It is a common remark, that wonderful children seldom perform the promises of their youth, and undoubtedly this fine effusion has not been followed in Mr. Coleridge’s riper years by works of proportionate merit.

We see, then, that our author came very early into public notice; and from that time to this, he has not allowed one year to pass without endeavouring to extend his notoriety.  His poems were soon followed (they may have been preceded) by a tragedy, entitled, the “Fall of Robespierre,” a meagre performance, but one which, from the nature of the subject, attracted considerable attention.  He also wrote a whole book, utterly incomprehensible to Mr. Southey, we are sure, on that Poet’s Joan of Arc; and became as celebrated for his metaphysical absurdities, as his friend had become for the bright promise of genius exhibited by that unequal, but spirited poem.  He next published a Series of political essays, entitled, the “Watchman,” and “Conciones ad Populum.”  He next started up, fresh from the schools of Germany, as the principal writer in the Morning Post, a strong opposition paper.  He then published various outrageous political poems, some of them of a gross personal nature.  He afterwards assisted Mr. Wordsworth in planning his Lyrical Ballads; and contributing several poems to that collection, he shared in the notoriety of the Lake School.  He next published a mysterious periodical work, “The Friend,” in which he declared it was his intention to settle at once, and for ever, the principles of morality, religion, taste, manners, and the fine arts, but which died of a galloping consumption in the twenty-eighth week of its age.  He then published the tragedy of “Remorse,” which dragged out a miserable existence of twenty nights, on the boards of Drury-Lane, and then expired for ever, like the oil of the orchestral lamps.  He then forsook the stage for the pulpit, and, by particular desire of his congregation, published two “Lay Sermons.”  He then walked in broad day-light into the shop of Mr. Murray, Albemarle Street, London, with two ladies hanging on each arm, Geraldine and Christabel,—­a bold step for a person at all desirous of a good reputation, and most of the trade have looked shy at him since that exhibition.  Since that time, however, he has contrived means of giving to the world a collected edition of all his poems, and advanced to the front of the stage with a thick octavo in each hand, all about himself and other Incomprehensibilities.  We had forgot that he was likewise a contributor to Mr. Southey’s Omniana, where the Editor of the Edinburgh Review is politely denominated an “ass,” and then became himself a writer in the said Review.  And to sum up “the strange eventful history” of this modest, and obscure, and retired person, we must mention, that in his youth he held forth in a vast number of Unitarian chapels—­preached his way through Bristol, and “Brummagem,” and Manchester, in a “blue coat and white waistcoat”;