published at nine shillings, had little chance in those days of forcing its way into general circulation. The few copies sold slowly, and were at length exhausted. The book has long been out of print; and even amongst men of letters, and men interested in the character and admiring the genius of Sara Coleridge, it is almost unknown or forgotten.

The book, as now revived, appeals to a larger audience and a new generation; to readers who know the author, and who are already to some extent acquainted with the power, the grace, the refinement of her mind. They will be prepared to find in this, her only work of fiction, her longest continuous original composition, the delicate imagination, the melody of verse, the clear and picturesque language, the virginal purity of conception, which are to be found in this book by those who look for them. Indeed, these things do not need searching for; they lie upon the surface.

It may be said that this is exaggerated language to use about a fairy tale, which is nothing but a fairy tale; into which no moral is intruded, the characters of which are slightly indicated only, and never elaborately developed; and which is itself an example of a kind of composition old-fashioned, out of date, and entirely at odds with the spirit and temper of the time we live in. No one, however, who reads this book through is likely

to say that I have described it too favourably; and this edition is an attempt at least to ascertain whether it is not fitted for general readers, and may not achieve a general and lasting popularity.

Some time ago it would have been by no means superfluous to plead for fairy tales as entitled to a distinct and useful place in the cultivation of the intellect, and as having an important function to perform in a sensible and practical education. But this is hardly necessary now. We have, indeed, still too much of the directly moral and instructive tale, of stories wherein the interest turns upon small incidents of daily life, which are invested with a moral importance altogether unreal and exaggerated; the tendency of the whole tale being too often to foster a morbid self-introspection, and a diseased and effeminate religion. But there are signs of a healthy change; and if the number of good books, and books of what is called useful knowledge, is still somewhat overwhelming, the use of works of pure fancy is at least now generally admitted, and the good sense of cultivating the imagination is not disputed. Indeed, in England, and for most of us it would be hard-hearted to dispute it. When we think of the grim and unlovely lives, which the great body of the English people is doomed to lead, their dreary toil, their dull homes, their harsh surroundings, it is surely wise as well as merciful,