AND OF ITS PREFACE.
The expression of my indignation and sympathy.
I will allow myself a first and last word on the subject
of calumny as it relates to me. As an author
I have dared and invited censure. If I understand
myself, I have written neither for profit nor for
fame: I have employed my poetical compositions
and publications simply as the instruments of that
sympathy between myself and others which the ardent
and unbounded love I cherished for my kind incited
me to acquire. I expected all sorts of stupidity
and insolent contempt from those.... These compositions
(excepting the tragedy of The Cenci, which was
written rather to try my powers than to unburden my
full heart) are insufficiently.... Commendation
then perhaps they deserve, even from their bitterest
enemies; but they have not obtained any corresponding
popularity. As a man, I shrink from notice and
regard: the ebb and flow of the world vexes me:
I desire to be left in peace. Persecution, contumely,
and calumny, have been heaped upon me in profuse measure;
and domestic conspiracy and legal oppression have
violated in my person the most sacred rights of nature
and humanity. The bigot will say it was the recompense
of my errors—the man of the world will call
it the result of my imprudence: but never upon
one head....
Reviewers, with some rare exceptions, are a most stupid
and malignant race. As a bankrupt thief turns
thief-taker in despair, so an unsuccessful author
turns critic. But a young spirit panting for fame,
doubtful of its powers, and certain only of its aspirations,
is ill-qualified to assign its true value to the sneer
of this world. He knows not that such stuff as
this is of the abortive and monstrous births which
time consumes as fast as it produces. He sees
the truth and falsehood, the merits and demerits,
of his case, inextricably entangled.... No personal
offence should have drawn from me this public comment
upon such stuff.
The offence of this poor victim seems to have consisted
solely in his intimacy with Leigh Hunt, Mr. Hazlitt,
and some other enemies of despotism and superstition.
My friend Hunt has a very hard skull to crack, and
will take a deal of killing. I do not know much
of Mr. Hazlitt, but....
I knew personally but little of Keats; but, on the
news of his situation, I wrote to him, suggesting
the propriety of trying the Italian climate, and inviting
him to join me. Unfortunately he did not allow
me.
* * * *
*
1.
And the green paradise which western waves
Embosom in their ever-wailing
sweep,—
Talking of freedom to their tongueless
caves,
Or to the spirits which within
them keep
A record of the wrongs which,
though they sleep, 5
Die not, but dream of retribution,—heard
His hymns, and echoing them
from steep to steep,
Kept—
