1 10 34 https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/98b6681a66b3cdf8bb50713f89c9b333.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=ZJzhnIl9wdsgyy7Wpz0udRg4EntNoWH3QW9hT-CEPfvf41ypqhPE0aonf6gpNMMZWsxLRUtX-gR2aMi3nb58655YQkS6rNKaARo%7EZOx6FpE40k7XR2BGJPcpZqIN542fRO3YSrbitnpBxq4ZSPhOaf%7En0bikOlSYQ2IlU9nkl0jFZus98X%7EgriSx8e86Jcns7LCumIpTb6xTg64CfHb6M88%7ElFIX0W5ponhRoly1lg5XKslD%7Ex38rvl6ThUHBFt9Ka-O9QDECVTkoHCGHSD1-vaz4gZPEMoW-8ogicqNuOxhz1LyKTWRA-XKDoVYsn1lpYDDEO-0zC%7EFGoAQ7vG15w__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 2e557ca78e8c02864727708aee9640ef PDF Text Text 75 Art. V.—Shelley. The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. A revised Text, with Notes and a Memoir. By W. M. Rossetti. . 2 vols. Moxon and Co. 1870. rpHE connexion of Mr W. M. Rossetti's name with a Memoir of I Shellev and an edition of his works, is a sufficient guarantee of the impartiality and thoroughness with which these tasks have been respectively accomplished. There was ample scope for Mr. Rossetti’s labours in both departments ; indeed, it is not too much to say that it has been reserved for him to make the first serious attempt either at a complete biography or a correct text.. This is in itself no slight distinction; the intelligence, ingenuity, and industry he has displayed in it are more commendable still; but the spirit of affectionate enthusiasm in which he has wrought is best of all, and will insure him the sincere sympathy of all admirers of Shelley, independently of any estimate which may be formed of the actual value of his work. All biographies of Shelley have hitherto been of a fragmentary character, either from their partial and limited scope, as those of Trelawny, Hogg, and Peacock; or from their desultoriness, as the Shelley Memorials; or from imperfect information, as the narratives of Medwin and Middleton. Of the latter it is not necessary to say much. Med win’s incredible heedless­ ness and blundering have destroyed the authenticity, and con­ sequently the value of excellent materials. Mr. Middleton’s work is written in an admirable spirit; but in all other respects what Medwin’s is to a good book it is to Medwin’s. The Shelley Memorials contain many documents of the highest interest and much intelligent literary criticism. They answered their pur­ pose, more could not be required. Mr. Peacock’s notes also, we suppose, answered their purpose, together with another not con­ templated by the writer—that of demonstrating his entire in­ capacity to understand the man in whose intimacy he had spent so many years. Notwithstanding, however, the cold and unin­ viting character of Mr. Peacock’s reminiscences, and the serious misrepresentations which they have been shown to contain, he deserves our thanks for having preserved some interesting par­ ticulars which would otherwise have been forgotten, and the precision of his style offers some amends for his singular deficiency in graphic power. We may dwell somewhat more fully on the works of Mr. Jefferson Hogg and Captain Trelawny, as it is to these that we at least are indebted for our most vivid impres- �76 Shelley. sions of the poet's personality. Mr. Hogg, besides his unques­ tionable power as a raconteur, was well fitted for his task from his college friendship with Shelley, and the intimacy he continued to maintain with him until his final departure from England. We therefore carry away from the perusal of his book, in which he d wells with infinite gusto on the minute traits of his immortal friend, a lively picture of the wild yet gracious figure of the poet in his youth. Fet whatever our enjoyment of the sparkle of anecdote and humour, whose quaint brilliancy imparts such a charm to these pages, we cannot help thinking that Mr. Hogg mistook one matter of essential importance—the style and man­ ner in which it became him to write of such a man as Shelley. His keen appreciation of the ludicrous was evidently too strong a temptation to be resisted, and has thrown an air of grotesque­ ness over his entire work. Another point on which the world has found it difficult to sympathize with him, is his palpably honest conviction that the life of Thomas Jefferson Hogg was only second, if second, in importance to that of Percy Bysshe Shelley himself. It is almost ungracious to quarrel with irrelevancies which have afforded us such hearty amusement; but we must repeat that amusement, although a good thing in itself, is, when intruded into a biography of Shelley, a good thing out of its proper place. We believe, however, that his fault was not a want of love but a lack of imaginative power and keen insight, which misled him to fasten on the momentary and accidental, instead of penetrating into the deep and eternal parts of the poet’s nature. The other work, which is indeed a mere sketch, but to which we are most truly indebted for fresh and graphic delineations of Shelley, is Captain Trelawny’s “ Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron,” which, unfortunately for all lovers of Shelley, scarcely extends over more than the last six months of the poet’s life. But it bears on every page the impress of love and sincerity, and possesses at the same time the rare power of conveying in the simplest language pictures that bear stamped on them the seal of the most unmistakable reality. The descrip­ tion, for example, of his first meeting with Shelley is inimitable in its way; but as Mr. Rossetti has wisely incorporated it in Trelawny’s own words into his Memoir, we refrain from quotiug it here. But, indeed, the book is full of passages where one catches no less delightful glimpses of the poet’s ways, while every­ where, even in the most trifling anecdote, we are kept aware of the fact that we are brought into closer contact with a higher, a truly godlike nature. One cause of Captain Trelawny’s supe­ riority as a biographer to Shelley’s other friends may probably be found in the more favourable circumstances under which he �Shelley. • 77 approached him in the first instance. Mr. Hogg and Mr. Peacock made Shelley’s acquaintance when he was young and undistin­ guished | they associated with him on a footing of entire equality, had obviously no conception of his superiority, and spent the rest of their lives in finding it out, if indeed they ever attained to this knowledge at all. Captain Trelawny tells us that he was led to seek Shelley’s acquaintance by the report of his genius, his adventurous history, and his unlikeness to the mass of men. Availing himself of all these scattered materials, as well as of a number of new and interesting particulars obtained from inde­ pendent sources of information, Mr. Rossetti has for the first time combined them into a symmetrical whole. And great praise indeed is due to him for the clear and methodical arrangement and the straightforward manly tone of his Memoir, which, far from being a mere compilation, is a substantial and independent work, bearing the clear impress of the writer’s powerful indi­ viduality» In order, however, to form a correct estimate of Mr. Rossetti’s Memoir, we should make it clear to ourselves what task it was he really aimed at accomplishing, and whether he has accomplished this. He states so plainly that the end he had in view was to sift and authenticate the extant mass of material as a contribution towards the systematizing of a “ Life of Shelley/* that it would be a wilful misrepresentation of the whole scope of his work to measure it by a standard at which it never aimed. The condensed scheme on which Mr. Rossetti’s Life had necessarily to be written has probably made it impossible for him to enter more deeply into the poet’s character; this drawback, however, is partly compensated by the resulting compression of matter and nervousness of style. We confess that in our judg­ ment a more vivid picture of the poet’s individuality might have been obtained if the illustrative anecdotes, instead of being all massed together in one section, had been distributed over the whole extent of the Life in the natural order of their occurrence. We think that by these means a certain local colour would have been obtained, and greater life and motion imparted to the flow of the narrative. We question also the desirability, taking of course the necessary brevity of the Memoir into consideration, of devoting bo large a portion of the allotted space to Shelley’s views on Art, while rather hurrying over his opinions on religion and philosophy, and also perhaps thereby curtailing the writer’s own criticism on Shelley’s poems. Our account of Mr. Rossetti’s edition would be very incom­ plete without some notice of what forms, after all, its distin­ guishing feature, and will always render its appearance an era in the history of Shelley’s writings. We allude to its character as the first critical edition of the poet’s works. Respecting the �78 Shelley. need of such a revision there has been but one opinion among the students of Shelley, whose impatience at the frequently marred and mangled condition of the text has borne a tolerably fair proportion to their capacity for the apprehension of its beauties It will suffice to cite the testimony of the late Pro­ fessor Craik, of Mr. F. T. Palgrave, and of Mr. Swinburne. Several partial attempts—among which special recognition is due to the ingenious emendations of Mr. F. G. Fleay—had pre­ viously been made to remedy the defects unmistakably indi­ cated ; but to Mr. Rossetti belongs the honour of having first grappled with the task as a whole. His task has in the main been exceedingly well performed. His edition is a monument of unwearied assiduity, of vigilant attention to the minutest detail. Such labour is the indispensable condition of correctness; but it needed an interest in his author passing the ordinary love of editors to enable Mr. Rossetti to spare so much time from the brilliant but precarious feats of conjectural emendation for the humbler, but not less essential scrutiny of punctuation and orthography, and the rectification of annoying grammatical negli­ gences. His services in the former department are inestimable, and it is only to be regretted that they must necessarily elude the recognition of all but the most critical readers. The amend­ ment of Shelley's careless grammar is a more delicate matter; but we are disposed to think that Mr. Rossetti has not exceeded the latitude which may be fairly claimed by an editor of clear judgment, and fully exempt from the taint of hypercriticism. As regards the several arrangement of the volumes, we are only disposed to regret (and we cannot help regretting strongly) the dislocation occasioned by the removal of several of the most important poems to the appendix of fragments. Not only is their effectiveness greatly impaired by their juxtaposition with fugitive and imperfect snatches of verse, but the parts of the collection from which they have been removed appear impove­ rished by their absence. The more we are enabled to regard Shelley’s pieces as so many passages of one grand poem—the poetical interpretation of a life—the more we must regret such interruptions of the sequence of his thought. As an emendator, Mr. Rossetti has two main resources— collation with the original editions and conjecture. The first has assisted him to some admirable corrections ; as, for instance, the restoration of the vivid and Shelleian word ruining, in a passage of “ Alastor,” which since the first edition has always been printed “ Wave running on wave.” As a conjectural corrector Mr. Rossetti has not always been equally successful, and we shall be able to show that many of his most plausible suggestions are unfounded ; but fortunately these have usually �Shelley. 79 remained in the state of suggestions, and have not been incorpo­ rated with the text. To no man was ever less applicable, indeed, Dryden’s shrewd criticism on critics, that they study rather to display themselves than to explain their authors. Mr. Rossetti seldom scruples without some reasonable ground; and if in many instances his scruples are needless, there are many others where they have been called forth by a real corruption, which he has instinctively felt without seeing how to remove it. In other instances his corrections are brilliant and indisputable, as in stanza vi. of the dedication of the “ Revolt of Islam,” where the lines— “ Which crushed and withered mine, that could not be Aught but a lifeless clog, until revived by thee,” are themselves marvellously “revived” by the simple substitution of clod. We would gladly have dwelt longer on Mr. Rossetti’s charac­ teristics as an editor, but we must pass on to the contribution which we are ourselves enabled to offer to the improvement of Shelley’s text, a contribution which we can bring forward without misgiving, inasmuch as it is derived from the only infallible source of information, the original MSS. themselves. These documents, M students of Shelley are aware, were examined by Mr. Garnett in 1862, with the result of the discovery of ninety pages of pre­ viously unknown matter printed in that gentleman’s valuable Relics of Shelley,” as well as not a little more, which now appears for the first time in Mr. Rossetti’s edition. From various circumstances, however, the examination was in some respects Cursory, and more was done for the enrichment than for the correction of the text, although some very interesting emendations were made, such as “ might” and “ earth,” for “ light” and “ air” in the first stanza of the lines written at Naples. We must here express how deeply we are indebted to Mr. Garnett, and to the liberality of Shelley’s representatives, in now being able to offer, the results of a more minute examination made since the publication of the recent edition. A few words must suffice to explain why this examination has proved less productive than might have been hoped. Shelley’s MSS. may, from our present point of view, be divided into two classes—those of poems pub­ lished during his lifetime, and of poems published after his death. The former, although a great part of the “ Prometheus” is fortunately an exception, have in general shared the usual fate of MSS. sent to the printer—they have been disregarded, as chrysalis cases for which no man concerns himself after the emergence of their Psyche. The rough drafts of these poems, indeed, are extant in many instances, but except where the printed �so Shelley. text is evidently faulty, it would manifestly be unsafe to unsettle it on their authority. On the other hand, the second class of MSS., with a few exceptions, such as the “ Witch of Atlas,” exists solely in the form of rough drafts, usually written three or four times over, and in these instances perpetually at variance with each other. It would be easy to fill pages with such variations, but in all such cases, as it appears to us, the presumption is in favour of the received reading, which probably was not adopted without good authority, perhaps that of some more perfect copy now lost. Thus for example, we should hesitate to substitute Cl innocent heaven* for “serene heaven/’ in the “ Ode to Naples/’ although the variad tion is entitled to great respect from the beautiful condition of the copy, and from this being the only one which contains the two “ introductory epodes” as Shelley unclassically styles them—a circumstance of great interest, as it shows that these exquisitely beautiful stanzas were an afterthought. The inspection of two pieces, however, has been fruitful of results, though on opposite accounts—that of the “ Letter to Maria Gisborne” from the perfect, that of the “ Triumph of Life” from the chaotic cha­ racter of the original MS. The examination of the “ Prome­ theus” has also led to the correction of several errors which had insinuated themselves from the necessity of entrusting the cor­ rection of the proofs to others. Several alterations in the minor poems, generally of much interest, may also be regarded as indisputable, and as such entitled to a place here. Finally, we shall enumerate the instances in which emendations proposed by Mr. Rossetti, or mentioned in his notes, have not been confirmed upon an appeal to the original. Our references are in all cases made to his edition. Vol. I. Prometheus Unbound, p. 317, 1. 21.—“And gnash beside the streams of fire, and wail Your foodless teeth.” The punctua­ tion is faulty. In the original, which is always carefully punc-i tuated, there is a comma after gnash and wail respectively, but not after fire, showing that wail is here not a verb but a sub­ stantive. The allusion is to the two infernal streams, Phlegethon and Cocytus. P. 327, at bottom, for silent footsteps read killing. P. 330, stage direction at the beginning of act ii., for lonely read lovely. P. 333, 1. 29, for morn read moon. P. 337, 1. 6, the much queried lake-surrounded is correct, though not very intelligible. P. 337, 1. 18, “And wakes the destined soft emotion.” The sense has hitherto been obscured by the erroneous punctuation. Destined ought to be followed by a full stop. L. 21, for streams read steams. P. 338, 1. 15, for on read in. P. 372, 1. 25, “Radiance and light,” read life, avoiding the tautology. �Shelley. 81 Vol. II. Letter to Maria Gisborne, p. 245, 1. 9, for philosophic read \ philanthropic, as already acutely conjectured by Mr. Rossetti. L. 18, 1‘ Which fishes found under the utmost crag,” read fishers, one of the most striking examples conceivable of the wonderful way in which the most trifling modification will Sometimes convert nonsense into sense. An almost equally re­ markable instance is afforded by the first line on the following page, “ Reply to them in lava-cry, halloo,” where the sense has been utterly perverted by placing a hyphen instead of a comma between lava and cry. The earthquake demons do not reply to the gnomes’ toast in lava-cries, but in lava itself, a more congenial beverage. Same page, L 24, for green read queer. P. 247, four lines from bottom, for know read knew. P. 248, at top, for acting read citing. P. 249, 1. 12, the celebrated pas­ sage on Godwin has been tampered with. It originally read—• “ That which was Godwin, greater none than he Though fallen and fallen on evil times, to stand.” Consideration for Godwin evidently dictated an alteration which in justice to Shelley should now be revoked. Same page, three lines from bottom, for said read read. The blanks on p. 251, 1» 80, should be filled with the names of Hogg, Peacock, and Smith. That on p. 252, 1. 10, is unfortunately irretrievable. Triumph of Life, p. 397, eight lines from the bottom, toursued or spurned the shadows, read shunned. Last line, for wiocZ lawn-interspersed, read wood-lawns interspersed. P. 899, 1. 8, for thunders read thunder. L. 6, for meet read greet. P. 400, 1. 16, supply while before “the shock.” P. 401, 1. 24, for sentiment read nutriment. P. 403, eight lines from bottom, >fill up the chasm thus:— “ Even as the deeds of others, not as theirs, And then------” P. 404, 1. 8, for comest read earnest. L. 23, for years dawn read season. Same page, three lines from bottom, for her read the. P. 406, first line, “ out of the deep cavern, with palms so tender, omit out, and insert and before with. L. 3, omit the. K 17, for to read in. P. 409,1. 7, “ The words of hate and care,” for care read awe, thus negativing the ingenious correction of words into world, proposed by Mr. Rossetti, which we had re­ warded as nearly certain, and which still appears to us more beautiful both in sense and music. Same page, 1. 18, for vale read isle. The correction is significant from the fact that these countless swarms of bats are found in the Indian Archipelago, not upon the continent. The idea was probably suggested to [Vol. XCIV. No. CLXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XXXVIII. No. I. G �82 Shelley. Shelley by Trelawny’s narratives of his adventures in these regions. L. 29, for rode like demons read sate like vultures. P. 410, seven lines from the bottom, for wrapped read wrought. Mr. Rossetti had divined an error, which he proposed to amend by reading shaped or warped. How wonderfully Shelley usually improved on his first drafts is again shown by the commencement of the “ Triumph of Life,” which originally stood as follows :— “ Out of the eastern shadow of the earth Amid the clouds upon its margin grey, Scattered by night to swathe in its bright birth In gold and fleecy snow the infant Day, The glorious Sun arose, beneath his light The earth and all.” As it now stands the Introduction to the “ Triumph of Life” is one of the most highly wrought and perfect passages we know in poetry. Translation from Faust, p. 494, stage direction, Faust dances and sings with a girl. The song is as follows :— Faust. “ I had once a lovely dream In which I saw an apple tree, Where two fair apples with their gleam To climb and taste attracted me.” The Gibe. . “ She with apples you desired From Paradise came long ago : With you I feel that if required, Such still within my garden grow.” Same page, three lines from the bottom, “ Are we so wise, and is the pond still haunted ?” This is an absurd mistranslation of the original, “Wir sind so klug, und dennoch spukt’s in Tegel,” the allusion being to the recent apparition of a spectre in the hamlet of Tegel, to the scandal of enlightened persons. The blunder is not, however, attributable to Shelley, who, not knowing what Tegel meant, left a blank in consequence, but to the person who published his MS. in the Liberal. Miscellaneous corrections. Julian and Maddalo, vol. i. p. 290, 1. 14. For dales read vales, the word employed by Milton in the passage referred to—Lines to Misery, st. x. 1. 2. The rough draft has lovers instead of shadows, which having been also in Med win’s copy, and being, as Mr. Rossetti justly observes, more uncommon and poetical, should we think be adopted. Lines to an Indian Air, vol. ii. p. 210, 1. 9, in what is to all appearance the last written of the many drafts of this �Shelley. 83 divine song, the words “champak odours” are distinctly altered into “odours of my chaplet.” The alteration is startling, and we confess our preference for the poem as it stood in the older edition. Although it makes the line agree more formally in metre with the corresponding verses of the other two stanzas, yet it loses that subtle musical charm which it previously possessed. [ The Question, p. 225. The line hitherto missing from the second stanza of that exquisite poem is, “ Like a child, half in tenderness and mirth.” Mutability, p. 272, 1. 9, for too read Aow. Prince Athanase, last line, p. 307, for frame read flame. Otho, p. 309, 1. 20, for buy read bring, instead of wring, as 'ingeniously surmised by Mr. Rossetti. On Keats, p. 351, 1. 2, for montldess read prfniZess, omitting and. Evening, p. 358, 1. 8, for enormous read cinereous. Fragment of an unfinished Drama, p. 358,1. 27, for spring read spray. Cyclops, p. 447, 1. 23, insert “ to be” after “ not,” as suggested by Mr. Rossetti. Epigram from, Plato, p. 457, 1. 5, for does read doth. Pan awl Echo, p. 458, 1. 14, omit the. Besides those already mentioned, the following emendations, proposed by Mr. Rossetti, or adverted to in his notes, are nega­ tived by the evidence of the MS., vol. i. p. 257, 1. 10, there for ¿free. ‘ P. 314, eight lines from bottom, ghostly for ghastly. P. 327, 1. 10, bestrewn for between. P. 365, 1. 3, obscure for o&scene. Vol. ii. p. 210, 1. 9, pine for fail. P. 247, 1. 25, age for eye. P. 449, 1. 20, manoeuvre for measure. Dr. Dobbin’s ingenious suggestion of “ stony” for “ strong” in the “ Hymn to Mercury,” st. viii. 1. 1, is confirmed by the MS. Notwithstanding all that has been effected, the imperfections of Shelley's MSS. still leave a not inconsiderable field open for eoniectural emendation, and the following suggestions may perhaps help to elucidate a few obscure readings :— I A well-known passage in “ Alastor” (vol. i. p. 107) has occasioned infinite perplexity to Mr. Rossetti and Mr. Swinburne. The latter abandons it as hopeless ; the former endeavours to render it intelligible by a change in the punctuation, according to which it reads as follows :— “ On every side now rose Rocks which in unimaginable forms Lifted their black and barren pinnacles In the light of evening, and (its precipice Obscuring) the ravine disclosed above.” “ According to my punctuation,” says Mr. Rossetti, “ the state­ ment is, that there were certain rock-pinnacles which, while they obscured the precipice (or precipitous descent) of the ravine, left the ravine itself visible higher up.” If, however, these spires of G 2 �84 Shelley. rock were less elevated than the walls of the ravine, we cannot understand how they should be “ lifted in the light of evening,” or how they could with any propriety be termed pinnacles at all. A pinnacle is surely the highest and not the lowest point of the rock. But if for disclosed we read inclosed, all is plain, and we get a beautiful picture with scarcely any disturbance of the text. In the “Revolt of Islam” (canto iii. st. 15) is a passage abso­ lutely preposterous as it stands :— “ The moon was calm and bright,—around that column The overhanging sky and circling sea Spread forth in silentness profound and solemn, The darkness of brief frenzy cast on me, So that I knew not mine own misery.” This is evidently nonsense ; darkness could not be spread forth by the calm brightness of sky and sea. Cast should be altered into past, and a colon substituted for the comma at the end of the third line. In Prometheus Unbound (vol. i. p. 351), Ocean says— “ My streams will flow Round many peopled continents.” Read many-peopled as a compound epithet. The meaning is not that there will be more continents than heretofore after the liberation of Prometheus ; but that, in consequence of their exemption from war and other calamities, these continents will henceforth be more populous. With these few remarks we must take leave of the biography and textual criticism, and we are indeed sorry that within our limits it is simply impossible to render justice to the thoroughness, the impartiality, the indefatigable labour and genuine love which are Mr. Rossetti’s most eminent characteristics as biographer and editor. We cannot, however, refrain from expressing our extreme surprise and disappointment when, on looking over “Queen Mab” in the new edition, we saw the deforming transformation which that poem had undergone. It is true the alterations which Mr. Rossetti has introduced into the text are taken from the “ Dsemon of the World,” which Shelley purposed to be a modified extract of “ Queen Mab,” and pub­ lished in the same volume with “ Alastor and other Poems. But we can only infer from this fact that when once the inspira­ tion which went to the shaping of any work ot art has totally passed away, a poet may easily mar his own creation by trying to make it better. Though “ Queen Mab” may in some respects be a crude production, yet it is so full of the sap and ferment of genius, and bears so unmistakably the stamp of Shelley’s peculiar characteristics, that besides the value it possesses for us �Shelley. 85 as poetry, it has the additional interest of being the earliest ' production in which we can trace the true workings of the poet’s mind. And it appears to us that for this reason, if for no other, 1 the text ought to have been allowed to remain as it originally stood; for with regard to those really juvenile effusions such as the “Wandering Jew” and the “Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson,” which Mr. Rossetti has seen fit to print in the appendix to this edition, it is a pity he has thus rescued Ithem from the oblivion they so richly deserve. But indeed the new readings of “ Queen Mab,” so far from possessing any greater poetic beauty whether of idea or expression, seem to us invariably a diluted version of the original. But let the reader judge for himself. We will first quote the lines as they stand in the original “ Queen Mab,” and place underneath them the alterations in the present edition. “The Fairy’s frame was slight; yon fibrous cloud That catches but the palest tinge of even, And which the straining eye can hardly seize When melting into eastern twilight’s shadow Were scarce so thin, so slight, but the fair star That gems the glittering coronet of morn, Sheds not a light so mild, so powerful, As that which bursting from the Fairy’s form Spread a purpureal halo round the scene, Yet with an undulating motion Swayed to her outline gracefully.” “ The Fairy’s frame was slight; slight as some cloud That catches but the palest tinge of day When evening yields to night— Bright as that fibrous woof when stars indue Its transitory robe, Her thin and misty form Moved with the moving air; Such sounds as breathed around like odorous winds Of wakening Spring arose, Filling the chamber and the midnight sky.” Mark here those changes which, although apparently often ’trifling, yet alter the whole delicate texture of this exquisite passage : instead of the original and most apt epithet applied to the cloud, “ fibrous,” we get nothing at all in the later version, and we are indeed at an utter loss to account for the alteration. Thus, for the simple expression “ palest tinge of even,” we find this awkward way of saying the identical thing, “ palest tinge of day, when evening yields to night,” &c.; but far worse, the truly lovely line, “ the fair star that gems the glittering coronet of morn,” is omitted altogether, swallowed up, annihilated. The limits of our essay will not allow us to give any further �86 Shelley. examples, but we could cite passage after passage where the original beautiful text has been equally marred. And we must be allowed here to express the earnest hope, which we can hardly doubt will be echoed by all lovers of Shelley, that in any future edition “ Queen Mab” may be restored to its original form. Let us now, however, turn our attention to the criticism of the works themselves; and as it is Mr. Rossetti’s evident disposition to lay the chief stress on the technical execution of Shelley’s poems, touching but slightly on their subject-matter and general design, we may perhaps be justified in dwelling somewhat mor® fully on the latter point, thus endeavouring to supplement a deficiency highly characteristic of certain tendencies predomi­ nant in contemporary art and poetry. For while on the one hand there is in our age a propensity to depreciate the important functions of the Beautiful, thus robbing the speculative faculties of an ally that would impart form and colour to their abstractions, we have on the other hand the no less mischievous error of giving an undue prominence to workmanship and execution, and looking on form and colour, not as the temple where the image of the god stands enshrined, but as the very deity itself. By these fatal demarcations and barriers erected in the mental territories, where one realm is assigned to the Beautiful, another to the True, and a third to the Good, we impoverish each one of these three great forces, and in the mistaken conviction of thereby strengthening their respective activities we obstruct that interchange of influences which should vivify the .¿Esthetics* Ethics, and Science of a nation. Let us for one moment stay to consider what would become of the Beautiful, if, securely dammed up against the influx of moral convictions and the speculations and discoveries of the reasoning faculties, it were subsisting in proud isolation only on and through itself. Assuredly epics such as the “ Divina Commedia” and “ Paradise Lost,” revolving the mighty problems “concerning God, free will, and destiny,” struck and wound their roots inextricably round the deepest philosophic and religious thought of their time, while the very structure of tragedy, consisting as it does, not in the blind and insensate conflict of passion hurtling on passion (else the commotion of waves and winds would be an equally tragic spectacle), but of passion lashing in mutinous revolt the iron front of the moral law, has its foundations laid in the ethical convictions of mankind. What then, we may well inquire, is to become of poetry if cut off from influences of such vital importance to its two great divisions—the Epos and the Drama. It is evident that the form and manner, from the imperative necessity of which, however, we would be the last to detract, would thus truly comprise the �Shelley. 87 Alpha and Omega of a work of Art And thus the same care would be lavished on the polishing of a pebble or a diamond, the polishing and setting being considered the chief things needful. This total misapprehension of its divine mission necessarily produces that blight of all true poetry—namely, mannerism. Far , otherwise indeed was Shelley^s conception of poetry. Both in I theory and practice be would have extended its limits to an almost incredible extent, enclosing both science and philosophy within its domain. In his “ Defence of Poetry,” he goes even so far as to say that the distinction between poets and prose writers is a vulgar error, and that not only Plato and Bacon, but “all the authors of revolution in opinion are not only necessarily poets as they are inventors, nor even as their words unveil the per­ manent analogy of things by images which participate in the life of truth, but as their periods are rounded and rhythmical, and contain in themselves the elements of verse, being the echo of the eternal music.” L Considering how marked was Shelley’s bias towards this view, we think Mr. Rossetti somewhat apt to undervalue what con­ stitutes the true centre of gravity of all the poet’s divine crea­ tions, when, as for example, in speaking of“ Alastor” with reference to “Queen Mab” (of which, in our judgment, he speaks too irre­ verently when he thinks it necessary to state that it is not unmitigated rubbish), he remarks that in the former we have at last “ the genuine, the immortal Shelley.” With all due deference to Mr. Rossetti’s opinion, we must yet dissent from this assertion; and while admitting the wonderful advance in the perfection of form, in the exquisiteness of the language, and greater musical subtlety in the rhythm of the blank verse, still we think that in many respects “the genuine, the immortal Shelley” can more truly be traced in “ Queen Mab” than even in “ Alastor,” as it palpitates with that intense faith in progress, that fiery love of liberty, that impetuous passion for reforming the World, which are, after all, the distinguishing features of Shelley, and which were brought out in their full glory in his “ Revolt of Islam,” and “ Prometheus Unbound.” Shelley indeed, when he launched that enfant terrible of a poem into the world, fully believed in his power of making a breach in the solid rampart of custom, so as to take by storm and overnight, as it were, that great stronghold in which theology, monarchy, and matrimony have hitherto braved even the sap of Time and Change. It is with an emotion wavering between a smile and a tear that we think of this frail, gentle, pure, and lofty being who, with “ weak hands though mighty heart,” dared that triple-headed power which rules the world. It is doubtless by the violent recoil of hopes forced back upon his own mind, and debarred �68 Shelley. their natural fieiy action on the nation at large, that we must interpret the sad and solemn harmonies of “Alastor.” These spring from the revulsion of those impassioned aspirations to which “ Queen Mab” owed its being, and the despair that broods over them is but the shadow cast by the sun of hope itself. It is therefore a total misapprehension of the dominant quality of Shelley s mind, if, as is so often the case, those poems which express, in however beautiful and inimitable a manner, his melancholy or despondent moods, are considered as his most re­ presentative poems; on the contrary, they are but the expressions of that dominion which the momentary and the casual must exercise over every mind still subject to the varying influences of life; but that which indeed constitutes “the intense, the deep, the imperishable” Shelley, which will exercise a constraining in­ fluence over the centuries, is the aspiration after goodness no dejection could quench—the faith in humanity which doubts might assail, but never shake; the love which year after year of the short life in which he met with so much persecution and bitter hate, rounded to a fuller and more resplendent orb. Let us, however, now turn our attention to the poem next in chronological sequence, “ The Revolt of Islam/’ which Mr. Rossetti has despatched in a few words, and which appears to us to be a mine of inexhausted thought. The vast scope, gorgeous imagination, and enchantment of rhythm and language which mark this work are so widely known, that we proceed at once to point out what appears to us to constitute its fundamental idea, and one which hitherto has been overlooked. This is the completely changed aspect in which the relation of the sexes is regarded. Hitherto all poets creating ideals of woman, however pure or lofty these might be, had depicted her invariably in her relation as either wife or mistress, mother or daughter—that is, as a supplement to man’s nature, or, as Milton plainly expresses it— “ He for God only, she for God in him or, in other words, he raised to the contemplation of an infinite; she condemned to that of his finite nature. To Shelley belongs the honour of being the first poet who ' has embodied, in a shape of the loftiest loveliness, the most momentous of all our modern ideas—that of the emancipation of women from this subjection to men. He is thus the poetic fore­ runner of John Stuart Mill, and has achieved in the world of the ideal that which is now being realized practically by the man of science. For by making his verse the receptacle of his bold and lofty speculations on that subject, and by impregnating with them the highest and most sensitive minds of the generation that �Shelley. 89 succeeded his own, he has doubtless opened one of the paths which have led to the present widespread movement regarding this question. In Cythna we hail a new female type, and one indeed which I hitherto has been repugnant to poets, who, if they approached at all that side of woman’s character which she represents, approached it either to distort its features or to soften them down to the more 1 accepted standard. But Shelley, with his usual fearlessness, bates not one jot of the idea. He holds that woman, just as man, is or should be a being whose sympathies are too vast—whose thoughts too multiform to converge to the one focus of personal love, and that in the self-same way it is at once her right and her duty to take an active share in the general concerns of humanity, and to influence them, not only indirectly through others, but directly by her own thoughts and actions. Thus ►Cythna, prophet, reformer, and martyr—invested with all the glow and glory which the poet’s imagination could bestow on her-—is a creation unique in the whole range of fiction. The poet, with deep insight, indicates in canto ii. that the task of the regeneration of woman can only be brought about by woman herself; that it is she who must rouse man’s interest,and kindle his enthusiasm in her cause, for, as Laon says— “ This misery was but coldly felt, till she Became my only friend, who had indued My purpose with a wider sympathy; Thus, Cythna mourned with me the servitude In which the half of humankind were mewed, Victims of lust and hate, the slave of slaves ; She mourned that grace and power were thrown as food To the hyaena lust, who, among graves Over his loathed meal, laughing in agony, raves. And I still gazing on that glorious child, liven as these thoughts flushed o’er her :—‘ Cythna, sweet, Well with the world art thou unreconciled ; Never will peace and human nature meet, Till free and equal man and woman greet Domestic peace ; and ere this power can make In human hearts its calm and holy seat, This slavery must be broken.’ ” Such an exalted ideal of woman necessarily produced a con­ ception and expression of love which is simply supreme. The sensuous and susceptible temperament which usually underlies poetic genius has almost inevitably the tendency of stimulating the passions too strongly in one direction, and from this point of view Plato had doubtless a fair excuse for his verdict against the poets as elements of disturbance and fiery insurrection in �90 Shelley. the serene atmosphere of his model state. Shelley, however, forms in this respect a marvellous exception. His love, indeed, would almost require the baptism of some new name to distin­ guish it from the lower and lesser passion which currently goes by that appellation, for it “ transcends the senses infinitely as heaven does earth.” Unrivalled in this respect is the sixth canto of the “ Revolt of Islam/’ where the poet, secure in the “ golden purity” of bis nature, has fearlessly penetrated into the fiery depths of human passion, blending it in strains of laby­ rinthine music with the subtlest ecstasy which emanates from the spirit. Between such a conception, embracing the whole circum­ ference of love, and that of Keats, for example, who describes it much in the same spirit of childlike sensuousness with which he descants on “lucent syrops” and other “spiced dainties,” or of Byron, to whom in some of his most powerful flights it revealed no deeper aspect than that of being “youth’s madness,” what an immeasurable distance! These remarks naturally lead us to Epipsychidion, where Shelley, apparently bursting the last link of “ dull mortality,” has not only sustained the inspiration of his subject at a dizzy height, but, soaring ever higher in miraculous ascent, lands us ultimately in the Empyrean of love itself. We indeed cannot comprehend how Mr. Rossetti, after some just remarks descriptive of the beauty of its poetry, could actually bring himself to say of this most exquisitely lovely pro­ duction, “ I may confess, however, to doubting whether it is quite a justifiable poem to write. Its very mood tends towards the intangible, and its framework of imagery and symbol remains to this day an enigma to students of the poetry and the life of ¡Shelley /’ to which our only answer is that, to put such a question with regard to such a poem is in our opinion equivalent to asking whether the “Symposium” or the “Vita Nuova,” or any work, in short, where that most delicate bloom of the emotions, neces­ sarily the rare attribute of a “ sacred few,” finds its peculiar expression, was a justifiable production. If Mr. Rossetti had not shown in his criticism on Walt Whitman a remarkable power of appreciating qualities of genius the most opposite to what con­ stitutes the sculpturesque or the pictorial in poetry, we might probably have inferred that his intimate appreciation of the sister art of painting had had an influence in diminishing his appreciation of works whose subject-matter belonging essentially to the inward and incommensurable life of thought, necessitated a mode of treatment which, adapting itself to this quality, occa­ sionally verges on the border-land of mysticism ; but this would evidently have been a wrong inference, and we are therefore at a loss to account for Mr. Rossetti s estimate of Epipsychidion. Ot the “Prometheus Unbound,” that greatest production of �Shelley. 91 Shelley, Mr. Rossetti has given us such a powerful and correct estimate, that nothing further remains to be said of it in a narrow compass ; it is, indeed, such a noble specimen both of his style and criticism that we cannot abstain from quoting it as it stands— “ There is, 1 suppose, no poem comparable in the fair sense of that word to 8 Prometheus Unbound.’ The immense scale and boundless scope <jf the conception; the marble majesty and extra-mundane passion of the personages ; the sublimity of ethical aspiration • the radiance of ideal and poetic beauty, which saturates every phase of the subject, and almost (as it were) wraps it from sight, as it were, and transforms it out of sense into spirit; the rolling river of great sound and lyrical rapture, form a combination not to be matched elsewhere, and scarcely to encounter competition. There is another source of greatness in this poem neither to be foolishly lauded nor (still less) undervalued. It is this—-that Prometheus Unbound, however remote the foundation of its subject-matter and unactual its executive treatment, does in reality express the most modern of conceptions, the utmost reach of speculation of a mind which burst up all crusts of custom and pre­ scription like a volcano, and imaged forth a future wherein man should be indeed the autocrat and renovated renovator of his planet. This it is, I apprehend, which places Prometheus clearly, instead of disputably, at the summit of all latter poetry ; the fact that it embodies in forms of truly ecstatic beauty, the dominant passion of the dominant intel­ lects of the age, and especially of one of the extremest and highest among them all, the author himself. It is the ideal poem of perpetual and triumphant progression—the Atlantis of Man Emancipated.” Owing to the necessary limits of our essay, we must pass over the 88 Cenci,” that drama which is the most magnificent refutation of the charge often brought against the poet, that he was unable to conceive and embody any character out of himself, or portray the dark and malignant passions of human nature, and content ourselves with a few remarks on 88 Adonais”and “Hellas,” the poet's last complete compositions, and which doubtless contain the best and maturest expression of his philosophical thought. Indeed, we think Mr. Rossetti's section on the religion and philosophy of Shelley necessarily defective from his scanty recognition of these two poems, and from his not rendering sufficient justice to the intense earnestness on these matters, which so essentially cha­ racterizes Shelley, as, for example, when he says, 88 The general tenor of ‘ Adonais’ may seem to amount to the expression of a positive belief in the immortality of Keats, as a separate individual soul; but we must be on our guard against poetic abstractions and (not to use the word disrespectfully) poetic machinery.” One of the stanzas from which M r. Rossetti would draw such an inference, where it is said— �92 Shelley. “ He is made one with Nature : there is heard His voice in all her music, from the moan Of thunder to the song of night’s sweet bird ; He is a presence to be felt and known In darkness and in light, from herb and stone Spreading itself where’er that Power may move Which has withdrawn his being to its own; Which wields the world with never wearied love, Sustains it from beneath, and kindles it above—” justifies, in our opinion, the direct opposite of this conclusion— namely, that Shelley appears, first, to have held that death was the cessation of the separate insulated consciousness of the individual, and the redistribution of the atoms that build up his existence into the general universe of things ; secondly, that whatever form of ultimate development this separate entity had attained, during its transit through life, reacted again on passing thence on the general universe— “ Compelling there All new successions to the forms they wear.” Any attempt, however, to range the swift and subtle spirit of Shelley into a distinct school of philosophy, would, in our opinion, be an undertaking as ill judged as assuredly futile : for, as he primarily looks at the world with the eyes of the poet, he arrives at his deepest convictions concerning it less through any sustained chain of systematic reasoning, than through flashes of intuitive perception, born of his intense absorption into, and passionate worship of, the great Cosmos. As it is fabled that Pygmalion was consumed by so potent a passion for the marble image that, clasping it, he mastered the cold repose of the stone itself, and won a response from its locked lips, even thus every true poet stands in his relation to Nature, and besieges her with prayers, tears, and entreaties, weary watches, and devouring aspirations, till he feels at last the throb in the stony veins, hears the murmur of the muffled voice, till, from the sun and the sea, the trees and beasts, yea, the very stones, there burst awful manifestations, opening glimpses, strange and sudden, into the vast dumb mystery. To have cast the brilliant net of his language over these divine but too fugitive moments of spiritual experience, and thus for ever to have retained them in song, is one of the highest of the many achievements of this transcendent genius. But although we are thus convinced that Shelley’s philosophy cannot, in the strict sense of that word, be classed under any existing system of metaphysics, yet we think it evident that the bent of his mind impelled him strongly towards an idealistic conception of the universe ; and it is curious to note that, even �Shelley. 