me, without even a hint that he had copied them from my own Preface.  Such was the fate of “Wallenstein”!  And yet I dare appeal to any number of men of Genius—­say, for instance, Mr. W. Scott, Mr. Southey, Mr. Wordsworth, Mr. Wilson, Mr. Sotheby, Sir G. Beaumont, etc., whether the “Wallenstein” with all its defects (and it has grievous defects), is not worth all Schiller’s other plays put together.  But I wonder not.  It was too good, and not good enough; and the advice of the younger Pliny:  “Aim at pleasing either all, or the few," is as prudentially good as it is philosophically accurate.  I wrote to Mr. Longman before the work was published, and foretold its fate, even to a detailed accuracy, and advised him to put up with the loss from the purchase of the MSS and of the Translation, as a much less evil than the publication.  I went so far as to declare that its success was, in the state of public Taste, impossible; that the enthusiastic admirers of “The Robbers,” “Cabal and Love,” etc., would lay the blame on me; and that he himself would suspect that if he had only lit on another Translator then, etc.  Everything took place as I had foretold, even his own feelings—­so little do Prophets gain from the fulfilment of their Prophecies!

On the other hand, though I know that executed as alone I can or dare do it—­that is, to the utmost of my power (for which the intolerable Pain, nay the far greater Toil and Effort of doing otherwise, is a far safer Pledge than any solicitude on my part concerning the approbation of the PUBLIC), the translation of so very difficult a work as the “Faustus,” will be most inadequately remunerated by the terms you propose; yet they very probably are the highest it may be worth your while to offer to me.  I say this as a philosopher; for, though I have now been much talked of, and written of, for evil and not for good, but for suspected capability, yet none of my works have ever sold.  The “Wallenstein” went to the waste.  The “Remorse,” though acted twenty times, rests quietly on the shelves in the second edition, with copies enough for seven years’ consumption, or seven times seven.  I lost L200 by the non-payment, from forgetfulness, and under various pretences, by “The Friend”; [Footnote:  Twenty-seven numbers of The Friend were published by Coleridge at Penrith in Cumberland in 1809-10, but the periodical proved a failure, principally from the irregularity of its appearance.  It was about this time that he was addicted to opium-eating.] and for my poems I did get from L10 to L15.  And yet, forsooth, the Quarterly Review attacks me for neglecting and misusing my powers!  I do not quarrel with the Public—­all is as it must be—­but surely the Public (if there be such a Person) has no right to quarrel with me for not getting into jail by publishing what they will not read!