University of Virginia Library

SHELLEY

It is now about eighteen years since the waters of the
Mediterranean closed over one of the most delicately organized
and richly endowed beings of our era. A scion
of the English aristocracy, the nobility of his soul threw
far into the shade all conventional distinctions; while his
views of life and standard of action were infinitely broader
and more elevated than the narrow limits of caste.
Highly imaginative, susceptible and brave, even in boy-hood
he reverenced the honest convictions of his own
mind above success or authority. With a deep thirst for
knowledge, he united a profound interest in his race.
Highly philosophical in his taste, truth was the prize for
which he most earnestly contended; heroical in his temper,
freedom he regarded as the dearest boon of existence;
of a tender and ardent heart, love was the grand hope and
consolation of his being, while beauty formed the most
genial element of his existence.

Of such a nature, when viewed in a broad light, were
the elements of Shelley's character. Nor is it difficult
to reconcile them with the details of his opinions and the
tenor of his life. It is easy to imagine a state of society
in which such a being might freely develope, and felicitously
realize principles and endowments so full of promise;
while, on the other hand, it is only necessary to
look around on the world as it is, or back upon its past
records, to lose all surprise that this fine specimen of humanity
was sadly misunderstood and his immediate influence
perverted. The happy agency which as an independent
thinker and humane poet might have been prophecied
of Shelley, presupposed a degree of consideration
and sympathy, not to say delicacy and reverence, on
the part of society, a wisdom in the process of education,
a scope of youthful experience, an entire integrity of treatment,
to be encountered only in the dreams of the
Utopian. To have elicited in forms of unadulterated
good the characteristics of such a nature, “when his being
overflowed,” the world should have been to him,

Instead of this, at the first sparkling of that fountain, the
teachings of the world, and the lessons of life, were calculated
to dam up its free tide in the formal embankments
of custom and power. What wonder, then, that
it overleaped such barriers, and wound waywardly aside
into solitude, to hear no sound “save its own dashings?”

The publication of the posthumous prose[3] of Shelley,
is chiefly interesting from the fact that it perfectly confirms
our best impressions of the man. We here trace
in his confidential letters, the love and philanthropy to
which his muse was devoted. All his literary opinions
evidence the same sincerity. His refined admiration of
nature, his habits of intense study and moral independence,
have not been exaggerated. The noble actions ascribed
to him by partial friends, are proved to be the natural results
of his native feelings. The peculiar sufferings of
body and mind, of experience and imagination, to which
his temperament and destiny subjected him, have in no
degree been overstated. His generosity and high ideal
of intellectual greatness and human excellence, are more
than indicated in the unstudied outpourings of his familiar
correspondence.

Love, according to Shelley, is the sum and essence of
goodness. While listening to the organ in the Cathedral
of Pisa, he sighed that charity instead of faith was not
regarded as the substance of universal religion. Self he
considered as the poisonous “burr” which especially deformed
modern society; and to overthrow this “dark
idolatry,” he embarked on a lonely but most honorable
crusade. The impetuosity of youth doubtless gave to
the style of his enterprise an aspect startling to some of
his well-meaning fellow-creatures. All social reformers
must expect to be misinterpreted and reviled. In the
case of Shelley, the great cause for regret is that so few

