which would dare to say 'turn this way' or 'turn from that way'--it
should not be _my_ impertinence. Do not think I blaspheme the Drama. I
have gone through 'all such reading as should never be read' (that is,
by women!), through my love of it on the contrary. And the dramatic
faculty is strong in you--and therefore, as 'I speak unto a wise man,
judge what I say.'

For myself and my own doings, you shall hear directly what I have been
doing, and what I am about to do. Some years ago, as perhaps you may
have heard, (but I hope not, for the fewer who hear of it the
better)--some years ago, I translated or rather _undid_ into English,
the 'Prometheus' of Æschylus. To speak of this production moderately
(not modestly), it is the most miserable of all miserable versions of
the class. It was completed (in the first place) in thirteen days--the
iambics thrown into blank verse, the lyrics into rhymed octosyllabics
and the like,--and the whole together as cold as Caucasus, and as flat
as the nearest plain. To account for this, the haste may be something;
but if my mind had been properly awakened at the time, I might have
made still more haste and done it better. Well,--the comfort is, that
the little book was unadvertised and unknown, and that most of the
copies (through my entreaty of my father) are shut up in the wardrobe
of his bedroom. If ever I get well I shall show my joy by making a
bonfire of them. In the meantime, the recollection of this sin of mine
has been my nightmare and daymare too, and the sin has been the 'Blot
on my escutcheon.' I could look in nobody's face, with a 'Thou canst
not say I did it'--I know, I did it. And so I resolved to wash away
the transgression, and translate the tragedy over again. It was an
honest straightforward proof of repentance--was it not? and I have
completed it, except the transcription and last polishing. If
Æschylus stands at the foot of my bed now, I shall have a little