criticism; as a matter of fact Keats had been, for a young and unknown poet, respectfully enough criticised—­and his letters show how extremely indifferent he was to external criticism of any kind.  Keats said—­and there is no reason to doubt the truth of the words, because they are borne out by many similar sayings in his most candid and most intimate letters—­that his own perception of his poetical deficiencies had given him far more pain than the strictures of any critic could possibly do.  The fact that the two poets both happened to die in Italy is no reason for selecting Italy as the place in which to give them a permanent joint memorial.

But one can excuse the inappropriateness and the tactlessness of commemorating the two poets together in Italy, because it is so well-meant and sincere an attempt to do them honour.  What one finds it harder to do is to pardon the solemnity, the snobbishness, of the whole proceeding.  The names of those eminent people who have signed the letter include a certain number of eminent men of letters, but they include also the names of people like the Headmaster of Eton, presumably because Shelley was at Eton.  When one remembers how Shelley was treated at Eton, and the sentiments which he entertained about the place, one cannot help recalling the verse about the men who built the sepulchres of the prophets whom their forefathers had stoned.  An almost incredible instance of this occurred at Oxford.  Shelley, as is well known, was at University College.  He lived his own life there, tried his chemical experiments, took long walks in the neighbourhood, in the company of Hogg, for the purpose of practising pistol-shooting or sailing paper boats.  No one took the slightest trouble to befriend or advise him, though he was one who responded eagerly to affectionate interest.  When he published his atheistical pamphlet, which was the whim of a clever, fantastic, and isolated young man, the authorities expelled him with scorn and fury; and now that he has become a great national poet; they have commemorated him there by setting up a very beautiful figure of a drowned youth in a state of nudity, though Shelley’s body was naturally found clothed when it was recovered on the seabeach—­indeed it is recorded that he had a volume of Keats and a Sophocles in his pocket.  This figure is placed in a singular shrine, lighted by a dome, that somehow contrives to suggest a mixture between a swimming-bath and the smoking-room of a hotel.  Well, it may be said that the least we can do is to give posthumous honour to those whom we bullied and derided in their lifetime.  A memorial placed in a seat of learning and education is a sort of stimulus to the young men who are trained there to go and do likewise; but do the worthy men who placed this memorial at Oxford really wish their students to emulate the example of Shelley?  If a sensitive young man of wild ideas went up to Oxford now, how would he be treated?  Probably nowadays some virtuous and enthusiastic young tutor would feel a certain sense of responsibility for the young man.  He would endeavour to influence him; he would implore him to play games, to go to lectures, to attend early chapel.  He would do his best to check any symptom of originality or free thought.  He would try to make him dutiful and orthodox, and to discourage all his fantastic theories.