Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with many sides.  He changes colours like a chameleon, and his coat like a snake.  He is a Proteus of a Peter.  He was at first sublime, pathetic, impressive, profound; then dull; then prosy and dull; and now dull—­oh so very dull! it is an ultra-legitimate dulness.

You will perceive that it is not necessary to consider Hell and the Devil as supernatural machinery.  The whole scene of my epic is in ’this world which is’—­so Peter informed us before his conversion to “White Obi”—­

’The world of all of us, and where
we find our happiness, or not at all.’

Let me observe that I have spent six or seven days in composing this sublime piece; the orb of my moonlike genius has made the fourth part of its revolution round the dull earth which you inhabit, driving you mad, while it has retained its calmness and its splendour, and I have been fitting this its last phase ’to occupy a permanent station in the literature of my country.’

Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better; but mine are far superior.  The public is no judge; posterity sets all to rights.

Allow me to observe that so much has been written of Peter Bell, that the present history can be considered only, like the Iliad, as a continuation of that series of cyclic poems, which have already been candidates for bestowing immortality upon, at the same time that they receive it from, his character and adventures.  In this point of view I have violated no rule of syntax in beginning my composition with a conjunction; the full stop which closes the poem continued by me being, like the full stops at the end of the Iliad and Odyssey, a full stop of a very qualified import.

Hoping that the immortality which you have given to the Fudges, you will receive from them; and in the firm expectation, that when London shall be an habitation of bitterns; when St. Paul’s and Westminster Abbey shall stand, shapeless and nameless ruins, in the midst of an unpeopled marsh; when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of their broken arches on the solitary stream, some transatlantic commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now unimagined system of criticism, the respective merits of the Bells and the Fudges, and their historians.  I remain, dear Tom, yours sincerely,

Miching Mallecho.

December 1, 1819.

P.S.—­Pray excuse the date of place; so soon as the profits of the publication come in, I mean to hire lodgings in a more respectable street.

 Prologue.