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

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. It was 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 modesty and
simplicity, that he had met atie.identoy with Mat Utile
hut, whittli appeared unhappily to be quit, aasairetablo,