93 in his days of rampant materialism, when saturated with the study of Hume and the French encylopsedists, he sought a vehicle for those views in “ Queen Mab,” he ever and anon, when ^wrought up to a pitch of high lyrical exaltation, bursts into ex­ pressions that are the direct contrary of his professed opinions, as when he says, for example, “ Soul is the only element.” This of course by no means implies that Shelley’s thought was stationary, but merely that his mind possessed an original bias towards transcendentalism ; and there can be little doubt that his positive assertions of atheism spring in great part, as is well illustrated by an anecdote told in Mr. Rossetti’s Memoir, from the deep conviction that every advance towards truth must be painfully impeded, till the obstacles which an intolerant faith opposed to it had been fairly demolished. Many of his asser­ tions therefore should be considered relatively rather as missiles used by a fearless combatant, than statements of an actual con­ viction. It is evident however that, although there are passages in “ Queen Mab” which certainly seem very much in harmony with “ Hellas” and “Adonais,” yet the main philosophical concep­ tion is in fact widely different, and we recognise the clearest expression of this difference in the address to the “ Spirit of Nature” (“Queen Mab,” p. 89). In this fine piece of declama­ tion, the Spirit of Nature is represented as insensible to all moral distinctions, and by a necessary consequence, as devoid of moral beauty. It is therefore no object of adoration, love, or even admiration : it is a mere machine, and what is still worse, the human beings produced and controlled by it must be as little the objects of affection or admiration. The spirit so gloriously described in “ Adonais” is something widely different. “Its smile kindles the universe;” “it wields the world with never-wearied love.” It is compared to a fire, reflected with an Infinite variety of intensity by an infinite multitude of mirrors; if the reflection is imperfect, the fault is in the mirror, not in the fire. In a word, the spirit of “ Queen Mab” is Necessity, and is addressed as such ; the spirit of “ Adonais” is Love, and is addressed as such. By so much higher as the idea of love is than the idea of necessity, by so much better as the poetry of “Adonais” is than the poetry of “Queen Mab,” by so much higher and better are Shelley’s last thoughts than his first. There is another noteworthy distinction. In “ Queen Mab” the operation of the spirit is limited to the visible universe ; it is expressly said to be “contained” by Nature. In “Adonais,” on the other hand, it contains Nature ; it not merely pervades but invests the universe—“ Sustains it from beneath and kindles it above,” The same idea is still more forcibly expressed in the prologue to “ Hellas”— �94 Shelley. “ Deem not thy worlds Are more than furnace-sparks or rainbow-drops Before the Power that wields and kindles them.” Briefly, the spirit in “ Queen Mab” is contemplated as merely immanent in the universe. In “Adonais” and “Hellas” it is im­ manent still, but also transcendent., In this latter poem, indeed, we find that the immaterialism of Shelley had reached its cul­ minating point, and it is a significant fact that he was studying Kant in September, 1821, and actually translating Spinoza in November of the same year, at the time when “ Hellas” was completed. How intently his mind must have been engaged on these metaphysical speculations is evident from the fact that he represents the Sultan in the midst of insurrection, whilst his throne totters on the verge of ruin, as actually listening during an interview with Ahasuerus to the most profound exposition on the non-existence of matter. This is certainly carrying the love of philosophizing to an incredible extent. But the passage itself soars to such sublime heights of thought, and is moreover such a complete resume of Shelley’s last convictions on these subjects, that we are fain to crown these few inadequate remarks with its surpassing splendour— “ Sultan! talk no more Of thee and me, the future and the past; But look on that which cannot change—the One, The Unborn, and the undying. Earth and ocean, Space, and the isles of life or light that gem The sapphire floods of interstellar air, This firmament pavilioned upon chaos, With all its cressets of immortal fire, Whose out wall, bastioned impregnably Against the escape of boldest thoughts, repels them As Calpe the Atlantic clouds—this whole Of suns and worlds, and men and beasts and flowers, With all the silent or tempestuous workings By which they have been, are, or cease to be, Is but a vision ;—all that it inherits Are motes of a sick eye, bubbles and dreams ; Thought is its cradle and its grave, nor less The future and the past are idle shadows Of thought’s eternal flight—they have no being ; Nought is but that it feels itself to be.” Is there not a strange significance in this fact, that the last work of importance on which this restless inquirer was engaged should have been cut off abruptly at this point of interrogation, “Then what is Life?” Bewildered cry cast into space whose mournful reverberations were straightway muffled in death ! Evidently projected on a colossal scale, and wrapped in an �Shelley. 95 atmosphere of supernatural mystery, where dream is super­ imposed on dream, there is in the “ Triumph of Life” a weird labyrinth of gloom and glare, and amid the cloudy whirl of grey, half-ghastly phantoms, gleams of a celestial radiance which almost recd to us the visions of the Apocalypse. Its allegory is still indeed, and we fear must in part probably remain, a magnificent riddle; we nevertheless entertain the hope that a minute comparison with passages both in the poetry and prose Blight help us to discover coincidences of symbol and imagery which should throw a ray of light on the dark intricacy. There can be no doubt that “ the shape all light” which is described as appearing to Rousseau gliding out of the deep cavern along the river— “ With palms so tender Their tread broke not the mirror of its billow,” is the Urania of which it is said in “ Adonais”— “ Out of her secret paradise she sped Through camp and cities rough with stone and steel, And human hearts which to her aery tread Yielding, not wounded, the invisible Palms of her tender feet where’er they fell.” I On the other hand, the New Vision of the Car, wherein sits a hooded figure crouching in the shadow of the tomb, represents Life, and the Janus-visaged shadow who guides it with bandaged eyes may be identified with 44 The world’s eyeless charioteer— Destiny,” spoken of in “ Hellas.” The excessive glare which is described as proceeding from that chariot dims the fair shape, as hurrying ©n with solemn speed it whirls the loud million triumphantly along with it. This probably means that all but a chosen few are seized and preyed upon by the multitudinous passions of the world, whose fiercer fires extinguish the celestial flame or aspira­ tion after perfection. Rousseau himself is a type of those men of genius who, having allowed the impure breath of earth to alloy the spark with which their spirit had been kindled, have thus in part subjected themselves to corruption. It also appears probable that “ The Fable,” printed in the “ Relics of Shelley,” and itself a remarkable fragment, written about the same time as “ Epipsychidion,” affords a clue to that perplexing allegory of the phantoms near the end of the poem. It is there said that by the counsel of Life, Love left man in a savage place with on|y the company of shrouded figures, of whom it is said, “None can expound whether these figures were the spectres of �� Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The poetical works of Percy Bysshe Shelley ... by W.M. Rossetti Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Blind, Mathilde Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [London] Collation: 75-97 p. ; 22 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review (Vol. 38, no. 1, July 1870). Reviewer not named in text; attribution: Wellesley Index to Victorian Periodicals, 1824-1900. A review by W.M. Rossetti of The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelly. A revised text with Notes and a Memoir. 2 vols. Moxon and Co., 1870. The Westminster Review was a quarterly British publication. Established in 1823 as the official organ of the Philosophical Radicals, it was published from 1824 to 1914. James Mill was one of the driving forces behind the liberal journal until 1828. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1870] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5314 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The poetical works of Percy Bysshe Shelley ... by W.M. Rossetti), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley Romantic poets https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/9f39efedbb56fc7e3105be8eb8281f1c.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=dHx8Dq82R5uN315mMW21Rp-OnDgWXloY87I-GJ2PH7eSoUx41tpqhAzsWKQhI3CrKLXRXvmG4UOSG3%7E8pMbf5GC0rL9l8Jr3nu%7EPOnlzXBPq59dT2dAnYXIEHD6K-65OHrMBX0qpz%7EaH53%7E99HmUkMuy5pTh%7EKrNW-2Bw3v%7EMvhqOFySZOSGq0EGetszJP46t3ZbFZ7s6sF314Ps8QPOvW7I-pk58Ryy%7Eo5H7WhAQ3cgGJNXHqXJQCpuR50O7PjGspFFuz-JvOChRus8oKBl43ARdrzt9au2BaTwhc6e6nUjX%7EY5rvnojqDuwTeDAL6Wa-NmlN9lcpwAR%7EMvVmRUQg__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 3284ec17ecab9d34114f4f43c47f2981 PDF Text Text 378 [September THE POET-KING OF SCOTLAND. HE tragic fate of David, Duke of Rotliesay, eldest son of Robert III. of Scotland, is known to every reader of Scott, as it forms perhaps the most startling incident in The Fair Maid of Perth. The youthful prince, like many other heirs ap­ parent, and the more that he had a feeble and doting father, yielded himself without restraint to the impulses of youthful blood, and rioted in all manner of insolence and debauchery. He and Jack Falstaff’s Prince Hal were simul­ taneously pursuing similar courses. Displeasing as this was to the State at large, it was emphati­ cally so to the haughty Earl of Douglas, whose daughter Marjory was the prince’s wife, and who na­ turally resented the dishonour done to his blood. Here, then, was one powerful and dangerous enemy. But an enemy more powerful and more dangerous still was his uncle, the Duke of Albany, a man cruel, crafty, unscrupulous, and ambitious, who had set his heart on the throne for himself and his family. Rothe­ say being entrusted by the feeble king to his artful brother, as old Boece says, ‘ to leir him honest and civill maneris,’ was brought to Falkland and thrown into a dun­ geon without meat or drink. He was subjected to that most tedious, terrible, and revolting of all violent deaths—starvation ; and we need not wonder that round such a ‘ strange eventful history ’ much circumstantial romance should have gathered. For instance, a woman moved with compassion for the un­ happy prince is said to have let meal fall down through the loft of the tower, by which his life was pro­ longed several days ; but her action having been discovered she was put to death. Another supplied him with milk from her own bosom, through a long reed, and as soon T as it was known ‘ she was slain with great cruelty.’ At length the captive was reduced to such straits that he devoured the filth of his dungeon, and gnawed his own fin­ gers. A death so tragic necessarily had miraculous consequences; and his body having been buried at Lindores, miracles were performed there for many years after; until, indeed, his brother, James I., began to pu­ nish his slayers, ‘ and fra that time furth,’ says the chronicler, ‘ the miraclis ceissit.’ There can be little doubt in the mind of the competent enquirer that both Al­ bany and Douglas, the prince’s brother-in-law, were, as the Scot­ tish law-phrase has it, ‘ art and part ’ in this foul murder, though probably not to an equal degree, for in the Remission that they after­ wards received at the hands of the feeble monarch their condonation was in terms as ample as if they had been the actual murderers. Robert was advised to provide for the safety of his remaining son James by sending him for education and protection to his ally the King of France. The prince, then only eleven years of age, sailed from the Bass with his tutor, the Earl of Ork­ ney, and a suitable attendance, in March 1405. In direct violation of a truce then existing between the two kingdoms, an English ship of war captured the Scottish vessel off Flamborough Head, on the 12th of April. To argue in such a case would have been unavailing: besides, it was known to the English that Al­ bany would not be displeased that his nephew and hisattendants should be treated as prisoners of war; and in fact it is surmised that he gave hints for the capture, that the only remain­ ing obstacle between himself and the throne might be in a fair way of being altogether removed. James’s own ac­ count of the capture is as follows: �;1874] The Poet-King of S&itlaml. Upon the wevis weltering to and fro, So infortunate was we that fremyt day, That maugre plainly quethir we wold or no, With strong hand by forse sehortly to say, . Of inymyis taken and led away, We weren all, and brought in thaire contree, Fortune it schupe non othir wayis to be. For nineteen years he was the prisoner first of Henry IV., and then of his son Henry V. In the treatment of ‘ his captive guest,’ says John Hill Burton, Henry V. showed a nature in which jea­ lousies and crooked policy had no place. Had he desired to train an able statesman to support his own throne, he could not have better accomplished his end. The King of Scots had everything that England could give to store his naturally active intellect with learning and accomplishments ; and he had opportunities of seeing the practice of English politics, and of observing and dis­ coursing with the great statesmen of the day, both in England and in France, where Henry had also a court. He would bo sent back all the abler governor of his own people, and more formidable foe to her enemies, for his sojourn at the Court of England. It may be so ; but though there is an over-ruling Providence From seeming evil still educing good, it is a spurious liberality that credits violence and breach of faith with happy results that were certainly not contemplated. It has often been asked why Henry IV. captured and detained the youthful prince, and above all why he was kept in captivity so long. If Albany had been the instigator, why was James detained nearly five years after his uncle’s death ? and if, as it has been said, James was detained because there was a refugee monk at Stir­ ling believed to be Richard the Second of England, who had escaped from Pontefract, why was he not liberated on the death of that per­ sonage, whoever he was, which occurred in 1419, when there .was no longer the shadow of a claimant to the English throne ? These questions are more easily asked VOL. X.—NO. LVII. NEW SERIES. 379 than answered. A royal captive was too tempting a prize to be lightly parted with: and it was natural that England should not restore the sovereign of her trouble­ some neighbour till she had taken what precautions she could to secure amity between the twTo nations. In this case the fetters of love strengthened the bands of policy. A marriage with the blood­ royal of England was the most ob­ vious expedient, and James had already lost his heart to the nearest choice, Jane Beaufort, daughter of the Earl of Somerset, and cousingerman of the English king. Romance and policy went hand in hand, and the aspirations of the royal lover were in unison with the wishes and the plans of politicians. The story of his love is told with singular sweetness and beauty in ‘ The King’s Quair ’(i.e. Quire,— Book), to which we now turn with­ out prosecuting the narrative of his subsequent busy, energetic, and use­ ful life. This beautiful and graceful poem, one of the bright consummate flowers of romance, and therefore singular as the production of one whose whole after life, instead of being a romantic dream, was a sage, practical, far-sighted, stern reality, was inspired by his passion for the ‘lady of his love,’ the beautiful granddaughter of ‘ Old John of Gaunt, time-honoured Lancaster.’ The royal captive, an adept in all knightly accomplishments, a musi­ cian, a scholar, a philosopher, and a poet, in the heyday of his blood, found himself, contrary to all the dictates of justice and hospitality, ‘ in strait ward and in strong prison ’ in a strange land. For nearly eighteen years he had be­ wailed a ‘ deadly life,’ or a living­ death, contrasting his own wretched fate with the freedom that each had in his kind, The bird, the beast, the fish eke in the sea. D D �380 The Poet-King of Scotland. He was tempted to question the Divine goodness, seeing that he more than others had had hard measure dealt him, and thus days and nights were spent in unavailing lamentation. As a solace amid his woes, it was his wont to rise early as day and indulge in exercise, by which he found joy out of torment. Looking from his chamber window in a tower of Windsor Castle, out on a small flower-garden, occupying the site of what had once been the moat, he saw walking beneath— The fairest or the freschest young floure That ever I saw, methought, before that houre—- a vision of loveliness. The solitary prisoner, with a poet’s eye and a poet’s heart, looking out on a garden fair and an arbour green, musical in the May morning with the notes of the nightingale, ‘ now soft now loud among,’ was in the mood to invest any comely daughter of Eve with the attributes of a god­ dess. When night is darkest the light is near; and when the heart of James was at the saddest the light of his life was about to dawn on him. Jane Beaufort, attended by two of her maidens, entered the garden to make her morning orisons, and the captive of the Tower was so over­ come with pleasure and delight, that 4 suddenly his heart became her thrall.’ Than gan I studye in myself and seyne, All! suete are ye a warldly creature, Or hevingly thing in likenesse of Nature ? Or ar ye god Cupidis owin princesse ? And cumyn are to loose me out of band, Or are ye veray Nature the goddesse ? That have depayntit with your hevinly band This gardyn full of flouris, as they stand ? Quhat sail I think, allace.' quhat rever­ ence Sall I mester unto your excellence ? He says she has— Beauty enough to make a world to dote. 4 The King’s Quair ’ would have been inevitably lost had it not been [September for the preservation of a single manuscript, which once belonged to Selden, and is now in the Bod­ leian Library at Oxford. That James was the author of several poems is a fact noted by all who have written of his life; but as printing was not introduced into Britain for a century after his age, it can scarcely be matter of sur­ prise that most of these should have been lost. As Mair, Dempster, and Tanner, Bishop of St. Asaph, all mentioned particularly James’s poem 4 upon his future wife,’ and as reference was made to its being among the Seldenian manuscripts in the Bodleian, Mr. Tytler, of Woodhouselee, engaged an Oxford student to search for it; and this search having been successful, he further engaged him to make an accurate copy. Mr. Tytler pub­ lished it in 1783, prefixing a his­ torical and critical Dissertation on the Life of James I., and adding a Dissertation on Scottish Music. The text was illustrated by valu­ able philological and explanatory notes. 4 Christis Kirk of the Grene ’ was also included by Mr. Tytler in his publication, but we reserve what we have to say of this most humorous poem for the close of our paper. The title of the Seldenian manuscript above refer­ red to is 4 The Quair, maid be King James of Scotland the First, callit The King’s Quair. Maid qn. his Ma. was in England and at the end there is the colophon—4 Quod King James I.’ The transcript is said to be a very indifferent one, and contains not a few errors. George Chalmers published in 1824 The Poetic Remains of some of the Scottish Kings, in which what is defective in Tytler’s exemplar of 4 The Quair ’ has not been remedied. As James was taken to England when a mere boy, and wrote Ins poem there, and as he was a dili­ gent student of Gower and Chaucer, it is more than probable that it was �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. originally written in Southern or East-Midland English. The exist­ ing manuscript is not, however, in that dialect, but in the Northern English used in the Lowlands of Scotland; therefore it is probable that we have not got the first form, but that which it took at the hands of native scribes across the Tweed. For the ease of the reader Mr. Tytler divided the poem into six cantos, according to the various episodes contained in it. After the taste of the age, it is allegorical, a style of poetic composition probably derived from the Provencal writers, and continued in Britain to the end of the reign of Elizabeth. To us of the present day it is wearily, and perhaps drearily, prolix; but it ac­ corded well with an age of stately decorum and stilted compliment, and has all the elements of cum­ brous magnificence. Congruity was not aimed at by the allegorical poets, and in ‘ The Quair ’ there is an unseemly admixture of Chris­ tian and Pagan mythology. This cannot be ascribed to a want of knowledge, but it is to be set down to a defect of taste; for, except in the case of the very highest poets, who wrote entirely from inspira­ tion, and had no recourse to models, taste is a quality of culture, and the child of criticism. It may exist in a high degree with a mediocrity of genius, and be sought for in vain in the compositions of rich, original, inventive bards. James did not rise above the taste of his age, nor furnish a purer and more chastened model to his successors. But leav­ ing out of view the structure of his work, in individual passages he soars to an elevation, and revels in a sweet beauty, exceeded by none of his contemporaries, and admired even in this highly critical age, familiar with the chastened grace of Tennyson, by all possessed of catholic sympathies. Awaking from sleep in his prison, he consoles himself by reading 381 Boethius, and this suggests to him the instability of human affairs, and the misfortunes and calamities of his own unhappy life. Hearing the bell ring to matins, he rose from his couch, but could not divest himself of the idea that the bell was vocal, and was urging him to write his own chequered history. Our read­ ers will remember how often Charles Dickens avails himself of a similar fancy. James, therefore, ‘ took con­ clusion some new thing to write,’ and invoked, as was the custom, the Muses to his aid. He recounts the details of his capture and cap­ tivity ; at last his eye is delighted with the garden and its bowers, and his ear charmed with the song of the nightingale, of whose sweet harmony this was the text: Worshippe, ye that lovers been, this May, For of your bliss the Kalends are begun, And sing with us, Away, winter, away! Come, summer, come, the sweet season and sun ; Awake, for shame ; that have your heavens won, And amorously lift up your heades all; Thank Love that list you to his mercy call. He now speculates on the nature of Love, to which he had hitherto been a stranger, and prays that he might enter his service, and ever­ more be one of those who serve him truly in weal and woe. His prayer is answered sooner than he expected, for in the garden appeared his future queen, as has been men­ tioned above, and falling under the dominion of love, suddenly — My wit and countenance, My heart, my will, my nature, and my mind, Was changed clean right in ane other kind. The personal beauty of the royal maiden was enhanced by all the art of the time : Off liir array the form gif I sal write, Toward hir golden haire and rich atyre, In fretwise couchit with perlis quhite, And grete balas lemyng as the fyre, With mony ane emerant and faire saphire, D D 2 �382 The Poet-King of Scotland. And on hir liede a chaplet fresch of hewe, Of plumys partit rede, and quhite, and blewe. To this tricolour, the chosen em­ blem of liberty, the royal youth succumbed in a willing bondage. About her neck, fair as the white enamel, was a goodly chain of gold, by which there hung a ruby shaped like a heart; it seemed burning wantonly on her white throat like a spark of love. But better and beyond all these were youth, beauty, humble port, bounty, and womanly feature—all sweet gifts and graces to such extent that Nature could ‘ no more her child advance.’ He is now under the law of Venus, and calls on the nightingale to resume her song. With that anon right she toke up a sang Where come anon mo birdis and alight; Bot than to here the mirth was tham amang, Ouer that to see the suete sicht Of hyr ymage, my spirit was so light, Methought 1 flawe for joy without arest, So were my wittis bound in all to fest. And to the nottis of the philomene, Quhilkis she sang the dittee there I maid Direct to hir that was my hertis quene, Withoutin quhom no songis may me glade, And to that sand walking in the schade, My bedis thus with humble hert entire Di'votly I said on this manere. There is an infinite delicacy in James’s expression of his love and hopes, which his seclusion may have fostered but could not have created, proving how pure and noble and knightly, in the highest sense— how ‘ tender and true ’ was this ex­ patriated flower of Scottish chivalry. His ‘hertis quene’ became his lovely, loving, and beloved wife : and when the daggers of the assassins drank his heart’s blood in the Dominican Monastery at Perth, she was twice stabbed in her frantic efforts to defend and save him. The chief interest of the poem gathers round James himself and his future queen. His pure heart, his ingenuousness, his sincerity, his brilliant fancy, his scholarly accom­ [September plishments, his deep and devoted love, win irresistibly our admiration, and make us forget the king and the captive in the loyal-hearted and warm-blooded man. His transportation to the Sphere of Love, and then to the Palace of Minerva, and his subsequent journey in quest of fortune, are very fanciful, and in the purest contemporary style of allegory. But to us, save in in­ dividual passages, they are of no great interest. Evidently these portions of his work were composed to conform to a conventional but objectionable ideal. His discussion of the vexed questions of Fate and Free-will might seem to moderns to be dragged in neck and heels to exhibit his proficiency in scholastic philosophy, but it is simply a com­ pliance with the vicious practice of the age. Gower and Chaucer were his ‘ masters dear; ’ and, though it would be heresy to place him on a level with Chaucer, one of those world-poets who mark an era, he exhibits a reverential delicacy in his description of the Lady of the Garden which is wanting to Chaucer in his enumeration of the charms of Rosial in his ‘ Court of Love.’ Mr. Ellis, however, one of the acutest of our critics, is more daring than we incline to be, for in his Specimens of the BaflgBiiglish Poets he says with­ out qualification that ‘“The King’s Quair ” is full of simplicity and feeling, and not inferior in poetical merit to any similar production of Chaucer.’ Before proceeding to describe and criticise ‘Christis Kirk of the Grene,’ ‘ a remarkable specimen of genuine humour and pleasantry,’ we will first attempt to establish the claim of the First James to its authorship, as this has been challenged in favour of his descendant James the Fifth. Mr. Paterson, in his Gudeman of Ballamgeich, is the latest propounder and defender of this latter opinion, and as he has stated his case intelligently and fully, we �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. will examine his arguments in detail. Meanwhile we will indicate, by way of preface, what we believe gave origin to the prevalent notion that the Fifth James alone could have produced such a graphic and humorous picture of peasant life, and we will do so in the words of Mr. Burton, than whom there is no higher authority on everything per­ taining to ancient Scotland: James V. was affectionately remembered by his people as ‘ the King of the Commons.’ History told that he had been no friend to the nobles, and tradition mixed him up with many tales of adventure among the pea­ santry, who not less enjoyed their memory that they were not always creditable to him. It was, perhaps, from these specialties of his popularity, that he long held a place in literary renown as the People’s Poet. ‘ Christ’s Kirk of the Green' and ‘ The Gaberlunzie Man ’ are rhymed pictures of Scottish peasant-life; so full of lively de­ scription, and broad, vigorous, national humour, that in popular esteem they could only be the works of ‘the King of the Commons ; ’ but this traditional belief lacks solid support. The first who may be regarded as attributing this poem to James V. is Dempster; for in his Ecclesiastical History of the Nation of the Scots, published in 162 7, two years after his death, he says that of the poems left by James V. testifying to his most delightful genius, he had seen only the vernacular epos ‘ On the Rustic Dances at Falkirk.’ Here there are two gross blunders—the poem is described as an epos, an heroic poem, such as the Greek and Latin poets rendered in hexameters, and English and Scottish poets in pentameters ; and he had seen it. No metric system is more opposed to what is known as the epic than that of the poem in question. Again, the dances are referred to Falkirk in­ stead of to Christ’s Kirk. These are damaging particulars, and the more so when we consider that Dempster is the most untrustworthy of his­ torians: Archbishop Ussher asserted that he would believe nothing on his evidence, unless he had himself 383 seen it. Though he could have had no critical or partisan object in assigning it to the one James more than to the other, yet when a legiti­ mate question of criticism and authorship arises, Dempster’s tes­ timony either way must simply be eliminated. If this finding be cor­ rect it nearly settles the dispute, for Gibson, Tanner, and Ruddiman are merely Dempster’s echoes. In 1691, Edmund Gibson, after­ wards the Bishop of London, published at Oxford a very in­ accurate edition, and introduced the poem as one ‘ composed, as is sup­ posed, by King James the Fifth.’ He gives no authority for his supposition, it being almost certain that he is relying on the testimony of Demp­ ster. The learned Ruddiman, in the preface to his edition of Gavin Douglas’s translation of Virgil’s fEneis, published in 1710 (Mr. Paterson says 1720), ascribes ‘Christ’s Kirk’ to James V., avow­ edly on the authority of the Oxford editor, and so does Tanner, Bishop of St. Asaph, in his Bibliotheca Britannico Hibernica, published in 1748. Thus four authorities that have been much relied on dwindle on examination to one, and that one no authority at all on any matter that admits of dispute. Bishops Gibson and Tanner are in this case foreigners, and their ‘ opinions,’ if their testimony de­ serves even this title, are those of persons whose ‘ opinions ’ carry no weight. The only piece of disin­ genuousness we have observed in­ Mr. Paterson’s advocacy, and it is surely a mere inadvertence, occurs, in reference to Watson’s ChoiceCollection of Scots Poems. In the first edition, published in 1706, Watson attributed the poem to James V. ; but Mr. Paterson does not add that in the second edition, published seven years later, he ascribed it to James I. For our­ selves we hold this change of opinion on the part of Watson as �384 The Poet-King of Scotland. of almost infinitesimal value in the settlement of the question. Neither do we attach much importance to the adhesion of the Earl of Orford, Percy, Warton, Ritson, and others to the vague recollection of Demp­ ster, and to the unauthoritative supposition of Bishop Gibson. Ab­ solutely there is no external evi­ dence in favour of the claims of the later James, ‘ the King of the Commons; ’ the whole external evidence—and it is not great—is in favour of his illustrious ancestor, as we shall now attempt to prove. In the latter part of 1568, George Bannatyne, a man of intelligence and some poetic power, made that invaluable transcript of Scottish poetry known as the Bannatyne manuscript, now in the Advocates’ Library. At the close of his copy of ‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ he adds the affida­ vit, q.,i.e. quoth, KingJames the First. This is not perfectly conclusive, but at any rate it counts for evidence, and far outweighs the presumption of Bishop Gibson and his followers. It is, in fact, the only external evidence we have to guide us in forming a conclusion. An attempt has been made to invalidate Bannatyne’s authority, because in the next poem but one he has written King James V. instead of King James IV. But that was a poem of no great mark—‘The Dregy of Dunbar maid to King James, being in Strivilling,’ of which Bannatyne could not but know that James IV., and not his son, was the object, and consequently the inference that his blunder was a mere lapsus pennee is not only probable, but necessary and inevitable. The presumption of a similar lapse in the case of ‘ Christ’s Kirk ’ is untenable. Had James V. been the author of a poem of so much humour and mark, it is incredible that in a MS. written only twenty-six years after his death by one who was almost a contemporary, it should have been ascribed to a king who had died a [September hundred and thirty-two years earlier. James V. had been too popular and too unfortunate to be lightly robbed of any credit to which he was justly entitled; on the contrary, it was long the custom to give him credit for much that was not his own. It is the internal evidence that is weak, and on it alone we could scarcely be justified in building any conclusion. If James I. wrote it, the language has undergone a modernisation. It is less antique than Henryson’s, and it ought not to be. But on the other hand, as a popular poem in every sense of the word, it was just the sort of piece to undergo a soft succession of living changes. This has been the case with the ancient ballads of Scotland especially. Had it been a closet poem, so to speak, it might have remained untouched. But how could it live on from age to age, except by a process of uncon­ scious transformation ? ‘ If there is not sufficient evidence,’ says Dr. Irving, ‘ for referring it to James I., there is no evidence whatsoever for referring it to James V.’ Irving, no doubt, was a dogmatic man, of strong prejudices; but he was specially wTell-informed, and meant to do justice to all. If the intimate knowledge of the peasantry dis­ played in the poem is held as pointing to the royal ‘ Gaberlunzie Man,’ we must remember that his more illustrious ancestor occasion­ ally mingled with the lower orders too, and that in a fashion after the Beggar-man’s own heart; so that tlie Second Charles owed as much of his roving disposition to the blood of the Stuarts in his veins, as to the modicum he held of that of Margaret Tudor, and of that of Henri Quatre. We think Mr. Paterson stultifies himself when, after attempting to discredit the authority of the Bannatyne MS., because the transcriber bad written Fifth for Fourth, he adds, ‘ Now, �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. this occurred in the reign of Queen Mary, daughter of James V. It is strange, therefore, that his memory should have been so treacherous in reference to the queen’s father or grandfather. We must conclude that the inaccuracies described were not the result of ignorance, but merely slips of the pen.’ We must con­ clude so too, and therefore the only external authority for the author­ ship, authority in the proper sense of the term, that can be discovered is fully vindicated. We have not noticed; Pebles to the Play, ’ for about the authorship of this we think there is small room for dispute. Mair or Major quotes the first two words of it as belonging to a poem of the First James, and Lord Hailes’s objection to it in connection with the 70th statute of James II. has, we think, been satisfactorily dis­ posed of. ‘ Christis Kirk of the Grene,’ to the subject and treatment of which we now turn, is, says Lord Kames, ‘ a ludicrous poem, representing low manners with no less propriety than spriglitliness.’ Its popularity had crossed the Border, and Pope no­ tices, sportively, that ‘ a Scot will fight for it.’ We question if an Englishman would fight for .any national poem. Being a native of a richer and more cosmopolitan country, he has greater self-com­ placency, and would scarcely stickle for what he might deem a trifle. The ‘ Kirk ’ is said to have been a village in the parish of Lesly, in Aberdeenshire. The best introduc­ tion to the poem is to quote the first two stanzas, and we beg our readers to note the frequent and systematic use of alliteration, a poetic characteristic of the humor­ ous poetry of the age : Wes nevir in Scotland hard nor sene Sec dancing nor deray, Nouthir at Falkland on the Grene, Ner Pebillis at the Play ; As wes of wowaris, as I wene, At Christis Kirk on ane day : 385 Thair came our Kitties, weshen clene, In thair new kirtillis of gray, Full gay, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. To dans thir damysellis thame dicht, Thir lasses licht of laitis, Thair gluvis war of the raffel rycht, Thair sliune wer of the straitis, Thair kirtillis were of Lynkome licht, Weil prest with monny plaitis, Thay wer sa nyss quhen men thame nicht, Thay squelit lyke ony gaitis, Sa loud, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. There are in all twenty-three stanzas, filled ‘ with a succession of highly ludicrous objects, and con­ taining many characteristic lines.’ ‘ Whoever reads the poem,’ says Mr. Tytler, ‘ simply as a piece of wit and humour, comes very far short, I imagine, of the patriotic design and intention of its author.’ And this he endeavours to illustrate. We confess we read it simply for its wit and humour, though on the supposition that it is James the First’s, the patriotic intention is highly intelligible, and affords strong internal evidence of his being the author. From the description of the rustic coquette Gillie, and Jock whom ‘ scho scornit,’ we find the same reference to, and preference for, yellow hair that the ancient poems testify— Fow zellow zcllow wes hir lieid. Tam Lutar was the village min­ strel ; Steven was a famous dancer who ‘ lap quhill he lay on his lendis and the quarrel was at last com­ menced by Kobin Itoy and Towny, but the laws of the ring were un­ known, for— God wait gif hair was ruggit Bethix thame, At Christis Kirk of the Grene that day. The patriotic purpose referred to by Tytler now appears, viz. to force the Scots to practise archery, by ridiculing their ineptitude. Their defeats by the English were in­ variably due to their deficiency in �386 The Poet-King of Scotland. this arm. When the one of the combatants referred to had bent a bow, he thought to have pierced his antagonist’s buttocks, but ‘by an acre-braid it cam’ not near him! ’ The weapons were also defective, for a friend’s bow flew in flinders when he had drawn it furiously to aid him. Harij and Lowry fared no better, for the arrow of the latter aimed at the breast hit the belly ; but so far from piercing burnished mail, like the cloth-yard shafts of England, the arrow rebounded like a bladder from the leathern doublet. The stricken man was, however, so stunned that he ‘ dusht doun to the eard,’ and his adversary, thinking him dead, fled from the town. The wives, coming forth, found life in the loun, and ‘ with three rowts up they reft him,’ and cured him of his swoon. A young man aiming at the breast sent his arrow over the byre, and being told that he had slain a priest a mile off, also fled from the town. The fight becomes general, and the women cry and clap, as usual on such occasions. The exploits of Hutchen, the Town Soutar, the Miller, and the Herds­ men, are described with inimitable humour; and the action of Dick, who, when all was done, came forth with an axe ‘ to fell a fuddir,’ or heap, gave both his wife and Meg, his mother, their paiks, is described with genuine Scotch pawkiness —keen observation and gift of satire hid under a seeming sim­ plicity. In a word, whoever may be the author of ‘ Christ’s Kirk,’ he stands in the foremost rank of Scottish humorous poets. If our hypothesis is correct, the captive of the Tower and the chronicler of the sports of Christ’s Kirk was a man of no common versatility, and could touch many strings of the harp, ranging at will from the deepest tenderness to the highest humour, from Allegory to Farce. Our sketch would be imperfect were we not to notice, however [September briefly, the singularly tragic end of this royal and most gifted child of song. Several causes led to it, for to no one in particular can it be clearly traced. His wise and strin­ gent laws protected property, fos­ tered industry, and emancipated the humbler classes from the tyranny of the great feudal lords. With the former, therefore, he was popular, while his searching enquiry into the titles of the latter to their estates had greatly frightened them. Se­ veral forfeitures that had been made, thoughin strict accord with the laws, intensified theirfears, and Sir Robert Graham, the prime motive power in the tragedy that had been planned, is said to have openly denounced Janies in Parliament as a tyrant, and to have made no secret of his conviction that he deserved death at the hand of the first who met him. The portents of superstition were likewise brought into play, and a Highland witch warned James of his coming doom. But threats and warnings lie despised alike, and his jests oil the last were long remembered. He had spent the Christmas of 1436 in the Black Friars’ Monastery in Perth, and was still there on the twentieth of the following February. On the even­ ing of that day he was conversing gaily with the queen and her ladies before retiring to rest, when three hundred of Graham’s Highlanders broke into the monastery. Escape by door or window was impossible, but the king raising a board of the flooring leapt into a vault below. A lady of the Douglas family thrust her arm through the staples to serve as a bolt, but it was soon crushed by the violence of the assassins. He might have escaped by an opening to the sewer, but three days before he had himself caused it to be built up, because the tennis balls entered it when he was playing in the gar­ den. Though at fault at first, the conspirators at last found his hiding­ place, and after a heroic and most �1874] The Poet-King of Scotland. desperate resistance lie was des­ patched with sixteen dagger stabs. The conspirators were pursued and captured, and expiated their bloody crime by almost unimaginable tor­ tures. Since the time of CEdipus no royal line has equalled that of the Stuarts in its calamities. The First James, adorned with the graces of poetry and chivalry, a wise legislator, a sagacious and resolute king, perished, as we have seen, in his forty-fourth year. His son, the Second James, was killed in his thirtieth year at the siege of Rox­ burgh Castle, by the bursting of a cannon. The Third James, after the battle of Saucliieburn, in which his rebellious subjects were counte­ nanced and aided by his own son, was stabbed, in his thirty-sixth year, beneath a humble roof by a pretended priest. That son, the chivalrous madman of Flodden, compassed his own death and that of the flower of his kingdom, while only forty years of age, by a piece of foolish knight-errantry. At an age ten years younger his only son, James the Fifth, died of a broken heart. Over the sufferings and follies, if we may not say crimes, 387 and over the mournful and unwar­ rantable doom of the beauteous Mary, the world will never cease to debate. Her grandson ex­ piated at Whitehall, by a bloody death, the errors induced by his self-will and his pernicious educa­ tion. The Second Charles, the Merry Monarch, had a fate as sad as any of his ancestors ; for though he died in his bed, his life was that of a heartless voluptuary, who had found in his years of seeming pros­ perity neither truth in man nor fidelity in woman. His brother, the bigot James, lost three kingdoms, and disinherited his dynasty, for his blind adherence to a faith that failed to regulate his life. The Old Preten­ der was a cipher, and the Young Pretender, after a. youthful flash of promise, passed a useless life, and ended it as a drunken dotard. The last of the race, Henry, Cardinal York, died in 1804, a spiritless old man, and a pensioner of that House of Hanover against which his father and brother had waged war with no advantage to themselves, and with the forfeiture of life and lands, of liberty and country, to many of the noblest and most chivalrous in­ habitants of our island. W. G. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The Poet-King of Scotland Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [s.l.] Collation: p. 378-387 ; 22 cm. Notes: From Fraser's Magazine 10 (September 1874). Printed in double columns. Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Article signed W.G. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1874 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT34 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Scotland Monarchy Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource W.G. Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The Poet-King of Scotland), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry James I of Scotland Scotland https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/85848668f21060a6531a3ae20c974d33.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=Nz2SzZ3ko1bDkQ%7Ee7PdRHqzO8nSRV%7EO3-AcOqLppAlAPXC0qgSwp2%7ErMaA0feK61FM373tG4cP5YMbvlD6WdpcO6Xhgbllywzuw4py59K7oSsoaFNehgL4hBWGFjdS4gReIweLGQ598US-9kdonJVZtqbDuuH64voI8MI07H%7EuxRN5jJ1xOLlcXH6Mryo7t6RL9YjoD64Y8YPYl1jALAGqkHuN2S04f%7E-P9JSWW1CtbIW7VqkU0HyVHN0TNv2XkWGDkMdW-SsATxTHVuk6t7Muqq6OYyIG1eZ6raW1K9yVhva6Vq5EyuCFvu2qWaD724SV6E6eS59pS59lQkvT6uVA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 95d935f7caa1368b23fd450a98cf54e2 PDF Text Text �Finest Dress Shirts at Moderate Prices. Perfect Fit Guaranteed. Ready-Made or Made to Order. ZP. F- IDpatent PANTALOON DRAWERS, THE MOST PERFECT FITTING BRA WERE IN THE WORLD. ZP. _A_. ZB. I’lVO F ACTION I5IJV(1L THE MOST PERFECT BRACE EVER INVENTED. Combining the qualities of Brace and Suspenders, or either at pleasure. THE LARGEST AND MOST COMPLETE STOCK OF GENTS FURNISHING GOODS, TRUNKS, VALISES, &c. h. J. McLaughlin, 280 Pënnsylvania Avenue, bet. 11th & 12th, Next to Gait’s Jewelry Store. ¿J". ZECZ -A. Jrô , MANUFACTURER AND DEALER IN 348 PENNSYLVANIA AVENUE, Between Metropolitan Hotel and 7th Street, WASHINGTON, ZD. O. Chronometers and Fine Watches repaired and warranted. SOLE AGENT FOR HOWE’S IMPROVED gewing FOR THE DISTRICT OF COLUMBIA. �T TT Til T=OJS2SÆS OF ) CONTAINING 1 The various Poetical Contributions written. for- theoccasion of Decorating the Graves of our Fallen Heroes, May 29, 1869. Together with the Jnscriftions ON ^NTABLATURES, Erected at Arlington; with description of the touching ceremony at the National Cross, as part of the Memo­ rial Exercises. PUBLISHED BY M. A. C. FINCH. WASHINGTON, D. C. POWELL & GINCK, PBS., 409 F ST. 1869. �- - 7^/^» f ' ■ Entered according to an act of Congress, in the year of our Lora' eighteen hundred and sixty-nine, by M. A. G. FINCH, in the Clerk’s Oifice, in the Supreme Court, of the District of Columbia. O' / «o r) 6v �THE POEMS OF ARLINGTON. j I 1 l ■; Ths Arlington Estate. The Arlington Estate is situated nearly due west « * I; from the Capitol, and is accessible from Long Bridge, > at the foot of Fourteenth street and Maryland avenue, i) Washington, or by the Acqueduct Bridge from George’ ; town. The Estate comprises a large tract of land i < lying between the Georgetown and Alexandria turn! ’ | pike and the canal, of rich, and in times past, highly ¡' cultivated fields, but all fences having been destroyed "i during the war, this portion of late years has been ! abandoned to the freedmen. A spring near the canal, ’ which gave its name to the Estate, where a comfortable house and extensive stables have been built on the ' ) i ; ' ) > j j plantation road leading from the south gate to the river bank, is worthy of mention from the fact, not well-known, that at this place the former owner of the Estate, George Washington Park Custis, in the early dawn of the nineteenth century, used to en*ertain all who came to what was then known as the annual sheep-shearing festival, on which occasion all interested in the improvement of sheep, competed for the prizes offered and bestowed by the liberal owner of Arling- I ' i • ) j < i j q j I J) j j j j j .1 ) 1 �J'he Poems of Arlington. luxuriant growth of natural forest trees, oak predomi­ nating, but cedar and other evergreens intermingling, forming one of the most lovely landscapes, with rich plains, bordering the broad blue Potomac, here over a mile in width, with shipping of all kinds, from the largest ocean steamer to the light sailing yacht, give an ever-changing panorama most pleasing to contem­ plate, and most beautiful to behold. The view from Arlington house is grand. Arlington formed but a small portion of the regal estate belonging to the widow Custis, subsequently known to history as the wife of the father of his country. From Mrs. Washington the estate passed to her son, G. W. P. Custis, and upon his death in 1857, Arlington became the property of his daughter Mary, wife of Robert E. Lee. Arlington Heights was occupied by Federal troops the night of May 23, 1861, and has been in possession by the Government ever since. At present, however, it is not held under any of the confiscation acts of Congr< ss, but by virtue of a tax title, the estate having been sold For taxes, and bid in by the Government of the United States. Only the northwest corner, and the plateau southwest from the mansion, are occupied as a cemetery, the former for colored people, and the latter for Union and rebel soldiers. In all, there are over thirty thousand persons buried at this place; some have been removed, but to no great extent. Every grave has a plain white head-board, with the name, regiment, and date of death, when such was known ; many are marked unknown. The mansion is old style, with massive columns, and large portico. The rooms are good sized, and work nicely done. Marble mantles were in the tv^o principal rooms on either side of the hall. Those in the room now used as an office still remain. The south wing is occupied as a green house, and is well cared for. �JHE pOEMS OF ^RLINGTON- [The following Poems were written for the occasion cf Decorating the Graves at Arlington, but owing to prior arrangements it was found impossible to embiace them in the exercises of the day :] Our Fallen Comrades. BY A. J. FINCH. Comrades in those days of dangers, Brothers by those ties most dear, We have lived too long as strangers, Coine, unite our hearts more near. Mingle now our tears of sorrow For those brave ones gone before, We shall join them on the morrow, As we near that distant shore. Some were stricken in the battle, Where the death-shot felled them low ; When the air was thick with metal, Left them in a ghastly row. When the cannon loudly rattled, Wildly swelled the tumult’s din : Where the surging thousands battled, For the victory to win ; Where the war-clouds thickly hovered, O’er that bloody doubtful plain ; And their mangled corses covered, With its mantle for the slain. ’Mid shrieking shot and bursting shell, And zipping of the rifle’s ball; ’Mid dangers thick and fast they fell, Redeeming there their country’s call. �'J'he Poems of Arlington. But some amidst the gloomynight, Along the lonely picket line ; Where dangers lurked with dreaded might, When God and man it seemed combine, To add with terrors to the land ; To yield them but their bated breath, Still held them to that fatal stand, Denied them yet a glorious death. ’Mid darkness, storm, and hail and harm, ’Mid cold, and sleet, and dangers drear, Sturdy to bear with willing arm, ' The irksome duties so severe. But some upon the daring raid, • When far from friends or comrades riven, Were smitten when the charge was made, As from, their line the foes were driven. And some were taken on the road, The bivouac some laid low ; Death sought them oft in varied mode, Wherever they might go. The wasting pains of dire disease, The sunken eye, the hollow cheek, Speak of death by slow degrees, But far from such as soldiers seek. Oh ! ye who’ve mingled in the fray, And joined the deafening shout, When wavering lines of steel gave way, To one continuous route ! When men on men, and steed on steed, Ne’er checked your fiery zeal ; When sabre strokes could ne’er impede, Nor make their victims feel. I �J'he J?oems of Arlington. ’Mid wreathing smoke and whistling grape, With cannister belched forth— Tho’ wide and quick, the deadly gape Ne’er checked the undaunted North. As swell on swell the ocean’s wave Breaks fierce upon the rock-bound coast, So surged the line of veterans brave Against the works of rebel’s host. Oh ! ye who’ve felt the burning throb Which victory alone can bring, Doth not the sick’ning horror rob Your boasted glory by its sting ? Ah, did you mark the honor then, When gazing on the ghastly plain, Surrounded by these gallant men— Was there no pity for the slain? And is this glory, thus to die ’Mid clouds of smoke and battle’s din ? Shame on the thought, ’tis but a lie, A most degrading type of sin. Give not the laurel wreath to him Who merely yields a noble life; The world before hath often seen Valor displayed in useless strife. ’Tis glory only when the cause Is worthy of a martyr’s death; When justice, truth, and freedom’s laws Are sullied by a traitor’s breath. For liberty they fought and died; To save a nation’s life they bled ; “ God and the right ” was on their side, And nations honor them now dead. �Jhe poEMS of Arlington. In after years, when we are gone— Who shared alike with them the gloom— A grateful people still will come With garlands to bedeck their tomb. When the earth is filled with gladness, In the youthful spring-time come; With our hearts still filled with sadness, As we bear the muffled drum. Then, as we near these hallowed grounds, Made sacred for their resting-place, We gather round these lowly mounds With sad and solemn funeral pace. Wreaths of flowers we will gently Lay upon their narrow bed ; And with tears of sorrow mingling For the brave and noble dead. From the hill-side, from the valley, From the dark and steep ravine, They have come to that last rally, On this peaceful quiet green. From the deadly charge we’ve brought them, Gathered from the lonely shore ; From the dismal swamp we drew them, Ere they struggled bravely o’er. Tho’ many comrades here have met, As their mingling corses lay, Missing lost ones linger yet, Unknown, beneath the unmarked clay. But distant friends who knew their worth Will ne’er forget the bitter day, When treason drew them from the hearth Of dear beloved ones far away. �The Poems of ^rlington- Here they’ve met at their last roll-call, On the calm Potomac’s shore— Oh ! that fatal zipping ball! They shall never dread it more. They have heard the last assembly ; Ne’er again the bugle note Shall awaken in their memory Thoughts of battle, tho’ remote. Tatoo has sounded, taps are blown ; Lights are out, and they are sleeping, All undisturbed, tho’ years have flown ; Angels o’er their camp are weeping. Calmly now the river glides, In its dark unruffled, flow, As it mingles with the tides, Murmuring peace to us below. Who can tell what joys and sorrows Mingle in our hearts to-day, As we think of distant morrows, Ere we pass that vaulted way, To join the comrades gone before us, Where no bugle sounds are heard ; Where no general e’er will chide us ; Ne’er again the armor guard. Guard their honor and their glory, Keep their memory ever near ; Teach our children when we’re hoary, How to drop the silent tear. Teach their children how to love them, While the heart is young and clear, That in age they may revere them, With a memory ever dear. 2 �Jhe P’oems of 2^rl1ngton- Flowers for the Soldiers’ Graves. BY MRS. MARY E. NEALY. Flowers for each hero’s bed ! Bring Roses as red as the blood they shed, And Geraniums rich with their glowing red; Verbenas and Pinks like the sunset skies, And brave Sweet Williams, with scarlet eyes ; Bring the Flos Adonis, with drops of blood— Peonies and Poppies—a crimson flood ! Bring flowers of the rich warm red ) ■j ; i ; j j! ) Flowers for their crowns so brighl Bring guelder roses and snow-drops white And lilies with cups like the morning ligl Bring sweet Mayflowers, with their waxei Syringas and spireas, which eclipse The winter flakes with each pure white g< Each delicate star of Bethlehem. Bring flowers of the purest white, j Flowers for the hearts so truel Bring violets blue as the summer skies, And innocence blossoms, like babies’ eyes Forget-me-nots and the sweet-blue bell, Which grew by the streams they loved so Bring morning glories, and lilacs, too, And each dear home-flower that so well th Bring flowers of the azure blue. ) j ,) ; ) ! Flowers for the soldiers’ graves ! Flowers of the red, the white, the blue; �Jhe Poems qf Arlington. Flowers for the brave, the pure, the true; For the hero souls who offered up Life» love, and hope in the bloody-cup Which was held to their country’s pallid lips. 0, fateful war ! O, dark eclipse! Bring flowers for our fallen braves ! Flowers of the fair young spring ! We bring with their beauty and perfume I To these hallowed grave s one day of bloom— A single day in each rolling year For the blossoming flower and the falling tear To drop from woman’s eye and hand ! For the heroes and saviors of our land— Our gifts of love we bring ! I. Then home to oar daily care ! With deeper feeling and holier thought; With a love and hope which •the day hath wrought. With a grander faith in humanity, And a glimpse of the life that is to be; With a wider vision of earth-born love, And a higher grasp of its home above, We shall bend the knee in prayer­ in prayer and praise to Thee. Prayers for the millions that mourn to-day For these far-off martyred forms of clay ; And praise to the Father that rules above For a land so girded around with love— For the hundreds of thousand precious graves, That broke the bonds of a million slaves, And made our land all free ! Washington, D. C. �Jhe Poems of Arlington, Hymns. rWritten by request for the Floral Memorial, New York, May 31, 1869, by the editor of The Soldier's Friend.