should have paid homage to his pure and sincere intentions;
that so many should have credited the countless
slanders heaped on his name; and that a nature so gifted
and sensitive, should have been selected as the object of
such wilful persecution. The young poet saw men reposing
supinely upon dogmas, and hiding cold hearts behind
technical creeds, instead of acting out the sublime
idea of human brotherhood. His moral sense was shocked
at the injustice of society in heaping contumely upon
an erring woman, while it recognizes and honors the author
of her disgrace. He saddened at the spectacle so often
presented, of artificial union in married life, the enforced
constancy of unsympathizing beings, hearts dying
out in the long struggle of an uncongenial bond. Above
all, his benevolent spirit bled for the slavery of the mass—
the superstitious enthralment of the ignorant many. He
looked upon the long procession of his fellow-creatures
plodding gloomily on to their graves, conscious of social
bondage, yet making no effort for freedom, groaning under
self-imposed burdens, yet afraid to cast them off, conceiving
better things, yet executing nothing. Many have
felt and still feel thus. Shelley aspired to embody in action,
and to illustrate in life and literature the reform
which his whole nature demanded. He dared to lead
forth at a public ball the scorned victim of seduction, and
appal the hypocritical crowd by an act of true moral courage.
As a boy, he gave evidence of his attachment to
liberty by overthrowing a system of school tyranny; and
this sentiment, in after life, found scope in his Odes to
the Revolutionists of Spain and Italy. He fearlessly discussed
the subject of marriage, and argued for abolishing
an institution which he sincerely believed perverted
the very sentiment upon which it is professedly based.
“If I have conformed to the usages of the world, on the
score of matrimony,” says one of his letters, “it is that
disgrace always attaches to the weaker sex.” In relation
to this and other of his theories, the language of a fine
writer in reference to a kindred spirit is justly applicable
to Shelley. “He conceived too nobly for his fellows—
he raised the standard of morality above the reach of humanity;
and, by directing virtue to the most airy and romantic
heights, made her paths dangerous, solitary, and
impracticable.” Shelley entertained a perfect disgust for
the consideration attached to wealth, and observed, with
impatient grief, the shadow property throws over modest
worth and unmonied excellence. Upon this sentiment,
also, he habitually acted. The maintenance of his opinions
cost him, among other sacrifices, a fine estate. So
constant and profuse was his liberality towards impoverished
men of letters, and the indigent in general, that he
was obliged to live with great economy. He subjected
himself to serious inconvenience while in Italy, to assist
a friend in introducing steam-navigation on the Mediterranean.
It was his disposition to glory in and support
true merit wherever he found it. He was one of the first
to recognize the dawning genius of Mrs. Hemans, to
whom he addressed a letter of encouragement when she
was a mere girl. He advocated a dietetic reform, from a
strong conviction that abstinence from spirituous liquors
and animal food, would do much to renovate the human
race. Upon this idea his own habits were based. But
the most obnoxious of Shelley's avowed opinions, was
his non-concurrence in the prevalent system of Religion.
To the reflective student of his writings, however, the
poet's atheism is very different from what interested critics
have made it. School and its associations were inexpressibly
trying to his free and sensitive nature; and
a series of puzzling questions of a metaphysical character,
which he encountered in the course of his recreative
reading, planted the seeds of skepticism in his mind,
which enforced religious observances and unhappy experience
soon fertilized. Queen Mab, the production
of a collegian in his teens, is rather an attack upon a
creed than Christianity; and was never published with
the author's consent. It should be considered as the
crude outbreak of juvenile talent eager to make trial of
the new weapons furnished by the logic of Eton. Yet it
was impertinently dragged into notice to blight the new
and rich flowers of his maturer genius, and meanly quoted
against Shelley in the chancery suit by which he was
deprived of his children. Instead of smiling at its absurdities,
or rejecting, with similar reasoning its arguments,
the force of authority, the very last to alarm such a spirit,
was alone resorted to. What wonder if the ardent boy's
doubts of the popular system was increased, his views of
social degradation confirmed; that he came to regard custom
as the tyrant of the universe, and proposed to abandon
a world from whose bosom he had been basely spurned?
If an intense attachment to truth, and an habitual spirit
of disinterestedness constitute any part of religion, Shelley
was eminently religious. For the divine character
portrayed in the Gospels, he probably, in his latter years,
had a truer reverence than the majority of Christians.
If we are to credit one of his most intimate friends, the
Beatitudes constituted his delight and embodied his principles
of faith. As far as the Deity is worshipped by a
profound sensibility to the wonders and beauty of his
universe, a tender love of his creatures and a cherished
veneration for the highest revelations of humanity, the
calumniated poet was singularly devout. “Fools rush
in where angels fear to tread,” is true of human conduct
not less in its so called religious than its other aspects.
We live in an atmosphere of doubt. To attain to clear
and unvarying convictions, in regard to the mysteries of
our being, is not the lot of all. There are those who
cannot choose but wonder at the unbounded confidence
of theologians. It is comparatively easy to be a churchgoer,
to conform to religious observances, to acquiesce in
prevailing opinions; but to how many all this is but a
part of the mere machinery of life! There are those who
are slow to profess and quick to feel, who can only bow
in meekness, and hope with trembling. Shelley's nature
was peculiarly reverential, but he entertained certain speculative
doubts—and with the ordinary displays of Christianity
he could not sympathize. The popular conception
of the Divinity did not meet his wants; and so the world
attached to him the brand of atheist, and, under this anathema,
hunted him down. “The shapings of our Heavens,”
says Lamb, “are the modificatiens of our constitu
tions.” Shelley's ideal nature modified his religious sentiment.

