During my long sojourn in Italy, I saw and felt how much of what was true and pure in Art, as well as Nature, was either left altogether untouched (as the whole region of Naples, Pompeii, &c., with its wonders), or touched too often-for the truth will ever be heard in the end-with an undue colouring. Even in the most noted sculptures, the manifold moral truths so sublimely inculcated by the silent artist were overlooked; the outward material signs only, immortally preserved.

On my return, I published my long-laboured Poem of "Italy." I had been aware, in common with my poet brethren, that Poetry, in its highest walk, had become extinct, or, in other words, out of date, and its altar altogether desecrated; that even the advantages of criticism were neutralised; its daily habit of pandering to the suggestions of friendship or instigations of spleen, having rendered its aids useless; the voices of the more discerning were drowned in the blazonries of the puffer; the heralds had been untrue to their vocation; the Public had been too often deceived, and the most extravagant praise or censure operated with the like effect.

In addition to these discouraging circumstances, I was also fully conscious of the unpopularity of my attempt, which I felt my Preface, however openly expressed,

could not effectually dissipate. I was also prepared for the prejudice which would, at once, condemn, without even partially reading, far less dwelling on, that which had cost me such time and labour of thought to erect. Living, also, in comparative seclusion from literary men, I had not a single supporter, or, in other words, one literary friend; still, in despite of all these difficulties, I resolved to publish my book. I knew the reality of the truths which I had embodied: I felt that I was supported by them; that they would live of themselves as such, if once recorded in print and heard among the few. I was careful, I was careful, therefore-perhaps too careful, in the excitability of the hour-that it should be made known to the few lovers of Poetry, for I had the fear of undue criticism before my eyes. I believed in its influences, if exerted for good or evil; as if really the most extravagant praise or censure could eventually operate, in the least degree, in elevating or debasing that which, if once heard and recorded, is sure to rise to its proper level. I did not pause to reflect that nothing, in itself true, was ever written down or that nothing insincere was ever made to live beyond the hour. I then receded from all further effort, and returned to my seclusion, as quietly confident of results as if they had already happened. I heard, in due time, or saw recorded, the verdicts of men whose opinions far more than compensated to me for any material loss which I might have

sustained; men whom I knew not, and never may know the voices of the "fit audience, though indeed few," had arrived to me, and I was more than satisfied.

Since that period, I have lived-I am thankful to reflect to revise and compress the Poem, availing myself of many hints, not the least valuable of which came from the excellent Southey. I have deposited it with my other works, for what, I have no doubt, will be their posthumous publication; but, had I written nothing else, I should feel, while dying, that I had not lived in vain. I then published "The Deluge," with a similar success. "Catiline," I hoped, and do yet believe, to see on the stage, perhaps under the masterly direction of Macready. In "The Drama of a Life," I minutely developed a character more common in the higher walks of life than is generally imagined; but its funestal moral influences were never before, I believe, held up by the poet or moralist. In these last publications, however, so aware was I of the inutility of advertisement, that I strictly confined each publication within the bounds of private circulation. I have omitted to speak of the drama of "Cain the Wanderer," first published in 1829, though composed some years previously. It was published anonymously, and, though roughly finished, yet sold more (to use the trade term) than any of my recent publications. A second edition

was required, when an article, severely but justly expressed, on its unfinished state, which appeared in the Edinburgh Review, determined me to withhold, until I had fully revised the Drama: it therefore remained with me, undergoing no further publication. The dramatic Poem of "A Record of the Pyramids" now follows them; being the last I shall lay on the altar of Poetry for some years. The interval will be devoted to a more elaborate poem, in blank verse, illustrative of the feelings and passions of the day—" The Confessions of the Pastor"-a few sketches from which appeared in the Monthly Chronicle of 1841.

If any one should inquire to what effect I have communicated this gratuitous information, my answer is so simple and obvious, that it must disarm all reproof, if it does not conciliate ill-will. I merely desire here to make a record of works-of various essays towards various truths-all inefficiently expressed, doubtless; for whenever was the infinite mind of man satisfied with his more material records?— poems so little known beyond the few, that they may almost be termed the advertisements of unpublished works. I therefore record them here, as having been, and to be, I trust and believe, again as generally as they are now partially known.

The unpopularity of my works, however, was but

a natural consequence of the line of tendency which I pursued; all that I had written being in direct opposition to the public taste, in contradiction to the spirit of the age, which, in despite of its religious discussions, verging too often upon fanaticism, has well been termed an age of unbelief. The moral effects of certain operating causes upon the highest orders of literature have been so clearly expressed by a writer in Blackwood's standard periodical, that I cannot resist quoting them here, only regretting the writer is anonymous :

"In the infancy of a nation,' says Bacon, arms do prevail; in its manhood, arms and learning, for a short season; in its decline, commerce and the mechanical arts.'

"The application of energy, talent, and industry, to material purposes, however useful or necessary those purposes may be, savours of the physical necessities, not the spiritual dignity of man; and the general turning of public effort in that direction is a symptom of the decline of nations.

"Let us not, therefore, lay the flattering unction to our souls, that the craving for the excitement of fiction, or the realities of mechanical improvement, which have extended so immensely among us, with the spread of knowledge among the middle and working classes, are to prove any antidote to the decline of the highest class of literature among us. On the contrary, they are among the most powerful causes which produce it.

"Real genius and intellect of the highest character, it can never be too often repeated, works only for the future; it rarely produces any impression, or brings in any reward whatever, at the present.

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"Those that instruct and improve, destined to a yet longer existence, have a much slower growth, and often do not come to maturity till after the death of the author."