\ OPENING HYMN. Tune—Pley el's Hymn. Love unchanging for the dead, Lying here in gloried sleep, Where the angels softly tread, While their holy watch.they keep. Wreaths we bring that ne’er shall fade, Greenei' with the passing years, Brighter for our sorrow’s shade, Jeweled with our falling tears. Dying that the Truth might live, Here they rest in Freedom’s name, Giving all that man can give— Life for Glory’s deathless fame. Bend in love, 0 azure sky ! Shine, 0 stars, at evening-time ! Watch where heroes calmly lie, Clothed with faith and hope sublime. God of nations, bless the land Thou hast saved to make us free ! Guide us with Thy mighty hand Till all lands shall come to Thee.. Wm. Olxnd Bourne. �Jhe Poems of .Arlington. CLOSING HYMN. Tune—Old hundred. Blest are the martyrd dead who lie In holy graves for Freedom won, Whose storied deeds shall never die While coming years their circles run» Blest be the ground where heroes sleep, And blest the flag that o’er them waves, Its radiant stars their watch shall keep, And brightly beam on hallowed graves. While Freedom lives their fame shall live,. In glory on her blazing scroll, And love her sacrifice shall give, While anthems round the altar roll. Year after year our hands shall bear Immortal flowers in vernal bloom, Till God shall call us home to share Immortal life beyond the tomb. Our Father, all the praise be Thine ! Thy grace and goodness we adore; Bless our dear land with love divine, And shed Thy peace from shore to shore. Wm. Oland. Bourne. �The Poems of Arlington. Ode to the Dead. [The following beautiful lines, composed for the occa­ sion by Dr. H. Risler, and set to music by Krentzer, were sung in an eff ctive and harmonious manner by the Washington Saengerbund and Arion Club—in all sixty voices, Messrs. Charles Richter and C. W. Berg­ mann leading:] Sweet be your sleep, who here, though silent,Proclaim our country’s holy rise, That she sliouTd live, your lives were rendered, Iler life was your devotion’s prize. With flo wers sweet your graves we cover, And here renew our sacred vow, That to our country we will render What we to your devotion owe. ----------0---------Our Native Land. [Then followed “Our Native Land,” by theBeetho. ven Club, which was sung with fine taste:] With hearts now touched by tend’rest feelings, Oh ! let us praise our native land; For her we’ll sing our noblest songs, And lavish gifts with open hand. Oh, land 1 with all thy noble forests, Thy plains, where rugged mountains stand, With God’s pure sky, blue mantling o’er them, �Jhe JPoem-s OF ^Arlington, Heaven bless thee, our native land— God bless thee, our native land, our native land. Let every blessing shed its fragrance, And peace and plenty o’er us shower; Let health and happiness attend us, Till all have felt its magic power. Oh ! -may the bond of faith and kindness Forever hold us hand to hand ; While all thy sons shall sing rejoicing, Heaven bless our native land— God blesa thee., our native land, our native land. ------------------------ 0------------------------ Our Martyrs. A POEM Dedicated =to the memory of the Union Soldiers ^ho fell during the -war of the rebellion, and are buried at Arlington, Virginia. By Francis De Haes Janvier. Bring the fairest flowers that bloom, Full of beauty and perfume;— Lay a garland on each tomb. livery sepulchre you see, Is a shrine,—henceforth to be Consecrate to liberty. Here, beneath the earth’s green breast, Loved, lamented, honored, blest— Twice ten thousand martyrs rest ? �Jhe Poems of Arlington. u Twice ten thousand martyrs,—slain Truth and justice to maintain:— Theirs the loss, but ours the gain! When rebellion’s fiery flood • Swept the land, these heroes stood,— Met, and quenched it with their blood ! Can such service be repaid ? Can the record they have made,— Can their glory ever fade ? Bring the fairest flowers that bloom, Full of beauty and perfume ;— Lay a garland on each tomb. Pausing on your silent way, While affection’s vows you pay, Bathe with tears each budding spray. Grateful tears, with blessings fraught, For the deeds these heroes wrought, For the lesson they have taught. Be your blooming garlands strown, Doubly, on the altar stone, Reared to those who rest—“ Unknown.” Here, unrecognized, they lie, But, above the starry sky, Martyrs’ names can never die. Kneeling on this sacred sod, * Swear !—to follow Freedom’s God, In the path these patriots trod ! Swear !—their little ones to bless ; Cherish, shield them from distress ; Unprotected, fatherless ! �Jhe J^oems ') ! of Arlington. Swear! —that this fair land shall be Evermore a legacy,— Precious,—undivided,—free ! Prayer. Sung by Arion Club. the stage : This closed the exercises at In peaceful calming breezes, Through blooming earthly fields, Spread God’s creation blessings, And trusting pleasure yield. Who tearful seeks ’neath heaven, This golden calm of rest ; Finds balm for all his longings, And peace within his breast. --------- 0---------The Hymn of Peace. By Oliver Wendall Holmes. Angel of Peace, thou hast wandered too long 1 Spread thy white wings to the sunshine of love ? Come while our voices are blended in song, Fly to our ark like the storm-beaten dove. Fly to our ark on the wings of the dove ; Speed o’er the far sounding billows of song, 3 �JjIE pOEMS OF ^RLINGTON' Crowned with thine olive-leaf garland of love, Angel of Peace, thou hast waited too long. Brothers, we meet on this alter of thine, Mingling the gifts we have gathered for thee, Sweet with the odors of myrtle and pine, Breeze of the prairie and breath of the sea, Meadow and mouutain and forest and sea, Sweet is the fragrance of myrtle and pine; Sweeter the incense we offer to thee, Brothers, once more round this alter of thine. Angels of Bethlehem, answer the strain! Hark ! a new birth-song is filling the sky, Loud as the storm-wind that tumbles the main. Bid the full breath of the organ reply ; Let the loud tempest of voices reply ; Roll its long surge like the earth shaking main; Swell the vast song till it mounts to the sky. Angels of Bethlehem, echo the strain ! ----------- 0------------ The Tomb of the Unknown Is of plain granite, about five feet in height, sur­ mounted by four three-incli Rodman rifled guns, worn out during the war, nicely mounted on each corner, with. a pyramid of round shot in the centre. A frame work in shape of a Greek cross was built around the tomb, and a canopy of battle flags and silken colors, all of which had been borne by regiments rep­ resented among the dead, was erected over the tomb; wreaths of flowers were looped from opposite corners, and garlands suspended from the centre. The most refined taste was displayed in this beautiful decoration. The tomb bears the following inscription : �Jhe J-’oems of ^Arlington. “ Beneath this stone repose the bones of two thou­ sand one hundred and eleven unknown soldiers, gathered after the war from the fields of Bull Run and the route to the Rappahannock ; their remains could not be identified, but their names and deeds are re­ corded in the archives of their country ; and its grate­ ful citizens honor them as of their noble army of martyrs, May they rest in peace. “ September, A. D. 1866.” --------- o---------Requiem, Sung by Beethoven Club at the tombs of the un­ known : Sigh not, ye winds, as passing o’er The chambers of the dead ye fly; Weep not, ye dews, For these no more shall ever weep—shall ever sigh. Why mourn the throbbing heart at rest ? How still it lies within the breast! Why mourn when death presents its peace, And o’er the grave our sorrows cease ? ------- —0----------- Shall We Know Each Other There? The orphans then sung, while gathered around the tomb of their fathers — W1icn we hear the music ringing �JHE pOEMS OF /tRLINGTON. Through the bright celestial dome, Where sweet angel voices, singing, Gladly bid us welcome home, To the land of ancient story, Where the spirit knows no care, In the land of light and glory, Shall we know each other there? Chorus.—Shall we know each other, Shall we know each other, Shall we know each other, Shall we know each other there ? When the holy angels meet us, As we go to join their band, Shall we know the friends that greet us, I n the glorious spirit land ? Shall we see the same eyes shining On us, as in days of yore ? Shall we feel their dear arms twining Fondly around us, as before ? (Chorus.) Yes ! my earth-worn soul rejoices, And my weary heart grows light; For the thrilling angel voices, And the angel faces bright, That shall welcome us in heaven, Are the loved of long ago. And to them ’tis kindly given, Thus their mortal friends to know. (Chorus.) Oh, ye weary, sad, and tossed ones, Droop not, faint not by the way, Ye shall join the loved and just ones, In the land of perfect day 1 �JHE p0-EMS OF ^RLII^GTON, b Harp strings touched by angel fingers, Murmured in my raptured ear ; Evermore their sweet song lingers ; “ We shall know each other there.” (Chorus.) a v n ( V ----------- 0----------- | x V THE NATIONAL CROSS, At the top bore the inscription: In memory of the heroes op ) P On the upright: Antietam, Gettysburg, Wilderness, Shiloh* } Fair Oaks, Corinth, Bull Run, Stone Riveip '! | Vicksburg, Cedar Creek, Chattanooga, Atlanta* . Cold Harbor, Petersburg. , I; |j Then, upon the arms of the Cross were painted a ® Stock of muskets on the right, a field-gun in the centre, I and ciossed cavalry sabers on the left, emblematic of | the three arms of the service, 111 ) And on the foot-board Fort Fisher, Five Fores. 1 i i (' ( f ; At this Cross the following impressive and touching ? | ceremony took place : !' 1 The soldiers’ orphans marched to the cross, each ■ ' bearing a floral offering, and there presented it to a widow in deep mourning, she passed it to a soldier in <) full uniform but unarmed, he passed it to two men in | citizens’ dress, one of whom had lost both, and the D other one arm in the army ; the one-armed man laid �C Jhe Poems •4- of ^Arlington. ■ ' •! ri ■ i •> the tribute at the foot of the cross. This was the most touching and affecting ceremony during the day, and so simple, plain, and marked in its signification as to require no explanation: the orphan, the widow, the army, the maimed soldier-, all stood in our presence, and the dread realities of war were but too fully felt by all as the sharp report of the cannon announced the close of the exercises. No person who witnessed the scene will ever forget it while memory remains. It is meet that we should never forget the lessons that this terrible struggle ' have taught us. -0The following beautiful tablets adorn the walls of the office : “ Here sleep the brave, Who sink to rest, By all their country’s Wishes blest.” “ Soldier rest, thy warfare’s o’er Sleep the sleep that knows no waking, Dream of battle-fields no more, Days of toil and nights of watching.” ‘‘ Whether in the tented field, Or in the battle’s van, The greatest place for man to db Is where he dies for man.” The grave should be surrounded by eve might inspire the tenderness and venera; dead, or that might aim the erring to virtu* �Jhe Poems of Arlington. the place of disgust and dismay, but of sorrow and meditation. --------- 0---------- Erected along the main drive : • “ The muffled drum’s sad roll has beat The soldier’s last tatoo, No more on life’s parade shall meet These brave and fallen few. “ On fame’s eternal camping ground, There silent tents are spread, And glory guards, with solemn round, The bivouac of the dead.”' “ Through all rebellion’s horrors>Bright shine our nation’s fame, Our gallant soldiers, perishing, Have won a deathless name.” Erected on each side of the centre walk : “ These faithful herald tablets, With mournful pride shall tell, ( When many a vanished age hath flown,) The story how ye fell. “ Nor wreck, nor change, nor winter’s blight, Nor time’s remorseless doom, Shall mar one ray of glory’s light, That guilds your deathless tomb.” “ The neighing troop, the flashing blade, The bugle’s stirring blast, The charge, the dreadful cannonade, The din and shout are passed. �4 JHE pOEMS OF pRLlNGTON “ Nor war’s wild note, nor glory’s peal, Shall thrill with fierce, delight, Those breasts that never more may feel, The raptures of the fight.” “A thousand battle fields have drunk The blood of warriors brave, And countless homes are dark and drear, Thro' the land they died to save.” “ Now ’neath their parent turf they rest, Far from the gory field ; Born to a Spartan mother’s breast, On many a bloody shield. “ The sunshine of their native sky, Sm les sadly on them here ; And kindred eyes and hearts watch by The soldier’s sepulchre.” “ Ilest on, embalmed and sainted dead, Dear as the blood ye gave 1 No impious footsteps here shall tread • The herbage of your grave ; Nor shall your glory be forgot, While Fame her record keeps, Or honor points the hallowed spot, Where valor proudly sleeps.” The hopes, the fears, the blood, the tears That marked the bitter strife, Are now all crowned by victory, That saved the nation’s life.” �SUCCESSOR TO G. I). WAKELY, STEREOSCOPIC yiEws of the PHOTOGRAPHER. Public JIuildings, IN WASHINGTON. Also interior views of the same. ARLINGTON CEMETERY DECORATION VIEWS, Taken during the Ceremony at the Cemetery. We have on hand a large and extensive Stock of all the Views of Public Interest. Also large size pictures of the United States Capitol, &c., &c. We respectfully solicit the patronage of the traveling public. A liberal deduction made to the trade. OUR MANUFACTURING DEPARTMENT,. WASHINGTON BI ILDING. Cor. Penn. Avenue and 7 th Street. FRANKLIN HOUSE, C0R.8TH AND D STREETS, WzlSWGW. ©• C, The above House is situated in the centre of the City, and withih one square of the Patent and Post Offices, and both lines of the City Railroads. TERMS, $2?QQ PER Strangers visiting Washington will find at this House every convenience. F. BRANDNER, Proprietor. �K. H. MARSH, gitmima guwt,* anti NO. 407 F STREET, NEAR SEVENTH, }VASHINGTON, p Ç. NO. 409 F STREET, NEAR SEVENTH, WASHINGTON, D. 0-, ' Are prepared to execute all kinds of Book and Job Printing, such as: Business, Shipping, Wedding, Visiting, and Ball Cards. Bills of Fare, Billheads, Checks, Letter Heads, Programmes. Lawyers’ Briefs and Blanks, Pamphlets, and Dodgers, "f And all other Printing, either Plain oj- in Colors, equal to any other House in the City, with the utmost neatness, and on most ’“‘reasonable terms. JOHN L. G1NCK. JAMES T. POWELL. FOR MOUNT VERNON. THE STEAMER ARROW, CAPTAIN THOS^ STACKPOLE, Leaves her Wharf, Foot of Seventh street, DAILY at 10 a. m. (Sundays excepted,) FOR MOIVT VERAOA, And Intermediate Landings, returning to the City at 4 p. m. Tickets $1.50, including ADMISSION TO THE MAN­ SION AND GROUNDS. For sale at all the PRINCIPAL HOTELS, and on board of the Steamer. JAMES SYKES, General Superintendent. Office: WILLARD’S HOTEL. ~ � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The poems of Arlington. Containing the various poetical contributions written for the occasion of decorating the graves of our fallen heroes, May 29 1869. Together with the inscriptions on entablatures, erected at Arlington; with description of the touching ceremony at the national cross, as part of the memorial exercises. Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Finch, M.A.C. (ed) Description An account of the resource Place of publication: Washington, D.C. Collation: [26] p. ; 16 p. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Annotations, difficult to read and mostly pieces of poetry, written in pencil over cover title and final pages. Includes poems by A.J. Finch, Mrs Mary E. Nealy, Dr. H. Risler, Francis de Haes Janvier, Oliver Wendell Holmes; hymn by W. Oland Bourne. Advertisements for services and facilities in the region of Arlington inside and on back cover. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Powell & Ginck Printers Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1869 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5311 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The poems of Arlington. Containing the various poetical contributions written for the occasion of decorating the graves of our fallen heroes, May 29 1869. Together with the inscriptions on entablatures, erected at Arlington; with description of the touching ceremony at the national cross, as part of the memorial exercises.), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English American Arlington Cemetery (Va.) Conway Tracts Memorials Poetry Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The missing links to Darwin's origin of species Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Merriam, A.W. Mistick Krewe of Comus Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [New Orleans] Collation: [38] p. : ill. (engravings) ; 22 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Text printed within decorative ruled borders. "Keepsake, in verse, distributed to guests at the ball given by the Mistick Krewe of Comus on Mardi Gras, Feb. 25, 1873. Instead of the traditional float, the members marched in costumes that were not only a satire on the Darwinian theory, but made fun of carpetbaggers who were then in control of New Orleans. In 1873 the captain of Comus, whose duty it was to design, produce and manage the pageant and ball, and who presumably wrote the keepsake, was A.W. Merriam. Cf. One hundred years of Comus (New Orleans, 1956)." [From Worldcat, accessed 11/2017]. Adolph Zenneck was a German-born engraver active and living in Louisiana. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1873] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5451 Contributor An entity responsible for making contributions to the resource Zenneck-Buckingham (ill) Subject The topic of the resource Poetry USA Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The missing links to Darwin's origin of species), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English American Poetry American Reconstruction Charles Darwin Conway Tracts Origin of the Species Poetry in English Satire https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/1826f24fe7f5af625994ef558ade7392.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=qaccllUxRBT9Zni0bOLegPNAt1qSgC2RPoPT2PLHrq-8d369aXVdCrsjs6gQcTvTlfPdJ-X5HNhKBX9XBlYmS9jrbSwC1wHL1lZ94fEvBzrHuvv9NqO66WBLCsKNiVE8eP9z-gm8yTx9HElQ6FvtlcoUZXxOyNL9v4uQRRJuM2-EaWgNApRmggaQVUCJY6EjUrpDyxL169z9S6%7EiLgkIMP6DisVKuEK4k49tAL-hoNl0SSYKwPLn2kzNjXbbtNi8b4HuN7s98HQSjlUyP267YirhYFuGgg7vYGnb-ggy-p3%7EqD7i6nNXbqyWfARDXH17Gy%7EFkDqBUsrjySRZdZKQtA__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 361c044b83ccf85a3e8dbef19496e1be PDF Text Text THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS,” AND THE HARP OF HELL. BY SALADIN, AUTHOR OF “ GOD AND HIS BOOK,” ETC. London: W. STEWART & CO., 41 FARRINGDON ST., E.C- �New Edition, price is., by post is. id. THE CONFESSIONAL: ROMISH AND ANGLICAN. An Exposure. By SALADIN. Contents:—Introduction — Licentiousness of the Pre-Reformation Church—Lechery of the ConfessionalRitualism : “The Priest in Absolution”—The Anglican Confessional—Ineffectual Efforts to Suppress Reforming Tendencies in the Anglican Church—Confessions of an Escaped Nun—Extracts from Dens and Liguori—Ex­ amination of the Church’s Claim to have Fostered Learning : Pier Attempts at Continency even more Ruinous than her Self-indulgence—The Relative Crimi­ nal Statistics of Catholicism and Protestantism—Ap­ pendix. London: W. Stewart & Co., 41 Farringdon Street, E.C. �Q(,cThe "Beauty of Holiness.” “ Bible Extracts and Assertions in Proof of its Origin ” is the title of a brochure which I have received by post. Like all works which feel their position before the law rather shaky, no printer’s or publisher’s address is given ; and thus, to escape the possibility of prosecution, by doubtful means this work has leapt into the greater evil of making successful prosecution certain, should any one feel it to be his mission to set the law in motion. The compiler’s name is not given; but the author from whom the compilation is made is well known; he is none other than the Christian deity, and, as he is the author of one literary production only, and every babe in this country knows the name of his book, and as my forte is not supererogation, I need not name it here. When I was a boy I read a work entitled “ Dodd’s Beauties of Shakespeare,” this anonymous brochure should be entitled “Somebody’s Beauties of Deity.” I confess I do not know much of Deity; but, from the extracts from his writings which are before me, he must be a very plain-spoken sort of person, who certainly calls a spade a spade, and that with a vengeance too. Judging from modern standards of etiquette, he must evidently have spent a good deal of his life among costermongers and the rest of it as bully in a maison-de-joie. Should any of his own well-paid priests resent this as an asper­ sion upon the culture and gentlemanly bearing of “ the Lord,” I have the pleasure to refer them to what “Rabshakeh said unto them,” * and to the pleasing little anecdote anent Judah and his daughter-in-law.f “The * 2 Kings xviii. 27. f Genesis xxxviii., passim. �THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. 4 Lord,” judging from the extracts from his book, maybe a decent enough body in his way; but he can hardly be described as a cultured writer, and he would certainly be very questionable company at a young lady’s tea-party. He has not had the advantage of having James Boswell for a biographer; but he has got along remarkably well without him ; and I make bold to say that Dr Johnson and Jehovah-jireth are the most minutely-biographed persons in the temple of Fame, and Jehovah has the advantage of Johnson in this—he himself is the recorder of his own life and achievements. It must be admitted that these achievements evince a remarkable versatility of talent. In his autobiography I find that he “ created the heavens and the earth,” but that all that he did sub­ sequently was not on so magnificent a scale. After creating the heavens and the earth he did not “ live up to it,” for I read that, condescendingly, he spued and sent scabs and winked, and chatted with the devil, and was troubled with his bowels, and took no pleasure in men’s legs—neither do gentlemen who go to the Alhambra to see the ballet; they have no pleasure in men's legs, and in this they resemble “ the Lord.” I should be inclined to think that talents that range from world-making to spueing and winking are of an order to which the Admirable Crichton could not have held a candle. The compiler of the “Bible Extracts” has arranged, with loving care, a list of the feats of the “ Almighty Maker of heaven and earth.” With a pious hand, I transcribe them here for the refutation and dis­ comfiture of such as allege that of Deity nothing can be known. I transcribe chapter and verse, which proves to demonstration that a great deal can be known about him:— God God God God God God God God walks—Gen. iii. 8. talks—Deut. v. 24. smells—Gen. viii. 21. works—Gen. ii. 2. rests—Gen. ii. 2. repents—Gen. vi. 6. flies—2 Sam. xxii. xi. sits—Psalm xcix. 1. �THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. 5 God stands on a wall with a plumb-line—Amos vii. 7. God spues—Rev. iii. 16. God laughs—Psalm xxxvii. 13. God runs like a giant—Job xvi. 14. God roars like a lion—Hosea xi. 10. God curses—Gen. viii. 21. God changes his mind—Exodus xxxii. 14. God sends lice—Exodus viii. 16. God sends scabs—Deut. xxviii. 27. God wrestles with Jacob—Gen. xxxii. 24, 26, 30. God a tailor and clothier—Gen. iii. 21. God writes on stone—Deut. iv. 13. God afraid of man—Gen. iii. 22, 23. God is a husband—Isa. liv. 5. God shows his back parts—Exodus xxxiii. 23. God shaves with a razor that is hired—Isa. vii. 20. God winks—Acts xvii. 30. God chats with the devil—Job. i. 7, 8. God hardens men’s hearts—Exodus xiv. 4. God takes no pleasure in men’s legs—Psalm cxlvii. 10. God argues—Job xxiii. 4. God graves on his palms—Isa. xlix. 16. God delivers men into the devil’s power—Job ii. 6. God charges his angels with folly—Job iv. 18. God distrusts his saints—Job xv. 15. God causes adultery—2 Sam. xii. xi. God causes suicide—Jer. viii. 3. God causes cannibalism—Jer. xix. 9. God causes desecration of the dead—Jer. viii. 1, 2. God causes indecency—Isa. xx. 4. God orders the slaughter of men, women, and chil­ dren—1 Sam. xv. 3. God causes lying—1 Sam. xvi. 1, 2. God punishes the guiltless—1 Sam. xv. 3. God uses low language—Jer. xxv. 27. God is said to possess foolishness—1 Cor. i. 25. God makes Moses a god—Exodus vii. 1. God sanctions borrowing without repaying—Exodus xi. 2 ; xii. 36. God creates evil—Isa. xlv. 7. God is a merchant—Hosea xii. 7. God loves to oppress—Hosea xii. 7. �6 THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. God is troubled in his bowels—Jer. iv. 19. God smites his hands together—Ezek. xxi. 17. God speaks to fishes—Jonah ii. 10. God breathes—Gen. ii. 7. God’s breath causes frost—Jobxxxvii. 10. God asks questions—Gen. iii. 9. God is a baker—Exodus xvi. 4. God works with his fingers—Psalm viii. 3. God swears—Deut. xxxiv. 4. God bares his arm—Isa. lii. 10. God is in hell—Psalm cxxxix. 8. God considers some men as a smoke in his nose— Isa. lxv. 5. God gives bad laws—Ezek. xx. 25. God finds rest refreshing—Exodus xxxi. 17. God rewards transgressors—Prov. xxvi. 10. God creates the wicked for the day of evil—Prov. xvi. 4. God is a man—Exodus xv. 3. God rewards fools—Prov. xxvi. 10. God is a consuming fire—Deut. iv. 24. God orders men to drink, be drunken, and spue— Jer. xxv. 27. God blasts through his nostrils—Exodus xv. 8. God requests Moses to “let him alone”—Exodus xxxii. 9, 10. God came down to earth in form of a bird—Luke iii. 22. God is like soap—Mai. iii. 2. God takes away nose jewels, etc.—Isa. iii. 21. God hisses—Zechariah x. 8. God visits the earth to inspect buildings—Gen. xi. 5. God was born—Colos. i. 15. God is weary with repenting—Jer. xv. 1. God spreads dung on men’s faces—Mai. ii. 3. And His Son Jesus orders us to hate our parents and all belongings —Luke xiv. 26. Jesus ordered swords—Luke xxii. 36. Jesus tells us to be improvident—Luke xii. 24. Jesus sent devils into pigs—Mark v. 13. �THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. 7 Jesus says he came to cause war, not peace—Matt, x. 34. Jesus rode upon two animals at once—Matt. xxi. 7. Jesus supped after resurrection on broiled fish and honeycomb—Luke xxiv. 42. Jesus says all who disbelieve him shall be damned— Mark xvi. 16. Jesus says all who ever came before him were as thieves and robbers—John x. 8. If the work before us had been a chemical, instead of a literary, production, it might have been put into a phial and labelled “ Pure Essence of Dunghills.’’ Only a stern sense of duty could have induced the compiler to engage in such a labour of disgust. I have gone through the Greek and Roman classics, Boccacio, and “ The Merry Muses,’’ as well as the pages of “ Thomas Little,” and Tobias Smollett; but “the Lord” beats all of them at writing clean dirt. The worst of “ the Lord ” is, he has few traits to redeem liis coarseness. We find in Psalm xxxvii. 13 that he laughs : but it certainly cannot be at his own jokes. Wit will redeem much; but pure coarseness is irredeemable. However, let me say it to his credit (I have always tried to give the very devil his due), he never seems, to me, to indulge in a libidinous tale just for the mere love of the thing. At a moment's notice he will go off from his dirt into a rigmarole about breeches and candle­ sticks and fringes, which shows that he does not deal in dirt for dirt's dear sake, but that he is such an unsophisti­ cated old innocent that he does not know dirt when he sees it. In this age and country we have come to be aesthetic and fastidious ; and, as for “the Lord,” “his ways are not our ways, nor his thoughts our thoughts,” and, for this same fact, those who glance at the “ Bible Extracts’’ will be devoutly thankful. Again, in the interests of “the Lord,” I willingly admit that there is no absolutely fixed standard of taste, more than there is an absolutely fixed standard of morals. The England that accepted the English Bible of 1611 was leagues away from the England of to-day. Its English is that of the Shakspearian era, and, upon the whole, �THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. Shakspeare is just about as indecent as “his maker.” The tastes of England and Heaven were, at that time, about on a par ; and, with the then standard of taste, the Bible did not strike any one as indecent. The Black­ friar’s theatre, in which Shakespeare himself had a share, has been described, and, from the description, we can gauge the state of public taste and morals. There was no chalet to which the playgoers could retire; but, as substitute, a big tub stood on the floor, serving an ex­ ceedingly useful, if not over-ornamental, purpose. Plain old Jah, in i Kings xvi. ii, and elsewhere, refers to a “wall,” and the English playgoers, who used their tub and cracked their now unspeakable jokes, did not see anything improper in Jehovah-jireth and his “wall.” So much for the manners of England about the time when the country was first made acquainted with the manners of Heaven. Gadzooks and marry-come-up, Jehovah could get along well with Queen Elizabeth ; but he is out of all harmony with Queen Victoria. Elizabeth could have read these “ Bible Extracts,” and had a good guffaw over them with Cecil or Raleigh ; but the sight of the very first page would drive Victoria into the hands of Sir William Gull. The truth is, modern intellect has not done so much as modern sentiment to knock a hole in the drum of Holy Writ. The flames of hell still roar and sputter away at Spurgeon’s Tabernacle, and at one or two Bethels of the vulgarian order; but nowhere that culti­ vated nineteenth-century men and women do congregate is the doctrine of hell now preached. Hell has not been reasoned out of the Christian creed; it has simply been rejected because it is revolting to the moral sentiment of modern times. When you reason Hell away, you will reason away Heaven also; for, in theology, they are correlated, and stand or fall together. Heaven still stands, not because it is more reasonable than Hell, but simply because it is not so repugnant to the moral senti­ ment of this latter quarter of the nineteenth century. zEstheticism has not reached a very high level even yet. It can stand wing-flapping and “holy, holy!” but it draws the line at chain-clanking and yelling and brim­ stone. �THE BEAUTY OF HOLINESS. 9 The “ Bible Extracts ” is far from commendable reading; but the disagreeable task of noticing it, and what must have been the still more disagreeable task of compiling it, will be served if it, to some extent, help to rend away the veil of pseudo-sanctity which hangs around the book which is the Protestant fetish. It cannot be urged that it is a small matter that the Bible offends against the canons of taste; for, had I space, I could show that this is only another way of saying that it offends against the canons of morals. True, the standard of morals differs in different ages ; but the standard of morals which obtains in any particular epoch is, practic­ ally, fixed and immutable for that epoch, and to attempt to roughly and hastily upset that standard is more than a venial offence against Mrs Grundy and Mrs Gamp—it is treason against the best interests of mankind. Such treason Holy Writ is perpetrating in Europe to-day wher­ ever it is read; but the saving clause is, it is not read by one in a thousand even of those who pretend to regard it as infallible and associated with the highest solemnities of their career in life, and their destiny when life is over. The principal part of the Bible with the ordinary Protestant John Smith is the fly leaf in front of it, on which are inscribed the date of his marriage with Janet, and the dates of the births of all the young Smiths which were the result of the union of John and Janet. If the book be big enough and gilt enough, it is also useful for laying on the window-sill with a small anti­ macassar over it, the whole surmounted with a little vase of flowers. The ordinary chapel-goer is as ignorant of the Bible as he is of the Koran or the Zend-Avesta. And it is through this very ignorance of it that it has been possible for him to rise to an elevation of purity and delicacy of word and deed which leaves “ the Lord ” and his crude and plain-spoken book far behind—a land­ mark nearly out of sight, away back in the wilderness through which the human race has marched to the comparatively green pastures and relatively still waters that are now theirs to enjoy. �The Harp of Hell. Robert Burns wished, in the interest of the deil him­ self, as well as in the interest of others concerned, that he (the deil) might— “ Aiblins tak’ a thocht and men’.” The deil has certainly followed the suggestion. He is not the malefic fiend he once was; and, as I have said, he is the most interesting character in the Christian drama, and he has the most “go ” in him. His personal friend, Burns, wrote an address to him, distinguished by great candour, and John Lapraik responded on behalf of the deil; but I should say the deil had not authorised him to do so, as the “answer” is but poor, and has nothing devilish in the ring of it. As I am more of a heretic than “ blithe Lapraik ” was, and, in consequence, presumably more of a personal friend of the deil, I will take the liberty of replying to Burns on the deil’s behalf. My reply is based upon an anonymous and fugitive performance which fell into my hands some years ago. THE DEIL’S ADDRESS TO ROBERT BURNS. Oh, wae’s me, Rab 1 hae ye gane gyte ? What is’t that gar’s ye tak’ delight To jeer at me, and ban, and flyte, In Scottish rhyme, And falsely gie me a’ the wyte O’ ilka crime ? �THE HARP OF HELL. “Auld Hangie’s” no a bonnie name, But just the warst word in your wame, But I forgie ye a’ the same ; I’ll let ye see Quite plain what’s what, when ye come hame, And live wi’ me. An’, Rab, fu’ frankly let me tell, Ilk ane o’ mettle like yoursel’ Had far, far better mop and mell Wi’ rattlin’ chiels Sic as ye’ll fin’ down deep in hell Amang the deils Than ye had lie in Abram’s lap, Or hingin’ on by Sara’s pap, Giein’ yer wings an extra flap, A heevenly hen, And leavin’ aff the milky drap To scraich “ Amen/” O’ auld nicknames ye hae a fouth, O’ sharp, sarcastic rhymes a routh, And as you’re bent to gie them scouth, ’Twere just as weel For ye to tell the honest truth, Just like the deil. Rab, far mair lees are tauld in kirk By every bletherin’, preachin’ stirk Wi’ whinin’ theologic quirk Than deils daur tell Down in the blackest brumstane mirk O’ lowest hell. I dinna mean to note the whole O’ your unfounded rigmarole ; I’d rather haud my tongue, and thole Your clishmaclavers, Than try to plod through sic a scroll O’ senseless havers. O’ warlocks and o’ witches a’, O’ spunkies, kelpies, great or sma’, There isna’ ony truth ava’ In what you say ; For siccan frichts I never saw, Up to this day. 11 �12 THE HARP OF HELL. The truth is, Rab, that wicked men, When caught in crimes that are their ain, To find a help, are unco’ fain To share the shame ; And so they shout, wi’ micht and main, The deil’s to blame. Thus I am blamed for Adam’s fa’ ; You say that I maist ruined a’ ; I’ll tell you ae thing, that’s no twa, It’s just a lee ; I fasht nae wi’ the pair ava’, But loot them be. I’d nae mair haun in that transgression, Ye deem the source o’ a’ oppression, And wae, and daith, and man’s damnation, Than you yoursel’; I filled a decent situation When Adam fell. I was a god o’ the first water, An’ wad tae Heeven’s auldest daughter ; But, by my sooth, the dad that gat her Trod on my taes— I took my sword an’ tae the slaughter, Amang his faes. For I could neither thole nor dree Or god or deil to tramp on me ; An’, Rab, in this I’m like to thee, Fu’ croose and bauld, Wha car’d na no a single flea For Daddy Auld. Nae doot I hae o’ sins enoo, But lees, an’ neither sma’ nor few, A tail like dragon, foot like coo, Hae gien to me, As, Rabbin, mony an evil mou’ Has spak’ o’ thee. And, Rab, gin ye’ll just read your Bible Instead o’ blin’ Jock Milton’s fable, I’ll plank a croon on ony table Against a groat, Tae fin’ my name ye’ll no be able In a’ the plot. �THE HARP OF HELL. Your mither, Eve, I kent her b rawly ; A dainty quean she was, and wally, But destitute o’ prudence haly, The witeless hissie ; Aye bent on fun, and whiles on folly And mischief busy. But, by my saul, she was a limmer At ever kittled heart o’ kimmer ; Nane were bonnier, some were primmer, For, gif ye please, She jinked about, through a’ the simmer, Without chemise. The loesome lassie wadna bin’, Just whaur forbidden she wad rin, A’ Natur’ sought her smile to win, An’ deil may care, Up tae her bonnie waist in sin, She jumpit fair. An’, Rantin Rab, I tell ye true There’s much o’ mither Eve in you ; So rein ye up, or ye sail rue, I rede ye weel, An’ tak’ a word o’ warnin’ noo, Though frae the deil. Eve had a leg like Bonnie Jean ; She was a wily, winsome quean, Wi’ rosy mou’ an’ pawky een, Airms warm an’ saft, She needit only to be seen To drive ane daft. Had Jah himsel’ been in that yaird An’ tae that witchin’ lassie pair’d, As sure as daith he’d kissed the swaird E’en Jah himsel’; E’en he wad no hae better fared Whaur Adam fell. An’, Rab, my birkie, gie’s yer haun’, Now whether ye be deil or man, If she says Na ye winna stan’ Her wiles ava, But like a tree by wind up-blawn Ye feckless fa’. 13 �14 THE HARP OE HELL. As for that famous serpent story, Tae lee’ I’d baith be shamed and sorry ; It’s just a clever allegory, An’ weel writ doon ; The wark o’ an Egyptian Tory— I ken’t the loon. Your tale o’ Job, the man o’ Uz, Wi’ reekit claes, and reested guiz, My hornie hooves and brocket phiz, Wi’ ither clatter, Is maistly, after a’ the bizz, A moonshine matter. Auld Job, I ken’t the carl richt weel; An honest, decent, kintra chiel, Wi’ heid to plan and heart to feel And haun tae gie— He wadna wrang’d the verra deil, A broon bawbee. The man was gey and weel tae do, Had horse, and kye, and ousen too, And sheep, and stots. and stirks enoo, Tae fill a byre ; O’ meat and claes, a’ maistly new, His heart’s desire. Foreby, he had within his dwallins Three winsome queans, and five braw callans, Ye wadna, in the hale braid Lallans, Hae fund theii' marrow, Were ye to search frae auld Tantallans Tae Braes o’ Yarrow. It happened that three breekless bands O’ caterans cam frae distant lands, And took what fell amang their hands, O’ sheep and duddies, Just like your reivin’ Hielan’ clans, Or Border bodies. I tell thee, Rab, I had nae share In a’ the tulzie, here or there ; I lookit on, I do declare, A mere spectator, Nor said, nor acted, less or mair About the matter. �THE HARP OF HELL. Job had a minstrel o’ his ain, A genius rare, and somewhat vain O’ rhyme and leir ; but then, again, Just like yersel’, O’ drink and lasses unco fain, The ne’er-do-well. So wi’ intention fully bent, My doin’ to misrepresent, That book o’ Job he did invent, And then his rhymes Got published in Arabic prent, Tae suit the times. You poets, Rab, are a’ the same, O’ ilka kintra, age and name ; Nae matter what may be your aim, Or your intentions, Maist o’ your characters o’ fame Are pure inventions. Your dogs are baith debaters, rare, Wi’ sense galore and some to spare, While e’en the verra brigs o’ Ayr Ye gar them quarrel— Tak’ Coila ben tae deck your hair Wi’ Scottish laurel. Haith ! Michael ne’er laid haun’s on me ; Your tale, Jock Milton’s, a’ a lee, Tak’ tent, puir crater though ye be, Puir Roundhead loon, Had ye had but had een to see, I’d crack ye’re croon. I like Rab’s deevil mair than Jock’s, A hamely deil for hamely folks ; He swirls his tail, his bonnet cocks, An’ aff he goes To sup among the preachers’ “ flocks,” His Scottish brose. Yet, Rabin, lad, for a’ your spite, And taunts, and jeers, and wrangfu’ wyte, I find, before you end your flyte, And win your pirn Ye’re nae sae cankered in the bite As in the girn. ]5 �THE HARP OF HELL. For when ye think he’s doomed to dwell The lang for ever mair in hell, Ye come and bid a kind farewell, And guid be here, E’en for the verra deil himsel’ Let fa’ a tear. I own it, Rab I like it weel To be auld Scotian’s ain auld deil, An’ 1’11 stan’ by her staunch and leal, Whate’er may be, An’ ne’er a son o’ hers sail “ squeal ” That comes to me. An’ I hae brimstone for their yeuk, An’ down in hell I’ll hae your buik, An’ aqua vita in the neuk In kegs galore, An’ never parson, plague, or spook Shall vex them more. When e’er I hear the Scottish tongue I’ll frae the barrel knock the bung, Sing “ Scots Wha Hae ” wi’ lusty lung, An’ by the urns O’ a’ the great wha Scotian’ sung The deil an’ Burns Sall stan’ the rough burr thistle by, An’ haud the drinking quaich on high Wi’ heather wreathed frae Ayr or Skye, Frae Clyde or Dee.— “ Lo, Dogma perish, Priestcraft die ; Scotian’ !—Tae thee ! ” � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource The "Beauty of holiness, and The harp of hell, by Saladin Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Ross, William Stewart [1844-1906] Description An account of the resource Place of publication: London Collation: 16 p. ; 18 cm. Notes: The Harp of Hell is a poem by Ross in the style of Robert Burns. Part of the NSS pamphlet collection. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available W. Stewart & Co. Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [n.d.] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context N575 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (The "Beauty of holiness, and The harp of hell, by Saladin), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Bible-Evidences NSS https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/5bf7d771f657db1774c6e8ae52a1fb31.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=PkDFIxUWKX7dltPYvMBlJf5hJjU3%7EEZGVB-sYU74hr2xAomVO5JE2pRaPjqBbFYgOBIGSWptNbL%7EkxfGUbIrkQK83iQkYzNO%7ElWczsjys7lZYqXoIqfClb7NFW6B0oLldyfXz499d51v6eakKcrUlNPwSllD-xAgByX9zlrIzB4FcH%7EcqaXZZIvUo1ADEQCPGqjmhAX0KVS45SwpwQ1tUfiAnYjWXR2iWsAm11xCpNCGqy20Xn6uF-YtfRgY46j609uBs73YGMNgX6ZsFUVsizp6mXBqaBNVR3COBI4y4QeLxwx039IIAUs3TDRDnJx0-MiJT35HDPfnWEpvVWmT3w__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM ac96bb432dc5570fbfc8c92275f1eb10 PDF Text Text SUB LI MATED. BY FRANCIS 'GERRY FAIRFIELD. A HALO round his head, Like one who is transfigured He was. “ Still Man, I am God-man,” he said. He spake. His voice, at will, It had strange power to soothe or thrill— Music to recreate a soul, or kill. I did not seem to hear His voice with merely sensuous ear: It thrilled within me: heart stood still with fear. From him did presence well: About him glory visible' I saw. Upon my face in fear I fell. “A thing of limits—laws— Long ages since,” quoth he, “ I was— Mistaking what was mere effect for cause. “Upon the ultimate I could but dream and speculate; Then sit me sadly down—or work and wait. “ Oft feverishly I wrought, Quarrying out in deeds my thought; But found a phantom in the good I sought. “ To be—I knew not why— To think I was, and then to die: What after that came next ? That knew not I. “ Through all my thought there ran The feverish fantasy—I can Be more than this: there’s more than this in Man. “ So, human history— My toil and struggle to be free!— Thus dimly self-expression unto me. �S UDLIMA TED. “ As one who hath been sent, Though, blindly to and fro I went— Knowing not even what my message meant. “ Would _ decipher it And read—it was to me but fit­ ful, vague, and uninterpretable writ. “ I am,” quoth he. “ Is won The goal. The work is ended—done: Jehovah, God who spake, and Man are one. 4‘As if I were its soul, Matter doth feel my weird control— Thrills, blossoms, lives. I animate the whole. “All things phenomenal In quick ephemera I call. . I will they shall be, merely: that is all “ I need no tools—no skill— No travail. With immediate thrill, All stirs and palpitates: I merely will “ I toil not, neither plod To compass what I will or would: Repeating in myself the self of God. “ Yet I am Man, as when Jehovah walked and talked with men In dim, prismatic symbols—Man as then. “No nation-prejudice Have I. Broad as himself Man is; And Earth, a single proud Cosmopolis.” A halo round his head, Like one who is transfigured He was—or one who speaketh from the dead. He ceased—was gone. Since then Have I more faith and joy in men, And things beyond mere philosophic ken. For though the mist be dense, Faith giveth me this recompense: To see beyond as with an inner sense. To know that, though mere clod Or serf under the master’s rod, There comes a Man- Historic, who is God. