judges, and throw an unpleasant light on English juries and the
English public--all of which is not only unpopular but will convince
the unthinking that you are a presumptuous, or at least an outlandish,
person with too good a conceit of himself and altogether too free a
tongue."

I should be more than human or less if these arguments did not give me
pause. I would do nothing willingly to alienate the few who are still
friendly to me. But the motives driving me are too strong for such
personal considerations. I might say with the Latin:

"Non me tua fervida terrent,
Dicta, ferox: Di me terrent, et Jupiter hostis."

Even this would be only a part of the truth. Youth it seems to me
should always be prudent, for youth has much to lose: but I am come to
that time of life when a man can afford to be bold, may even dare to
be himself and write the best in him, heedless of knaves and fools or
of anything this world may do. The voyage for me is almost over: I am
in sight of port: like a good shipman, I have already sent down the
lofty spars and housed the captious canvas in preparation for the long
anchorage: I have little now to fear.

And the immortals are with me in my design. Greek tragedy treated of
far more horrible and revolting themes, such as the banquet of
Thyestes: and Dante did not shrink from describing the unnatural meal
of Ugolino. The best modern critics approve my choice. "All depends on
the subject," says Matthew Arnold, talking of great literature:
"choose a fitting action--a great and significant action--penetrate
yourself with the feeling of the situation: this done, everything else