The Press. — London, England, 1858-04-24 00:00:00

us of the screaming tone of Shelley. In a word, the whole of these first two vol umes ' ot hers are to come) is most unpleasing. But the work contains much most interest , ing and authentic materials for those who desire to study Shelley as a man, and it deserves to be read for its contents, if not for its style. Miss Shelley, a surviving sister of the poet, is a contributor of several recollec tions to its pages; Mr. Hogg's owu personal reminiscences are numerous and there are many original letters from Shelley and God win, and others, none of which have previously seen the light. We have blamed the execu tion of the work, but we will not underrate its portance, as future w r it ers w ill biographical im be sure to know how to avail themselves of the quantity of matter spread here before the world. On the present occasion we shall con fine ourselves to the first of these volumes. The dedication of the work gives some idea of the unpleasant manner and exaggerated tone of its composition : TO THE HON. JANE, THE WIVE OF SIR PERCY FLORENCE SHELLEY, BART., THE LADY AT WHOSE REQUEST THE DELICATE AND DIFFICULT TASK WAS UNDERTAKE OF GIVING A FULL AND AUTHENTIC ACCOUN T OF A LIFE INNOCENT AND IMAGINATIVE, EVEN OF THE LIFE OF HER INCOMPARABLE FATHER•IN•LAW THE DIVINE POET, THESE VOLUMES ARE RESPECTFULLY INSCRIBED, BY HER FRIEND, THE AUTHOR. We shall not stay to criticise this dedication. Next we are abruptly treated to some ardent passages from the pen of the poet's wife, the late Mrs. Shelley. It appears that Sir Timothy Shelley forbad Mrs. Shelley—under threat of " stopping the supplies " to publish any biography of her husband. Both Mrs. Shelley and the poet's personal representative seem to have great confidence in Mr. Hogg, and the circumstance gives value to certain statements in this publication of the vehemence of Mr. Hogg's admiration for Shelley. We shall cite a passage by way of specimen : Shelley was great as a poet— divine, indeed ; great as a philosopher, as a moralist, as a scholar, as a complete and finished gentleman, great iu every respect as a man ; but be was most oonspicuously great in that particular excel lence which, in all ages and in all cations, has been in variably the characteristic distinction of the greatest of mankind—he was pre-eminently a lady's man. Of the character of Shelley as a poet, or as a man, this is not the proper occasion for us to record o•xr opinion, as we shall have other Opportunities of doing so when this publica tion will be completed. We may observe, that the time which has passed since Shelley's death will secure from the public a calmer opinion on his character than could have been expected at his decease. Miss Shelley's recollections of her brother are amongst the most interesting parts. They are rambling, desultory, and broken, but they portray th 3 imaginative nature of the strange being who wrote " Queen :Lab " and " The Cenci." Shelley as a young boy is visible in this sketch : At this distant period I can scarcely remember my first impressions of Bysshe, but he would frequently come to the nursery, and WdS full of a peculiar kind of pranks. One piece of mischief, for which he was rebuked, was run. ntng a stick through the ceiling of a low passage to find some new chamber, which could be made effective for some flights ot his vivid imagination. The tales, to which we have sat an d li stPne d , evening after evening, seated on his knee, when we came to the dining-room for dessert, were anticipated with that pleasing dread, which so excites the minds of children, and fastens so strongly and indeli bly on the memory. There was a spacious garret under the roof ot Field-place, and a room, which hail been closed for years, excepting an entrance made by the removal of a board in the garret-floor. This unknown land was made the fancied habitation of an Alchemist, old and grey, with a long beard. Books and a lamp, with all the attributes of s picturesque fancy, were poured into our listening ears. e were to go and see him " some day ;" but we were content to wait, and a cave was to be dug in the orchard ter the better accommodation of this Cornelius Agrippa. Another favourite theme was the " Great Tortoise," that lived in Warnham Pond; and any unwonted noise was accounted for by the presence of this great beast, which was made int o t h e fanciful proportions most adapted to excite awe and wonder. And . there are sev era l o th er reco ll ec ti ons of a sunder character. But wo pass on to a vivid portraiture of Shelley as ho appeared at Oxford, where Mr. Bev first mado his ac quaintance ° It was 4 sum of many contradictions. His figure was Itliffkt and fragile, add yet hie bones pad joints were large THE PRESS, APRIL 24, and strong. He was tall, but he stooped so much, that be seemed of a low stature. His clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day ; but they were tumbled, rumpled, nnbrushed. His ges tures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion was delicate, and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, in shooting. His features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small ; yet the last ap peared of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies ( if I may use the word) of anxious thought. he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his fingeis quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to imitate stage coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking. His features were not symmetrical ( the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful. They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any other counte nance. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual, for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration, that characterizes the best works, and chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused their whole souls), of the great masters of Florence and of Rome. I recognized the very peculiar ex pression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance I had first observed it. I admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science, and his thirst for knowledge. I seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which I had vainly expected to meet with in a University. But there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralize all his excellence. " This is a fine, clever fellow !" I said to myself, " but I can never bear his society ; I shall never be able to en dure his voice; it would kill me. What a pity it is!" I am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of pain ful sounds,—and the voice of the stranger was excruciating : it was intolerabl3 shrill, harsh, and discordant ; of the most cruel intension—it was perpetual, and without any remission—it excoriated the ears. We never saw Shelley ourselves, but we have frequently conversed on his character and habits with one whose name often occurs in this work, and who had varied opportunities of estimating him from personal observa tion. The likeness drawn of him in the fore- going extract is natural ; but it is when Mr. Hogg attempts to delineate the moral features of Shelley's character, that the author fails. In all mystical characters there is much that is contradictory and incomprehensible, and Shelley was a mass of contradiction. We believe him, ourselves, to have been urofoundly diseased both physically and mentally. The bodily pain which he often suffered, the morbid intensity of his disposition, his odd mixture of perverse obstinacy, united with apparent gentleness, presented most extraor dinary aspects. His crude speculations in metaphysics, his offensive ravings on theology-, his fastidious tastes, and his democratic prin ciples, made up a wildly-incongruous medley. The letters from him in this work are in many respects most painful. His incoherent utter ances on theology and metaphysics are repel sive, especially when they are presented with out the melody of verse. Shelley had, un doubtedly, a surprising faculty for pouring out magnificent language, and he was often de ceived by his own rhetotie, and became " drunk with words " It has been observed by a profound thinker that the attempt of the Romish Church to defend the doctrine of Transubstantiation is " an effort to turn rhetoric into logic," and we are reminded of the remark as often as we see Shelley approach ing the loftiest subjects on which the human mind can dwell, and endeavouring to solve them by the mere power of his language. But gorgeous diction will not analyze pro blems veiled. from human gaze ; nor will the melodious expressions of bewildered fancies satisfy the judgment. Shelley had not the true spirit of a philosopher He tried to obtain results by his feelings which could only be obtained by inductions after sober arguments ; and the recklessly defiant air with which he cast forth his decisions was extremely repulsive. He wrote to Mr. Hogg as follows : My dear Friend,—Before we deny or believe the exits - tonce of anything it is necessary that we should have a tolerably clear idea of what it is. The word " God," a vague word, has been, and will continue to be, the source of numberless errors, until it is erased from the nomen clature of philosophy. Does it not imply " the soul of the universe, the intelligent and necessarily beneficent, actuating principle," This h is impossible not to believe in, I may not be able to adduce proofs; but, I think, tin* the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, are, in themselves, arguments more conclusive than any which can be advanced, that some vast intellect animates infinity. It we disbelieve this, the strongest argument in support of the existence of s future state instantly becomes annihilated. I confess that I think Pope's— A II are but parts of one stupendous whole, something more than poetry. It has ever been my favourite theory, for the immortal soul, "never to be sble to die, never to escape from some shrine as chilling as the clay-formed dungeon, which now it inhabits ;" it is the future punishment which I can most easily believe in. Love, love, infinite in extent, eternal in duration, yet (allowing your theory in that point) perfectible, should be the