His Hymn to Intellectual Beauty is instinct with the
spirit of pure devotion, directed to the highest conception
of his nature. Unthinking, indeed, is he who can for a
moment believe that such a being could exist without adoration.
Dr. Johnson says that Milton grew old without
any visible worship. The opinions of Shelley are no
more to be regarded as an index to his heart, than the
blind bard's quiet musings as a proof that the fire of devotion
did not burn within. Shelley's expulsion from college,
for questioning the validity of Christianity, or perhaps
more justly, asserting its abuses, was the turning
point in his destiny. This event, following immediately
upon the disappointment of his first attachment, stirred
the very depths of his nature—and in all probability,
transformed the future man, from a good English squire,
to a politician and reformer. Then came his premature
marriage, to which impulsive gratitude was the blind motive,
the bitter consequences of his error, his divorce and
separation from his children, his new and happy connection
founded on true affection and intellectual sympathy,
his adventurous exile and sudden death. How long, we
are tempted to ask in calmly reviewing his life, will it re

quire, in this age of wonders, for the truth to be recognized
that opinions are independent of the will, and therefore
not, in themselves, legitimate subjects of moral approbation
or blame? It has been said that the purposes of
men most truly indicate their characters. Where can we
find an individual in modern history of more exalted aims
than Shelley? While a youth, he was wont to stray from
his fellows, and thoughtfully resolve

When suffering poverty in London, after his banishment,
his benevolence found exercise in the hospitals,
which he daily visited to minister to the victims of pain
and disease. The object of constant malice, he never
degenerated into a satirist.

Though baffled in his plans, and cut off from frequent
enjoyment by physicial anguish, love and hope still
triumphed over misanthropy and despair. He was adored
by his friends, and beloved by the poor. Even Byron
curbed his passions at Shelley's wise rebuke, hailed him
as his better angel, and transfused something of his elevated
tone into the later emanations of his genius.
And yet this is the man who was disgraced and banned
for his opinions—deemed by a court of his country unworthy
to educate his own children—disowned by his
kindred, and forced from his native land! What a reflection
to a candid mind, that slander long prevented acquaintance
and communion between Shelley and Lamb!
How disgusting the thought of those vapid faces of the
travelling English, who have done more to disenchant
Italy than all her beggars, turned in scorn from the poet,
as they encountered him on the Pincian or Lung'Arno!
With what indignation do we think of that beautiful head
being defaced by a blow! Yet we are told, when Shelley
was inquiring for letters at a continental post-office, some
ruffian, under color of the common prejudice, upon hearing
his name, struck him to the earth.

