delicacy or his uprightness. His opportunities of seeing Mr. Coleridge were at a particular period considerable, and congeniality of powers and pursuits would necessarily make those opportunities especially valuable to the critical reminiscent. Coleridge was also his friend, and moreover the earth lay freshly heaped upon the grave of the departed!

Now to all the incredible meannesses of thought, allusion, or language perpetrated in these papers, especially the first, in respect of any other person, man or woman, besides Mr. Coleridge himself I say nothing. Let me in silent wonder pass them by on the other side. I wish nothing but well to

the writer. But even had I any interest in his punishment, what could be added to that which a returning sense of honour and gentlemanly feeling must surely at some time or other inflict on such a spirit as his!

Nor, even with regard to Coleridge,

is this the time or place — if it were ever or any where worth the while

to expose

the

wild mistakes and the monstrous caricature prevailing throughout the lighter parts of Mr. Dequincey's reminiscences. That with such a subject before him, such a writer should descend so very low as he has done, is indeed wonderful; but I suppose the eloquence and acuteness of the better parts of these papers were thought to require some garnish, and with the taste shown in its selection it would be idle to quarrel. Two points only call for remark. The first is, Mr. Dequincey's charge of plagiarism, which

he worthily introduces in the following

manner:

"Returning late (August, 1807) from this interesting survey, we found ourselves without company at dinner; and, being thus seated tête-à-tête, Mr. Poole propounded the following question to me, which I mention,

because it furnished me with the first hint of a singular infirmity besetting Coleridge's mind; Pray, my young friend, did you

6

ever form any opinion, or rather, did it ever happen to you to meet with any rational opinion or conjecture of others, upon that most irrational dogma of Pythagoras about beans? You know what I mean: that monstrous doctrine in which he asserts that a man might as well, for the wickedness of the thing, eat his own grandmother as meddle with beans.' 'Yes,' I replied; the line is in the Golden Verses. I remember it well.'