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Sublimated Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Fairfield, Francis Gerry Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [New York] Collation: [151]-152 p. ; 26 cm. Notes: From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Modern Thinker, no. 1, 1870. A poem. Francis Gerry Fairfield was a spiritualist and one of the earliest researchers into psychic phenomena. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [American News Company] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1870] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5420 Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <p class="western"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /><br />This work (Sublimated), identified by <span style="color:#0000ff;"><span lang="zxx"><u>Humanist Library and Archives</u></span></span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</p> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Conway Tracts Poetry in English https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/57b8631eda1101715a603562d0b80ebe.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=TDMNzutounRKLtZ7fXDxKLgznFAv5i7vXypYccgWU8QJHmyeXwiedVfMbTaXoRNSutPY%7EtGIgEiFxmTQ8n6heoQCUDFx%7EJtnzKKwe1lhCAjWkRH3v2nCPs%7ENirtZHkWe9vd2UH05LLidQvE5rCaWwyDLQ08O16EIj0zVlJDSU8klhbU5kQkdCLu36j3wNyFYBdjdT9MNJStHGdzHZFB69R0okCD66-qmrmojY1miSajPuzDIEJiaIQxaDJEH32mrDHZVPdKbztgzsJWxV0L0iN1CAq7y%7E5F7hYg-S43qEgKsF24GzVwr323cIHdMU78os2HFSckxhKuA8Gq%7EO%7EE08w__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 3347584ee8ad2dcdecbc8488b010f8cf PDF Text Text 38 [July ci ^3 Shelley as a Lyric Poet.1 OO many biographies, records, comments, criticisms, of Shelley 0 have lately appeared that I take for granted that all who hear me have some general acquaintance with the facts of his life. Of the biographies none, perhaps, is more interesting than the short work by Mr. J. A. Symonds, which has lately been published as one of the series edited by Mr. Morley, ‘ English Men of Letters.’ That work has all the charm which intense admiration of its subject, set forth in a glowing style, can lend it. Those who in the main hold with Mr. Symonds, and are at one with him in his funda­ mental estimate ot things, will no doubt find his work highly attrac­ tive. Those, on the other hand, who see in Shelley’s character many things which they cannot admire, and in the theories that moulded it much which is deeply repulsive, will find Mr. Symonds’s work a less satisfactory guide than they could have wished. Of the many comments and criticisms on Shelley’s character and poetry two of the most substantial and rational are, the essay by Mr. R. H. Hutton, and that by the late Mr. Walter Bagehot. To these two friends Shelley, it would appear, had been one of the attractions of their youth, and in their riper years each has given his mature estimate of Shelley’s poetry in its whole substance and tendency. We all admire that which we agree with; and nowhere have I found on this subject thoughts which seem tome so adequate and so helpful as those contained in these two essays, none which give such insight into Shelley's abnormal character and into the secret springs of his inspiration. Of the benefit of these thoughts I have freely availed myself, whenever they seemed to throw light on the subject of this lecture. The effort to enter into the meaning of Shelley’s poetry is not altogether a painless one. Some may ask, Why should it be painful ? Cannot you enjoy his poems merely in an aesthetic way, take the marvel of their aerial movement and the magic of their melody, without scrutinising too closely their meaning or moral import? This, I suppose, most of my hearers could do for themselves, without any comment of mine. Such a mere surface, dilettante way of treating the subject would be useless in itself, and altogether un­ worthy of this place. All true literature, all genuine poetry, is the direct outcome, the condensed essence, of actual life and thought. Lyric poetry for the most part is—Shelley's especially was—the vivid expression of personal experience. It is only as poetry is founded on reality that it has any solid value ; otherwise it is 1 A Lecture delivered in the theatre of the Museum, Oxford. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 39 worthless. Before, then, attempting to understand Shelley's lyrics I must ask what was the reality out of which they came—that is, what manner of man Shelley was, what were his ruling views of life, along what lines did his thoughts move ? Those who knew Shelley best speak of the sweetness and refine­ ment of his nature, of his lofty disinterestedness, his unworldliness. They even speak of something like heroic self-forgetfulness. These things we can in sort believe, for there are in his writings many traits that look like those qualities. And yet one receives with some decided reserve the high eulogies of his friends ; for we feel that these were not generally men whose moral estimates of things we would entirely accept, and his life contained things that seem strangely at variance with such qualities as they attribute to him. When Byron speaks of his purity of mind we cannot but doubt whether Byron was a good judge of purity. We must, moreover, on the evidence 'of Shelley’s own works demur; for there runs through his poems a painful taint of supersubtilised impurity, of aweless shamelessness, which we never can believe came from a mind truly pure. A pene­ trating taint it is, which has evilly affected many of the higher minds who admire him, in a way which Byron's own more commonplace licentiousness never could have done. One of his biographers has said that in no man was the moral sense ever more completely developed than in Shelley, in none was the perception of right and wrong more acute. I rather think that the late Mr. Bagehot was nearer the mark when he asserted that in Shelley the conscience never had been revealed—that he was almost entirely without conscience. Moral susceptibilities and impulses, keen and refined, he had. He was inspired with an enthusiasm of humanity after a kind; hated to see pain in others, and would willingly relieve it; hated oppression, and stormed against it, but then he regarded all rule and authority as oppression. He felt for the poor and the suffering, and tried to help them, and willingly would have shared with all men the vision of good which he sought for himself. But these passionate impulses are something very dif­ ferent from conscience. Conscience first reveals itself when we become aware of the strife between a lower and a higher nature within us— a law of the flesh warring against the law of the mind. And it is out of this experience that moral religion is born, the higher law rather leading up and linking us to One whom that law represents. As Canon Mozely has said, ‘ it is an introspection on which all religion is built—man going into himself and seeing the struggle within him ; and thence getting self-knowledge, and thence the knowledge of God.’ Of this double nature, this inward strife between flesh and spirit, Shelley knew nothing. He was altogether a child of impulse —of impulse, one, total, all-absorbing. And the impulse that came to him he followed whithersoever it went, without questioning either himself or it. He was pre-eminently roZs ttu6c<tlv aKoXovOyriKos, and you know that Aristotle tells us that such an one is no fit judge �40 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [j^y of moral truth. But this peculiarity, which made him so little fitted to guide either his own life or that of others, tended, on the other hand, very powerfully to make him pre-eminently a lyric poet. How it fitted him for this we shall presently see. But abandonment to impulse, however much it may contribute to lyrical inspiration, is a poor guide to conduct; and a poet s conduct in life, of whatever kind it be, quickly reacts on his poetry. It was so with Shelley. It is painful to recall the unhappy incidents, but? we cannot understand his poetry if we forget them. ‘ Strongly moralised,’ Mr. Symonds tells us, his boyhood was ; but of a strange—I might say, an unhuman—type the morality must have been which allowed some of the chief acts of his life. His father was no doubt a com­ monplace and worldly-minded squire, wholly unsympathetic with his dreamy son; but this cannot justify the son’s unfilial and irreverent conduct towards his parent, going so far as to curse him for the amusement of coarse Eton companions. Nobility of nature he may have had, but it was such nobility as allowed him, in order to hurl defiance at authority, to start atheist at Eton, and to do the same more boldly at Oxford, with what result you know. It allowed him to engage the heart of a simple and artless girl, who entrusted her life in his keeping, and then after two or three years to abandon her and her child—for no better reason, it would seem, than that she cared too little for her baby, and had an unpleasant sister, who was an offence to Shelley. It allowed him first to insult the religious sense of his fellow men by preaching the wildest atheism, then in the poem ‘ Laon and Cythna,’ which he intended to be his gospel for the world, to outrage the deepest instincts of our nature by introducing a most horrible and unnatural incident. A moral taint there is in this, which has left its trail in many of his after poems. The furies of the sad tragedy of Harriet Westbrook haunted him till the close, and drew forth some strains of weird agony; but even in these there is no manly repentance, no self-reproach that is true and human-hearted. After his second marriage he never repeated the former offence, but many a strain in his later poems, as in ‘ Epipsychidion,’ and in his latest lyrics, proves that constancy of affection was not in him, nor reckoned by him among the virtues. Idolators of Shelley will, I know, reply, ‘Tou judge Shelley by the conventional morality of the present day, and, judging him by this standard, of course you harshly con­ demn him. But it was against these very conventions which you call morality that Shelley s whole life was a protest. He was the prophet of something truer or better than this.’ To this I answer that Shelley’s revolt was not against the conventional morality of his own time, but against the fundamental morality of all time. Had he merely cried out against the stifling political atmosphere and the dry, dead orthodoxy of the Regency and the reign of George IV., and longed for some ampler air, freer and more life-giving, one could well have understood him, even sympathised with him. But he rebelled �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 41 not against the limitations and corruptions of his own day, but against the moral verities which two thousand years have made good, and which have been tested and approved not only by eighteen Christian centuries, but no less by the wisdom of Virgil and Cicero, of Aristotle and Sophocles. Shelley may be the prophet of a new morality, but it is one which never can be realised till moral law has been ob­ literated from the universe and conscience from the heart of man. A nature which was capable of the things I have alluded to, whatever other traits of nobility it may have had, must have been traversed by some strange deep flaw, marred by some radical inward defect. In some of his gifts and impulses he was more,—in other things essential to goodness, he was far less,—than other men ; a fully developed man he certainly was not. I am inclined to believe that, for all his noble impulses and aims, he was in some way defi­ cient in rational and moral sanity. Alanv of you will remember Hazlitt’s somewhat cynical description of him. Yet, to judge by his writings, it looks like truth. He had ‘ a fire in his eye, a fever in his blood, a maggot in his brain, a hectic flutter in his speech, which mark out the philosophic fanatic. He is sanguine-complexioned and shrill-voiced.’ This is just the outward appearance we could fancy for his inward temperament. What was that tem­ perament ? He was entirely a child of impulse, lived and longed for highstrung, intense emotion—simple, all-absorbing, all-penetrating emo­ tion, going straight on in one direction to its object, hating and resenting whatever opposed its progress thitherward. The object which he longed for was some abstract intellectualised spirit of beauty and loveliness, which should thrill his spirit continually with delicious shocks of emotion. Ibis yearning, panting desire is expressed by him in a thousand forms and figures throughout his poetry. Again and again the refrain recurs— I pant for the music which is Divine, My heart in its thirst is a dying flower; Pour forth the sound like enchanted wine, Loosen the notes in a silver shower; Like a herbless plain for the gentle rain I gasp, I faint, till they wake again. Let me drink the spirit of that sweet sound ; More, 0 more ! I am thirsting yet; It loosens the serpent which care has bound Upon my heart, to stifle it; The dissolving strain, through every vein, Passes into my heart and brain. He sought not mere sensuous enjoyment, like Keats, but keen intellectual and emotional delight—the mental thrill, the glow of soul, the ‘ tingling of the nerves,’ that accompany transcendental �42 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [July rapture. His hungry craving was for intellectual beauty, and the delight it yields ; if not that, then for horror, anything to thrill the nerves, though it should curdle the blood and make the flesh creep. Sometimes for a moment this perfect abstract loveliness would seem to have embodied itself in some creature of flesh and blood ; but only for a moment would the sight soothe him—the sympathy would cease, the glow of heart would die down—and he would pass on in the hot, insatiable pursuit of new rapture. ‘ There is no rest for us,’ says the great preacher, 4 save in quietness, confidence, and affection.’ This was not what Shelley sought, but something very different from this. The pursuit of abstract ideal beauty was one form which his hungry, insatiable desire took. Another passion that possessed him was the longing to pierce to the very heart the mystery of existence. It has been said that before an insoluble mystery, clearly seen to be insoluble, the soul bows down and is at rest, as before an ascertained truth. Shelley knew nothing of this. Before nothing would his soul bow down. Every veil, however sacred, he would rend, pierce the inner shrine of being, and force it to give up its secret. There is in him a profane audacity, an utter awelessness. Intellectual AZSws was to him unknown. Beverence was to him another word for hated superstition. Nothing was to him inviolate. All the natural reserves he would break down. Heavenward, he would pierce to the heart of the universe and lay it bare; manward, he would annihilate all the precincts of personality. Every soul should be free to mingle with any other, as so many raindrops do. In his own words, The fountains of our deepest life shall be Confused in passion’s golden purity. However fine the language in which such feelings may clothe theme­ selves, in truth they are wholly vile ; there is no horror of shameless­ ness which they may not generate. Yet this is what comes of the unbridled desire for ‘ tingling pulses,’ quivering, panting, fainting sensibility, which Shelley everywhere makes the supreme happiness. It issues in awelessness, irreverence, and what some one has called 4 moral nudity.’ These two impulses, both combined with another passion, he had —the passion for reforming the world. He had a real, benevolent desire to impart to all men the peculiar good he sought for himself —a life of free, unimpeded impulse, of passionate, unobstructed desire. Liberty, Equality, Fraternity—these of course; but some­ thing far beyond these—absolute Perfection, as he conceived it, he believed to be within every man’s reach. Attainable, if only all the growths of history could be swept away, all authority and govern­ ment, all religion, all law, custom, nationality, everything that limits and restrains, and if every man were left open to the uncon­ trolled expansion of himself and his impulses. The end of this process of making a clean sweep of all that is, and beginning afresh, would be that family, social ranks, government, worship, would dis­ �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 43 appear, and then man would be king over himself, and wise, gentle, just, and good. Such was his temperament, the original emotional basis of Shelley s nature ; such, too, some of the chief aims towards which this temperament impelled him. And certainly these aims do make one think of the ‘ maggot in his brain.’ But a temperament of this kind, whatever aims it turned to, was eminently and essentially lyrical. Those thrills of soul, those tingling nerves, those rapturous glows of feeling, are the very substance out of which high lyrics are woven. The insatiable craving to pierce the mystery, of course, drove Shelley to philosophy for instruments to pierce it with. During his brief life he was a follower of three distinct schools of thought. At first he began with the philosophy of the senses, was a materialist, adopting Lucretius as his master and holding that atoms are the only realities, with perhaps a pervading life of nature to mould them—that from atoms all things come, to atoms return. Yet even over this dreary creed, without spirit, immortality, or God, he shouted a jubilant ‘ Eureka,' as though it were some new glad tidings. hrom this he passed into the school of Hume—got rid of matter, the dull clods of earth, denied both matter and mind, and held that these were nothing but impressions, with no substance behind them. This was liker Shelley’s cast of mind than materialism. Not only dull clods of matter, but personality, the ‘ I ’ and the ‘ thou,’ were by this creed eliminated, and that exactly suited Shelley’s way of thought. It gave him a phantom world. brom Hume he went on to Plato, and in him found still more congenial nutriment. The solid, fixed entities—matter and mind — he could still deny, while he was led on to believe in eternal arche­ types behind all phenomena, as the only realities. These Platonic ideas attracted his abstract intellect and imagination, and are often alluded to in his later poems, as in ‘ Adonais.’ Out of this philosophy it is probable that he got the only object of worship which he ever acknowledged, the Spirit of Beauty. Plato’s idea of beauty changed into a spirit, but without will, without morality, in his own words :— That Light whose smile kindles the universe, That Beauty in which all things work and move, That Benediction which the eclipsing curse Of birth can quench not, that sustaining Love Which, through the web of being blindly wove By man and beast and earth and air and sea, Bums bright or dim, as each are mirrors of The fire for which all thirst. To the moral and religious truths which are the backbone of Plato’s thought lie never attained. Shelley’s thought never had any backbone. Each of these successively adopted philosophies entered into and coloured the successive stages of Shelley’s poetry; but through them all his intellect and imagination remained unchanged. W hat was the nature of that intellect ? It was wholly akin and �44 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. -juiv adapted to the temperament I have described as his. Imnatient of solid substances, inaccessible to many kinds of truth, inappreciative of solid, concrete facts, it was quick and subtle to seize the evanescent hues of things, the delicate aromas which are too fine for ordinary perceptions. His intellect waited on his temperament, and, so to speak, did its will—caught up one by one the warm emotions as they were flung off, and worked them up into the most exquisite abstrac­ tions. The rush of throbbing pulsations supplied the materials for his keen-edged thought to work on, and these it did mould into the rarest, most beautiful shapes. This his mind was busv doing all his life long. The real world, existence as it is to other minds, he re­ coiled from—shrank from the dull, gross earth which we see around us—nor less from the unseen world of Righteous Law and Will which we apprehend above us. The solid earth he did not care for. Heaven—a moral heaven—there was that in him which would not believe in. So, as Mr. Hutton has said, his mind made for itself a dwelling-place midway between the two, equally remote from both. some interstellar region, some cold, clear place— Pinnacled dim in the intense inane— which he peopled with ideal shapes and abstractions, wonderful or weird, beautiful or fantastic, all woven out of his own dreaming phantasy. This was the world in which he was at home; he was not at home with any reality known to other men. No real human characters appear in his poetry; his own pulsations, desires, aspirations, sup­ plied the place of these. Hardly any actual human feeling is in them; only some phase of evanescent emotion, or the shadow of it, is seized—not even the flower of human feeling, but the bloom of the flower or the dream of the bloom. A real landscape he has seldom described, only his own impression of it, or some momentarv gleam, some tender light, that has fleeted vanishingly over earth and sea he has caught. Nature he used mainly to cull from it some of its most delicate tints, some faint hues of the dawn or the sunset clouds, to weave in and colour the web of his abstract dream. So entirely at home is he in this abstract shadowv world of his own making, that when he would describe common visible things he does so bv likening them to those phantoms of the brain, as though with these last alone he was familiar. A irgil likens the ghosts bv the banks of Styx to falling leaves— Quani mulxa in silvis auciumni frigore prime Lapsa cadunx folia. Shelley likens falling leaves to ghosts. leaves, he says— Before the wind the dead Are driven. like ghosts from an enchanter fleeing. Others have compared thought to a breeze. With Shelley the breeze is like thought; the pilot spirit of the blast, he savs— �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 45 Wakens the leaves and waves, ere it hath past, To such brief unison as on the brain One tone which never can recur has cast One accent, never to return again. We see thus that nature as it actually exists has little place in Shelley’s poetry. And man, as he really is, may be said to have no place at all. Neither is the world of moral or spiritual truth there—not the living laws by which the world is governed—no presence of a Sove­ reign Will, no all-wise Personality, behind the fleeting shows of time. The abstract world which his imagination dwelt in is a cold, weird, unearthly, inhuman place, peopled with shapes which we may wonder at, but cannot love. When we first encounter these we are fain to exclaim, Earth we know, and Heaven we know, but who and what are ye ? Ye belong neither to things human nor to things divine. After a very brief sojourn in Shelley’s ideal world, with its pale abstractions, most men are ready to say with another poet, after a voyage among the stars— Then back to earth, the dear green earth; Whole ages though I here should roam, The world for my remarks and me Would not a whit the better be : I’ve left my heart at home. In that dear green earth, and the men who have lived or still live on it, in their human hopes and fears, in their faiths and aspi­ rations, lies the truest field for the highest imagination to work in. That I believe to be the haunt and main region for the songs of the greatest poets. The real is the true world for a great poet, but it was not Shelley’s world. Yet Shelley, while the imaginative mood was on him, felt this ideal world of his as real as most men feel the solid earth, and through the pallid lips of its phantom people and dim abstractions he pours as warm a flood of emotion as ever poet did through the rosiest lips and brightest eyes of earth-born creatures. Not more real to Burns were his bonny Jean and his Highland Mary, than to Shelley were the visions of Asia and Panthea, and the Lady of the Sen­ sitive Plant, while he gazed on them. And when his affections did light, not on these abstractions, but on creatures of flesh and blood, yet so penetrated was his thought with his own idealism, that he lifted them up from earth into that rarefied atmosphere, and de­ scribed them in the same style of imagery and language as that with which he clothes the phantasms of his mind. Thus it will be seen that it was a narrow and limited tract over which Shelley’s imagina­ tion ranged—that it took little or no note of reality, and that bound­ less as was its fertility and power of resource within its own chosen circle, yet the widest realm of mere brain creation must be thin and �46 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [juiy small compared with existing reality both in the seen and the unseen worlds. We can now see the reason why Shelley’s long poems are such absolute failures, his short lyrics so strangely succeed. Mere thrills of soul were weak as connecting bonds for long poems. Dis­ tilled essences and personified qualities were poor material out of which to build up great works. These things could give neither unity, nor motive power, • nor human interest to long poems. Hence the incoherence which all but a few devoted admirers find in Shelley’s long poems, -despite their grand passages and their splen­ did imagery. In fact, if the long poems were to be broken up and thrown into a heap, and the lyric portions riddled out of them and preserved, the world would lose nothing, and would get rid of not a little offensive stuff. An exception to this judgment is generally made in favour of the ‘ Cenci ’; but that tragedy turns on an incident so repulsive that, notwithstanding its acknowedged power, it can hardly give pleasure to any healthy mind. On the other hand, single thrills of rapture, which are such in­ sufficient stuff to make long poems out of, supply the very inspiration for the true lyric. It is this predominance of emotion, so unhappy to himself, which made Shelley the lyrist that he was. When he sings his lyric strains, whatever is most unpleasant in him is softened down, if it does not wholly disappear. Whatever is most unique and excellent in him comes out at its best—his eye for abstract beauty, the subtlety of his thought, the rush of bis eager pursuing de­ sire, the splendour of his imagery, the delicate rhythm, the matchless music. These lyrics are gales of melody blown from a far-off region, that looks fair in the distance. Perhaps those enjoy them most who do not inquire too closely what is the nature of that land, or know too exactly the theories and views of life of which these songs are the effluence; for if we come too near we might find that there was poison in the air. Many a one has read those lyrics and felt their fascination without thought of the unhappy experience out of which they have come. They understood ‘ a beauty in the words, but not the words.’ I doubt whether any one after very early youth, any one who has known the realities of life, can continue to take Shelley’s best songs to heart, as he can those of Shakespeare or the best of Burns. For, however we may continue to wonder at the genius that is in them, no healthy mind will find in them the expression of its truest and best thoughts. Other lyric poets, it has been said, sing of what they feel. Shelley in his lyrics sings of what he wants to feel. The thrills of desire, the gushes of emotion, are all straining after something seen afar but unat­ tained, something distant or future ; or they are passionate despair, utter despondency for something hopelessly gone. Yet it must be owned that those bursts of passionate desire after ideal beauty set our pulses a-throbbing with a strange vibration even when we do not really sympathise with them. Even his desolate wails make �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 4.7 those seem for a moment to share his despair who do not really share it. Such is the charm of his impassioned eloquence and the witchery of his music. Let us turn now to look at some of his lyrics in detail. The earliest of them, those of 1814, were written while Shelley was under the depressing spell of materialistic belief, and at the time when he was abandoning’ poor Harriet Wbstbrook. For a time he lived under the spell of that ghastly faith, hugging it, yet hating it; and its progeny are seen in the lyrics of that time, such as ‘ Death,’ e Mutability,’ ‘ Lines in a Country Churchyard.’ These have a cold, clammy feel. They are full of ‘ wormy horrors,’ as though the poet were one who had made his bed In charnels and on coffins, where black Death Keeps record of the trophies •won from Life, as though by dwelling amid these things he had hoped to force some lone ghost to render up the tale Of what we are. And what does it all come to ?—what is the lesson he reads there ?__ Lift not the painted veil which those who live Call life. . . . Behind lurk Fear And Hope, twin destinies, who ever weave Their shadows o’er the chasm, sightless and drear. That is all that the belief in mere matter taught Shelley, or ever will teach anyone. As he passed on, the clayey, clammy sensation is less present. Even Hume’s impressions are better than mere dust, and the Platonic ideas are better than Hume’s impressions. When he came under the influence of Plato his doctrine of ideas, as eternal existences and the only realities, exercised over Shelley the charm it always has had for imaginative minds; and it furnished him with a form under which he figured to himself his favourite belief in the Spirit of Love and Beauty as the animating spirit of the universe—that for which the human soul pants. It is the passion for this ideal which leads Alastor through his long wanderings to die at last in the Caucasian wilderness without attaining it. It is this which he apos­ trophises in the ‘ Hymn to Intellectual Beauty,’ as the power which consecrates all it shines on, as the awful loveliness to which he looks to free this world from its dark slavery. It is this vision which reappears in its highest form in ‘Prometheus Unbound,’ the greatest and most attractive of all Shelley’s longer poems. That drama is from beginning to end a great lyrical poem, or I should rather say a congeries of lyrics, in which perhaps more than anywhere else Shelley’s lyrical power has reached its highest flight. The whole poem is exalted by a grand pervading idea, one which in �48 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [July its truest and deepest form is the grandest we can conceive—the idea of the ultimate renovation of man and the world. And although the powers and processes and personified abstractions which Shelley invoked to effect this end are ludicrously inadequate, as irrational as it would be to try to build a solid house out of shadows and moon­ beams, yet the end in view does impart to the poem something of its own elevation. Prometheus, the representative of suffering and struggling humanity, is to be redeemed and perfected by union with Asia, who is the ideal of beauty, the light of life, the spirit of love. To this spirit Shelley looked to rid the world of all its evil and bring in the diviner day. The lyric poetry, which is exquisite throughout, perhaps culminates in the well-known exquisite song in which Panthea, one of the nymphs, hails her sister Asia, as Life of Life ! thy lips enkindle With their love the breath between them; And thy smiles, before they dwindle, Make the cold air fire ; then screen them In those looks, where whoso gazes Faints, entangled in their mazes. Child of Light! thy limbs are burning Through the vest which seems to hide them; As the radiant lines of morning Through the clouds, ere they divide them ; And this atmosphere divinest Shrouds thee wheresoe’er thou shinest. Lamp of Earth 1 where’er thou movest The dim shapes are clad with brightness, And the souls of whom thou lovest Walk upon the winds with lightness, Till they fail, as I am failing, Dizzy, lost, yet unbewailing. The reply of Asia to this song is hardly less exquisite. Everyone here will remember it:— My soul is an enchanted boat, Which, like a sleeping swan, doth float Upon the silver waves of thy sweet singing ; And thine doth like an angel sit Beside the helm, conducting it, Whilst all the winds with melody are ringing ; It seems to float ever, for ever, Upon the many-winding river, Between mountains, woods, abysses, A paradise of wildernesses ! Till, like one in slumber bound, Borne to the ocean, I float down, around Into a sea profound of ever-spreading sound. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 49 Meanwhile thy spirit lifts its pinions In music’s most serene dominions, Catching the winds that fan that happy heaven. And we sail on, away, afar Without a course, without a star, But, by the instinct of sweet music driven; Till through Elysian garden islets By thee, most beautiful of pilots, Where never mortal pinnace glided, The boat of my desire is guided : Realms where the air we breathe is love, Which in the winds on the waves doth move, Harmonising this earth with what we feel above. In these two lyrics you have Shelley at his highest perfection. Exquisitely beautiful as they are, they are, however, beautiful as the mirage is beautiful, and as unsubstantial. There is nothing in the reality of things answering to Asia. She is not human, she is not divine. There is nothing moral in her—no will, no power to subdue evil; only an exquisite essence, a melting loveliness. There is in her no law, no righteousness ; something to enervate, nothing to brace the sold. After her you long for one bracing look on the stern, severe countenance of Duty, of whom another poet sang— Stern lawgiver I yet thou dost wear The Godhead’s most benignant grace; Nor know I anything so fair As is the smile upon thy face; Flowers laugh before thee in their beds, And fragrance in thy footing treads; Thou dost preserve the stars from wrong, And the most ancient heavens through thee are fresh and strong. Perfect as is the workmanship of those lyrics in 4 Prometheus ’ and many another, their excellence is lessened by the material out of which they are woven being fantastic, not substantial, truth. Few of them lay hold of real sentiments which are catholic to humanity. They do not deal with permanent emotions which belong to all men and are for all time, but appeal rather to minds in a particular stage of culture, and that not a healthy stage. They are not of such stuff as life is made of. They will not interest all healthy and truthful minds in all stages of culture and in all ages. To do this, however, is, I believe, a note of the highest style of lyric poem. Another thing to be observed is, that while the imagery of Shelley’s lyrics is so splendid and the music of their language so magical, both of these are at that point of over-bloom which is on the verge of decay. The imagery, for all its splendour, is too ornate, too redundant, too much overlays the thought, which has not strength enough to uphold such a weight. Then, as to the music of the words, wonderful as it is, all but exclusive admirers of Shelley must have felt at times as if the sound runs away with the sense. In some of the 4 Prometheus’ lyrics No. 595 (no. cxv. n. s.) E �50 Shelley as a Lyric Poet. [Juiy the poet, according to Mr. Symonds, seems to have ‘realised the miracle of making words, detached from meaning, the substance of a new ethereal music.’ This is, to say the least, a dangerous miracle to practise. Even Shelley, overbome by the power of melodious words, would at times seem to approach perilously near the borders of the unintelligible, not to say the nonsensical. What it comes to, when adopted as a style, has been seen plainly enough in some of Shelley’s chief followers in our own day. Cloyed with overloaded imagery, and satiated almost to sickening with alliterative music, we turn for re­ invigoration to poetry that is severe even to baldness. The ‘ Prometheus Unbound ’ was written in Italy, and during his four Italian years Shelley’s lyric stream flowed on unremittingly, and enriched England’s poetry with many lyrics unrivalled in their kind, and evoked from its language a new power. These lyrics are on the whole his best poetic work. To go over them in detail would be im­ possible, besides being needless. Perhaps his year most prolific in lyrics was 1820, just two years before his death. Among the products of this year were, the ‘ Sensitive Plant,’ more than half lyrical, the ‘ Cloud,’ the ‘ Skylark,’ ‘ Love’s Philosophy,’ ‘ Arethusa,’ 4 Hymns of Pan and Apollo,’ all in his best manner, with many besides these. About the lyrics of this time two things are noticeable : more of them are about things of nature than heretofore, and there are several on Greek subjects. Of all modem attempts to reinstate Greek subjects I know nothing equal to these, except perhaps one or two of the Laureate’s happiest efforts. They take the Greek forms and mythologies, and fill them with modem thought and spirit. And perhaps this is the only way to make Greek subjects real and interesting to us; for if we want the very Greek spirit we had better go to the originals and not to any reproductions. You remember how he makes Pan sing— From the forests and highlands We come, we come ; From the river-girt islands, Where loud waves are dumb, Listening to my sweet pipings. * * * * Liquid Peneus was flowing, And all dark Tempe lay In Pelion’s shadow, outgrowing The light of the dying day, Speeded with my sweet pipings. The Sileni, and SyIvans, and Fauns, And the nymphs of the woods and waves, To the edge of the moist river-lawns, And the brink of the dewy caves, And all that did then attend or follow, Were silent with love, as you now, Apollo, With envy of my sweet pipings. �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 5i I sang of the dancing stars, I sang of the daedal Earth, And of Heaven, and the giant wars, And Love, and Death, and Birth, And then I changed my pipings— Singing how down the vale of Menalus I pursued a maiden and clasped a weed. Gods and men, we are all deluded thus ! It breaks in our bosom, and then we bleed : All wept, as I think both ye now would, If envy or age had not frozen your blood, At the sorrow of my sweet pipings. Of the lyrics on natural objects the two supreme ones are the 4 Ode on the West Wind ’ and the 4 Skylark.’ Of this last nothing need be said. Artistically and poetically it is unique, has a place of its own in poetry; yet may I be allowed to express a misgiving about it which I have long felt, and others may feel too ? For all its beauty,, perhaps one would rather not recall it when hearing the skylark’s song in the fields on a bright spring morning. The poem is not in tune with the bird’s song and the feelings it does and ought to awaken. The rapture with which the strain springs up at first dies down before the close into Shelley’s ever-haunting morbidity. Who wishes, when hearing the real skylark, to be told that We look before and after, And pine for what is not: Our sincerest laughter With some pain is fraught ? If personal feeling is to be inwrought into the living powers of nature, let it be such feeling as is in keeping with the object, ap­ propriate to the theme in hand. Such is that personal invocation with which Shelley closes his grand 4 Ode to the West Wind,’ written the previous year, 1819— Make me thy lyre, even as the forest is : What if my leaves are fallen like its own ! The tumult of thy mighty harmonies Will take from both a deep autumnal tone, Sweet though in sadness. Be thou, spirit fierce, My spirit I be thou me, impetuous one ! Drive my dead thoughts over the universe Like withered leaves, to quicken a new birth ; And, by the incantation of this verse, Scatter, as from an unextinguished hearth Ashes and sparks, my words among mankind ! Be through my lips to unawakened earth The trumpet of a prophecy ! 0 Wind, If Winter comes, can Spring be far behind? e 2 �Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 52 [July This ode ends with some vigour, some hope ; but that is not usual with Shelley. Everyone must have noticed how almost habitually his intensest lyrics—those which have started with the fullest swing of rapture—die down before they close into a wail of despair. It is as though, when the strong gush of emotion had spent itself, there was no more behind, nothing to fall back upon, but blank emptiness and desolation. It is this that makes Shelley’s poetry so unspeakably sad—sad with a hopeless sorrow that is like none other. You feel as though he were a wanderer who has lost his way hopelessly in the wilderness of a blank universe. His cry is, as Mr. Carlyle long since said, like ‘ the infinite inarticulate wailing of for­ saken infants.’ In the wail of his desolation there are many tones— some wild and weird, some defiant, some full of despondent pathos. The lines written in ‘ Dejection,’ on the Bay of Naples, in 1818, are perhaps the most touching of all his wails : the words are so sweet they seem, by their very sweetness, to lighten the load of heart­ loneliness :— I see the Deep’s untrampled floor With green and purple seaweeds strown; I see the waves upon the shore, Like light dissolved in star-showers, thrown : I sit upon the sands alone ; The lightning of the noon-tide ocean Is flashing round me, and a tone Arises from its measured motion. How sweet! did any heart now share in my emotion. Alas ! I have nor hope, nor health, Nor peace within, nor calm around, Nor that content, surpassing wealth, The sage in meditation found. * * * * Yet now despair itself is mild, Even as the winds and waters are ; I would lie down like a tired child, And weep away this life of care Which I have borne, and yet must bear, Till death like sleep might steal on me, And I might feel in the warm air My cheek grow cold, and heai’ the sea Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony. Who that reads these sighing lines but must feel for the heart that breathed them ! Yet how can we be surprised that he should have felt so desolate ? Every heart needs some real stay. And a heart so sensitive, a spirit so finely touched, as Shelley’s needs, far more than unsympathetic and narrow natures, a refuge amid the storms of life. But he knew of none. His universe was a home­ less one, had no centre of repose. His universal essence of love, �1879] Shelley as a Lyric Poet. 53 diffused throughout it, contained nothing substantial—no will that could control and support his own. While a soul owns no law, is without awe, lives wholly by impulse, what rest, what central peace, is possible for it ? When the ardours of emotion have died down, what remains for it but weakness, exhaustion, despair ? The feeling of his weakness woke in Shelley no contriteness or brokenness of spirit, no self-abasement, no reverence. Nature was to him really the whole, and he saw in it nothing but ‘ a revelation of death, a sepulchral picture, generation after generation disappearing and being heard of and seen no more.’ He rejected utterly that other ‘ consolatory revelation which tells us that we are spiritual beings, and have a spiritual source of life,’ and strength, above and beyond the material system. Such a belief, or rather no belief, as his can engender only infinite sadness, infinite despair. And this is the deep under­ tone of all Shelley’s poetry. I have dwelt on his lyrics because they contain little of the offen­ sive and nothing of the revolting which here and there obtrudes itself in the longer poems. And one may speak of these lyrics without agitating too deeply questions which at present I would rather avoid. Yet even the lyrics bear some impress of the source whence they come. Beautiful though they be, they are like those fine pearls which, we are told, are the products of disease in the parent shell. All Shelley’s poetry is, as it were, a gale blown from a richly gifted but unwholesome land ; and the taint, though not so percep­ tible in the lyrics, still hangs more or less over many of the finest. Besides this defect, they are very limited in their range of influ­ ence. They cannot reach the hearts of all men. They fascinate only some of the educated, and that probably only while they are young. The time comes when these pass out of that peculiar sphere of thought and find little interest in such poetry. Probably the rare exquisiteness of their workmanship will always preserve Shelley’s lyrics, even after the world has lost, as we may hope it will lose, sympathy with their substance. But better, stronger, more vital far are those lyrics which lay hold on the permanent, unchanging emotions of man—those emotions which all healthy natures have felt and always will feel, and which no new stage of thought or civilisa­ tion can ever bury out of sight. J. C. Shairp. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Shelley as a lyric poet Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Shairp, J.C. Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [s.l.] Collation: p. 38-53 ; 22 cm. Notes: Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Fraser's Magazine 20 (July 1879). Fraser's Magazine for Town and Country was a general and literary journal published in London from 1830 to 1882, which initially took a strong Tory line in politics. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1879 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT43 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Shelley as a lyric poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley Poetry in English Romantic Poetry https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/d2ad8b731145bc2996b3733d3d7a0aff.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=E7U8mOPIRzOUYwjXWOw2yHGqD3RvC%7EWFjlA0ajRSmQba8yOOl6nWhore48YEgRSy7Bp2fplUfxbZcreJiouMf1Y5h1-ZiAWBsszap7lFf8VnST1mhZ26FAFyT2hQyUqMLv5GG0ZzshcZxHRSxZTVzw9xPHU-qcQucBoWSOX3snUAtnO-XGSzEyj5wc-mYEVeh5FQxUFrb%7EYcyXVG5LA-pPwJ-JoF-kZcwnGNTywwB%7EgpginZv5T3OBjOZG2h7Yom-ehjUgbnIPDM93db4j4TI8gYhm3ShWkQ6N7T6GJLSWiHG5RI8UeLQfzDYQcj%7EcsWdZQmkqxmkgCDItu-fvOk1A__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM e0933e8608f8f50a6388e3e8d90658bf PDF Text Text 97 Art. IV.—Shelley. 1. The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by­ Mrs. Shelley. 1853. 2. Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Frag­ ments. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited bv Mrs. Shelley. 1854. 3. The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley. By Captain Thomas Medwin. 1847. 4. The Shelley Papers. By Captain Thomas Medwin. 1833. O write well on any theme requires not only a knowledge of the subject, but a deep sympathy with it. The first requisite is more commonly fulfilled than the second. Men can, after a fashion, master a subject—know its bearings and its details—and still have no real attachment for it: men, too, if they are at all suspected of this indifference, will lash themselves into a spurious love, which may be detected by its very absurdity. But true love springs from the heart, can admire the virtues of its friend without exaggeration, and yet not be hoodwinked to his faults ; has the sincerity to praise where praise is deserved, and the courage to reprove where reproof is wanted. Hence is it that true love is the same as thorough knowledge, for it sees both sides of the matter. Shelley’s critics, as well as his biographer, have been of all kinds except the last. Captain Medwin should remember that as it is the fault of a bad logician to prove too much, so it is of an indiscreet friend to praise too much. He has, however, in his “ Life of Shelley” contrived to fall into both mistakes. But he is also wanting in the higher qualifications of a biographer. It has now become, somehow or another, an esta­ blished axiom that nothing is so easy to write as a biography. Jot down a few facts, reckon them up like a schoolboy’s addition sum, and you have a Life ready-made. Nay, perhaps save your­ self even this trouble, and, in these days of mechanical aids, take a “ Ready Reckoner,” and you will find it done for you. An­ other popular receipt is, to sketch in a few lines here and there— never mind if they are a little blurred—paint them in watercolours, and you have a portrait at once : the critics will clean your picture for you gratis. Perhaps nothing is so difficult as a biography; but of all biographies, a poet’s most so. You have in his case not only to trace the mere liver of life, but all those back currents and cross eddies in which his stream of poesy has flowed. Every little action has to be examined to see what effect T [Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I. II �98 Shelley. it has had upon his life and his poetry, for the two are inter­ woven as w7oof and warp : not only this, hut the biographer must bring a congenial and a poetic spirit to the task—must show in what new realms of poesy our poet has travelled, what new beauties he has discovered, what new Castalian springs he has drunk of; should show, too, what new views of life he has opened up, how these views originated, and what their ultimate aim is—for this is the important point—and what real value they have in their practical bearing upon this earth ; and how far they are likely to affect and improve it. But in Shelley’s case the dif­ ficulty is tenfold increased. His character, in one sense one of the most simple, is in reality one of the most complex. So shy and reserved in many matters, yet speaking forth so boldly and uncompromisingly; so inconsistent at times, yet ever the same in the cause of truth ; so impulsive in most matters, yet so firm in behalf of liberty; so feminine and so susceptible, yet so heroic and resolute, he presents a medley of contradictions. All this must be accounted for by his next biographer. Nevertheless, we are thankful to Captain Medwin for what he has accomplished; he has done it to the best of his endeavours, and with a certain species of enthusiasm which will atone for many defects. But a Life of Shelley is still wanted—so much remains that is still obscure about him. Any little facts, as long as they are genuine and upon undoubted authority, would be welcome; for it is these little facts and traits—little they are wrongly called—which help us to judge of a man’s character, and give us such an insight into his life and poems. “Truth is stranger than fiction,” said Byron; yet, we suspect, without knowing why. The one is Nature’s real infinite order of things; the other, only man’s worldly finite arrangement. We talk of sober truth and wild fiction; but it is truth in reality that is wild, and fiction sober. “ As easy as lying,” says Hamlet, but truth is hard to imitate. Hence to thinking men the romance of history is more exciting than any novel; a biography more inte­ resting than any fiction. Shelley’s life, with all its pathos, is an example. The imagination of no novelist would ever have dared to have drawn such a character. It would have been scouted at once as impossible in the highest degree. Let us endeavour to give some sort of a brief sketch of it, trying to fill in, with what cunning we have, the lights and shades. Percy Bysshe Shelley was born at Field Place, in Sussex, on the 4th of August, 1792, related through his family to Algernon and Sir Philip Sydney, heir to a baronetcy and its rich acres. Novel readers would be delighted in such a promising hero; young ladies would have fallen in love with him at once, or with his ten thousand a year. He was brought up, it appears, with his sisters until he was �At Sion House, Brentford; and at Eton. 99 seven or eight years old, and then sent to an academy at Brent­ ford, and subsequently, at thirteen, to Eton. At neither schools did he mix with the other boys, but like Novalis and many other boy-men, took no part in the sports. This shyness and reserve he never threw off during life. It appears even in his poems; they seem to shun the light of the common world, its din, its noise ; they fly away to the realms of imagination for peace and quietness. We can fancy Shelley walking by himself with that delicate feminine face and quiet dreaming eye, glooming moodily over his supposed wrongs, which, by-the-bye, he might have easily cast away, had he but set to work and bowled round hand, or played at fives with the rest; they would have dropped off, as lightly as the bails, with the first wicket he took. But it was not so, and he ever afterwards looked back with pain upon those early days. Writing of them in the Dedication of the “Revolt of Islam”— “ I wept, I knew not why; until there rose From the near schoolroom, voices that, alas! Were but one echo from a world of woes— The harsh and grating strife of tyrants and of foes.” At Sion House, Brentford, Shelley was a great reader of blue-books,” so called, says Captain Medwin, from their covers, and which, for the moderate sum of sixpence, contained an immense amount of murders, haunted castles, and so forth. When the “ blue-books” were all exhausted, Shelley had recourse to a circulating library at Brentford, where, no doubt, as at all circulating libraries, plenty more “ blue-books” were to be ob­ tained, and where he became enchanted with “ Zofloya, or the Moor,” whose hero appears to have been the Devil himself. No doubt, to this source may we trace Shelley’s love for the morbid and the horrible, which happily, under better influences, disap­ peared from his writings. Here at Sion House, too, was exhi­ bited Walker’s Orrery, which even surpassed “ Zofloya” in its attractions, and which first turned Shelley’s thoughts in a better direction than circulating libraries generally point to. At Eton, an old schoolfellow of Shelley’s gives the following account of him:—“ He was known as ‘ Mad Shelley,’ and many a cruel torture was practised upon him. The‘Shelley! Shelley! Shelley!’ which was thundered in the cloisters, was but too often accom­ panied by practical jokes—such as knocking his books from under his arm, seizing him as he stooped to recover them, pulling and tearing his clothes, or pointing with the finger, as one Nea­ politan maddens another.” We often look upon a school as an epitome of the world—a perfect microcosmos. And the above is as true a picture of the world’s treatment of Shelley, as of Eton. A few more years, and it was the world itself, with stronger lungs h 2 �100 Shelley. and with bitterer tones, crying out “ Mad Shelley;” it was the world, a few years after, that seized his books with Chancery decrees; it was the world, that is to say, these same boys, now “ children of a larger growth,” that pointed at him with its finger. Shelley felt all this in after-life as much as he did now at school; not the mere insults, but that these boys, now men, should never have outgrown their weaknesses. One more point in his Eton career. He was there condemned to that most distasteful of all tasks to true genius, to write Latin verses, that poetry of machinery. Shelley, condemned to the Procrustean bed of longs and shorts, wishing to enter the promised land of science—Shelley, who hereafter should be the true poet, scanning with his fingers dactyles and spondees, asking for a short and a long, that great desideratum to finish a pentameter with, and all the time thirsting to drink from springs that might refresh his mind, is a pitiful spectacle, well worth pondering over. How many promising minds this insane custom, still continued at our schools, has blunted and sickened, cannot well be computed, we should say. We wonder boys have not yet been practically taught the Pyrrhic dance or the evolutions of a Greek chorus; they would be quite as mechanical and far more amusing. In one person alone at Eton did Shelley at all find a congenial spirit, a Dr. Lind, of whom Mrs. Shelley writes, that he supported and befriended * Shelley, and Shelley never mentioned his name without love and reverence, and in after years drew his character as that of the old man who liberates Laon from his tower-prison, and tends on him in sickness. This is touchingly like Shelley’s nobleness, which never forgot a kindness. Most poets have ever looked back upon boyhood with joy; it is the storehouse of many an old affection, full of many dear memories. Shelley’s was blank enough of all such things ; this one old man, a green spot in its sandy wild. And now, since Eton would do nothing for Shelley, he betook himself to reading Pliny’s “Natural History,” puzzling his tutor with some questions on the chapters on astronomy. He next commenced German. The fires of such an ardent spirit could not easily be smothered out. Chemistry and Burgher’s “ Leonora” were now his two engrossing themes; and about this time he wrote, in conjunction with Captain Medwin, “ The Wandering Jew,” the little of which that we have seen is poor enough; but Shelley’s ideas are described by the gallant captain as “images wild, vast, and Titanic in which remark we suspect that Captain Medwin is like the Jew, rather “wandering.” And now we are approach­ ing a great event in Shelley's life. A Miss Grove, a cousin of his, of nearly the same age, who is described as very beautiful, * See Mrs. Shelley’s note on the “Revolt of Islam.” �At Oxford. 101 captivated him. We like to dwell upon these two child-lovers. The frost of the world must have thawed away for the first time to poor Shelley; a spring, full of fresh thoughts and hopes, were springing up in his heart. He had found some one in this wide, wild world to love him, and to love. Upon his dark night now came forth the evening star of love, trembling with beautv and light. Surely it was not the same old world, with its haggard nightmares and its feverish dreams ? The dew of love fell soft upon that wild brain of his. It was the first love—that first iove which comes but once in a man’s life. You may have it again ; but, like many another fever, it is slight and poor in comparison. Of her and himself did he write in after years— “ They were two cousins like to twins, Ancl so they grew together like two flowers Upon one stem, which the same beams and showers Lull or awaken in their purple prime.” To her, too, did he dedicate his “ Queen Mab — “ Thou wast my purer mind, Thou wast the inspiration of my song ; Thine are these early wilding flowers, Though garlanded by me.” And now, in conjunction, these two child-lovers wrote the romance of ‘ Zastrozzi. We would fain linger here on these happy days. But there is already a third party in the number— it is a skeleton. Shelley, now not much more than sixteen, went up to Oxford, engrossed with his chemistry. But Oxford did not, any more than Eton, encourage his pursuits. Acids and Alma Mater did not agree. Galvanic batteries and portly dons were not likely to be on the best of terms. Why, a Head of a College might mistake one for some infernal machine. So Shelley betook himself to philosophy; Locke was his professed guide, but in reality the French exponents of Locke, which is a very different matter. Hume, too, became his text-book ; and the poet, now a convert to Materialism, rushed on to Atheism; and in a moment of enthusiasm conceived the project of con­ verting Alma Mater herself. We don’t well see what other course that venerable lady, with the means she possessed, could pursue but the one she adopted. So Shelley was expelled. It is worth considering, however, that there was no other weapon left against Atheism but the poor and feeble one of expulsion. On Alma Mater we need waste no reflections; but turn to Shelley in his utter desolateness, for unto him it must have been an hour of great darkness. The old traditional guide-posts were gone, and he had to walk the road of life alone. New world-theories he must construct; the old eternal problems he must now solve �102 * Shelley. for himself. Other griefs from -without pressed upon him. His cousin deserted him, or rather, we should suppose, was made to desert him. His treatise on Atheism had deeply offended his relations, though we are surprised at its preventing his marriage. An expected baronetcy in this world, like charity, can hide a multitude of sins. A baronet’s blood-red hand could easily, we should have thought, have covered up even Atheism, since it gene­ rally can conceal so many faults. So Shelley left Alma Mater, and matriculated at the university of the world, where he should some day take honours, though from thence some would have expelled him too. He appears to have gone up to London, living with Captain Medwin, speculating on metaphysics, and writing letters under feigned names to various people, including Mrs. Hernans. To show in what a state of mind he was at this time, we may give the following anecdote in Captain Medwin’s own words :—“Being in Leicester-square one morning at five o’clock, I was attracted by a group of boys standing round a welldressed person lying near the rails. On coming up to them I discovered Shelley, who had unconsciously spent a part of the night sub dio.” We read of him, too, sailing paper boats on the Serpentine, as he did years after on the Serchio, just as he describes Helen’s son— “ In all gentle sports took joy, Oft in a dry leaf for a boat, With a small feather for a sail, His fancy on that spring would float.” (“Rosalind and Helen.”) He returned home, where, however, he did not remain long, in consequence of his falling in love with a Miss M estbrook, a schoolfellow of his sister’s. This was productive of another breach with his family, more serious than that caused by his Atheism. Miss Westbrook, it appears, was the daughter of a retired innkeeper; and Shelley’s father, the baronet, with proper aristocratic notions on all points, had long been accustomed to tell his son that he would provide for any quantity of natural children, but a mesalliance he would never pardon. So when Shelley married the daughter of the retired innkeeper, his father very properly cut off his allowance. Anything in this world, we believe, will be forgiven, except this one thing. You may take a poor girl’s virtue, and it passes for a good joke with the world; but if you make her the only reparation you can, you shall be an out­ cast from society. Such doctrines are a premium upon vice, and do more harm to a nation than Holywell-street: and we are more in­ clined to place many of the griefs of Shelley’s first marriage, with its sad results, at the front door of fashionable society, -than to any other cause. The retired innkeeper and Shelley’s uncle, Captain �His and Schillers Love for the Storm. 103 Pilford, however, found the requisite funds, and Shelley and his young wife went off to live in the Lake District, where Mr. De Quincey gives us the following picture of them :—“ The Shelleys had been induced by some of their new friends (the Southeys) to take part of a house standing about half a mile out of Keswick, on the Penrith road. There was a pretty garden attached to it; and whilst walking in this, one of the Southey party asked Mrs. Shelley if the garden had been let with their part of the house. ‘ Oh, no,’ she replied; ‘the garden is not ours; but then, you know, the people let us run about in it, whenever Percy and I are tired of sitting in the house.’ The naivete of this expression, ‘run about/ contrasting so picturesquely with the intermitting efforts of the girlish wife at supporting a matron-like gravity, now that she was doing the honours of her house to married ladies, caused all the party to smile.”* Ah ! could it, indeed, have been always so; and we think of another poet who says of himself and his wife, “I was a child—she was a child;” and we sigh as we think over their tragic fates. Shelley did not stay here long. We find him flitting, spirit-like, about from place to place. We meet with him at one time at Dublin, which he was obliged to leave on account of a political pamphlet he had published. Soon afterwards we dis­ cover him in North Wales, helping to assist the people to rebuild the sea-wall which had been washed away. All this time, too, was he suffering bitterly in spirit—the struggle was still going on within. In addition to this, his wife was by no means a person suited for him, and after a three years’ union they were separated. In July, 1814, conceiving himself free, we find him travelling abroad with Mary, the future Mrs. Shelley, daughter of Alary Wollstonecraft and William Godwin, well known for their antimatrimonial speculations. They crossed the Channel in an open boat, and were very nearly lost in a gale. Shelley’s chief enjoy­ ment seems to have been on the water; and in this expedition his greatest delight seems to have been in sailing down the rapids of the Rhine on a raft. He is in this particular very like Schiller; in fact, a portion of Schiller’s biography might be applied, word for word, to him :—“At times he might be seen floating on the river in a gondola, feasting himself with the loveliness of earth and sky. He delighted most to be there when tempests were abroad; his unquiet spirit found a solace in the expression of its own unrest on the face of nature; danger lent a charm to his situation; he felt in harmony with the scene, when that rack was sweeping stormfully across the heavens, and the forests were sounding in the breeze, and the river was rolling its chafed waters into wild eddying heaps.”t And we find this love for water and * “Sketches, Critical and Biographic,” p. 18. f "Life of Schiller.” �104 Shelley. the storm in Shelley’s poems. He now returned to London, where he suffered from poverty and absolute want. Nothing daunted him. He now betook himself to the study of medicine, and com­ menced walking the hospitals. Gleams and visions of liberty lighted him upon his path ; but they were all mere will-o’-the-wisps, and went quickly out, leaving him in blacker darkness than before. Doubts still surrounded him on all sides. It is a pic­ ture worth studying—that delicate, womanly face, thoughtful and sad, with its long curling hair, and its genius-lighted eyes, brood­ ing painfully in poverty over its woes. We look on him, and he seems as some flower that has bloomed by mistake in winter-time —too frail to cope with the blasts and the falling sleet, but yet blooms on, prophesying of sunshine and summer days. The year 1815, however, brought him relief. It was discovered that’the fee-simple of the Shelley estates was vested in Shelley, and that he could thus obtain money upon them. The old baronet was furious at the discovery, but was ultimately persuaded to make his son an allowance. Shelley, now freed from his pecuniary difficulties, again went abroad in May, 181G, this time to Secheron, near Geneva, where Byron was living; and here the two poets kept a crank boat on the lake, in which Shelley used “ to brave Bises, which none of the barques could face.” How much Byron profited by his intercourse with Shelley let the third canto of “ Childe Harold,” which was written at this period, testify; and let us at the same time remember Byron’s own words—“You were all mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, the best and least selfish man I ever knew.” After an absence of more than a year, Shelley returned to England; and now per­ haps the bitterest trial of all awaited him. His wife had drowned herself. Woe seems to have shrouded him as with a garment. How bitterly he feels it, these and many other verses tell— “ That time is dead for ever, child, Browned, frozen, dead for ever; We look on the past And stare aghast, At the spectres, wailing, pale and ghast, Of hopes that thou and 1 beguiled To death on life’s dark river.” Nay, the strain on his mind was too much, and he became for a time insane, and so describes himself in “Julian and Maddalo.” And now, as if his bitterness were not enough, the Court of Chancery tore his children away from him. “ Misfortune, where goest thou, into the house of the artist ?” saith the Greek pro­ verb. And still the struggle was going on within, embittered by woes from without. Life’s battle-field is never single. We cannot stop to inquire whether trials and struggles may not be �His Friendship with Keats. 105 in some way essential to the education of genius, and whether there may not be some as yet unrecognised law to that end. The old fable is certainly a true one of the swan singing only in its death-agonies. But there must be an end; and now the scorching day was melting into a quiet eve : the stormy waves were subsiding. We have dwelt at some length on the previous details, but must now be more brief. We do not so much regret this. It is in the storm only that we care to see the straining ship brave out the danger—any day we can see plenty of painted toy-boats sailing on the millpond. Shelley now married his second wife, Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, and led a quiet life at Marlowe, writing “ Alastor” and the “Revolt of Islam,” and endearing himself to the villagers by his kindnesses. He here contracted severe ophthalmia, from visiting the poor people in the depth of an un­ usually cold winter. About this time, too, he became acquainted with Keats, and nothing can be finer than the friendship between the two poets—nothing nobler in literature than Shelley taking up the gauntlet for his oppressed brother poet against the re­ viewers, and writing afterwards to his memory the sweetest of all dirges, the “ Adonais.” So dear did he hold his friend, that when Shelley’s body was washed ashore, Keats’ poems were found in his bosom. In 1818, Shelley left England, never to return. Life now was becoming unto him as a summer afternoon with its golden sunshine. He had found a wife whom he could love: that passionate heart, ever seeking some haven, had at last found one—little voices now again called him father. The mists of youth wrere clearing away; gleams of light were breaking in upon him. He had betaken himself to the study of Plato ; and perhaps there was no book in the world that was likely to do him such good. In one of his letters he writes, “ The destiny of man can scarcely be so degraded, that he was born only to die.” But even now he had his troubles, as we all shall have, be the world made ever so perfect. He lost one of his children; was still troubled with a most painful disease; was still the mark for every reviewer’s shaft. And now, when everything promised so fair and bright, on one July afternoon the waves of the Mediter­ ranean closed over that fair form, still young, though his hair was already grey, “ seared with the autumn of strange suffering.” The battle of life was past and over. We have thus given a hurried sketch of Shelley’s life. Impul­ siveness was no doubt the prominent feature of his character. Love for his fellow-men, hatred against all tyranny, whether of government or mere creeds, combined with kis ardent and poetic spirit, hurried at times his as yet undisciplined mind away. No doubt he struck at many things without discretion. But it re­ �106 Shelley. quires older men than Shelley to discriminate what is to be hit. Strike at the immorality of a clergyman, and he screens himself behind the Church, and there is instantly a cry you are assailing Religion itself. Many stalking-horses, some of them with huge ears and broken knees, are there walking about on this earth, which we must worship, even as the ^Egyptians did cats, and the Hindoos cows. Animal worship is not yet extinct. Shelley, too, was one of those whose nature is their own law; who refuse to be cramped up by the arbitrary conventionalities of life which suit ordinary mortals so well, which fact is such a puzzle to commonplace minds that they solve it by setting down the unlucky individual as a madman; an easy solution, in which we cannot acquiesce. One of those few, too, was he “ Whose spirit kindles for a newer virtue, Which, proud and sure, and for itself sufficient, To no faith, goes a begging.” An isolation of spirit, too, he possessed, often peculiar to genius. He found no one to sympathize with him; hence his mind was turned in upon itself, seeking higher principles, newer resolutions than are yet current. He found himself, even when amidst the throng, quite alone; though jostled by the multitude, quite soli­ tary. Society to such a one is pain; the very noise of human voices, misery. Hence, in his despair, he is tempted to exclaim to his wife, “ My greatest content would be utterly to desert all human society. I would retire with you and our child to a soli­ tary island in the sea, would build a boat, and shut upon my retreat the floodgates of the world: I would read no reviews, and talk with no authors. If I dared trust my imagination, it would tell me that there are one or two chosen companions beside myself whom I would desire. But to this I would not listen.” That Shelley should have been misappreciated is only natural. To a proverb, the world likes its own, and Shelley was not amongst that number. High-minded, he despised the inanities of life; sincere and earnest, he hated the hollowness of the day. Too sensitive, he turned away to bye-paths. The flock of sheep herd together; he was sick at heart and wandered by himself. Poetic and ideal, he felt more than most of us the heart-aches and brain-aches of life, and ever seeking, ever hoping, found no cure for them. Speculative and philosophical, he felt the burden of the world-mystery and the world-problem, which he was ever trying to solve, and which every time lay heavier on his soul. Weak and physically frail, he felt life’s pack more than others, and knew not how to carry it without its galling him. A loving, sympathizing soul, he found but little affection, little love in the world ; for the most part a cold response and hard hearts, and so he uttered his wail of misery and then died. �His Critics. 107 He was slain accidentally in the battle of life—a mere stripling fighting manfully in the van. Still the army of life, like a mighty billow, rushes on; still the battle rages, still the desperate charge of the forlorn hope—here it gains, there it wavers, then is swept away—and still fresh ones follow on: the individual fighting in the first place for himself and his own necessities; and then, if a noble soul, doing battle for his fellow-creatures, helping the weak, raising up the down-trodden. The years sweep on like immense caravans, each of them laden with its own multitude, brawling, striving, fighting. We look out from the windows, and see behind us the earth covered with the monuments of mighty men, with nameless mounds where sleep the dead. Let us linger round the grave of him who lies beneath the walls of Rome, near the pyra­ mid of Caius Cestius, “ in a place so sweet that it might make one in love to be buried thereand see what epitaphs have been written over him, and what, too, we have to say. In plainer words, we will proceed to look at Shelley as exhibited by others, glancing at his religion, his politics, and poetry, by all of which we may be enabled to learn something more, and to form a completer estimate of him; and we would here remark that whatever censure or praise we may bestow on him, the one should be laid on, the other doubled by, his youth. We have now passed away from the old reviewing times of Gifford, when difference of opinion was added to the sins usually recognised by the Decalogue, when it actually could taint the rhymes, and make the verses of too many or too few feet, accord­ ing to the critic's orthodox ear. This old leaven has long since died out of all respectable Reviews, and can only be seen in its original bitterness in a few religious publications, where vitupe­ ration so easily supplies the place of argument. The world luckily sees with different eyes to those it did thirty years ago. Most people can now give Shelley credit for his noble qualities of generosity and pureness of moral character; and even those who may differ widely from his opinions, are willing to admit the beauty of his poems. Most people, we said; all certainly except those connected with a few religious publications, and the author of “ Modern Painters.” Mr. Ruskin seems to be seized with some monomania when Shelley’s name is mentioned. In the Appendix to his “ Elements of Drawing,” he calls Shelley “ shallow and verbose.” In a note in the second volume of“ Modem Painters,” part iii. sec. ii. chap. iv. § 6, he speaks of Shelley, “ sickly dreaming over clouds and waves.” As these objections are mere matters of opinion, we shall pass them by; it is hopeless to try to make the wilfully blind see. But in the third volume, part iv. chap. xvi. § 38, he talks of Shelley’s “ troublesome selfishness.” Facts are said to be the best arguments, and we will �108 Shelley. give Mr. Ruskin, as an answer to his libel, the following pathetic story in Leigh Hunt’s own words :— “ Mr. Shelley, in coming to our house at night, had found a woman lying near the top of the hill, in fits. It was a fierce winter’s night, with snow upon the ground—and winter loses nothing of its severity at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as well as the most pitying on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to have the woman taken in. The invariable answer was, they could not do it. He asked for an outhouse to put her in, while he went for the doctor. Impossible. In vain he assured them she was no impostor—an assurance he was able to give, having studied something of medicine, and even walked the hospital, that he might be Useful in this way. They would not dispute the point with him ; but doors were closed, and windows were shut down. Time flies; the poor woman is in convulsions; her son, a young man, lamenting over her. At last my friend sees a carriage driving up to a house at a little distance; the knock is given; the warm door opens; servants and lights put forth. Now, thought he, is the time; he puts on his best address—which anybody might recognise for that of the highest gentle­ man—and plants himself in the way of an elderly person who is step­ ping out of the carriage with his family. He tells him his story. They only press on the faster. ‘ Will you go and see her ?’ ‘ No, sir, there is no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it—impostors swarm everywhere—the thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is extraordinary.’ ‘ Sir,’ cried Mr. Shelley, at last assuming a very diffe­ rent appearance, and forcing the flourishing householder to stop, out of astonishment, ‘ I am sorry to say that your conduct is not extra­ ordinary ; and if my own may seem to amaze you, I will tell you something that may amaze you a little more, and I hope will frighten you. It is such men as you who madden the spirits and the patience of the poor and wretched ; and if ever a convulsion comes in this coun­ try, which is very probable, recollect what I tell you—you will have your house, that you refuse to put this miserable woman into, burnt over your head.’ 4 God bless me, sir! Dear me, sir!’ exclaimed the frightened wretch, and fluttered into his mansion. The woman was then brought to our house, which was at some distance, and down a bleak path; and Mr. Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till the doctor could arrive. It appeared that she had been attending this son in London, on a criminal charge made against him, the agitation of which had thrown her into fits on their return. The doctor said that she would have inevitably perished had she lain there only a short time longer. The next day my friend sent mother and son comfort­ ably home to Hendon, where they were well known, and whence they returned him thanks full of gratitude.” This was an action worthy of a descendant of Algernon and Sir Philip Sydney, and may perhaps remind Mr. Ruskin of a certain parable of the good Samaritan. Again, in the same volume and part of “Modern Painters,” ch. xvii. § 26, Mr. Ruskin calls Shelley “passionate and unprincipled;” and again, in §41, �Mr. Ruskin on Shelley. 109 lie speaks of his “ morbid temperament.” It is only charitable to suppose that Mr. Ruskin has never read Shelley’s Life ; and, again, in the same volume and part, ch. xvi. § 34, he writes, “ Shelley is sad because he is impious.” This sort of reasoning reminds us of a story told in Rogers’s “ Table Talk,” which, as it affords us some further insight into Shelley’s character, may be given:—“One day, during dinner, at Pisa, where Shelley and Trelawney were with us, Byron chose to run down Shakspeare, for whom he, like Sheridan, either had, or pretended to have, little admiration. I said nothing; but Shelley immediately took up the defence of the great poet, and conducted it with his usual meek yet resolute manner, unmoved with the rude things with which Byron interrupted him—‘ Oh, that’s very zvell for an Atheist,’ ” &c. Byron, however, did not approach Mr. Ruskin’s absurdity. Atheism here did not altogether spoil Shelley’s defence; it only made it pretty good. Orthodoxy, we must suppose, would have rendered it perfect. But Mr. Ruskin boldly asserts, “Shelley is sad because he is impious;” or, in other words, because Shelley happens to differ from Mr. Ruskin’s notions on religion. It is true that Shelley is sad—not, though, because he is “ impious,” but from mourning over the wrongs that he sees hourly committed —the day full of toil, the air thick with groans. A solemn tone of sorrow pervades his poetry, like the dirge of the autumn wind sighing through the woods for the leaves as they keep falling off. We are ashamed and mortified to find Mr. Ruskin using such a coarse and vulgar argument—he who is ever complaining of the unfairness of his critics. But perhaps Mr. Ruskin may find this out, that when he has learnt to respect others, his critics will be in­ clined to treat him more leniently; and, furthermore, whilst he deals so harshly and so uncharitably with Shelley, we would in all kindness remind him of the line, “ who is so blessed fair that fears no blot?” And now for our orthodox reviewers, and their treatment of Shelley. “Queen Mab” is generally selected by them as the piece de resistance. We are far from defending the poem as re­ gards its tone and spirit, nor do we uphold Shelley in any of his attacks upon the personal character of the Founder of Chris­ tianity ; he finds no sympathy with us when he calls Christ “ the Galilean Serpent.” Much more do we agree with the old dra­ matist, Decker, when he writes— “ The best of men That e’er wore earth about him was a sufferer, A soft, meek, patient, humble, tranquil Spirit; The first true gentleman that ever breathed.” Shelley himself afterwards thoroughly disclaimed the opinions �110 Shelley. of this early and crude production. Upon an attempt being made to republish it, he thus wrote to the editor of the Examiner: —“ A poem, entitled ‘ Queen Mab,’ was written by me at the age of eighteen, I dare say in a sufficiently intemperate spirit—but even then was not intended for publication; and a few copies only were struck off, to be distributed among my personal friends. I have not seen this production for several years; I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless in point of literary composition; and that in all that concerns moral and political speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations of metaphysical and reli­ gious doctrine, it is still more crude and immature.” And he goes on to say that he has applied for an injunction to stop its * sale. Shelley, in after life, was the last man to speak slightingly of religion or religious matters—no true poet can ever do that; he, above all men, venerates religion. By him, as Shelley says in the Preface to the “ Revolt of Islam,” “ the erroneous and de­ grading idea which men have conceived of a Supreme Being is spoken against, but not the Supreme Being itself.” But why “ Queen Mab” should ever be picked out as so peculiarly blas­ phemous by its assailants, we have ever been surprised. We are, we repeat, far from sympathizing in the least with Shelley’s ex­ pressions; but we equally abhor the tenets of his orthodox reviewers. They are far more open to the charge of blasphemy than Shelley. It is they who degrade God, and God’s creatures, by representing him as the God of vengeance, and all His works vile and filthy; this glorious world as the devil’s world, and all the men and women in it chosen vessels of wrath, unable to do one good deed of themselves. They call Shelley an Atheist, in­ deed ! Rather call all those Atheists who deny liberty and all rights to their poorer brethren; who would trample them still deeper in the mire of ignorance, who would desecrate God’s Sab­ baths with idleness, and who make God in their own images piti­ fully sowing damnation broadcast on his creatures. Call them, too, Atheists, yes, the worst of Atheists, who lead a life of idleness and aimless inactivity; for the denial of God (a personal God, in the common sense of the term) does not constitute Atheism; but spending a life as if there were no God, and no such things as those minor gods—Justice, or Love, or Gratitude. Shelley was, at all events, sincere in his creed, which is more than can be said for most of his opponents. He suffered for it, and suffered bitterly; not, indeed, the tortures of the rack, but those more painful ordeals which we in this nineteenth century are so skilful to inflict. All ages have very properly allotted special punishments to their greatest spirits. The Greeks gave * See also a letter to Mr. John Gisborne—“ Shelley’s Letters and Essays,” vol. ii. p. 239. �Religion at the Present Day. Ill hemlock to Socrates; the Jews rewarded Jesus with a cross. Galileo received a rack for his portion. But we English have found out the greater refinement of cruelty, which may be in­ flicted by hounding a poet down by Reviews and Chancery-suits. Contrast Shelley, and his fervid eloquence, and poetry, and zeal, with his opponents. Go into an English church, and there you shall too often see but an automaton, now in white now in black, grinding old church tunes of which our ears are weary. It—for we cannot call that machine a living human being—finds no re­ sponse in the hearts of its hearers. Notone pulse there is quickened, not one eye grows brighter. If it would but say something to all those men and women, they should be as dancers ready to dance at the sound of music. But no voice comes, unless you call a monotonous drawl a voice. The farce is all the more hitter, because that figure to our knowledge leads a life quite contrary to the words upon his lips. How few of these Automata in white or in black would, in days of darkness and of trouble, stand up for their Bible and their Gospel, and dare to pull off the surplice and gown, and wear the martyr’s fiery shirt! One of them comes into the Church for the family living, and makes God’s house a place for money-changers and traders in simony; the other, because he has not capacity enough for any other pro­ fession. And these are the men that are to lead us in days when science and knowledge are fast advancing in every direction! these the men to sing of God’s wondrous works ! Do they not rather dishonour God, and prostitute religion to the worst form of Atheism ? That Shelley, or any one else, should become wearied with our present religious condition, we are not surprised. Our wonder is, that there are not far more of the same class. We have for years been lying under a tree which is long past bearing—waiting, alas ! for fruits, and not finding even a green branch, or a shady place. The once pure water of baptism is now turbid, the very sacramental bread mouldy. We must sorrowfully say with Jean Paul—“The soul which by nature looks Heavenward, is without a temple in this age.” So the old religious roads of thought are being torn up; the old via sacra being levelled. As it has been said a thousand times, no one need fear that religion will ever die. While there is the blue unfathomable sky above us, in which swim golden sun and moon and stars, and the comets trail along like fiery ships, there will ever arise a sense of mystery and awe in the breast of man; and while the sweet seasons come round, there will spring from his heart, like a fresh gushing fountain, a psalm of thankfulness to the Author of them. The deep spiritual nature of man can never die. And it is no sign of the decay of religion, but quite the reverse, when men refuse to be fed on the �112 Shelley. dry husks and chaff of doctrines. Yes, we will hope that a new and a brighter Reformation is dawning; that fresh Luthers and Melancthons shall arise, and that we shall have a Church wherein Science shall not fear to unfold her New Testament—wherein poets and philosophers, and painters and sculptors, may be its priests, each preaching from his own pulpit—when every day shall be equally holy—when every cottage shall be a temple, and all the earth consecrated ground—consecrated with^ the prayers of love and labour. And now let us turn to Shelley’s politics. Most poets have ever been the supporters of Liberty. And the reason is, as Words­ worth says, “ A poet is a man endowed with more lively sensi­ bility, more enthusiasm and tenderness, and a more comprehen­ sive soul than are supposed to be common among mankind.” They feel “ the sweet sense of kindred” more than others, and cannot bear to see some of their brethren chained like galleyslaves to the oar of labour—earning their bread with tears of blood, without time for leisure, or meditation, or self-improve­ ment ; working like the beasts of the field, with this difference, that they are less cared for by their masters. As Milton says— “ True poets are the objects of my reverence and love, and the constant sources of my delight. I know that most of them, from the earliest times to those of Buchanan, have been the strenuous enemies of despotism.” The remark is true. Tyrtaeus singing war-strains, and the old Hebrew prophets rousing Israel from its sleep of bondage, are instances of what is meant. All poets have felt this love for Liberty. Even Mr. Tennyson can turn at times from his descriptive paintings, and give us such a lyric as “Ring out, wild bells, to the wild sky,” so full of noble hopes and sympathies. A little time ago we had a novel with a Chartist poet for its hero ; and by-and-bv a living poet, the son of a canal bargeman, risesup among us—no fiction this time—uttering strains of woe to that same often invoked Liberty. But the feeling is most vivid in early youth ; the cares of the world soon grow round us, and many of us find out it is to our apparent advantage to remain silent; and we become to our shame dumb, ignomi­ niously content to accept things as they are. Some even turn renegades, as Southey. But in Shelley the flame every day burnt brighter. Liberty with him was no mere toy to be broken and laid aside, but the end and aim of his life. He kept true to the dream of youth, and the inspiration of early days, when injustice has not yet clouded our vision. But, on the face of it, is there not something supremely ridiculous in the son of a wealthy baronet coming forward to delineate the woes of men about which he could really know nothing ? Why not have written �The Times in which Shelley lived. 113 odes of the Minerva-press stamp, which could have been read to aristocratic drawing-rooms ? The answer is, that this thing genius is strong and earnest, and, luckily, will not bend like a reed before any fashionable breeze from Belgravia or St. James’s. Society is a costly porcelain vase, wherein the poor plant genius is cramped and stunted, and artificially watered and heated, in­ stead of living in the free open air, enjoying the breeze and the showers of heaven; it must either break its prison or wither. Shelley adopted the former course. Let us rejoice it was so— that there was one man who, though brought up in luxury, had the heart and the courage to pity the misfortunes of the poor. Let us remember, too, the days Shelley had fallen upon, when the nation was suffering all the distresses a long war could entail; when a Parliament of landlords enacted the Corn-laws for the benefit of their own rents; when prosecutions were rife for the most trifling offences ; when Government actually employed spies to excite starving men to violence; when “ blood was on the grass like dew.” It was the dark night that preceded the dawn of a better day. Since then, schools have sprung up ; free-libraries and museums have grown here and there; parks have been opened; baths and wash-houses built; crowded districts drained and ventilated; cheap and good books diffused. Within the last few months “The National Association for the Advancement of Social Science” has held its first meeting, and there is a general wish, except perhaps amongst a few, to improve the condition of the working classes. A man who, in Shelley’s position, should now write as Shelley did, could simply be regarded as a misguided enthusiast; and we can only pardon Gerald Massey in some of his wild strains, by knowing how galling is the yoke, and how bitter the bread, of poverty. Still much, almost everything, yet remains to be done. The life of the labourer still, as Shelley would sing, “ Is to work, and have such pay As just keeps life from day to day.” Not even that, as the poorhouse in the winter’s night can testify. But, after all, what is this image of Liberty which Shelley has set up for us ? We can answer best in his own words :— “ For the labourer thou art bread, And a comely table spread, From his daily labour come, In a neat and happy home— Thou art clothes, and fire and food For the trampled multitude: No—in countries that are free Such starvation cannot be, As in England now we see.” [Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.J—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I. I �114 Shelley. This surely is rather a material view; no one can well see treason in the loaf, or impiety in the well-filled cupboard; and yet an important one. The soul of man can never be fed, while his body is racked with hunger; his mind can never be warmed with any spark of the higher life, while his limbs shiver with the cold; his spiritual faculties can never be raised, while be is sunk in physical uncleanness. But rising to a higher strain, Shelley proceeds:— “ To the rich thou art a check; When his foot is on the neck Of his victim, thou dost make That he treads upon a snake. Thou art Justice—ne’er for gold May thy righteous laws be sold, As laws are in England:—thou Shieldest alike the high and low. Thou art Wisdom—freemen never Dream that God will doom for ever All who think those things untrue Of which priests make such ado. Thou art Peace—never by thee Would blood and treasure wasted be As tyrants wasted them, when all Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul. ***** Science, and Poetry, and Thought, Are thy lamps ; they make the lot Of the dwellers in a cot Such, they curse their Maker not. Spirit, Patience, Gentleness, All that can adorn and bless, Art thou; let deeds, not words, express Thine exceeding loveliness.” (“ The Masque of Anarchy.”) This, we must confess, is superior to most of his delineations of Liberty. In a great many places he doubtless runs very wild in the cause of Freedom. He had not yet attained that true calm­ ness which is requisite for any great movement. Youth has it not. The green sapling cracks and explodes in the fire, yet gives no heat; the seasoned log burns bright and quiet. It is not by fiery declamations, by mere impulse, that anything in this world is ever surely gained, but by calmness, clearness of vision, and deep insight. The still small voice makes more impression on us than the loudest shouts, for the latter are, through their very noise, quite inarticulate. Still the question remains to be answered, �Happiness, how obtained. 115 how is this and other visions of Liberty to be realized ? Was Shelley himself in the right way to bring about the desired reform ? Certainly, as far as his hand could reach, he did his utmost. He poured what oil he could on the raging waters round him. But these attempts, and all others like them, are, it is very obvious, only palliatives, not real remedies. Shelley’s views as to Reform and Liberty are very vague. He seems to have had some idea that with a hey presto, everything could be changed. Pantaloon had only to strike the floor three times, and the whole scene vanished; the old witches, who caused all the trouble, were to be changed at once into beautiful sprites; Columbine should come dancing on, and a general return to Fairyland, everybody paying for every one, and nobody taking anything. He himself was willing to make any sacrifice. In this respect he seems to have been like some innocent child, wandering into a garden, singing as he went, plucking with its tiny hands the flowers and fruits, willing to share them with any one—wishing, perhaps, that men could live upon them altogether, and not a. little vexed and surprised when told that they would not bloom in the winter time—wishing, too, that the beds might be kept trim, and the grass might be cut without human labour—and then sitting down, musing, melancholy, and sad, on the first falling leaf. To us it appears that liberty and happiness—if it be liberty and happiness we want—depend upon no legerdemain, no shuffling of cards. Once let us learn that our well-being depends not upon external circumstances, but upon the riches of moral goodness, and that our mind, like a prism, can colour all events, and we shall then be on the true road to a higher reform than our politicians have yet dreamt of. To teach men their duty, and what love and what justice mean, seems to us just now the one thing needful. Gold, perhaps, is the medicine least wanted to cure human ills—the worst salve for human bruises. The mere kind look and the kind action will be treasured up with its own interest, not to be counted at any poor per cent., whilst the money will have been foolishly squandered—how much more the word which shall kindle a new idea, a fresh truth, another life. The mechanic earning his few shillings a week, enough to support himself, may find pleasure, if he has but learnt to take an interest in the few green grass blades beneath his feet, and the few opening flowers in his garden, which no lord in his castle can surpass. Nothing is so cheap as true happiness: and Providence has well arranged that we may be surrounded by ever-flowing springs of it, if we will but choose, in all humility, to drink of them. Shelley, unfortunately, fancied that there was some one specific to be externally applied to the gangrene of wretchedness, i2 �116 Shelley. and cure it at once and for ever; but we must go far beyond the surface, and the application must be made, not to the diseased part only, but to the whole body of society. And as to the sorrows and contradictions of life, we take and accept them, believing that there is a spirit at work for good, which will bring them out to a successful issue. And we are proud to be instru­ ments in working out so grand a principle, believing that the pain and the loss to us will be gain to the human race; that these days of sorrow will be a gain to coming years; that this sadness of a part will be a gain to the whole. In this is our un­ faltering trust; and secure in it we can go joyfully along, enduring patiently whatever sorrow or whatever conflict we may encounter, striving to help our weaker brethren, giving them what aid we can. Painful as it may be to think of a number of fellow-creatures toiling early and late, yet labour has its own claims on our grati­ tude. Labour seems to be man’s appointed lot here, and it is foolish to quarrel with it; still more foolish to call it a curse; the thistles and the thorns have been, perhaps, of more benefit to the human race than all the flowers in the Garden of Eden. They have called forth man’s energies, and developed his resources. All those chimneys in our factory-towns—are they not as steeples, veritable church steeples and towers of the great temple of Labour, pointing, with no dumb stone fingers, up to heaven, saying, by us, by labour, is the road up there ? Does not the flame and the smoke-wreath look as if it came from some vast altar, the incense of sacrifices—yes, of noble human sacrifices, daily offered up; and do not the clank and clash of a thousand hammers and anvils sound sweet upon our ears, as the music of bells calling us to our duty—trumpets sounding us to the battle of life, that battle against evil and wrong ? So it must be: out of darkness cometh light, and from the cold frosts and bitter snows of winter, bloom all the beauteous flowers of spring; and from all this grime, and dirt, and sweat of labour, who shall prophesy the result ? Even now are there giants in the land; even now may we see cranks, and wheels, and iron arms, tethered to their work instead of men; even now do wre hear the music of the electric wires across the fields, telling us other things than the mere message they convey; even now may the hum of the engine, and the breath of its iron lungs, be heard in our old farm-yards, and the reaping-machine seen cutting down the golden wheat, and the steam-plough furrowing up the fields, taking away the heaviest burdens from the backs of men. Shelley would have hailed such a time with delight—when there should be some margin of the day given to the ploughman and the mechanic for rest and recreation—for re­ �The Power of Love and Justice. 