As a poet Shelley was strikingly original. He maintained
the identity of poetry and philosophy; and the
bent of his genius seems to have been to present philosophical
speculations, and “beautiful idealisms of moral
excellence,” in poetical forms. He was too fond of looking

beyond the obvious and tangible to form a merely descriptive
poet, and too metaphysical in his taste to be a purely
sentimental one. He has neither the intense egotism of
Byron, nor the simple fervor of Burns. In general, the
scope of his poems is abstract, abounding in wonderful
displays of fancy and allegorical invention. Of these
qualities, the Revolt of Islam is a striking example. This
lack of personality and directness, prevents the poetry of
Shelley from impressing the memory like that of Mrs.
Hemans or Moore. His images pass before the mind like
frost-work at moonlight, strangely beautiful, glittering and
rare, but of transient duration, and dream-like interest.
Hence, the great body of his poetry can never be popular.
Of this he seemed perfectly aware. “Prometheus
Unbound,” according to his own statement, was composed
with a view to a very limited audience; and the “Cenci,”
which was written according to more popular canons of
taste, cost him great labor. The other dramas of Shelley
are cast in classical moulds, not only as to form but in
tone and spirit; and scattered through them are some of
the most splendid gems of expression and metaphor to be
found in the whole range of English poetry. Although
these classical dramas seem to have been most congenial
to the poet's taste, there is abundant evidence of his superior
capacity in more popular schools of his art. For
touching beauty, his “Lines written in Dejection near
Naples,” is not surpassed by any similar lyric; and his
“Sky-Lark” is perfectly buoyant with the very music it
commemorates. “Julian and Maddalo” was written according
to Leigh Hunt's theory of poetical diction, and is
a graceful specimen of that style. But “The Cenci” is
the greatest evidence we have of the poet's power over his
own genius. Horrible and difficult of refined treatment
as is the subject, with what power and tact is it developed!
When I beheld the pensive loveliness of Beatrice's portrait
at the Barbarini palace, it seemed as if the painter
had exhausted the ideal of her story. Shelley's tragedy
should be read with that exquisite painting before the
imagination. The poet has surrounded it with an interest
surpassing the limner's art. For impressive effect
upon the reader's mind, exciting the emotions of “terror
and pity” which tragedy aims to produce, how few
modern dramas can compare with “The Cenci!” Perhaps
“Adonais” is the most characteristic of Shelley's
poems. It was written under the excitement of sympathy;
and while the style and images are peculiar to the poet, an
uncommon degree of natural sentiment vivifies this elegy.
In dwelling upon its pathetic numbers, we seem to trace
in the fate of Keats, thus poetically described, Shelley's
own destiny depicted by the instinct of his genius.

The elements of Shelley's genius were rarely mingled.
The grand in nature delighted his muse. Volcanoes and
glaciers, Alpine summits and rocky caverns filled his fancy.
It was his joy to pass the spring-days amid the ruined
baths of Caracalla, and to seek the corridors of the Coliseum
at moonlight. He loved to watch the growth of
thunder-showers, and to chronicle his dreams. German
literature, to which he was early attracted, probably
originated much of his taste for the wild and wonderful.
Plato and the Greek poets, sculpture and solitude,
fed his spirit. Such ideas as that of will unconquered by
tyranny, the brave endurance of suffering, legends like
the “Wandering Jew”—the poetry of evil as depicted in
the Book of Job—“Paradise Lost,” the story of “Prometheus,”
and the traditions of “The Cenci,” interested
him profoundly. He revelled in “the tempestuous loveliness
of terror.” The sea was Shelley's idol. Some of
his happiest hours were passed in a boat. The easy motion,

probably soothed his excitable temperament; while the
expause of wave and sky, the countless phenomena of
cloud and billow, and the awful grandeur of storms entranced
his soul. Hence his favorite illustrations are drawn
from the sea, and many of them are as perfect pearls of
poesy as ever the adventurous diver rescued from the deep
of imagination. Nor were they obtained without severe
struggle and earnest application. Shelley's life was in
tense, and although only in his thirtieth year when his
beloved element wrapped him in the embrace of death, the
snows of premature age already flecked his auburn locks;
and, in sensation and experience, he was wont to say, he
had far outsped the calendar. Shelley was a true disciple
of love. He maintained with rare eloquence the
spontaneity and sanctity of the passion, and sought to
realize the ideal of his affections with all a poet's earnestness.
Alastor typifies the vain search.

