of such characters as it is probable the persons represented really were, together with the greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a development.” “‘Cenci’ is written for the multitude, and ought to sell well.”  “I believe it singularly fitted for the stage.” “‘The Cenci’ is a work of art; it is not coloured by my feelings, nor obscured by my metaphysics.  I don’t think much of it.  It gave me less trouble than anything I have written of the same length.”  “Prometheus”, on the other hand, he tells Ollier, “is my favourite poem; I charge you, therefore, specially to pet him and feed him with fine ink and good paper”—­which was duly done.  Again:—­“For ‘Prometheus’, I expect and desire no great sale; Prometheus was never intended for more than five or six persons; it is in my judgment of a higher character than anything I have yet attempted, and is perhaps less an imitation of anything that has gone before it; it is original, and cost me severe mental labour.”  Shelley was right in judging that “The Cenci” would be comparatively popular; this was proved by the fact that it went through two editions in his lifetime.  The value he set upon “Prometheus” as the higher work, will hardly be disputed.  Unique in the history of literature, and displaying the specific qualities of its author at their height, the world could less easily afford to lose this drama than “The Cenci”, even though that be the greatest tragedy composed in English since the death of Shakespeare.  For reasons which will be appreciated by lovers of dramatic poetry, I refrain from detaching portions of these two plays.  Those who desire to make themselves acquainted with the author’s genius, must devote long and patient study to the originals in their entirety.

“Prometheus Unbound”, like the majority of Shelley’s works, fell still-born from the press.  It furnished punsters with a joke, however, which went the round of several papers; this poem, they cried, is well named, for who would bind it?  Of criticism that deserves the name, Shelley got absolutely nothing in his lifetime.  The stupid but venomous reviews which gave him occasional pain, but which he mostly laughed at, need not now be mentioned.  It is not much to any purpose to abuse the authors of mere rubbish.  The real lesson to be learned from such of them as may possibly have been sincere, as well as from the failure of his contemporaries to appreciate his genius—­the sneers of Moore, the stupidity of Campbell, the ignorance of Wordsworth, the priggishness of Southey, or the condescending tone of Keats—­is that nothing is more difficult than for lesser men or equals to pay just homage to the greatest in their lifetime.  Those who may be interested in studying Shelley’s attitude toward his critics, should read a letter addressed to Ollier from Florence, October 15, 1819, soon after he had seen the vile attack upon him in the “Quarterly”, comparing this with the fragments of an expostulatory letter to the Editor, and the preface to “Adonais”.