117 member, a man is ever worthier than his hire. Had Shelley ever seen a railroad, he would, perhaps, have exclaimed with Dr. Arnott, “Good-night to Feudality.” It is curious to notice what an in­ terest he took in endeavouring to establish a steamer on the Gulf of Genoa. But all the leisure in the world, all the instruction that can be had, will avail us nothing, if we do not build on higher principles than we are at present accustomed to—if we do not rest our foundations upon Love and Justice. “Ah !” sighed Shelley to Leigh Hunt, as the organ was playing in the cathedral at Pisa, “ what a divine religion might be found out, if charity were really made the principle of it instead of faith.” This, then, is a part of Shelley’s creed—a creed which is beginning at length to be felt; the creed of Jesus and of Socrates ; of poets of to-day and of yesterday; the law of laws; the doctrine of charity—that charity which Paul preached as greater than faith. Let our poli­ tics and our religion be built upon love and justice for their foundations, and once more will man live in harmony with the rest of the creation—will smell sweet with “ his fellow-creatures the plants,” and his voice will be attuned with the love-songs of the birds. He will then understand how he was made in God’s image, for God is love; the world will then once more bloom a Garden of Eden, and Selfishness, that evil spirit—call it the devil if you will, for it is this world’s devil—be ousted from our planet. But it requires something more than a poet’s strains to break the spells that bind us—to exhume the people from their present sepulchre of ignorance. A Tyrtaeus is of no use, unless we will fight; his strains of no avail, unless we will work, man to man, shoulder to shoulder. The walls of prejudice and selfishness will not fall down by any mere trumpet-blast. If any one thinks us too ideal, let him know we are purposely so. The ideal is better than the real, and it is something to be ideal in these practical days of ours. “ Equality ” and “ love ” may per­ haps never be known, as they should be, amongst men. Riches have been well compared to snow, which if it fall level to-day, to-morrow will be heaped in drifts. But surely there is an equality apart from money, and a love which knows not bank-notes; we will hope for, and aid forward, too, the day when there may not be the present gulf betwixt the peer and the peasant, and when that simple commandment shall be better observed, “ Do unto others as you would be done by.” In a note to “ The Prometheus Unbound,” Mrs. Shelley thus writes:— “ The prominent feature of Shelley’s theory of the destiny of the human species was, that evil is not inherent in the system of the crea­ �118 Shelley. tion, but an accident that might he expelled. This also forms a portion of Christianity. God made earth and man perfect, till he, by his fall— ‘Brought death into the world, and all our woe.’ Shelley believed that mankind had only to will that there should be no evil, and there would be none. That man could become so perfect as to be able to expel evil from his own nature, and from the greater part of the creation, vras the cardinal point of his system.” There is much truth in this. Our misery arises from the in­ fringement of natural laws; and as long as those laws remain broken, our misery will still continue. But Hope is by our side, and she tells us, with the unmistakeable voice of truth, that men will some day grow wiser and less selfish than at present—when most of the present suffering shall pass away—when none need be long unhappy, except through their own fault—for the earth was created for a good and a happy purpose, though it take myriads of years to accomplish it. And now let us not be one-sided, but view Shelley as a whole —the unripe as well as the sunny side of the fruit—the dark shadow on his orb as well as the sunlight. His impulsive character prevented him from laying enough stress on the grand principle of duty. Its infinite worth we cannot over-estimate. Duty is a pillar firmly fixed in rock of adamant, round which we climb heavenward; round everything else we only twine horizon­ tally, crawling along the ground. How far a stronger sense of duty in Shelley would have saved him from the wretchedness which he suffered, and his first wife from the terrible catastrophe consequent on his leaving her, we shall not attempt to estimate; but certainly it would have impelled him, as it did Milton, to return from Italy when his country was in danger, and like him also, if need were, to support himself even by keeping a school. We have already noticed his want of a due appreciation of the im­ portance of Labour. He forgot also that the energies of man are tempered to an iron hardness by adversity; that our strength springs up fresher and stronger under the clouds of trials and sufferings; that our souls are braced by the keen, cold winds of poverty; our faculties purified by the fire of affliction. Hence was he ever planning Utopias, where the idle should batten upon the earnings of the industrious — cloud-cuckoo-towns, where idleness and the take-no-thought-for-to-morrow principles should become the laws of our being, which are all of them impossibili­ ties on this toiling planet. Again, too, Shelley erred in being too ready to pull down instead of to build up. Greater harm has "been done, both in religion and politics, by men whose capabili­ ties have been of the destructive order, without the constructive �Shelley, and the Arrangements of Society. 119 faculty, than by all tlie bigots that ever breathed. It is worse than cruelty to take away the bread of life and the waters of life, however adulterated they may be, from a man, and offer his hungry and thirsting soul nothing in their place. But the grand mistake of Shelley’s was the idea of revolutionizing the course of things by a simple change of institutions. The best form of government can do but little, unless the reform begins with the individuals themselves. Govern ourselves well, and we need not then talk so much about governing others. It is not the form of government, so much as the men and women, we must care for— not this or that institution, but the first principles of honesty and justice amongst ourselves, which we must regard. That men should be severe upon Shelley we can well under­ stand—good, easy people, whose skins are luckily so tough and insensible that the harness of life can make no raw on them— whose heads are but moulds for so many cast-iron opinions and creeds. That an over-sensitive poet should break away from all the rules of life, and betake himself to the wilderness of his own doubts and speculations, is to them a most incredible, not to say a most wicked thing. To leave a home fireside, with its six o’clock dinner and port wine, in exchange for a doubtful supper on bread and cheese, and a certain one on metaphysics—to form your own world-theory—to found a fresh morality—is to them the height of madness. They forget that the arrangements of society are made, and rightly too, for the mass—that is, for such people as themselves—and that a poet is something very different from themselves, and that these laws which operate so well for them, will in all likelihood work fatally on the poet. So the poor poet must be hooted and brayed at by all the chorus of human owls and quadrupeds. He plunges away madly into the darkness beyond, solitary and sad, endeavouring to steer by the compass of his own thoughts. The world looks on him in his struggles and his toils with the same quiet indifference, not to say pleasure, that a boy does at a cockchafer spinning in agony on a pin’s point. That Shelley’s views were often wild and crude, no one for a moment will deny. Enthusiastic and impulsive, he jumped to all sorts of conclusions on the most important points. The value of a young man’s experience—and Shelley died at nine-and-twenty—is not worth much, and it is only by expe­ rience we can test anything in this practical world. He himself found this out at last. Circumstances also had a great effect in his case, as they have upon all of us. We perhaps can never rightly weigh the balance of any man’s actions, because we never allow enough for the circumstances which should be placed in the other scale. Here was Shelley, the son of a man who was , �120 Shelley. entirely different in his whole nature, sent to school where he * was brutally treated and discouraged in his studies, marrying a peison who was in no respects fitted for him. On the other hand, suppose that he had had a father who could have judi­ ciously sympathized with him, been sent to a school where masters would have encouraged his studies, and have married a suitable wife, who shall say what Shelley might have been ? But we are dealing with things not as they might be, but as they were and are. One small pebble in the way of a stream shall make the river flow in another direction, and water quite other lands and countries to what it does now. Yet man, perhaps, should not be a stream, as weak as water. Be this as it may, it is certain that before Shelley s death the mists that had long obscured the rising of his dawui were already melting, and his day was just breaking, all calm and pure; the bitter juices were all being drawn up, and converted into sweetness and bloom; the fruit of his genius was fast becoming ripe and mellow. We have gone thus far into Shelley’s life and opinions, without touching upon his poetry; for we think that if a person cared nothing at all about poetry in the abstract, he must be struck with that still higher poetry of kindness and generosity which so inspired Shelley. His written poetry, in our mind, is quite a secondary affair to that. There is a poetry of real life which is grander than any yet sung by minstrel. The man is greater than his poems. The critics have plenty of stock objections to find with Shelley’s poetry. The most common complaint is, that he is too metaphy­ sical ; that the air is so rarified in his higher regions of Philoso­ phy, that ordinary beings can’t breathe it; that his verse is like hard granite peaks, brilliant with the lights and the shadows of the changeful clouds, robed with white wreaths of mists, and touched with the splendours of the setting and the rising sun, but not one flower blooms upon it, not one living creature is to be seen there, only ethereal forms flitting fitfully hither and thither; and we must, to a certain extent, admit the truth of the charge. Shelley exhibited to a remarkable degree the union of the metaphysical and the imaginative mind. Philosophy and poetry prevailed over him alternately. For a long time he was doubtful to which he should devote himself, f It is from an overbalance of philosophy that there is such a want of concrete­ ness in his poems. He was for ever looking at things in a meta­ * “As like his father, as I’m unlike mine.”—Letter to Mrs. Gisborne, f See Mrs. Shelley’s note on the “ Revolt of Islam.” �The Cause of Shelley s Poetry. 121 physical point of view, projecting himself into Time and Space; regarding this earth as a ball, with its blue robe of air, “ As she dances about the sun,” instead of parcelled out into rich farms and sprinkled with towns, and solid three and four-storied bouses, and walls fourteen inches thick, tenanted by Kit Slys, Shylocks, Iagos, Falstaffs, and the whole company of humanity, who play on alternate nights and days the tragedy or the comedy of life. That he should have taken this abstract view of life is not at all wonderful. All great minds are ever attracted by the problem of life. This world­ riddle is of all things the most fascinating to the ardent and inquiring spirit. The reason why Shelley sang of the things he did, was simply that they both interested and pained him more than others. Living in an age, which gave birth to the French Revolution, which was agonized with the throes of all sorts of speculative theories, his verse naturally echoed them. Every true artist—whether by poetry, or painting, or architecture, it matters not—gives us the great questions of the day, with his attempted solution of them. Hence is it that Shelley is really a poet, be­ cause in his verse he truly sympathized with the wants of the day. Before a man can write well, he must have felt. It is not fine phrases, or similes, or fine anything else that make a poet, any more than fine clothes make a man. Shelley found out that the old-established customs, the old morals, the old laws, did not suit him. The every-day maxims of low prudence sounded to him very much like baseness; the common religion to him was synonymous with uncommon irreligion, and public morality looked to him merely a mask for private immorality. He felt all this, and felt it bitterly, and sighed after nobler aspirations; hence his poetry. His great failing is a certain amount of queru­ lousness, instead of calmly reposing amidst all his conflicts in an eternal Justice, which, though it may be far from visible to com­ mon eyes, is still the foundation of the world. He had before his death passed through only one stage of the conflict which most great minds undergo. Before belief, there must be doubt; before the fire, the smoke. Shelley never attained that perfect repose which the greatest poets have possessed, and his poetry consequently does not rise to the highest order. Now, Shelley defines poetry as “ the expression of the imagination,”* and he has Shakspeare on his side— “ The lunatic, the lover, and the poet, Are of imagination all compact.” * “ A Defence of Poetry.” �122 Shelley. Strangely does that word “ lunatic” sound now, as we think of that tale of “ Mad Shelley.” But this is exactly what Shelley’s poetry really is—“ the expression of the imagination,” unmodi­ fied by experience, and any knowledge of this world of men and women. Imagination, though doubtless the first requisite of a poet, is far from all. As Novalis would say, “ a poet is a Tnie.rocosmos.” The great poets are all of them many-sided. Their poetry is both /ztjtnjtTtc and 7to' ]<tiq. They illustrate both the u Aristotelian and Baconian theory of poetry, as well as much more. They are like lands which bear crops of all kinds. They possess, in fact, the united faculties of all other men, and these faculties serve to check and balance one another. Every part working in unison, nothing unduly developed at the expense of another, are the characteristics of all great poets, and, in fact, of all great men, who are only poets in another way. Shelley’s imagination, unluckily, galloped away with him, instead of his reining it in. Take some of the most imaginative pieces that have ever been written, and we shall find how they are all of them more or less ballasted. There is that most fairy-like of all things, “ The Birds” of Aristophanes, brilliant with imagination, yet still occupying our interest by its wit and humour. Again, “The Midsummer Night’s Dream” and “ The Tempest,” with all their scenes from Fairyland, and their spirits, are balanced by the human creations, and the interest and incidents that arise from the plots. Shelley seems never to have anchored his imagination to anything. There was no clog to it. Nothing to tie it down. Hence his weak, shadowy drawings, his want of substance, an absence of reality. Hence his characters are too often mere personified abstractions; thoughts which have been only half-clothed in human bodies. For we cannot agree with Lord Macaulay in thinking that they cease to be abstractions, and interest us as human beings; for common experience tells us that they do not. * Shelley had in him none of the elements which made Shakspeare essentially popular. He was a vegetarian, a water-drinker. In philosophical moods he doubted the existence of matter; but then he was always in philosophical moods. He is, in short, too spiritual, too subtle for ordinary men with good appetites, who are not troubled by the theories of Berkeley. We cannot fancy him at one of those “ wit-combats” at The Mermaid, drinking sherrissack, and joining in the chorus of a song. He wanted the faculty of humour, though Captain Medwin assures us he possessed it strongly. We have looked in vain; we cannot find * See some incidental remarks on Shelley, in the Essay upon “ The Pil­ grim’s Progress.” , �if q ja dt <1 His Poems as illustrated by his Life. 123 a spark of it in his letters, which, on the contrary, are marked hy his usual melancholy spirits. He was too metaphysical to he humorous. He had more of the Jaques and the Hamlet vein than Falstaff’s in him. Hence his bitter outbursts of sarcasm. We must, however, turn to his Life to account for the peculiarities of his poetry. We find there that it took him only a few weeks to write “ The Prometheus Unbound,” whilst he laboured at “ The Cenci” for months; that he forsook his drama of “ Charles I.” in disgust, for “ The Triumph of Life,” one of his most abstruse poems. A curious trait, which gives us no little clue in the matter, is mentioned by Captain Medwin, that Shelley was in the habit of noting down his dreams. “ The first day,” he said, “they made a page, the next two, the third several, till at last they constituted far the greater part of his existence, realizing what Calderon says, in his comedy of ‘ La Vida es Sueno’— ‘ Sueno es Sueno.’ ‘ Dreams are but the dreams of other dreams.’ ” What could be expected of a poet to whom dreams were the only realities of life ? And yet there is something peculiarly pathetic in the story; to many of us, as well as to Shelley, probably our sleeping and our waking dreams are the happiest parts of our ex­ istence. We build our air-castles, those dreams of the day, and take refuge in them from the toil and uproar of the world. There are times when all of us become disheartened, when the spirit within us faints, when we sigh in our hearts— “ 0 cease ! must hate and death return ? Cease! must men kill and die ?” Shelley was, notwithstanding his sanguine hopes, subject to such fits of despondency; no wonder that he should write down his dreams. After all, we live far more in our world of thoughts, and fancies, and dreams, and spend a happier existence, too, in them, than on the real material world. Shelley, too, seems to have known that the abstract nature of his poetry would be a bar to his popularity, and says, in a letter to a friend, that there are not five people who will understand his ‘‘Prometheus Unbound;” and in his prefatory lines to his “ Epipsychidion,” he writes:— “ My song, I fear that thou wilt find but few Who shall conceive thy reasoning.” And this might be said, with some limitation, of all his poetry. Again, when his wife complains of his want of human interest and story, he wishes to know if she, too, has become “criticbitten.” As he said of Keats, he himself can never become popular; his effect upon men will be, not to make them applaud, �124 Shelley. but to think. Popularity and fame were not the things Shelley cared for. It would be well if our young poets would remember this. No great thing ever did become popular at once. The fact of its becoming popular at once, shows it is not worth much. If you care for popularity, then write songs which can be played on street-organs, and by sentimental young ladies in drawing­ rooms, and which commonplace critics can understand. But if you respect yourself—and that’s the only respect worth anything —never mind if only five people understand you; these five are worth five millions of others, nay, are worth the whole of the rest of the world. As to Shelley being difficult to understand, we apprehend that this is far more the reader’s fault than the poet’s. Plato, instead of saying “ poets utter wise things which they do not themselves understand,” should have said, “ which their readers do not try to understand.” We are not amongst those who look upon poetry as a mere amusement, as a light recreation. The office of the poet is the highest in the world. As Shelley finely says, “ poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world;” and he himself was the Laureate of Freedom. The poet comes as spokesman between nature and the rest of his fellow-men: he is the true priest—the true prophet; extending the tent of our thoughts, enlarging the horizon of our ideas, teaching whatever is lovely, whatever is holy and pure, revealing the unseen things the common eye cannot see, and the melodies the common ear cannot hear, interpreting the mute symbols of [flower, and cloud, and hill, drawing his inspiration from the depths within his own soul. There is another point in connexion with this want of human interest in his poems—that though Shelley experienced at times all the hardships of poverty, yet he was not born poor. Unlike the Burns and the Shakspeares, he never mingled with the crowd, never learnt human life in that rough, coarse way, which tinges their poetry with common every-day experiences, and invests their characters with a flesh-and-blood reality. At school he was always reserved, and in after-life much the same. Hence it is that Sheliey never draws upon our feelings, like the great masters, in his longer pieces ; there is none of the pathos of life, except, per­ haps, in the “ Cenci.” He is too cold ; his characters are like statues of white marble ; no warm blood flows in their veins, no tears trickle down their cheeks. They might be inhabitants of another planet, for what we know, giving us the benefit of their views on various social problems. Again, as we are criticising, we must find fault with those dulcia vitia of overloaded imagery and similes. His verse too often flows not in a clear, deep, rolling stream, but more like a moun­ tain current, swollen and impetuous from rain, jostling together �The Past, Present, and Future. 125 ■ everything that floats upon it. His imagery is often so rich that, E- like the fruit on too luxuriant branches, it completely weighs k the verse down and requires propping up. A very curious ex|t ample of this may be seen in “ The Skylark,” where, after comk paring the bird to all beautiful things, having said that its song t is sweeter than the sound of showers, he closes by— L r r e “ All that ever was Joyous, and clear, and fresh, thy music doth surpass.” He cannot, in fact, heap simile on simile fast enough, though the verses are even now overflowing with them, like flowers overpowering with their sweetness. Again, we must notice an opposite vice—a love for unpleasant situations and things— “ At whose name the verse feels loath ”— as in “ The Cenciand a disagreeable love for the details of madness and hospital-life, as in “ Julian and Maddaloand we have finished the catalogue of his principal offences. We dare say there are plenty more minor faults, but we wont deprive other critics of the pleasure of exposing them. Shelley’s imagination was both his stepping-stone and his stumbling-block. It unfortunately mars his poems by its over-excess, yet it gave him wings, with which he could soar aloft above the 8 grovelling views of our everyday life. The fault of the literature of E the day is that it is too retrospective ; thinks that the Golden Age « is in the Past, and not in the Future. It has its eyes fixed in the a back of its head, and if it ever attempts to look forward, squints s most abominably. This is the worst sign of the day, or of any fl day. Let us, if we will, praise the dead Past, and crown its grey a temples with a wreath of glory; but let us look forward to the A Future as a happv youth, holding a cornucopia of all good things 9 in his hand. Shelley, at times, when a film came across his w eyes, sank into this wild sea of despair, but his imagination soon m buoyed him up. There is a good Scottish proverb which it • would be well for us to remember—“We maun live with the « present, and no’ with the past.” Our duty lies with the present, m and it is simply by making it as good as possible that we can < mould the future. Shelley’s imagination, too, prevented him from js- sharing in our English insularity. There was nothing local in •H his mind. It was as catholic as the universe. Hence he was w ever looking forward with courageous hope. Golden gleams of -fl the future flashed before him. He could conjure up new Edens, ai and see Liberty again with Justice walking hand in hand upon a i® new earth. Shelley’s poems will not bear studying as a whole, nor will his ar characters bear analysing. They are, in fact, all representations ■ c ij k 8 w V �126 Shelley. of Shelley. The reason of this is that Shelley sought to give his own views to the world, and he had no medium to give it through hut himself. He had no resources from experience 'to draw upon, no character but his own that he really knew. His life was a poem, his poems his life. Alastor sailing in his boat, is Shelley ; Lionel in his dungeon-walls, Shelley; Laon, with his visions of Liberty, Shelley. So his female characters are only Shelley over again with long dresses and short sleeves. In one poem only, “ The Cenci,” does he make any effort to get behind the mask of his creations. But even here Count Cenci is only the reverse of former characters ; he is only their antithesis, as im­ pulsive towards evil as they were towards good. Shelley should have remembered an axiom of his favourite author, Plato—kcckoc JJ£V fytoV OV^UQ. Turning to Shelley’s poems, we perceive at once the instinctive feelings of the true poet. Thus he begins “Alastor” :— “ Earth, ocean, air, beloved brotherhood ! If our great mother have imbued my soul With aught of natural piety to feel Your love, and recompense the boon with mine; If no bright bird, insect, or gentle beast I consciously have injured, but still loved And cherished these my kindred.” Mr. Leigh Hunt, in his “Recollections of Lord Byron and some of his Contemporaries,” speaks thus of Shelley—“ He was pious towards nature, towards his friends, towards the whole human race, towards the meanest insect of the forest.” But he was more than this. He felt that we are all akin, not men alone, but the cloud above our heads, and the flower beneath our feet. He felt that man is related to the world as a Part to the Whole. He felt how all things mysteriously influence us, and how to these influences we are akin. Such natural stepping-stones as these lead us to Heaven, to which also we are allied. This rela­ tionship it is, above all things, the poet’s office to show. Dearly, too, does Shelley love Nature, who gives to us all alike her beau­ ties, trying to read us the lesson— “The simple life wantslittie, and true'taste Hires not the pale drudge Luxury to waste The scene it would adorn.”—(“ Epipsychidion.”) How long it will be before we shall find out that we can live without our present costly tastes, that our food will be as sweet from clean earthenware as from silver dishes (many of them, by the way though, only plated), that our sleep will be quite as re­ freshing from a plain bedstead as one that suffocates us with its unpaid-for hangings, we cannot undertake to say. The sooner, �His Love for Personification. 127 however, the better. Very fine is the old fable of Antaeus, who, when he touched his mother earth, received fresh strength. Nature is the true corrective of the false bias which our minds insensibly contract from the present sordid state of the world. A walk in the woods acts as a tonic. A landscape fills the senses not only with mere material visions of beauty, but these react again upon us with a precious moral spirit. We must not pass over Shelley’s love for personification of in­ animate objects, a result of his strong imagination. Take, for instance— “ Our boat is asleep on Serchio’s stream, Its sails are folded like thoughts in a dream, The helm sways idly, hither and thither; Dominic, the boatman, has brought the mast, And the oars and the sails, but 'tis sleeping fast, Like a beast unconscious of its tether.” (“The Boat on the Serchio.”) There is another well-known example in the “ Cenci,” of the rock hanging over the precipice, clinging for support, as a dying soul clings to life. This propensity it is that leads him to humanize the objects of nature. He cannot see a stream, but he forthwith converts it into a personage, as the old heathen poets would have into a god or a goddess. He gazes upon Arethusa ; it is no longer a stream, but a beautiful nymph with crystal feet leaping from rock to rock, her tresses floating on the wind, and wherever she steps, the turf grows greener and brighter. And then comes Alpheus, no longer a stream but a river-god, with his fierce beard and glaring eyes, chasing the nymph whom the earth tries to rescue from his embrace ; and so they rush along in .their mad pursuit. This is quite in the spirit of the old Greek my­ thology. In these prosaic days we are ever analysing the old Divinities; we put Venus into a crucible and melt her down, and look at Jupiter through a microscope like any other specimen of natural history. We will, however, continue our quotation, as it developes many of Shelley’s characteristics in a few lines :— “ The stars burnt out in the pale blue air, And the thin white moon lay withering there; To tower and cavern, rift and tree, The owl and the bat fled drowsily. Day had kindled the dewy woods, And the rocks above and the stream below, And the vapours in their multitudes, And the Apennine's shroud of summer snow, And clothed with light of airy gold The mists in their eastern caves uprolled,^ �128 Shelley. JShelley’s love for the mountains amounted to a passion. Long before Mr. Ruskin wrote—who seems to arrogate for himself the priority of seeing any real beauty or use in them—had Shelley sung their praises. So fond was he of them, that Captain Medwin tells us he was continually sketching them in his books. A claim, too, has been put in for Wordsworth, that he first gave us the scenery of the sky, and all the glorious cloud-scapes and air tones, which earlier poets had so strangely neglected. Shelley may at least share this glory with him; though the critics have forgotten that Aristophanes has a still prior claim. Shelley is continually alluding to them. His lyric on the “ Cloud” paints them as they move in their huge battalions across the sky, in all their colours, from red sunrise to crimson sunset; or as they come sailing along with their black wings, as if they were Titan ships waging war one with another; or in the night lying as if they were silver sands lippled by the waves of the wind, and lighted by the moon. In all Shelley’s pieces there is a strange melancholy feeling, which we have alluded to before; not the result, as Mr. Ruskin foolishly thinks, of any impiety, but from the poet’s affection for Humanity, and his sorrow at its ills. Take this picture of Summer and Winter”:— “It was a bright and cheerful afternoon, Towards the end of the sunny month of June, When the north wind congregates in crowds The floating mountains of the silver clouds From the horizon—and the stainless sky Opens beyond them like seternity. All things rejoiced beneath the sun—the weeds, The river, and the corn-fields, and the reeds; The willow leaves that glanced in the bright breeze, And the firm foliage of the larger trees. It was a winter such as when birds die In the deep forests; and the fishes lie Stiffened in the translucent ice, which makes Even the mud and slime of the warm lakes A wrinkled clod, as hard as brick; and when, Among their children, comfortable men Gather about great fires, and yet feel cold; Alas! then, for the homeless beggar old.” Shelley, with all his love for Nature, could no longer dwell upon the last scene. The wind sowing the flakes of snow on the earth, the frozen grass lying on the bald fields like grey hair, and the icicles hanging like a beard from the rocks, had no charms for him. He was thinking of all the frost-bitten, homeless, breadless wanderers. So through all his poetry he is ever musing �His Melancholy Feelings, and their Causes. 129 on the wrongs and sufferings of poor humanity. This gives it a peculiar melancholy tone, not morbidness, but a true deep pathos. He writes more of the fall of the year, than of its birth. He sings the dirge over its bier, rather than the marriage-song of the Spring. The wild wind, “the world’s rejected guest,” moans among his verses, and there finds a home. Ever does he say, “ the sweetest songs are those that tell of saddest thought.” Another reason is there for this feeling with Shelley, his habit of looking at the world from a metaphysical point of view. The very grandeur and might of the Universe casts a shadow upon the heart of man. All great minds have ever known this profound gloom. Whether CEdipus interprets or not the world-riddle, he shall die. Mark how in “ Alastor” Shelley writes— “ The thunder and the hiss of homeless streams.” How much is conveyed in that word “ homeless.” The streams wandering along, seeking rest and finding none, until they reach the haven of the sea, and then are snatched away again into the air, seeming to say, “ we change, but we cannot die;” here we are condemned to be for ever, restless, shifting, changing. So with all things. And Shelley felt this strongly. The mountains which seem so firm, and “ all that must seternal be,” are after all but as changeful as the clouds which rest upon their brows. Many minor points are there which we might discuss, such as Shelley’s particular fondness for a certain class of images, and particular words. On one of these in particular, taken from the green fields, he seems to dwell with great affection. Thus he writes— “ Nor peace, nor strength, nor skill in arms, or arts, Shepherd those herds whom tyranny makes tame.” (“ Sonnet on Political Greatness.”) So he speaks of Arethusa "‘shepherding her bright fountains of Adonais, “ whose quick dreams were his flocks and of the West Wind— “ Driving sweet buds like flocks to feed on air.” So, again, in the “ Witch of Atlas,” he calls the wind “the shep­ herdess of ocean flocksand he speaks of the earth itself as “ the last of the flock of the starry fold.”* Even in his prose * It is curious to notice how the “ one miud common to all individual men,” as Mr. Emerson would say, repeats the same idea. Thus Edward Bolton, a poet but little known, writes thus:— “ Lo! how the firmament Within an azure fold Theflock of the stars hath pent.”—(“ Hymn for Christmas.”) [Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXV.]—New Series, Vol. XIII. No. I. K �130 Shelley. he returns to this metaphor, and calls Dante “the Lucifer of the starry flock.”* And even in his translation he uses it, thus expanding eXar^pa (3oG>v, i]yhTOp oveipwv Nvktog, (“ The Homeric Hymn to Mercury.”) into “ a Shepherd of thin dreams, a cow stealing.” Other favourite words, such as “winged,” “islanded,” will readily occur to every reader. Space fails us, and we must he brief. Much more is there that might be said about Shelley’s poems, showing how, in the first place, they were inspired by his early reading, how they next yielded to German influences, how these developed themselves into Materialism, and how this, too, was merging into a sort of Spiritualism at the time of his death; marking each era accu­ rately, and showing, too, what effects the French and Italian schools of poetry had upon him. Especially, too, should we like to dwell on some of his lyrics; nothing approaches them for sweetness and melody, except some of Shakspeare’s songs, or some of Goethe’s minor pieces. But we must turn to the man himself. Poetry he loved with a religious spirit. Noble was he in work­ ing at it as his profession. Noble, too, was he in his choice of life. On one hand lay ten thousand a-year and its game pre­ serves, and its bright smiles of courtly women, its soft-cushioned and soft-carpeted drawing-rooms, its dinners with endless courses, its revenue of salutations and bows, its faithful army of faithless toadies; on the other, poverty with its bleak sharp rocks, where yet a man may find a cave to live in; its rude angry sea, yet to which if a man shall listen he may hear the eternal melodies; with its black clouds overhead, which, though so dense, will sometimes open out spaces of the clear, blue, unfathomable sky in the day, and the bright keen stars in the night. Shelley made no hesi­ tation which he should choose; and nobly done, we say to him, and all such. Noble, too, was he that he wrote on fearlessly and boldly in spite of party-reviews and party-critics. Fame was not his mistress. He worshipped not at the shrine of that most fickle of goddesses. Ever higher, was his motto. He was ever quoting this sentiment from the second volume of St. Leon— “ There is nothing which the human mind can- conceive which it may not executeand again, “ Shakspeare was only a human being.”t His face was ever upward—up the steep hill of poesy, whose rarest flowers bloom on the highest peaks. What he might And every one will recollect how Bloomfield’s “ Farmer’s Boy ” so naturally speaks of the stars as— “The beauteous semblance of a flock at rest.” * “Defence of Poetry,” p. 35. f See Mrs. Shelley’s note on “ The Cenci.” �His Personal Character. 131 have been, had he lived, we can never tell. Dying at twenty-nine, we are judging him only by his weaknesses. What could we have told of Shakspeare or Goethe, if the one had only lived to write his “ Pericles,” and the other his “ Werter” ? Let us not forget,- too, the pureness of Shelley s morals. His life in this respect was as pure as crystal without one flaw, one stain on it. Many scenes are there in his writings, one especially in the “ Revolt of Islam,” which could have been treated by no other man with the same pureness of thought. Above all things, too, do we prize his letters to his wife; they are so full of genuine affection and kindness. Well was it that he should die in the great ocean, pure as he himself was, that ocean which he so dearly loved. Above all men, too, is Shelley religious, strange as it will seem to many readers. Love for all that is good and beautiful and truthful, reverence for all that is great and noble, a spirit of humility, had their roots deep in the depths of his soul. What matters it about names and sects ? Let us hear no more about them; they are all but roads and lanes and paths, more or less straight, more or less wide, to the great Invisible Temple. We must place Shelley amongst the world’s Master-Spirits and Master-Singers; a younger brother of that grand blind old man, Cromwell’s secretary. Shelley, too, was one of the world’s Forlorn Hope; one of those generous martyrs who now and then appear at such rare intervals, and fill us with undying hope in the cause of Humanity; one of those who would willingly lay down his life in the trench, if his body would but bridge over the chasm for his comrades to pass. Such a man makes us prouder of our race; and his memory makes the earth itself a richer world. There is a light flung round Shelley’s life, though so marked with griefs and disasters, which has never shone on the most victorious king or Icaiser—a light that shall burn for ever as a beacon to all Humanity. � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Shelley Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [London] Collation: p. 97-131 ; 22 cm. Notes: Includes bibliography (p.97) and bibliographical references. Reviews of four works about Shelley: The Poetical Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1853 -- Essays; Letters from Abroad; Translations and Fragments. by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. 1854 -- The Life of Percy Bysshe Shelley, by Captain Thomas Medwin. 1847 -- The Shelley Papers by Captain Thomas Medwin. 1833. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review 13 (January 1858). Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Wise, John Richard de Capel Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [n.d.] Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Shelley), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT44 Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts English Poetry Percy Bysshe Shelley Poetry Poetry in English Romantic Poetry https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/e36aa6bf6c2df870addda27677fb48ca.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=u1JDP8sEdhQmFJDMXnGpkfOyPqWCYDX2D-yeJkKnNAEpOpEiW3DSbubhLF5sHxS4Jk-ffWtORydm%7E3hWHOVg7UNJQN6K7bbwdYl68NWo8CbC9-ddvlaW1k7XydpQOOXpVWXQ0KTiOOcE5SZx7x%7EY26KfNfbbUEiJW76zcrDnNKzzvZqndAwGn65JlxWsec6TKKbsyQC8kDpU7BaoUbmRxKzGj7gEh5e8X4ODWuWhY88UGJlBEmC03ORgxZxxN5PutuZa7Xw5QSIFh-pqAfpzHvvE-vgcOKiVsWFYpIS%7E95xZXig5IXVVvm6QP2O1%7ENy2fgopKU-QtwDJkjmrceOo4A__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM dce0f9d47910e75c5b33fe295d08c800 PDF Text Text 1870.] Rossetti, the Painter and Poet. found questions are introduced and handled, and its suggestiveness of pro­ found thinking and vast learning, “ Lo­ 95 thair ” stands alone worthy, in the realms of English fiction, to be named along­ side of “ Wilhelm Meister.” ROSSETTI, THE PAINTER AND POET. The utmost efforts of English thought and imagination, aided by assiduous study of all precedent art, have not yet succeeded in establishing an art which merits the appellation of a school, or which, indeed, displays amongst its promoters a character which shall serve to link its individuals into any coher­ ence worthy of classification. Sporadic cases of artistic excellence continually occur, but leave no more effect on the art-production of the country than if they had been of foreign birth and sym­ pathy ; and no artist has yet succeeded in making a pupil, much less a school. As, therefore, with the exception of Turner, no man of remarkable power had appeared in the first half of the nineteenth century, the beginning of the second half showed, on the whole, the most pitifully hopeless state of ar­ tistic development which any country, with serious pretensions, has ever show­ ed. In figure-painting, Leslie, painter of pretty women and drawing-room comedy, had the highest pretension to genius, while around him flourished a multitude of painters of low genre, fus­ tian history, and pose plastique, with here and there a man of real purpose, but struggling against the most absolute want of appreciation and sympathy, either on the part of the profession or the public. In technical qualities and in use of the experience of other times and nations, an English Exhibition of 1849, was the most laughable gathering of misapplied brains which could be found in any country. Out of this degradation must come reformation, and, in 1849, three young reformers in art found themselves face to face with the English public on the question of artistic reform. These were the chiefs of the so-called pre-Raphaelite movement — Dante G. Rossetti, J. E. Millais, and W. Holman Hunt—Rossetti being the chief, of the chiefs, and an Italian, Millais of French descent, and only Hunt, the lesser of the three, an Englishman. The three reformers, like-minded in their disgust for the inanity of the pros­ perous art of the day, had yet no com­ mon ideal, nor was there any intention of organizing a school. The title long since known of “ Pre-Raphaelite Broth­ erhood ” being applied by the followers who soon gathered around them, and who, as is generally the case with disci­ ples, began to organize on the less im­ portant characteristics of the movement, and the term soon became applied to all minute realization of detail, though that was not the element which gave character to the reform, but rather de­ fiance of all thoughtless, conventional representation of nature, Rossetti differ­ ing widely in his ideal from his co-reformers, and the body of their follow­ ers adopted a diverging path, which has left him alone in the peculiar excellen­ cies, as in the aims, of his art. As is always the case in men of so peculiar and so consummate an art— Rossetti had slight hold on the English public, and, having always held general opinion in contempt, he has never, since 1850, been a contributor to the exhibi­ tions, so that even more than with Tur­ ner—his only intellectual peer in the English art of this century—his rank is the award of the profession and the learned few. Nor can he be classified. No school has shown any thing like him, and, like Turner, he has no fol­ lower. Italian by blood, English com­ monplace-ism had no root in his intel­ lect, while the tone of English life lift­ ed him above the slavishness which seems to paralyse art in Italy. The father, an Italian political refugee and �96 Putnam’s Magazine. poet, carried his passion for liberty and poetry into exile, and gave his son the name and worship of the great Tuscan, and a nature in which his own mysti­ cism and originality, and the exuberant sensuousness of his nation, mingled with the earnest religious nature of his wife (of mixed English and Italian race), and the sound, high-toned morality of an admirable English education. Cir­ cumstances more favorable for the de­ velopment of an exceptionally indi­ vidual artistic character could hardly have been combined. Rossetti is at once mystical, imaginative, individual, and intense; a colorist of the few great­ est ; designer at once weird, and of re­ markable range of subject and sympa­ thy ; devotional, humanitarian, satiric, and actual, and, by turns, mediaeval and modern; now approaching the religious intensity of the early Italian, now sati­ rizing a vice of to-day with a realism quite his own, and again painting images of sensuous beauty with a pas­ sionate fulness and purity which no other painter has ever rendered. His most remarkable gift is what, in the in­ completeness of artistic nomenclature, I must call spontaneity of composition —that imaginative faculty by which the completeness and coherence of a pic­ torial composition are preserved from the beginning, so that, to its least de­ tail, the picture bears the impress of having been painted from a complete conception. At times weird, at others grotesque, and again full of pathos, his pictures almost invariably possess this most precious quality of composition, in which Leys alone, of modern paint­ ers, is to be compared with him. Like all great colorists, Rossetti makes of color a means of expression, and only, in a lesser degree, of representa­ tion. Color is to him an art in itself, and the harmonies of his pictures are rather like sad strains of some perfect Eastern music, always pure and wellsought in tint, but with chords that have the quality of those most precious of fabrics—the Persian and Indian— something steals in always which is not of the seen or of earthly tones, a passage [July, which touches the eye as a minor strain does the ear, with a passionate sugges­ tion of something lost, and which, mated with his earnest and spiritual tone of thought, gives to his art, for those who know and appreciate it fully, an interest which certain morbid qualities, born of the over-intense and brooding imagina­ tion, and even certain deficiencies in power of expression, only make more deep. Amongst modem painters he is the most poetic; and, in his early life, painting and poetry seem to have dis­ puted the bent of his mind, and some early poems laid the foundation of a school of poetry, just as his early pic­ tures laid those of a school of art (if even this be worthy to be called a school). In a volume of poems just published there is a sonnet on one of his earliest designs, which, doubtless, expresses the creed of art of the reform. It is called “ St. Luke the Painter,” and represented St. Luke preaching and showing pictures of the Virgin and Christ. Give honor unto Luke Evangelist; Eor he it was (the aged legends say) Who first taught Art to fold her hands and pray. Scarcely at once she dared to rend the mist Of devious symbols: but soon, having wist How sky-breadth and field-silence and this day Are symbols also in some deeper way, She looked through these to God, and was God’s priest. And if, past noon, her toil began to irk, And she sought talismans, and turned in vain To soulless self-reflections of man’s skill; Yet now, in this the twilight, she might still Kneel in the latter grass to pray again, Ere the night confeth, and she may not work. Rossetti’s indifference to public opin­ ion was the same for picture or poem, for he only exhibited twice, and only two or three of his poems have been printed; but, as the former worked a reform amongst the painters, the latter gave a bent to some of the coming po­ ets, and the authors of the Earthly Para­ dise and Atalanta in Calydon, owe to Rossetti the direction of their thoughts. I remember seeing, in the exhibition, Rossetti’s first exhibited picture. The subject was “ Mary’s Girlhood.” It rep­ resented an interior, with the Virgin / �1870.] Rossetti, the Painter and Poet. Mary sitting by her mother’s side and embroidering from nature a lily, while an angel-child waters the flower which she copies. His sister Christina, the poetess, and her mother, were the models from whom he painted Mary and her mother, and the picture, full of intense feeling and mystic significance, was, for the painters, the picture of the exhibi­ tion (the long extinct “ National Insti­ tution”). It is commemorated in the volumes of poems by a sonnet with the same title. This is that blessed Mary, pre-elect God’s virgin. Gone is a great 'while, and she Dwelt young in Nazareth of Galilee. Unto God’s will she,brought devout respect, Profound simplicity of intellect, And supreme patience. Prom her mother’s knee Faithful and hopeful; wise in charity ; Strong in grave peace ; in pity circumspect. So held she through her girlhood; as it were An angel-watered lily, that near God Grows and is quiet. Till, one dawn at home She woke in her white bed, and had no fear At all, yet wept till sunshine, and felt Because the fulness of the time was come. He exhibited again, in 1850, an An­ nunciation, well remembered amongst artists as “ the white picture,” both the angel and Mary being robed in white, in a white-walled room, the only masses of color being their hair, which was au­ burn. This was his last contribution to any exhibition, his disregard of pub­ lic approbation growing with the evi­ dence that appeared every day of the hold his works had taken on the artis­ tic and intellectual part of the public, so that to-day he is preeminently the painter of the painters and poets, as the character of the poetry stamps him the poet of the painters. Scarcely a note has he struck in his poems which has not its corresponding expression in his painting; and poem sometimes turns to a picture, and a picture sometimes reproduces itself as a poem. Amongst the most important of the poems thus involved is one which, con­ ceived in the old catholic spirit, Ros­ setti has illustrated by a series of pic­ tures and drawings, designed in the same tone. It is the “ Ave,” a hymn to the Virgin. It is full of the most ad­ 1 97 mirable word-painting, and follows the life of the Virgin from the annunciation to the assumption. The opening pic­ ture of the annunciation is in the spirit of his early art as the whole poem is of his early thought. Mind’st thou not (when June’s heavy breath Warmed the long days in Nazareth), That eve thou didst go forth to give Thy flowers some drink that they might live One faint night more amid the sands I Far off the trees were as pale wands Against the fervid sky : the sea Sighed further off eternally, As human sorrow sighs in sleep. Then suddenly the awe grew deep, As of a day to which all days Were footsteps in God’s secret ways: Until a folding sense, like prayer Which is, as God is, everywhere, Gathered about thee; and a voice Spake to thee without any noise, Being of the silence:—“ Hail 1 ’’ it said, “ Thou that art highly favored ; The Lord is with thee here and now, Blessed among all women thou 1 ” Another more purely imaginative and intensely pathetic picture, is of the life of Mary in the house of John, after Christ’s death. It represents the inte­ rior of the house of John, with a win­ dow- showing a twilight view of Jeru­ salem. Against the faint distance cut the window-bars, forming a cross, at the intersection of which hangs a lamp which Mary had risen to trim and light, having left her spinning, while John, who has been writing, and holds his tablets still on his knees, strikes a light with a flint and steel for Mary to use. Above the window hangs a net. The passage which is illustrated by it is one of the finest of the poem. Mind’st thou not (when the twilight gone Left darkness in the house of John) Between the naked window-bars That spacious vigil of the stars! For thou, a watcher even as they, Wouldst rise from where throughout the day Thou wroughtest raiment for His poor; And, finding the fixed terms endure Of day and night which never brought Sounds of His coming chariot, Wouldst lift, through cloud-waste unexplor’d, Those eyes which said, “ How long, O Lord 1 ” Then that disciple whom He loved, Well heeding, haply would be moved To ask thy blessing in His name; And that one thought in both, the same Though silent, then would clasp ye round To weep together—tears long bound— Sick tears of patience, dumb and slow. �A A 98 Putnam’s Magazine. The poem called the Blessed Damozel was one of those which were pub­ lished in an art-magazine, conducted by the literary confreres of the reformers in art, and amongst the younger Eng­ lish poets of the day was the key of a new poetic tendency. The writer of these lines has heard the author of the Earthly Paradise avow that the Blessed Damozel turned his mind to writing poetry. It is one of the more passionate, and, at the same time, pictorial, of all Rossetti’s poems, and full of the mystic religious sense in which all the new school began their work with symbolic accessories, as though it had been in­ tended for illustration. THE BLESSED DAMOZEL. The blessed damozel leaned out From the gold bar of heaven ; Her eyes were deeper than the depth Of waters stilled at even ; She had three lilies in her hand, And the stars in her hair were seven. Her robe, ungirt from clasp to hem, No wrought flowers did adorn, But a white rose of Mary’s gift, For service meetly worn ; Her hair that lay along her back Was yellow like ripe corn. Herseemed she scarce had been a day One of God’s choristers ; The wonder was not yet quite gone From that still look of hers; Albeit, to them she left, her day Had counted as ten years. (To one, it is ten years of years. . . . Yet now, and in this place, Surely she leaned o’er me—her hair Fell all about my face. . . . Nothing: the autumn fall of leaves. The whole year sets apace.) ##**** “ I wish that he were come to me, For he will come,” she said. “ Have I not prayed in heaven ?