er. The faint conceptions I have of
poems to come bring the blood frequently into my forehead. All I
hope is, that I may not lose all interest in human affairs--that
the solitary indifference I feel for applause, even from the finest
spirits, will not blunt any acuteness of vision I may have. I do not
think it will. I feel assured I should write from the mere yearning
and fondness I have for the beautiful, even if my night's labours
should be burnt every morning, and no eye ever shine upon them.
But even now I am perhaps not speaking from myself, but from some
character in whose soul I now live ...

TO PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

_Returning advice_

Hampstead, 10 _Aug_. 1820.

MY DEAR SHELLEY,

I am very much gratified that you, in a foreign country, and with a
mind almost over-occupied, should write to me in the strain of the
letter beside me. If I do not take advantage of your invitation,
it will be prevented by a circumstance I have very much at heart to
prophesy. There is no doubt that an English winter would put an end to
me, and do so in a lingering, hateful manner. Therefore, I must either
voyage or journey to Italy, as a soldier marches up to a battery.
My nerves at present are the worst part of me, yet they feel soothed
that, come what extreme may, I shall not be destined to remain in one
spot long enough to take a hatred of any four particular bedposts. I
am glad you take any pleasure in my poor poem, which I would willingly
take the trouble to unwrite, if possible, did I care so much as I
have done about reputation. I received a copy of the _Cenci_, as from
yourself, from Hunt. There is only one part of it I am judge of--the
poetry and dramatic effect, which by many spirits nowadays is
considered the Mammon. A modern work, it is said, must have a purpose,
which may be the God. An artist must serve Mammon; he must have
'self-concentration'--selfishness, perhaps. You, I am sure,
will forgive me for sincerely remarking that you might curb your
magnanimity, and be more of an artist, and load every rift of your
subject with ore. The thought of such discipline must fall like cold
chains upon you, who perhaps never sat with your wings furled for six
months together. And is not this extraordinary talk for the writer of
_Endymion_, whose mind was like a pack of scattered cards? I am picked
up and sorted to a pip. My imagination is a monastery, and I am its
monk. I am in expectation of _Prometheus_ every day. Co