reward ; but can we suppose that this reward will arise, spontaneously, as a necessary appendsge to our nature, or that our nature itself could be without cause—s first cause—a God? When do we see effects arise without causes? What causes are there without correspondent effects? Yet here, I swear—and as I break my oaths, may Infinity, Eternity blast me—here I swear, that never will forgive intolerance ! It is the only point on which I allow myself to encourage revenge ; every moment shall be devoted to my object, which I can spare; and let me hope that it will not be a blow which spends itself, and leaves the wretch at rest—but lasting, long revenge ! And again, in a few days afterwards, Sh.lley in a letter gives the following picture of him self:— To you I dare represent myself as I am : wretched to the last degree—sometimes one gleam of hope, one faint solitary gleam, seems to illumine the darkened prospect before me—but it has vanished. I fear it will never re turn. My sister will, I fear, never return the attachment which would once again bid me be calm. Yes ! In this alone is my feeble anticipation of peace pla.ed! But what am I? Am I not the most degraded of deceived enthusiasts? 1)o I not deceive myself? I never, never can feel peace again. What necessity is there for con tinuing in existence? But Heaven! Eternity! Love! My dear friend, I am yet a sceptic on these subjects; would that I could believe them to be, as they are repre sented ; would that I could totally disbelieve them ! Bat no ! That would be selfish. I still have firmness enough to resist this last, this most bonible of errors. Is my despair the result of the hot, sickly love which inflames the admirers of Sterne or Moore ? It is the conviction of unmerited unkindness, the conviction that, should a future world exist, the object of my attachment would be as miserable as myself, is the cause of it. And still worse he plunges forward into the following most painful and revolting confes sion of his feelings : I here take God and a God exists) to witness, that I wish torments, which beggar the futile descriptions of a fancied bell, would fall upon me ; provided I could obtain thereby that happiness for what I love, which, I fear, can never be ! The question is, what do I love? It is almost unnecessary to answer. Do I love the person, the em• bodied identity, if I may be allowed the expremi3n ? No ! I love what is superior, what is excellent, or what I con ceive to be so; and I wish, ardently wish, to be profoundly convinced of the existence of a Deity, that so superior a spirit might derive some degree of happiness from my feeble exertions : for love is heaven, and heaven is love. You think so, too, and you disbelieve not the existence of an eternal, omnipresent Spirit. Am I not mad ? Alas t I am, but I pour out my ravings into the ear of a friend who will pardon them. Stay! I have an idea. I think I can prove the existence of a Deity—A. First Cause. I will ask a materialist, how came this universe at first? Be will answer, by chance. What chance? I will answer in the words of Spinoza: "An infinite number of atoms had been floating from all eternity in space, till at last one of them fortuitously diverged from its track, which, dragging with it another, formed the principle of gravitation, and in consequence the universe." What cause produced this change, this chance? For where do we know that causes arise without their correspondent effects; at least we must here, on so abstract a subject, reason analogically. Was not this then a cause, was it not a first cause ? Wes not this first cause a Deity? Now nothing remains but to prove, that thia Deity has a care, or rather that its only employment consists in regulating the present and future happiness of its creation. Onr ideas of infinite space, Ake., are scarcely to be called ideas, for we cannot either comprehe.id or explain them; therefore the Deity must be judged by us from attributes analogical to our situation. Oh, that this Deity were the soul of the universe, the spirit of universal, imperishable love ! Indeed I believe it is : but now to your argument of the necessity of Chris tianity. lam not sure that your argument does not tend to prove its unreality. If it does not, you allow, you say, that love is the only true source of rational happiness : one man is capable of it, why not all ? This is, indeed, the revelation of a half-dis tracted brain, and a miserably morbid con dition of the mind. Its feverish feelings, its discordant language, and its wild strain sug gest that an affirmative answer might have been given to the writer's question, " Am I not mad ?" Of the way in which Shelley circulated his opinions we have the following account : His object in printing the slue-t abstract of some of the doctrines of Hume was to facilitate his epistolary disqui sitions. I t w a s a small pill, but it worked powerfully; the mode of operation was this----Se inclosed a copy in a letter, sod twat it by the post, stating, with mo d es ty an d simplicity, that he had met atie.identoy with Mat Utile hut, whittli appeared unhappily to be quit, aasairetablo, I