—on earth, Hord, Hord, has he not pray’d ? Are not two prayers a perfect strength ? And shall I feel afraid ’ “ We two,” she said, “ will seek the groves Where the lady Mary is, ****** “ He shall fear, haply, and be dumb: Then will I lay my cheek To his, and tell about our love, Not once abashed or weak: And the dear Mother will approve My pride, and let me speak. [July, “ Herself shall bring us, hand in hand, To Him round whom all souls Kneel, the clear-ranged unnumbered heads Bowed with their aureoles : And angels meeting us shall sing To their citherns and citoles. “There will I ask of Christ the Lord Thus much for him and me:— Only to live as once on earth With Bove,—only to be, As then awhile, for ever now Together, I and he.” She gazed and listened and then said, Bess sad of speech than mild,— “ All this is when he comes.” She ceased. The light thrilled towards her, fill’d With angels in strong level flight. Her eyes prayed, and she smil’d. (I saw her smile.) But soon their path Was vague in distant spheres : And then she cast her arms along The golden barriers, And laid her face between her hands, And wept. (I heard her tears.) The influence of the study of Dante has been always perceptible in all the work of our painter-poet. The Vita Nuova has been an inexhaustible mine of picture-subject, and the poem, “ Dante at Verona,” one of the longest in the book, is also one of the most earnestly felt, and sympathetic. The Divina Commedia has furnished him only one picture, or rather triptych, from the story of Francesca di Rimini. In this the poets are in the central division; “ The Kiss,” on the right, full of the most intense passion, and the ghosts on the left, pale, dreamy, but dressed as in “ The Kiss,” and floating through an atmosphere filled with little flames, fall­ ing like rain. In dealing with material like this, of course a large measure of conventionalism is to be allowed in the treatment, and Rossetti never hesitates in employing all that his subject de­ mands, so that the Dante designs are, for the most part, at once mystic and typical in conception and treatment. An important picture of “ The Vision of Dante on the Day of Beatrice’s Death,” is most thoroughly studied and realized; two of the heads of Beatrice, and the lady who holds the veil over her at her head, are studied from two of the most celebrated beauties of London. Love leads Dante into the room, where the �1870.] Rossetti, the Paintee body lies, the floor of which is strewn with poppies, and kisses the dead face, in token of the final union—the spiritual kiss which death, the new life, permits to love. In anQther vein the painter employs a degree of realization which represents faculties of a very different nature. In a picture which he calls Hesterna Rosa —“yesterday’s rose”—two courtesans, with their lovers, are finishing a carouse in a tent, while the day is breaking out­ ride. One of them, debauched to utter degradation, riots in her shame and drunkenness, while the other, unused yet to her fallen state, turns, in awaking shame, from her companions. The men are throwing dice—the lover of the shame-faced girl, a low, ruffianly sharp­ er, bites his mistress’ finger abstractedly as he waits for the throw of his adver­ sary. A little girl, an attendant, holds a lute up to her ear and touches the strings, listening to the vibration in sheer indifference to the bacchanals, her purity making the one bright point in the drama, while a monkey—type of all uncleanness—sits at the other side scratching himself in idleness. Through the opening of the tent is seen the dawn through the orchard­ trees, mingling with the lamp-light. One, and perhaps the most powerful, cause of the deep hold which Rossetti, as painter and poet, has obtained on his contemporary painters and poets, is the intense subjectivity of his genius, which, while it gives to sympathetic apprecia­ tion an inexhaustible and inexplicable charm, to those who have no sympathy with his idiosyncrasy gives only an im­ pression of involved phantasy and far­ fetched symbolism. Yet not even Dante himself was more legitimately to this manner born. Not even Titian or Tur­ ner, or the painter of the fragment of Pita, was more involuntarily and uncon­ trollably subjective than their fellowcountryman Rossetti. Types evolved from his own nature run through all his work, and his ideals of beauty have a sisterly likeness which no one can fail to recognize, and which renders it im­ possible for him to render certain types and Poet. of character with satisfaction or com­ plete success. It was the Rossetti type of face and figure which, caricatured and exaggerated in ignorant enthusiasm by the followers of the painter, gave rise to the singular and certainly most un­ lovely ideal of the minor pre-Raphaelites—an ideal in which physical beauty was absolutely set at nought in the search of significance and the evi­ dence of passion. Even in his portraits Rossetti fails, unless the subject inclines more or less to the type which he re­ flects. This demands more than external beauty, be it ever so exquisite, and is only absolutely content with a certain gravity and intensity of character, deep, inscrutable, sphinx-like, or still more when these characteristics go with the expression of intense and restrained passion. Of this type the portrait of Mrs. Morris, wife of the author of the Earthly Paradise, is one of the most perfectly realized expressions. It repre­ sents a face of remarkable perfectness of proportion and nobility of intellec­ tual character, but with a depth of meaning, half-told, questioning eyes and mute lips, which make it, once seen, never to be forgotten; and, paint­ ed with a wealth of color and complete­ ness of power, unequalled by any mod­ ern work, so far as I know. It is one of those portraits which, like Raphael’s Julius Second, Titian’s “ Bella Donna,” and other singularly understood and rendered heads of almost all the great masters of portraiture, remain, perhaps, the highest expression of the painter’s qualities. A remarkable design of Rossetti’s is the Mary Magdalene at the House of Simon the Pharisee. She is passing the house at the head of a festal procession, crowned with flowers, and accompanied by her lover, when she sees Christ through the open door, and, tearing off the garlands, pushes her way into the chamber, against the efforts of the lover and one of her female companions. Far up the street may be seen the baccha­ nals, singing, waving their garlands and playing on musical instruments as they x �100 Putnam’s Magazine. [July, In “ The Portrait,” again—a poem come, and they stop, in amused surprise, at the eccentricity of Mary, who with full of sad and passionate color and pic­ her two immediate companions occupy torial quality—it is the portrait of his the centre of the composition. The dead love he monodizes. His love had head of Christ appears through the been told, in “ a dim, deep wood,” and window at the right, below which, out­ to commemorate it he paintg the por­ side, a vine climbs up on the wall, and trait. a deer nibbles at it. Next day the memories of these things, The whole picture, except the grave, Like leaves through which a bird has flown, Still vibrated with Love’s warm wings; passionate, and touching face of Mary, Till I must make them all my own turned to Christ, without any heed to And paint this picture. So, ’twixt ease the companions who hold her feet and Of talk and sweet long silences, She stood among the plants in bloom knees to prevent her entering, and the At windows of a summer room, responding face of Christ, who turns To feign the shadow of the trees. towards her as he sits at the table, is And as I wrought, while all above full of gayety and merriment; but the And all around was fragrant air, head of Mary, which is pictorially the In the sick burthen of my love It seemed each sun-thrilled blossom there key-note of it, gives to the ensemble Beat like a heart among the leaves. the pathetic tone which almost all of O heart that never beats nor heaves, Rossetti’s pictures have, and which seem In that one darkness lying still, * What now to thee my love’s great will to be the characteristic of his nature, for Or the fine web the sunshine weaves 1 scarcely one of his poems is conceived ****** in any other feeling than one approachHere with her face doth memory sit ing to sadness, so that, to those who Meanwhile, and wait the day’s decline, have not seen his painting, his poetry Till other eyes shall look from it, Eyes of the spirit’s Talestine, will give the clear idea of his individu­ Even than the old gaze tenderer: ality in art. In one of the most exqui­ While hopes and aims long lost with her Stand round her image side by side, site of his love-poems, “ The Stream’s Like tombs of pilgrims that have died Secret,” he demands of the stream what About the Holy Sepulchre. message it bears from his mistress, and, rehearsing the growth of their passion But enough, both of picture and to himself and the inexorable wave, he poem, to convey such idea as a brief comes, at last, to find that death alone article may, of one of the most singu­ can reply to his question. larly gifted and imaginative artists the world has ever seen, and whose unique Ah, by another wave, power, had it been supplemented by the On other airs, the hour must come, Which to thy heart, my love, shall call me home. training of such a school as that of Between the lips of the low cave, Venice, would have placed him at the Against that night the lapping waters lav head of painters of human passion. And the dark lips are dumb. Trained under the eye of a Veronese, But there Love’s self doth stand, his work would have gained in solidity And with Life’s weary wings far-flown, And with Death’s eyes that make the water moan, and drawing; and, may-be, with a pub­ Gathers the water in his hand: lic capable of fully appreciating his And they that drink know nought of sky or land genius, he might have painted less de­ But only love alone. fiantly of its opinion. His dramatic 0 soul-sequestered face power is not fully conveyed in any of Bar off,—0 were that night but now! So even beside that stream even I and thou his poems except the “ Last Confession,” Through thirsting lips should draw Love’s grace, which gives no idea of the versatility And in the zone of that supreme embrace with which he depicts passion’s rang­ Bind aching breast and brow. ing from the besotted huts of a Borgia O water whispering to the ecstatic exaltation of a Magda­ Still through the dark into mine ears,— As with mine eyes, is it not now with hers ?— lene, or the serenity of a Madonna. As Mine eyes that add to thy cold spring, painter or poet, human passion and hu­ Wan water, wandering water weltering, man sorrow are the only themes which This hidden tide of tears. �A Disenchanted Republican. 1870.1 101 occupy his feeling ; and, though his pas- able, and he is often careless whether his sion sometimes passes the conventional­ picture is understood or not. He car­ ism’of art, and his grief becomes mor­ ries his indifference to mere physical bid, as,'in his pictures, the subjectivity beauty to such a degree as often to make of his treatment sometimes makes his his faces ugly, in the seeking, for intense work almost a riddle to the unlearned ; expression, and, in the action of his fig­ there is no affectation and no willing ures, passes the limits of the natural as weakness, as there is no unconscientious well as graceful, to obtain force. But, trifling with his art, but his tendency, with all his defects and peculiarities, on the contrary, is to neglect those he stands to-day, in general artistic means of success which would make power, first amongst the painters of his art much more widely felt and valu­ England. A DISENCHANTED REPUBLICAN. LETTEE FEOM A GEEMAN TRAVELLER New York, 1869. Mon cher Ami : Do you remember standing with me, years ago, on a beautiful point of land, and gazing on the mountains and the sea ? How vast and exhilarating was the view, what picturesque grandeur and novel evidences of human thrift and science in the valley-dwellings, old churches, and careering sails ; while, at our feet, washed up by the tide, garb­ age, and bits of wreck, made the details around such a crude and dreary contrast to the scene beyond and above. Thus, my friend, is it here. When I think of the myriads who, in Europe, had no hope or prospect but drudgery and indigence, who, in the lands of the great West as farmers, and in the cities as mechanics, have attained competence, often wealth; and whose children are now educated, prosperous, and, best of all, progressive, citizens of this great Re­ public; when I see how free is the scope, how sure the harvest reaped by intelligence, industry, and temperance, in this land, I feel heart and brain ex­ panded and vivified with gratified hu­ man sympathies and limitless aspira­ tion. Yon may wonder at my including temperance as a condition of success: it is because intemperance is still the curse of the country; and, upon inves­ tigation, I find that smartness and tem­ perance, combined, have been and are the means whereby the poor and ambi­ tious have risen to social influence, wide activity, and political or professional honor. But when, drawing in both thought and vision from the broad scenes, from the human generalization, I look criti­ cally at what is going on immediately around me, often—to use a phrase of the native pioneer author—“ hope dark­ ness into anxiety, anxiety into dread, and dread into despair; ” for this very smartness — a favorite and significant term—is often unscrupulous; this very temperance cold-blooded; and this very success unsoftened by sentiment, un­ elevated by aspiration, unredeemed by beneficence. The devotion to wealth, as such, the temporizing with fraud, the triumph of impudence, the material standard and style of life, make me look back upon the homely ways, the genial content, the cultured repose so often found in the Old World, with a kind of regretful admiration. And yet it is just and rational to bear constantly in mind the fact that here every thing comes to the surface; no polished absolutism guards from view the latent corruption; no system of espionage and censorship, of police and military despotism, keeps the outside fair, while private rights and public virtue are mined for destruction ; �102 Putnam’s Magazine. all is exposed and discussed; and the good and evil elements of society, poli­ tics, opinion, trade, speculation, pastime, and crime, have free play and frank ex­ position. But, you will ask, how is it with regard to the intellectual.life in its higher phase ? What are the tenden­ cies and triumphs of the mind, apart from the sphere of fashion, of com­ merce, of civic duty ? My answer is, audacious; no other word so well ex­ presses the animus of the would-be thinkers of the land. They despise pre­ cedents, ignore discipline, contemn the past; they serve up ideas as old as Plato, as familiar to scholars as Mon­ taigne, in new-fangled sentences, and delude themselves and their disciples with the pretence of originality. They espouse an opinion, a cause, a theory, and make capital thereof on the ros­ trum and through the press, without a particle of philosophic insight or moral consistency; in education, in religion, in what they call culture, with an ego­ tism that is at once melancholy and ridiculous, they maintain “ what is new but not true, and what is true but not new,” and, with a complacent hardihood that repudiates the laws of humanity, the pure and primal sentiments that lie at the basis of civilization and the con­ stitution of man and woman. Without reverence there is no insight; without sympathy there is no truth ; all is bold, self-asserting, conceited, unscrupulous, and, in the last analysis, vulgar; but there is, in all this perversion of har­ monious intellectual life and complete intellectual equipment, what takes with the half-informed — sensationalism, the love of letters, and speculative thought. Closely studied, the cause of this incon­ gruous development may be found in a certain lack of moral sensibility, which instinctively guards from paradox on the one hand and guides to truth on the other. It is, as you well know, essential to artistic perception; and those of American writers and thinkers, who have the sense and sentiment of art, like Irving and Bryant, Hawthorne and Longfellow, have been thereby protect­ ed from the reckless vagaries and the [July, mental effrontery which, under the plea of reform, of free thought, of progress, profanes the modest instincts of human­ ity, and desecrates the beautiful and the true in the interest of an eager, intoler­ ant vanity. While Mammon is widely worshipped, and Faith widely degraded, bright, be­ nign exceptions to this pagan spirit “give us pause.” I have never met more choice and charming illustrations of mental integrity, truth to personal conviction, heroic fidelity in legitimate individual development, than among the free and faithful citizens of this Republic; but they are unappreciated, except by the few who intimately know them; their influence is limited, and they are unambitious, as are all human beings who live intrinsically from with­ in, and not conventionally from with­ out. And, with all the deference to and passion for money, there never was a commercial city in the world where so much is given in charity, where so many rich men habitually devote a not inconsiderable portion of their income to the relief of distress, or where the response to appeals for aid in any hu­ mane or patriotic cause is more fre­ quent, prompt, and generous than in this same badly-governed, money-get­ ting, and money-spending city of New York. After all, perhaps, I must confess that the disappointment experienced grows out of extravagant anticipations. The American theory of government, the equality of citizens, the character of the early patriots, the absence of rank, kingcraft, and a terrible disparity of condition, had long endeared the coun­ try to me and mine; but the behavior of the people in the civil war, their cheerful self-sacrifice, their patient de­ votion, their contented return to pri­ vate life from the army and the field, their unparalleled triumph and magna­ nimity, had raised affection into admi­ ration ; I longed to tread so illustrious a land, to greet so noble a race, and to fraternize with such brave, wise, and true men. With the returning tide of peace, of course, habits of gain and �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. luxury were resumed in. the populous centres, and the inevitable demoraliza­ tion of war left its traces ; the sal­ ient divisions between the patriotic and the disloyal, the martyrs and the mercenaries, which kept compact and imposing the army of noble and true citizens during the struggle, when it ceased, were obliterated, and society be­ came more heterogeneous than ever, its manifestations less characteristic, its su­ perficial traits more, and its talent and virtue less, apparent. Hence the Amer­ ica of my fond imagination seemed for­ ever vanished ; and, only by patient ob­ servation and fortunate rencontres, have I gradually learned to discriminate and recognize the soul of good in things evil. No, my friend, I will not expose Wil­ helmina to the precocious development, the premature self-assertion, incident to this social atmosphere. I daily see girls, in their teens, with all the airs and much of the way of thinking of old women of the world—confident, vain, self-indulgent, and, withal, ~blasé. True, the exceptions are charming. I find them chiefly among families in moderate circumstances, but of good connection, wherein the daughters have been reared in active, wholesome, and responsible duties — had, in short, to contribute, directly or indirectly, to their own support. With intellectual tastes and a religious education, this discipline in a land where the sex is held in respect,—these young women are noble, pure, brave, and conscien­ tious, as well as aspiring and intelligent. I have seen many such in the Normal schools, engaged in clerical work in the departments at Washington, and by the firesides of the inland towns, or in the most thoroughly respectable and least fashionable households of this metropo­ lis. But one is disenchanted, not only of his ideal of womanhood, but of the most homely and humble domestic illu­ sions, by the sight of crowds of gaylydressed females, with huge greasy mass­ es of hair on the back of their heads, and no modest shield to their brazen brows, draggling their long silken trains 103 through the dirt of Broadway, or crush­ ing, like half-inflated balloons, their am­ ple skirts through a densely-packed omnibus. The triumph of extravagant luxury may be seen, at certain seasons, at what looks like a palace—a huge, lofty marble building, in the principal thoroughfare of this city; it is not a royal residence, nor a gallery of art, nor a college—it is a drygoods shop. Im­ agine a thousand women there con­ vened, an army of clerks showing pat­ terns, measuring off goods, or rushing to and fro with change and orders. Every one of these females is dressed in silk ; at least one half, if attired accord­ ing to their means and station, would wear calico or homespun; perhaps an eighth out of the whole number of hus­ bands to these shopping wives are either bankrupt or at work in Wall-street, with fear and trembling, risking their all to supply the enormous current expenses of their families, whereof half relate to female dress. Carry the inference from these facts a little further; of course, the daughters marry for an establish­ ment, look abroad for enjoyment; byand-by go to Europe, ostensibly to edu­ cate their children (leaving papa to his club and counting-room), but really to gossip at Dresden, flirt at Rome, or shop in Paris. I have been surprised to find so many underbred men in society; but this is explained by the fact that so many who, in youth, have enjoyed few means of culture and no social training, in their prime have made a fortune, and are able to give dinners, and send their children to fashionable schools. Hence a sin­ gular incongruity in manners, ranging from the most refined to the most in­ tolerable in the same salon, or among the same class and circle. Remissness in answering notes, off-hand verbal in­ vitations to strangers without a prelimi­ nary call, forcing personal topics into conversation, stuffing unceremoniously at receptions, free and easy bearing to­ wards ladies, lounging, staring, asking impertinent questions, pushing into no­ tice, intruding on the talk and privacy of others—in a word, an utter absence �104 Putnam’s Magazine. of delicacy and consideration is mani­ fest in a sphere where you will, at the same time, recognize the highest type, both of character and breeding, in both sexes. This crude juxtaposition star­ tles a European ; but he is still more as­ tonished after hearing a man’s conduct stigmatized, and his character annihi­ lated at the club ; to encounter the in­ dividual thus condemned an accepted guest of the men who denounce him. In a word, there seems no social dis­ crimination; one’s pleasure in choice society is constantly spoiled by the presence of those reeking with the es­ sential oil of vulgarity, of foreign ad­ venturers without any credentials, and who succeed in effecting an entrée upon the most fallacious grounds. It is one of the most remarkable of social phe­ nomena here, that even cultivated and scrupulously honorable men and high­ bred women are so patient under social inflictions, so thoughtless in social rela­ tions ; not that they compromise their characters—they only degrade their hos­ pitality. Exclusiveness is, indeed, the opposite of republican principle ; but that refers to discrepancies of rank, of birth, and of fortune ; exclusiveness based on character, on culture, on the tone and traits of the individual, is and should be the guarantee of social vir­ tue, refinement, and self-respect. And yet, my friend, inconsistent as it may seem, I really think there never was a country where every man’s and woman’s true worth and claims are bet­ ter tested than this. I mean that when you turn from the fete or the fashion of the hour, and discuss character with the sensible people you happen to know, they invariably pierce the sham, recog­ nize the true, and justly estimate legiti­ mate claims. Sooner or later, in this free land, where the faculties are so keenly exercised, the scope for talent so wide ; where all kinds of people come together, and there is a chance for every one,—what there is of original power, of integrity, of kindness, of cunning, of genius, of rascality, and of faith in a human being, finds development, comes to the surface, and turns the balance [July, of public opinion by social analysis. There is an instinctive sagacity and sense of justice in the popular mind. If there was one confident idea I en­ tertained in regard to this country, be­ fore coming here, it was that I should find plenty of space. I expected an infinity of room. I said to myself, those straggling unwalled cities devour suburban vicinage so easily—have so much room to spread ; I had heard of the Capital’s “ magnificent distances,” and dreamed of the boundless prairies and the vastness of the continent. The same impression existed in regard to all social and economic arrangements ; “ there,” I said to myself, “ I shall ex­ pand at will ; every thing is new, un­ bounded, open, large, and free.” Well, thus far, I have found it just the reverse. Assigned a lofty and diminutive bed­ chamber at the hotels—having to stand up in the horse-cars, because all the seats are occupied—finding my friends’ pews full—not having elbow-room at the table d'hôte—tired of waiting for my turn to look at the paper at club and reading-room—being told the new novel is “ out ” at the library—standing in a line at the theatre box-office for an hour, to be told all the good places are taken—receiving hasty notes from edit­ ors that my article had been in type but that their columns were oversupplied— pressed to the wall at parties—jostled in Broadway and Wall-street—rushed upon at ferry-boat piers—interrupted in quiet talks—my neighbor, at dinner, ab­ stracted by observation of a distant guest—I never, in my life, had such a painful consciousness of being de trop, in the way, insignificant, overlooked, and crowded out, as here ; and I have to go, every now and then, to the country to breathe freely and realize my own in­ dividuality and independence. The security of life and property is altogether inadequate here. Consult a file of newspapers and you will find that massacres by rail, burglaries, murders, and conflagrations are more numerous, make less impression, and are less guard­ ed against and atoned for, by process of law, than in any other civilized land. �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. These characteristics are, however, very unequally distributed. You must con­ tinually bear in mind that the facts I state, and the inferences thence drawn, often have but a local application. Thus, familiar with the admirable mu­ nicipal system whereby so many towns in Europe rose to power and prosperity of old, and with the civic sagacity and rectitude of the founders of this Repub­ lic, who, in colonial times, disciplined the people to self-goveniment, through the free and faithful administration of local affairs—I was the more disconcert­ ed at the awful abuses and patent frauds of the so-called government of this com­ mercial metropolis of the United States. In New England you find the munici­ pal system carried to perfection, unper­ verted, and effective,. In Vermont it exists in elevated simplicity and honor ; but in the large cities, owing to a larger influx of foreigners, so many of whom are poor and ignorant, it is degraded. You naturally ask, Why do not the honest and intelligent citizens produce a reform in what so nearly concerns both their reputation and their welfare ? My answer is, partly through indifference and partly through fear, added to utter want of faith in the practicability of success. There is a timidity native to riches ; the large estate-holders desire to conciliate the robber ; they deem it more safe to succumb than oppose ; they lack moral courage ; hence the social compromises I have noted, and hence, too, the ominous civic pusillanimity. Care is the bane of conscientious life here ; I mean that, when a man or wom­ an is upright and bent upon duty, the performance thereof is hampered and made irksome by the state of society and the circumstances of the people. Thus, in affairs when an honest man is associated with directors, trustees, or other corporate representatives, he is sure to be revolted by unscrupulous do­ ings or shameful neglect ; he has to fight for what is just in the manage­ ment, or withdraw in disgust therefrom. So a young man, who is wise enough to eschew alcoholic stimulants and games of hazard, has need of rare moral courvol. vi.—7 105 age, or is forced to avoid the compan­ ionship of his reckless comrades. And, worst of all, a woman with a sentiment of family obligation, a principle of household duty, cannot regulate the servants, see to the providing of the table, the order and pleasantness of home-life, without a vigilance, a sacri­ fice of time, and an anxiety which takes the bloom from her cheek and plants a wrinkle on her brow. The lack of welltrained and contented “help,”—as the domestic servants are ironically called —the great expense of living, and the absence of that machinery which, once set up with judgment, goes on so regu­ larly in our Old World domiciles—are among the causes of weariness and care in the average female life of this coun­ try, in a manner and to a degree un­ known in Europe, where leisure and re­ pose are easily secured by competence and tact. I do not wonder that so many of the best-bred and most intelligent Ameri­ can girls prefer army and navy officers or diplomats for husbands to the “ danc­ ing men ” they meet in society, usually vapid-, if not dissipated ; whereas the education for the army, navy, and diplo­ macy, or the culture attained by the discipline thereof, where there is a par­ ticle of sense or character, insures a cer­ tain amount of manliness and knowl­ edge, such as are indispensable to a clever and refined woman in a life-com­ panion. The two classes I pity most here are the very old and the very young ; the former, because they are shamefully neglected, and the latter, because they are perverted. You see a gentleman of the old school snubbed by Young America ; a venerable wom­ an unattended to in a corner, while rude and complaisant girls push to the front rank ; and you see children, who ought to be kept in the fields or the nursery, fashionably arrayed and hold­ ing levées, or dancing the German, with all the extravagance of toilettes and consciousness of manner, that distin­ guish their elders, and a zest infinitely more solemn. It is painful to see age thus unprivileged and unhonored, and �106 Putnam’s Magazine. childhood thus profaned : a conserva­ tive is, in vulgar parlance, an old fogy ; a retired worthy, however eminent, is a “ fossil ; ” precocity in manner, mind, and aspect, is encouraged ; the mature and complete, the finished and the formed, are exceptional; crudity and pretension are in the ascendant. One of my most cherished puiposes, as you know, was to utilize my studies as a publicist, and my experience as a republican philosopher, through the press of this free land. In this design I have met with signal discouragement. While a few men, who have thought­ fully investigated the most imminent problems in modern political and social life, have listened to my views with the most sympathetic attention, and have recognized the importance of the facts of the past which I have so long labor­ ed to bring forward as practical illus­ trations of the present—those who con­ trol the press of these States, by virtue of proprietorship, avoid all but imme­ diate topics of public interest, declaring their exclusive discussion essential to the prosperity of their vocation, and failing to appreciate both historic par­ allels and philosophic comments. I have been surprised to note how soon even men of academic culture yield to the vulgar standard of the immediate, and ignore the vast inspiration of hu­ manity and truth as developed in the career of the race and the salient facts of historic civilization. Nor is this all. With few exceptions, popular journal­ ism and speech here is based upon the sensational element — not upon senti­ ment or reflection. It is difficult to se­ cure attention, except through a bizarre style or melodramatic incident ; the grotesque forms of American humor, seeking, by violation of orthography or ingenious slang, to catch the eye of readers or the ear of audiences, indicate the extremes to which these sensational experiments are carried. Nothing makes a newspaper sell like prurient details of crime, audacious personal attacks, or ex­ travagant inventions. A calm, thought­ ful discussion, however wise, original, and sincere, gains comparatively little [July, sympathy; a profound criticism, a forci­ ble but finished essay, an individual, earnest, and graceful utterance of the choicest experience, or the most charac­ teristic feeling, seem to be lost in the noisy material atmosphere of life in Ame­ rica. I find the best thinkers, the most loyal students, the most aspiring and ge­ nial minds, singularly isolated. I have come upon them accidentally, not in what is called society; I have marvelled to perceive how little they are known, even to familiar acquaintances; for there is no esprit du corps in letters or philosophy here ; few have the leisure to do justice to what is most auspicious in their fel­ lows ; few take a hearty interest in the intellectual efforts or idiosyncrasies of their best endowed comrades; each seems bent seemingly on personal ob­ jects ; there is no “ division of the records of the mind; ” people are too busy, too self-absorbed to sympathize with what is highest and most indi­ vidual in character ; all my most intelli­ gent and, I may say, most agreeable friends complain of this isolation. It may sometimes strengthen, but it more frequently narrows and chills. A sin­ gular and most unpropitious selfishness belongs to many of the cleverest men and women I have met in America; au­ thorship and art seem often merce­ nary or egotistic, instead of soulful pur­ suits; they seem to divide instead of fusing society; on the one hand are the fashionable and the wealthy, many of them pleasant and charitable, but un­ aspiring and material; on the other, poor scholars, professors, litterateurs— too many of the latter Bohemians; and, although these two classes sometimes come together, it is usually in a conven­ tional way—without any real sympathy or disinterested recognition. But it is not merely in the negative defect of repudiating the calm, finished, and considerate discussion of vital sub­ jects or aesthetic principles, that the American press and current literature disappoint me; the abuses of journal­ ism are flagrant. I have been disgust­ ed, beyond expression, at the vulgarity of its tone and the recklessness of its �1870.] A Disenchanted Republican. slanders. During my brief sojourn I have read the most infamous charges and the most scurrilous tirades against the most irreproachable and eminent citizens, from the Chief Magistrate to the modest litterateur ; and, when I have wondered at the apathy exhibited, I have been answered by a shrug or a laugh. The fact is, there is no redress for these vile abuses but resort to per­ sonal violence; the law of libel is prac­ tically a nullity, so expensive is the pro­ cess and uncertain the result; an elect­ ive judiciary—one of the most fatal changes in the constitution of the state —has created a class of corrupt judges. To expect justice in cases of slander, is vain. Unfortunately, there is not a suf­ ficient social organization to apply suc­ cessfully the punishment of ostracism; and a set of improvident, irresponsible writers are usually employed to do the blackguardism ; so that, with a few no­ ble exceptions, the press here is venal and vulgar, utterly reckless, and the organ, not of average intelligence, but of the lowest arts. The first time I dined out in New York was at the house of a very weal­ thy citizen, identified with fashionable society. The dinner was luxurious, and ■every thing thereat, from the plate and porcelain to the furniture and toilettes, indicated enormous means. My neigh­ bor at table was a chatty, elegantly dressed young man, to whom I had been formally presented by my host. Our conversation turned upon invest­ ments, and my companion seemed fa( miiiar with all the stocks in the mar­ ket, and spoke so highly of the pros­ pects of one, that I accepted his invita­ tion to call at his office the next day and examine the details of the scheme. These were given me in writing, with the names of the board of directors, among which I recognized several before suggested to me as those of gentlemen of probity and position. I accordingly invested; and discovered, a few weeks later, that the representations made to me were false; that the stock was worthless, and that the so-called “ Com­ pany,” consisting of half-a-dozen per­ 107 sons, among whom my adviser was one, had pocketed the amount advanced by those who, like myself, had been de­ luded by the fallacious programme and its respectable endorsement. Fraud may be practised in any country; but here the swindler was encountered in what is called good society ; and when I complained to his “ directors,” they declared they had allowed their names to be used inadvertently, and that they knew nothing of the matter. I insti­ tuted a suit, but failed to obtain a ver­ dict. My first morning’s walk down a fash­ ionable avenue was interrupted by a shout and sign of alarm from the oppo­ site side of the street. *1 had just time to rush up a flight of steps and ensconce myself in a friendly doorway, when by ran a mad ox, and gored a laborer be­ fore my sickened sight; nor was he captured until he had carried dismay and destraction for two miles through the heart of this populous city ! This rabid beast had escaped from a drove waiting to be slaughtered in the sub­ urbs. Such occurrences are not uncom­ mon here, and, apparently, make little impression and induce little effort for reform. The municipal magnates levied a tax of three hundred dollars on one of my friends, resident of a street they intend­ ed to re-pave. Now it so happened that the pavement of this street was in excellent order; I could see no reason for the expense and inconvenience pro­ posed. Upon inquiry I learned that an asphaltum was to be substituted for the stone-pavement. Going around among my neighbors, with a petition against this useless, costly, and annoying pro­ ceeding, my friend found that every resident of the street agreed with us in condemning the project. Moreover, we ascertained from the contractor that he offered to do the job for two dollars the square yard, but had been advised to charge four, the balance going into the pockets of the officials. In spite of the expressed wishes of those chiefly inter­ ested, in spite of this flagrant swindle, our excellent pavement was torn up; �108 Putnam’s Magazins. for weeks no vehicle could approach our doors; boiling tar and heaps of gravel and knots of laborers made the whole thoroughfare a nuisance, for which each victim, whose dwelling bor­ dered the way, had to pay three hun­ dred dollars; and now that the rubbish is cleared away, the composite pave­ ment laid, and the street open, owing to the bad quality, the unscientific preparation of the asphaltum, it is a mass of black clinging mud, which, after a rain, is a pitchy morass, and in dry weather a floating atmosphere of pulverized dirt and tar. The newspa­ pers call it a poultice. The universal law of vicissitude finds here the most signal illustration. Change is not only frequent, but rapid; not only comparative, but absolute. I came back to this city last autumn, after three months’ sojourn at the sea­ side, to find a new rector in the church I attend ; a new cAefin the journal for which I write; my favorite domestic nook for a leisure evening, the abode of intelligent and cordial hospitality, in the process of demolition, to give place to a block of stores; my club a scene of disorder, on account of repairs ; my broker a bankrupt; my belle a bride; my tailor, doctor, deutist, and laundress removed “up-town”—every body and every thing I had become familiar with and attached to changed, either locally or intrinsically; and life, as it were, to begin anew. It makes a head, with a large organ of adhesiveness, whirl and ache to thus perpetually forego the ac­ customed. I experienced, on first landing, a sen­ sation, as it were, of this precarious tenure. Scarcely had the exhilaration felt on. entering the beautiful harbor from a ten days’ sojourn on the “ mel­ ancholy waste ” of ocean subsided, when, as we drove up the dock and through the mud and squalor of the river-side, the commonplace style of edifice, and the sight of temporary and unsubstan­ tial architecture, depressed my spirits; then the innumerable and glaring ad­ vertisements of quack medicines on every curb-stone and pile of bricks sug­ [July, gested a reckless, experimental habit— which was confirmed by the careless driving of vociferous urchins in butcher­ carts or express-wagons. When we emerged into Broadway, the throng, the gilded signs, the cheerful rush, and curious variety of faces and vehicles, raised my spirits and quickened my ob­ servation, while a walk in Fifth avenue and through the Central Park, the next day, which was Sunday, and the weath­ er beautiful, impressed me cheerily with the feeling of prosperous and progres­ sive life. Despite these characteristic features, however, it is often difficult to realize that I am in America, so many traits and traces of Europe are visibly. The other morning, for instance, while at the pier, waiting to see a friend off in the French steamer, knots of sailors, like those we see at Havre and Brest, were eating soup in the open air, and huck­ sters tempting them to buy bead-bas­ kets and pin-cushions for their “ sweet­ hearts and wives ; ” the garb, the gab, the odor of garlic, the figure of a priest here and there, the very hats of some of the passengers, made the scene like one at a French quay. There are Ger­ man beer-gardens, Italian restaurants, journals in all the European languages, tables d'hote, where they only are spo­ ken ; churches, theatres, clubs, and co­ teries, distinctly national and repre­ sentative of the Old World. Do not rashly infer that my political principles have changed because of these critical complaints. No; they are the same, but my delight in them is chas­ tened. I feel that they involve self-sac­ rifice, even when triumphant democracy entails duty, and that of a nature to in­ terfere with private taste and individual enjoyment. Democracy, my friend, is no pastime, but a peril. Republican institutions demand the surrender of much that is pleasant in personal life, and include responsibilities so grave, that gayety is quelled and care inaugu­ rated—just as the man leaves behind him, in quitting his father’s roof to assert himself in the world, much of the liberty and nurture which made life �1870.] Editorial Notes. pleasant, in order to assume the serious business of independent existence—ex­ cellent as a discipline, noble as a des­ tiny, but solemn as a law of action. Disenchantment, my friend, does not inevitably imply renunciation; on the contrary, truth is often ushered in through a delusive pursuit, as the his­ tory of scientific discovery proves. The moment we regard the equalizing pro­ cess going on in the world, as a disci­ pline and a destiny, and accept it as a duty, we recognize what perhaps is, after all, the practical aim and end of Christianity—self-sacrifice, humanity, “ good-will to men,” in place of self­ 109 hood. Thus imbued and inspired, the welfare of the race becomes a great per­ sonal interest; we are content to suffer and forego for the advantage of our fellow-creatures; we look upon life not as the arena of private success, but of beneficent cooperation ; and, instead of complaining of privation and encroach­ ment, learn to regard them as a legiti­ mate element in the method and means whereby the mass of men, so long con­ demned to ignorance, want, and sordid labor, are to be raised and reared into a higher sphere, and harmonized by fellow­ ship, freedom, and faith, into a complete and auspicious development. EDITORIAL NOTES. - BRET HARTE OKCE MORE. Criticism is too often tame and timid in its reception of contemporary genius, because it is without hope; its distrust, its close and prolonged acquaintance with mediocrity and pretension, consti­ tutes its mental habit, and it is with difficulty that it drops its patronizing tone and ceases its frigid comment. But Bret Harte’s stories mean so much ; they are so terse, simple, searching, and unpretentious; they present the most difficult, novel, and bold situations with so much conciseness of expression, so much neatness and force; they take up and drop the subject with so sure a sense of dramatic fitness, that the usual reserve and the common tone of criti* cism before them is priggish and insuf­ ferable. It is not enough to say of them: This is good work. Something fervid and emphatic is called for. We must say: This is the work of a man of genius. It is something unforeseen ; it is some­ thing so natural and actual, so profound in its significance, so moving in its de­ velopment, that you must glow with the generous emotions which it excites, and respond to it as to the influences of nature, and as when heart answereth to heart in the actual intercourse of liv­ ing men and women. Just as we were all saying to each other, How much we need a story-writer who shall treat our American life in an artistic form, satisfying to the most ex­ acting sense of the highest literary merit—just as we were deploring that Irving, and Hawthorne, and Poe, men of another generation, who were retro­ spective, and not on a level with the present hour, were the only men of fine talent among our story-writers—Francis Bret Harte, in the newest and remotest part of our land, gives us an expres­ sion of its early, rude, and lawless life, at once unexpected and potent, and which shames our distrust of the genius of our race in its new home. It is an expression so honest, so free from cant, so exactly corresponding with its sub­ ject, so unsqueamish and hearty, so manly, that it is to be accepted like a bit of nature. His stories are like so many convincing facts; they need no argument; they lodge themselves in our minds, and germinate like living things. We are struck by the varied powei which he exhibits, and the diverse emo tions which he touches, in such narrow dramatic limits. Within the little frame of a sketch he is terse, graphic, vivid; his humor and pathos are irresistible; his sentiment delicate and true; his �110 Putnam’s Magazine. poetry magical and suggestive; his feel­ ing of out-of-door life constant and de­ lightful. His use of the minor key of nature, as a contrast to the soiled and troubled lives of his men and women, is comparable to the accidental influ­ ences which touch and soothe an un­ happy man when his attention is caught by sunlight in wood-paths, or by the sound of the wind in trees, or by any of the silencing and flood-like influ­ ences that sweep over us when we are open to the beautiful, the unnamable, and mysterious. Bret Harte’s genius is not unlike Rem­ brandt’s, so far as it is a matter of art. Take Miggles—Miggles telling her story at the feet of the paralytic Jim—take the description of his old face, with its solemn eyes; take the alternate gloom and light that hides or illuminates the group in Miggles’ cabin; and then con­ sider the gleam and grace with which the portrait of that racy and heroic boy­ woman is placed before you. Does it not touch your sense of the picturesque as, and is it not unexpected, and start­ ling, and admirable, like a sketch by Rembrandt ? But for the pathos, but for the “ tears that rise in the heart and gather to the eyes,” where shall we find any homely art to be compared with that ? Beauty in painting or sculpture may so touch a man. It did so touch Heine, at the feet of the Venus of Milo. It may be pathetic to us, as in Da Vinci’s wonderful heads. But no great plastic artist, no mere pictorial talent, is potent over the sources of our tears, as is the unheralded story-writer from the West­ ern shores. In this he employs a means beyond the reach of Holbein or Hogarth. We liken Bret Harte to Rembrandt, rather than to Hogarth or to Holbein— men of great and sincere genius, and therefore having an equally great and sincere trust in actual life—because of his magic touch, his certainty and sud­ denness of expression; his perfect trust in his subject; because he deals with the actual in its widest and commonest aspects, without infecting us with the dulness of the prosaic; because he is never formal, never trite; and because [July, —unlike Hogarth—he does not consider the vicious, the unfortunate, the weak, so as to “ put up the keerds on a chap from the start.” He makes us feel our kinship with the outcast; he draws us by our very hearts towards the feeble and reckless, and by a certain something—the felt inexplicableness of the difference and yet the equality of men—forbids us to execrate the sinner as we do the sin. One may say of him, as of Rembrandt, that he sees Christ not in the noble and consecrated, certainly not only in a type hallowed by centuries of human admi­ ration ; but he reveals a Saviour and friend in the forlorn, in the despised, in the outcast. ' Will the reader accuse us of extrava­ gance, if we say we cannot understand how a man can read these stories, and not believe in immortality and in God ?They touch one so profoundly; they ex­ alt one’s sense of the redemptive spirit that may live in a man, and they make one so humble ! They hush the Phari­ see and the materialist who lives so comfortably under his white shirt-front, in clean linen, under immaculate con­ ditions of self-righteousness. We com­ pare Bret Harte to the greatest name in modern art—Rembrandt—rather than to Hogarth, because there is no bru­ tality, no censure, no made-up mind for or against his subjects, as in Hogarth. Rembrandt’s poetry, his honest recep­ tion of his subject—all this is in Bret Harte; but also a grace unknown to the great Flemish master. Some have questioned the service he has done our poor human nature in its most despised forms, and some have censured him for not adopting the Hogarthian method. But it seems to us his instinct has been his best guide ; that his morality, his lesson to us, is as superior to Hogarth’s gross and mate­ rial one, as the Sermon on the Mount is superior to the prayer of the Phari­ see. “ Miggles,” “ Tennessee’s Partner,” and “ Stumpy,” and “Mother Shipton” —what significance, what life in these 1 —what “thoughts beyond the reaches � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Rossetti, the painter and poet Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Stillman, W.J. Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [New York, NY] Collation: 95-110 p. ; 24 cm. Notes: From Putnam's Magazine (16: July 1980, 95-110 p.) Attribution of magazine and author Information from Virginia Clark's catalogue. Issue also includes ' A disenchanted republican: letter from a German traveller'. Printed in double columns. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [G. P. Putnam's Sons] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource [1870] Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context G5303 Subject The topic of the resource Poetry Art Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Rossetti, the painter and poet), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Conway Tracts Dante Gabriel Rossetti English Poetry Painting Poetry in English Poets https://d1y502jg6fpugt.cloudfront.net/25778/archive/files/970bc18e6dc739a187930f1537fb6a72.pdf?Expires=1777507200&Signature=ZhQDp9HyGKdqTfSTJLTZ7q96Z0%7EEl-baFhH6J3ZozpEYKydHU9KL7mJJYCcrbZ5b%7ENF1FkwAZyG%7Er0Ug4Jlxa3VpUReEruN9-iPW%7EIERr2pawi6L7NMbvPo3ez3r2Hc0GPn%7EVh1W2BV%7E1TBLmaszmqLq0tTOm2VdpStBOqvQikOskY%7E-tiBRZLZyKIbnikut628PlV9FiB-itLM1vxdE7%7EMcG68tS2jz%7EwwnV81R2guT-oYsO4K2uUZf8PSjcOK7m-4xVwXGCG4zrhon8d%7ERMqvzQNrBIQu7EFm8BrHd-G38z%7ETP06sK9y3TC03ihdev48cExqXZd%7E7aubORE1hioQ__&Key-Pair-Id=K6UGZS9ZTDSZM 724808c137b725610f48fa5ca6edb3aa PDF Text Text 850 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. worships his kind are bounded, as we have said, by the limita­ tions which he knows are incident to humanity; idealize as he may, he can never free himself of the belief that no perfect man or woman has ever trod this planet. How, then, is it possible that any one but the ignorant and unreflective can ever feel the glow of genuine devotion when he bows himself to a being whose nature he knows to have been but a fragmentary representative of the ideal of man, or when he worships his best conception of this ideal itself knowing it to be an idol of his own creation ? These fatal weaknesses of Positivism have no application to the Theist: the fervour of his adoration is deadened by no secret conscious­ ness that the object of his worship is marred with imperfection; for however great and glorious may be the attributes he ascribes to it, he feels assured that they are infinitely surpassed by the Reality itself. Art. II.—Recollections of Shelley and Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron. Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon. 1858. Byron. By E. J. R. TRELAWNY has done well in giving this manly and carelessly written little volume to the world: it will at least revive the personal memory of two Englishmen who, though long dead, can never be altogether of the past. Without telling much of either with which we were not previously acquainted, the infor­ mation communicated is the result of intimate personal know­ ledge, and, gathered during the intervals of a familiar acquaint­ ance, comes out with such freshness and vigour, that it possesses nearly all the merit of novelty; and the striking features of cha­ racter are brought forward in much stronger relief, than in the tame and wearisome biography of whioh one at least was the victim. It is the least enviable appanage of genius that it perpe­ tuates by its own lustre those faults and weaknesses which repose in the graves of meaner men; the biographer, even though a friend, cannot ignore these; and while he avoids giving them undue prominence, cannot forget that truth has its claims, as well as genius. We recognise Shelley in these sketches as he appeared in his works—the gentle, guileless, noble soul who persisted in putting himself wrong with the world, and who rashly and fearlessly launched his indignant sarcasm at the cant and bigotry and sei- M �Shelley's Personal Appearance. 351 fishness of society, without indicating any rational plan for its regeneration. Had he possessed a friend sufficiently influential and judicious to have delayed the publication of “ Queen Mab” for ten years, Shelley’s lot might have been far different. How could he reasonably expect forbearance from a society whose creed, by a portion of it sincerely venerated, he so recklessly out­ raged ? The wisest man feels himself to be an infant if he at­ tempts to understand the doctrine of Original Sin ; and yet it was this problem that the youthful and inexperienced Shelley dared to grapple in his poem, in a spirit of unparalleled rashness and pre­ sumption. Mr. Trelawny was for some time, as is well known, the compa­ nion of Byron and Shelley during their voluntary exile in Italy. Too manly and too honest to believe in the justice of the tremendous calumnies which drove Shelley from England, and deprived him of his children, he was yet, like all who ever came to personal knowledge of Shelley, astonished to find what manner of man was this of whom all who did not know him spoke so ill. We see him as Mr. Trelawny saw him, more than thirty years since, in the following scene:— “ Swiftly gliding in, blushing like a girl, a tall thin stripling held out both his hands; and although I could hardly believe, as I looked at his flushed, feminine, and artless face, that it could be the poet, I re­ turned his warm pressure. After the ordinary greetings and cour­ tesies, he sat down and listened. I was silent from astonishment; was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy could be the veritable mon­ ster at war with all the world ?—excommunicated by the fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil rights by a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school ? I could not believe it; it must be a hoax. He was habited like a boy, in black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had shamefully stinted him in his 1 sizings.’ ” His wife’s personal appearance, nee Godwin, the authoress of “Frankenstein,”is sketched on the same occasion:— “ The most striking feature in her face was her calm, grey eyes. She was rather under the English standard of woman’s height, very fair and fight-haired, witty, social and animated in the society of friends, though mournful in solitude; like Shelley, though in a minor degree, she had the power of expressing her thoughts in varied and appropriate words, derived from familiarity with the works of our vigorous old writers. Neither of them used obsolete or foreign words.” The artless and natural character of Shelley endeared him to the few who had the privilege of personal knowledge; and, as appears from these sketches, contrasted very favourably with �852 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. the artificial manner and undisguised egotism of Byron—but, in truth, the latter was only himself when in the stillness of night he was engaged in composition, and absorbed into forgetfulness of his physical deficiences and his chronic starvation. Mr. Trelawny gives a more minute and circumstantial detail than has previously appeared, of the miserable circumstances at­ tending the deaths of Shelley and his companion Mr. Williams. The letter which the latter had despatched to his wife on the pre­ vious day, informing her and Mrs. Shelley of their proposed return to the home in the Gulf of Spezzia, where both ladies were anxiously expecting their husbands, who had been unexpectedly detained in Leghorn, is surely, breathing as it does the warmest affection, destined to be so sadly quenched, the most touching document ever preserved from oblivion. The condition of the two bodies, when thrown ashore after many days, was such as to make incremation the most eligible means of disposing of the remains ; and this proceeding was conducted in both cases—for they were not burned together—with great care by Mr. Trelawny, in an iron furnace constructed on purpose. Lord Byron may have given way to some apparent levity on the occasion; but it was but to conceal an emotion he deeply felt, but which he lacked the moral courage to evince publicly. Shelley’s toy skiff, the Don Juan, in which they embarked with inauspicious omens on that melancholy even­ ing, does not appear to have been capsized during the gale, not­ withstanding the ominous remark of the Genoese mate of the Bolivar about the superfluous gaff-topsail; but from her damaged condition, when afterwards weighed by the exertions of Captain Roberts, was probably run down by some Italian speronare scudding before the gale. Shelley stands far higher in the opinions of his country­ men now than when his gentle spirit and ardent love of truth were quenched for ever in the waves of the Mediterranean. It is not necessary to vindicate his character from calumnies which are long forgotten; but if there are any who, not knowing, yet care to know, how gentle, how generous, how accomplished, and how unselfish he was, it is written in this late testimony of one who knew him well, and knowing him well in life, had the hard task assigned him of communicating his premature death to the de­ spairing widow. Shelley formed a correct and candid estimate of his own writ­ ings when he said, “ They are little else than visions which im­ personate my own apprehensions of the beautiful and just—they are dreams of what ought to be, or may be.” He read too much, was altogether too much imbued with the ideas of others. His were the azure and vermilion clouds that float in insubstantial beauty through the atmosphere of an Alpine sunrise, rather than �Byrons Movements after Shelley’s Death. 353 the enduring creation of grandeur, strength, and beauty which we recognise in a great poem. After Shelley’s death, Byron moved from Pisa to Albaro, near Genoa, where he occupied the Casa Saluzzi; but the loss of one whom he must have looked on as a friend, and respected for the nobleness of his nature, together with the failure of the Liberal, which could hardly succeed undei* the auspices of two such editors as Hunt and himself, made him dissatisfied with an inac­ tive existence, and he looked round for some field, not of enter­ prise, but excitement. He was quite unfit constitutionally to en­ counter real fatigue or privation; he had courage, no doubt; contempt of life, and tameless pride, but neither possessed the physical or mental robustness to see in well-planned, and longsustained action a career of distinction or usefulness. After much wavering, he determined to revisit Greece, and bought a vessel to convey himself and his lares to the land which was to witness his own dissolution, and thus to derive from him another of its many claims to classic interest. The choice of his vessel seems to have been decided more by motives of economy than from any regard to its nautical capabilities, and when its defects were indi­ cated by a more critical judgment than his own, he was consoled by the reflection that he had got it a bargain. It was on the 13th of July, 1823, that lie sailed in the Hercules from Genoa with Mr. Trelawny, Count Gamba, and an Italian crew ; slowly they stood eastward up the Mediterranean, and so wretched were the sailing qualities of the vessel, that even with a fair wind the average progress was but twenty miles a day. They put into Leghorn, which they quitted for Cephalonia, on the 23rd of July. “ On coming near Lonza, a small islet converted into one of its many prisons by the Neapolitan government, I said to Byron, ‘ There is a sight that would curdle the blood of a poet laureate.’ ‘ If Southey were here,’ he answered, ‘ he would sing hosannahs to the Bourbons. Here kings and governors are only the jailors and hangmen of the detestable Austrian barbarians. What dolts and drivellers the people are to submit to such universal despotism. I should like to see from this our ark, the world, submerged, and all the rascals drowning on it like rats.’ I put a pencil and paper into his hand, saying, ‘ Perpe­ tuate your curses on tyranny,’ &c. He readily took the paper and set to work. I walked the deck, and prevented his being disturbed. . . . After a long spell he said, ‘ You think it is as easy to write poetry as to smoke a cigar—look, it’s only doggrel. Extemporising verse is non­ sense ; Poetry is a distinct faculty—it wont come when called. You may as well whistle for a wind; a Pythoness was primed when put into the tripod. I must chew the cud before I write. I have thought over most of my subjects for years before writing a line.’ . . . ‘ Give me time—I can’t forget the theme ; but for this Greek business [Vol. LXIX. No. CXXXVI.]—New Sekies, Vol. XIII. No. II. A A �354 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. I should have been at Naples writing a fifth canto of ‘ Childe Harold,’ expressly to give vent to my detestation of the Austrian tyranny in Italy.’ ” But his own earlier lines might well have recurred both to the poet and to his biographer, for surely none could be more appli­ cable to the scene before their eyes then, as before ours now, when we look on Naples :— “ It is as though the fiends prevailed Against the seraphs they assailed, And fixed on heavenly thrones should dwell The freed inheritors of hell— So fair the scene, so formed for joy, So cursed the tyrants that destroy.” “ The poet had an antipathy to everything scientific; maps and charts offended him............ Buildings the most ancient or modern he was as indifferent to as he was to painting, sculpture, or music. But dll natural objects, or changes in the elements, he was generally the first to point out, and the last to lose sight of.” p. 187. [The italics are our own.] Mr. Trelawny echoes an old remark of Baron Macaulay’s (Warren Hastings), which every one’s experience will confirm, as to the effect of a sea voyage in testing temper and character, and says—“ I never was on shipboard with a better companion than Byron : he was generally cheerful, gave no trouble, assumed no authority, uttered no complaints, and did not interfere with the working of the ship; when appealed to, he always answered, ‘Do as you like.’” There was much enjoyment of life on board this dull sailer, the Hercules; and the voyage, if protracted, was under clear, warm skies, and in smooth water. One scene nar­ rated has a grimly comic element: apropos to some remark, Byron exclaimed, “ Women, you should say; if we had a woman­ kind on board, she would set us all at loggerheads, and make a mutiny; would she not, captain?” “I wish my old woman were here,” replied the skipper; “ she would make you as comfortable in my cabin at sea as your own wife would in her parlour on shore.” Byron started, and looked savage. The skipper went on unconscious, &c. &c. Byron had written an autobiography, it seems, conceived in manly, straightforward fashion,—in a vigorous, fearless style, and was apparently truthful as regarded himself. It was subse­ quently entrusted to Mr. Moore, as literary executor, and by him suppressed, following the advice of others, it would seem. “ I told Murray Lady Byron was to read the manuscript if she wished it, and requested she would add, omit, or make any com­ ments she pleased, now, or when it was going through the press.” (p. 197.) They reached Zante and Cephaloniaat last; and after �. Byron’s second Visit to Greece. 355 an absence of eleven years, Lord Byron again saw the Morea, which he loved so well— “ The sun, the sky, but not the slave the same.” The reckless greediness of the Suliote refugees at Cephalonia disgusted him; and the intelligence he received about the pros­ pects of liberty in Greece, or the probability of assistance from the Western Powers, so long withheld, being far from encourag­ ing, he determined to remain some time at Cephalonia, but pre­ ferred living on board to accepting the warmly-proffered hospi­ tality of Colonel Charles Napier, or of the other residents in the island. •“ One day, after a bathe, he held out his right leg to me, saying— ‘ I hope this accursed limb will be knocked off in the war.’ ‘ It wont improve your swimming,’ I answered; ‘ I will exchange legs, if you will give me a portion of your brains.’ £ You would repent your bar­ gain,’ he said, &e. &c.” (p. 20.) The Greeks, it appears, very rationally desired a strong cen­ tralized authority to suppress the hordes of robbers—much more numerous than usual, since the outbreak of the war with Turkey ■—and talked, at least a portion of them did, of offering the crown to Byron; he might have bought it, perhaps, afterwards at Salona, and the Greeks would have had a king for three months, if he had not abdicated before, worthy of their classical renown certainly, but not quite the man to disentangle, or divide the political and social complications in which they were en­ tangled. The beauty of Ithaca, visited at this time, seems to have justified the persevering partiality of Ulysses for his island kingdom; but there is an inexcusable piece of rudeness to the abbot of a Greek convent on that island, recorded against Byron. The poor man had received him with all the honour in his power or knowledge, but proceeded, unluckily, to inflict an harangue of such length and solemnity, that Lord Byron, who had missed the indispensable siesta, broke into ungovernable wrath, and abused his entertainer with much more emphasis than euphony, from which his character, and wish to please, should certainly have protected the abbot. No wonder that the astounded abbot could find no better excuse for the conduct of the English peer and poet than madness—“ Ecolo e matto poveretto.” Mr. Trelawny left Lord Byron at Cephalonia, for he was long in moving when once settled, and never saw him again in life. Anxious to know something of the state of matters in the Morea, the former passed over, accompanied by Mr. Hamilton Browne. They found only confusion, intrigue, and embezzlement; and after transacting a little business, his companion, Mr. Browne, went to London, accompanying certain Greek deputies, who were comAA2 �356 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. missioned to raise a loan there, which, wonderful to relate, they succeeded in doing ; though the worthy stockbrokers could hardly have been moved to liberality, or rather credulity, by their classical sympathies; while Mr. Trelawny, quitting the Morea, made for Athens, and joined a celebrated robber chief, who had assumed political functions in the disturbed and anarchic state of the country, and bore the classical name of Odysseus. In January, 1824, Mr. Trelawny heard that Byron had gone to Missolonghi, and then, that he was dead; worn out with fatigue, anxiety, and disgust, his frame, already shattered by repeated attacks of remittent fever, acquired during former residence in the marsh-girt cities of Ravenna and Venice, succumbed in the prime of life to the miasma which in greater or less intensity, according to the season, constitutes the atmosphere of Misso­ longhi. Mr. Trelawny was at Salona, but left for Missolonghi directly, which he entered on the third day from his departure, and found it “ situated on the verge of the most dismal swamp I had ever seen.” “ No one was in the house but Fletcher, who withdrew the black pall and the white shroud, and there lay the embalmed body of the Pilgrim—more beautiful even in death than in life. The contraction of the skin and muscles had effaced every line traced by time or passion; few marble busts could have matched its stainless white, the harmony of its proportions, and its perfect finish. Yet he had been dissatisfied with that body, and longed to cast its slough. How often have I heard him curse it. I asked Fletcher to bring me a glass of water; and on his leaving the room, to confirm or remove my doubts as to the cause of his lameness, I uncovered the Pilgrim’s feet, and was answered—both his feet were clubbed, and the legs withered to the knee: the form and face of an Apollo, with the feet and legs of a .sylvan satyr.” The remaining chapters are exclusively autobiographical, and are not without interest, for Mr. Trelawny’s name has become historical in Gordon’s “ History of the Greek Revolution.” His adventures are not commonplace; and his intimate connexion with the family and fortunes of Odysseus afforded an opportunity of seeing and knowing more of the wilder and worthier elements of Romaic character than has fallen to the lot of any other edu­ cated Englishman. For some time he held watch and ward in the fortified, inaccessible cave on Mount Parnassus, where Odys­ seus had placed his family and property, with a garrison of a few men, and his brother-in-law, Mr. Trelawny, in command. He was at last desperately wounded in a very treacherous manner, by a Scotchman named Fenton, whom he had unduly trusted, but who had been bribed to act as a spy on Odysseus and him­ self, He tells his story, regardless of criticism, in a frank and �Byron’s early Poetry. 357 candid manner; and it must be a captious critic indeed, who can object to the consciousness of that superior physical strength and vigour, which sustained with ease exertions that exhausted the more delicate powers of the two celebrated companions, whose names lend so much interest to his book, and to whose intel­ lectual pre-eminence he renders respectful and affectionate homage. We have so recently recorded our opinions on Shelley’s * writings, that we shall now offer a few remarks on some portion of Lord Byron’s poetry, which, with all its popularity, has not, it appears to us, been always rightly estimated. He unaffectedly repudiated the opinion so generally entertained, that he was the hero of his own compositions—that the monotonous protagonists of his early and brilliantly successful Eastern tales, no less than the blase and reflective “ Childe,” or the fortunate and brilliant “Don Juan,” were drawn from the inspiration of a too partial egotism. We are inclined to believe in the sincerity of his pro­ test, and to attribute to dramatic poverty the uniformity of his characters, and to his own physical imperfection the bodily strength and activity by which his heroes are so generally distin­ guished. In those short pieces which were the fruits of his early travels, and which at once attracted the attention of every reader by the unequalled brilliancy of the language, we perceive the immature judgment and the vehement sensation of his character; the verse flows onward in a torrent of splendour, and a false lustre is given to the passion whose fruit is ashes; beauty of form, and the easy and over-valued achievements of physical courage, are the artless and ordinary attractions of his actors; there is no depth or refinement of character, no difficult invention; the poems are but pictures of ordinary merit, in splendid frames. But a deeper knowledge dawned upon him—a larger experience of his own heart, though little of the actual world from which he shrunk; and if he, as most men have done, regretted the delu­ sions of the master-passion, and wished that the deception had lasted for ever, or had never existed, yet his later strains, in their deeper tone and wider sympathies, evince that better self-know­ ledge, without which no man has successfully mapped even the narrowest province of the human heart; for that knowledge is itself but the evidence and the record of sufferings which the conflicts of reason with passion must ever produce. In the crude though not inharmonious products of his youth, we see how little he had felt his strength, and how he was fettered by the rules which had been the guide of his model and antithesis Pope; nowhere does he dare to be original, and the spirit which * Vide Number for January of this year. �368 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. dictated his first and weakest satire, was but the natural resent­ ment of an Englishman who had no mind to he bullied: the mere mechanical versification gives small promise of the matchless powers which produced “ Don Juan ” and “ Beppo;” and in the matter, there is nothing to warn us of that contemplative and deeply poetical thought which is so apparent in the “Prophecy of Dante,” and in the two later cantos of “ Childe Harold.” Even those unequalled satiric powers which culminated in the “ Irish Avatar,” are but shadowed, not developed, and the commonplace abuse and half-affected contempt of his first satire are calculated to produce a very different effect from the withering ridicule and careless contempt which overwhelmed those who provoked the displeasure of his later years. The German critics, with a severity of taste that does them honour, place the three great poets, whose names at once occur to us—Homer, Shakspeare, and Goethe—so far above all rivalry, as to accord to these alone that supremacy and universality of intellect which we call poetic genius; and this may be just, but the human mind is so constituted in its appreciation of poetry, as sometimes to derive superior pleasure from strains which have emanated from minds of far inferior order. We like best that poetry which addresses most strongly and directly the prevailing sentiments of our own characters; and hence thousands in whom the finest of Homer’s rhapsodies, Shakspeare’s “ Tempest,” or Goethe’s “ Iphigenia,” would awake no other sentiment than cool admiration, would be moved to tears or to enthusiasm by Pindar, Campbell, or Gray. It is no less certain that men of even the keenest intellect merely, are not unfrequently deficient in poetic taste and judgment. We know, for example, that Napoleon pre­ ferred Ossian, and Robert Hall Virgil to Homer; and that Lord Byron himself, utterly wanting in dramatic power, but little appreciated the true strength of Shakspeare. Poetry, indeed, especially of the first order, must be felt in the heart as well as judged by the head, and the greatest merit is least apparent to a superficial glance; long study, contemplation, and comparison are required to comprehend the consummate excellence of a masterpiece, whether it be from the hand of Shakspeare or the pencil of Raphael. But if the very few of the first order of poets completely satisfy all the requirements of the most refined and matured intellect, the poetry of Lord Byron will always appeal strongly to those, and they are not a few, whose passions, at some period of their lives, have proved too strong for the control of reason, and where regret, if not remorse, has followed the fruitless contest—a contest which has left the mind vacant for want of strong excitement, �Characteristics of Byron’s Poetry. 359 and wearied with a scene which offers no sufficient substitute for what has been lost. Flashes of the melancholy wisdom which follows on such experience are frequent in his later works, and their deep, and perhaps not barren truth, may sink with some­ thing of a healing and enlightening influence into hearts whose scars are not yet callous. There is, too, a strong and ardent reverence for the nobleness of intellect, ever felt most strongly by those most highly endowed; that reverence which, rightly considered, is the only true religion, and a scorn, as strongly expressed, for the vulgar or tinsel idols of mob idolatry. His spirit had wrestled with itself in vain; the vehement and unwise desire for something denied to mere mortality was his; the self-condemnation of performance so grievously inadequate to the lofty resolution, which more or less dwells in every heart, rebelling against the sway of low desires, was strong upon him; so that he hated life, and sought at first wildly, but afterwards more calmly, to give that feeling utterance : but the “ voiceless thought” could not so be spoken, and he, the most eloquent, went to his grave without succeeding in the vain effort to unburden his full heart. Not by words, however eloquent, can man satisfy himself, or vindicate liis life to others. Consistent action alone can satisfy the conscience, or justify us to our own hearts; and when action is denied or unsought, we strive for the relief, however inadequate, that words can furnish. Thus Chaucer: “ For when we may not do, then will we speken, And in our ashen colde, is fire yreken.” Had any suitable career of action been open to him, or had he lived in feudal times, he might have surpassed Bertrand de Born in thirst for irregular warlike achievement, and in the strains that celebrated it; the monotony of a modern.military career, and the subordination which can recognise no superiority but professional rank, where the opportunity of achievement is an accident, and routine the rule of life, was utterly unsuited to his character and his physical constitution. No better career offered to him than that miserable one of Missolonghi, and here he gave evidence of a moderation and self-command little to have been expected from a man whose vanity and egotism were not less conspicuous than his genius; this desire for an active career is translated into his eastern stories, and his heroes are rather models of what he wished to be, than what he was. His forte, however, as he knew, was vivid description, varied and illuminated by flashes of earnest thought, and the results of a melancholy, if a short experience. �360 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. In sustained diamatic, or epic power, he was deficient; but this is an imperial endowment, and, in his own language, “ Not Hellas could unrol From her Olympiads two such names.” His “Manfred,” despite Mr. Moore’s crude criticism, is a dramatic failure ; and when he calls this creation of Lord Byron’s “ loftier and worse ” than Milton’s Satan, the critic shows how little of the dramatic or epic element he must have himself possessed. “ Manfred ” is not a great creation—he is but a dreamer, who, finding no pleasure in an earthly pursuit, itself a morbid and unhealthy feeling, strives to o’erpass the limits of mortality, and to coerce the Spirits whom the elements obey. Such a desire, as common as it was vain, before men had emerged from the super­ stitious element of the middle ages, evinces no elevation or great­ ness of character, and if with dauntless courage he defies the spirits whom he had evoked by his spells, and provoked by his contempt of their power, he does so as one who knows they cannot injure him, and who seeks death rather than shuns it. The great blot of the piece, however, is the doubt that encom­ passes the fate of Astarte; the imagination can conceive no adequate cause for the terrible implacability which could reign in the bosom of a beatified spirit, and deny to a despairing brother one word of consolation in his awful abandonment. If she could condemn him, how can he be forgiven ? Such a subject, however attractive to a writer of strong imagi­ nation, and however promising in appearance, proves much more difficult to treat adequately, if, indeed, it can ever be so treated at all, than scenes and characters of a more earthly nature, where strictly human agents appeal to a kindred reason and sympathy. The communion of the supernatural with the natural has been a favourite theme, and a certain stumbling-block, to the greatest poets. Homei' succeeded best, because he invented little, taking the materials within his reach—and his gods and goddesses are but human beings, with a loftier physical and mental stature; it was easy to introduce them implementing the inferior powers of their favourite heroes, but we feel that, in all that should distin­ guish the supernatural Being above the human nature, the greatest of all, the tyrant Zeus, was inferior. Like some vulgar earthly ruler, he uses his power but to gratify passions unworthy of a God------ and the charm of divine beauty and celestial grace which hovers for ever round the name of Aphrodite, is insufficient to overcome the disgust with which we regard her threat to Helena, when the latter indignantly refuses to return to her van­ quished and fugitive paramour. And when, in the “ Tempest,” Shakspeare introduces Ariel to- �The Supernatural as an Element of Poetry. 361 delude and torment a set of drunken menials, or frighten a brutal and ignorant drudge, he scarcely redeems the character of that “ dainty” creation by his services in reconstructing the shattered ship, or even in deceiving the wretches who were plotting the death of the Duke. An inspired genius may walk through pro­ prieties at will, as he so constantly does, but even Shakspeare might have remembered in the “Tempest,” “NecDeus intersit,” &c. When Goethe, following the popular superstition, introduces the Devil, thinly disguised, as the companion and mentor of Faust, he goes easily enough with the pair through the tempta­ tions and the punishment of his neophyte and of Margaret—an episode too common in daily life to require the Devil as its agent —and Faust, when on the blasted heath he upbraids Mephisto with the cruel fate of her he should have protected from all harm, and curses himself as the dupe of a pitiless fiend, does but vent the reproaches many a man has heaped on himself, shuddering, if he had a conscience, at the cruel treachery which has rent a heart that beat only for him. But when the great German leaves the popular guide to invent a sphere of supernatural action, when Faust appears in scenes where the author has no guide from tradition, and subject to temptations of a less human character, we see how little mere mortal wit can observe any semblance of probability, or appearance of cohesion, in attempting that for which there is no actual precedent in human experience. There is but one Magician, and he has long laid aside all pretensions above morta­ lity. Patient and sagacious interrogation of nature, in disclosing the hidden properties of matter, has evoked powers which the genii of the lamp might have envied, and wealth, which would have satisfied the avarice of the alchemists. The greatest can but draw the supernatural from knowledge of the natural, and we have but human nature exaggerated in the majority of instances; Shakspeare’s Ariel, and the spirits in “Manfred” are nearly the only exceptions. Homer is greatest where he describes the actions of men, and the submissive grace and tenderness of women. Shakspeare stirs the heart, and awakens our admiration most strongly when he depicts the loving constancy of the gentler sex, and the masculine heroism of Coriolanus or of Henry the Fifth. Goethe has an easy task when he echoes the sarcastic mockery, or paints the demon heart of Mephisto; but the master-hand is seen in the calm and natural beauty of the “ Iphigenia,” and above all in his unequalled delinea­ tion of the female nature; he who could draw such characters as Gretchen, Clara, Mignon, and Adelheid von Weislingen, has surpassed all others, Shakspeare himself, in this the most inte­ resting province of observation and invention. And Lord Byron, though he has clothed his demons with �362 Recollections of Shelley ancl Byron. majesty and power, though he has avoided the vulgar error of too easily vanquishing evil by good, Satan by Abdiel, yet hardly introduces these for purposes worthy their supernatural powers, unless it be to justify the magnificent “ Hymn of the Spirits” in worship round the throne of Ahrimanes. In the first two cantos of “ Childe Harold,” the objective element is strongly ascendant, written as they were at a period of life when the world was still fresh, and the essential identity of human nature, under all its phases, hardly appreciated. The boundless command of his own language, and the liveliest sus­ ceptibility to the beauty or grandeur of nature, produced a poem which riveted immediately the attention of contemporaries, partly, indeed, due to a comparative novelty of style, and the want of sustained originality, in the poetry which immediately preceded its publication; something too may have been owing to the lesser preoccupation of the public by the floods of ephemeral and amusing literature which dissipate the intellectual tastes of the readers of our day. It is in the two latter cantos, and especially the last, in which wTe find his powers completely matured, whether reflective or descriptive. In these cantos he has carried those important elements of poetry to their highest excellence, though of invention, the test of the highest genius, we find no traces. There is throughout a want of cohesion, if we consider “ Childe Harold ” as an attempt at poetic creation, for the “ Childe” is a voice, not a living pilgrim; but if we recognise Lord Byron him­ self under an alias, narrating what he saw, and expressing in just and vivid language what he felt, we have a poem, the various merit of which it is difficult to over-estimate. The vigour of description therein displayed is indeed without a parallel; who has equalled, or even approached, the power displayed_ in stanzas 27, 28, 29 of the fourth canto ; in them we see actually brought before us by the magical force of his lan­ guage, the exquisite and fugitive beauties of an Italian sunset, which would have mocked the pictorial art of Claude or Turner to transfer to canvas. Mere words are made to appeal to the mind more effectively than the consummate skill of the masters of painting could appeal to the sense of vision. Even Homer is here surpassed for a moment, for nowhere does he bring before us so striking and so difficult a phase of nature’s ever-varying countenance; not even in the familiar passage in the eighth Rhapsody— S’ or ev ovpavu aarpa (]>aeivi)v apuju (teXt]vt]v <baivErai apLirpe7TEa. k. t. X. though it well deserves the homage Byron pays it in the fourth canto of the “ Prophecy of Dante”— �Childe Harold. 363 a The kindled marble’s bust may wear More poesy upon its speaking brow Than aught less than the Homeric page may bear.” In stanza 102, canto 3, we even seem to hear and see the busy summer forest life of birds and insects in the woods of Clarens, the rustle of the leaves in the early summer breath of June, and the very plash of Alpine waterfalls; the beautiful living solitude, unspoilt by the intrusion of man, comes before us as if in spirit, or in a dream we were transported to the Swiss wilderness ; it is transferred to paper as delicately and with truer colouring than could have been effected by the calotype: but these scenes in their quiet loveliness yet suggest reminiscences of the world which the author and the reader have for a moment for­ gotten, and the vigorous sketches of Gibbon and Voltaire, who had long lived within sight of that beautiful scenery, come like a cloud over the mind which had just been revelling in the laughing sunshine of a Swiss landscape. Applied to graver scenes, the same matchless power nearly rivals the merit of inven­ tion, and when by the lake of Thrasymene (c. iv., w. 62, 63, 64), he recals the strife that made Rome to reel on her seven-hilled throne, and strove with inexorable fate to reverse her stern de­ cree, the ancient battle comes before us as by a lightning-flash darted into the abysses of the past; as the soldiers of Carthage and of Rome pass before us in their deadly struggle. Nothing can be more exquisite than the various harmony of the stanzas from 86 to 104 of canto iii.: in these every variety of emotion and of feeling is characterized; of admiration, reverence, love, awe; and in the apostrophe to “ Clarens, sweet Clarens,” that passion which he felt with so much of its earthly alloy is exalted to a refinement almost unearthly, and to a dignity which truly belongs to it, as in its purity the least selfish of human desires. Was there ever a tribute to the Divinity of Love so exquisite as that contained in stanza 100 of canto iii.?— “ O’er the flower His eye is sparkling, and his breath hath blown His soft and summer breath, whose tender power Passes the strength of storms in their most desolate hour.” Such language may fairly excite a rapturous admiration, resem­ bling that which he professes, and only professes to have felt, when beholding the marble loveliness of the Medicean Venus. But in a different mood, and with feelings disappointed or blunted, he afterwards recurs to this, the dream of youth, and the disenchantment of maturity; and as a warning against the in­ dulgence of that passionate and eager credulity, what homily or �350 Recollections of Shelley and Byron. worships his kind are hounded, as we have said, by the limita­ tions which he knows are incident to humanity; idealize as he may, he can never free himself of the belief that no perfect man or woman has ever trod this planet. How, then, is it possible that any one but the ignorant and unreflective can ever feel the glow of genuine devotion when he bows himself to a being whose nature he knows to have been but a fragmentary representative of the ideal of man, or when he worships his best conception of this ideal itself knowing it to be an idol of his own creation? These fatal weaknesses of Positivism have no application to the Theist: the fervour of his adoration is deadened by no secret conscious­ ness that the object of his worship is marred with imperfection; for however great and glorious may be the attributes he ascribes to it, he feels assured that they are infinitely surpassed by the Reality itself. —— C7I Art. II.—Recollections of Shelley and Recollections of the Last Lays of Shelley and Byron. Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon. 1858. Byron. By E. J. R. TRELAWNY has done well in giving this manly and carelessly written little volume to the world: it will at least revive the personal memory of two Englishmen who, though long dead, can never be altogether of the past. Without telling much of either with which we were not previously acquainted, the infor­ mation communicated is the result of intimate personal know­ ledge, and, gathered during the intervals of a familiar acquaint­ ance, comes out with such freshness and vigour, that it possesses nearly all the merit of novelty; and the striking features of cha­ racter are brought forward in much stronger relief, than in the tame and wearisome biography of which one at least was the victim. It is the least enviable appanage of genius that it perpe­ tuates by its own lustre those faults and weaknesses which repose in the graves of meaner men; the biographer, even though a friend, cannot ignore these; and while he avoids giving them undue prominence, cannot forget that truth has its claims, as well as genius. We recognise Shelley in these sketches as he appeared in his works—the gentle, guileless, noble soul who persisted in putting himself wrong with the world, and who rashly and fearlessly launched his indignant sarcasm at the cant and bigotry and sei- M � Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Victorian Blogging Description An account of the resource A collection of digitised nineteenth-century pamphlets from Conway Hall Library &amp; Archives. This includes the Conway Tracts, Moncure Conway's personal pamphlet library; the Morris Tracts, donated to the library by Miss Morris in 1904; the National Secular Society's pamphlet library and others. The Conway Tracts were bound with additional ephemera, such as lecture programmes and handwritten notes.<br /><br />Please note that these digitised pamphlets have been edited to maximise the accuracy of the OCR, ensuring they are text searchable. If you would like to view un-edited, full-colour versions of any of our pamphlets, please email librarian@conwayhall.org.uk.<br /><br /><span><img src="http://www.heritagefund.org.uk/sites/default/files/media/attachments/TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" width="238" height="91" alt="TNLHLF_Colour_Logo_English_RGB_0_0.jpg" /></span> Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource Conway Hall Library & Archives Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 2018 Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available Conway Hall Ethical Society Text A resource consisting primarily of words for reading. Examples include books, letters, dissertations, poems, newspapers, articles, archives of mailing lists. Note that facsimiles or images of texts are still of the genre Text. Original Format The type of object, such as painting, sculpture, paper, photo, and additional data Pamphlet Dublin Core The Dublin Core metadata element set is common to all Omeka records, including items, files, and collections. For more information see, http://dublincore.org/documents/dces/. Title A name given to the resource Recollections of Shelley and Byron Description An account of the resource Place of publication: [London] Collation: p. 350-368 ; 22 cm. Notes: Review essay of "Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron" by Edward John Trelawny. London: Edward Moxon, 1858. Includes bibliographical references. From the library of Dr Moncure Conway. From Westminster Review 13 (April 1858). Publisher An entity responsible for making the resource available [s.n.] Date A point or period of time associated with an event in the lifecycle of the resource 1858 Identifier An unambiguous reference to the resource within a given context CT42 Creator An entity primarily responsible for making the resource [Unknown] Subject The topic of the resource Book reviews Poetry Rights Information about rights held in and over the resource <a href="http://creativecommons.org/publicdomain/mark/1.0/"><img src="http://i.creativecommons.org/p/mark/1.0/88x31.png" alt="Public Domain Mark" /></a><span> </span><br /><span>This work (Recollections of Shelley and Byron), identified by </span><a href="https://conwayhallcollections.omeka.net/items/show/www.conwayhall.org.uk"><span>Humanist Library and Archives</span></a><span>, is free of known copyright restrictions.</span> Format The file format, physical medium, or dimensions of the resource application/pdf Type The nature or genre of the resource Text Language A language of the resource English Book Reviews Conway Tracts English Poetry George Gordon Byron Percy Bysshe Shelley Poetry in English Romantic Poetry