Time—the great healer of wounded hearts—the mighty
vindicator of injured worth—is rapidly dispersing the
mists which have hitherto shrouded the fame of Shelley.
Sympathy for his sufferings, and a clearer insight into his
motives, are fast redeeming his name and influence.
Whatever views his countrymen may entertain, there
is a kind of living posterity in this young republic,
who judge of genius by a calm study of its fruits,
wholly uninfluenced by the distant murmur of local prejudice
and party rage. To such, the thought of Shelley is
hallowed by the aspirations and spirit of love with which
his verse overflows; and in their pilgrimage to the old
world, they turn aside from the more august ruins of Rome,
to muse reverently upon the poet, where

Note.—This article having been censured and misunderstood, the
following letter was afterwards published in the magazine in which it
appeared.

“Your letter informing me of the manner in which
some of your readers have seen fit to regard my remarks
on Shelley, is at hand. I am at a loss to conceive how
any candid or discriminating mind can view the article
in question as a defence of Shelley's opinions. It was
intended rather to place the man himself in a more just
point of view, than that which common prejudice assigns
him. I only contend that mere opinions—especially those
of early youth, do not constitute the only or the best
criterion of character. I have spoken in defence rather
of Shelley's tendencies and real purposes, than of his
theories, and endeavored to vindicate what was truly lovely
and noble in his nature. To these gifts and graces the
many have long been blinded. We have heard much of
Shelley's atheistical philosophy and little of his benevolent
heart, much of his boyish infidelity and little of his kind
acts and elevated sentiments. That I have attempted to
call attention to these characteristics of the poet, I cannot
regret; and to me such a course seems perfectly
consistent with a rejection of his peculiar views of society
and religion. These we know were in a great degree
visionary and contrary to well established principles of
human nature. Still they were ever undergoing modifications,
and his heart often anticipated the noblest teachings
of faith. A careful study of the life and writings
of Shelley, will narrow the apparent chasm between
him and the acknowledged ornaments of our race. It
will lead us to trace much that is obnoxious in his views

to an aggravated experience of ill, and to discover in
the inmost sanctuary of his soul much to venerate
and love, much that will sanctify the genius which
the careless and bigoted regard as having been wholly
desecrated.

One of your correspondents says “I do not pretend to
be minutely acquainted with the details of his life, having
never read his letters recently published.” And yet,
confessedly ignorant of the subject, as he is, he yet goes on
to repeat and exaggerate the various slanders which have
been heaped upon the name of one who I still believe
should rank among the most noble characters of modern
times. It is not a little surprising that while, in all questions
of science, men deem the most careful inquiry requisite
to form just conclusions, in those infinitely more
subtle and holy inquiries which relate to human character,
they do not scruple to yield to the most reckless prejudice.
Far otherwise do I look upon such subjects. When an
individual has given the most undoubted proof of high
and generous character, I reverence human nature too
much to credit every scandalous rumor, or acquiesce in
the suggestions of malevolent criticism, regarding him.
Had your correspondent examined conscientiously the
history of Shelley, he would have discovered that he never
abandoned his wife, and thus drove her to self-destruction.
They were wholly unfit companions. Shelley married her
from gratitude, for the kind care she took of him in illness.
It was the impulsive act of a generous but thoughtless
youth. They separated by mutual consent, and
sometime elapsed before she committed suicide. That

event is said to have overwhelmed Shelley with grief, not
that he felt himself in any manner to blame, but that he
had not sufficiently considered his wife's incapacity for
self-government, and provided by suitable care for so
dreadful an exigency. After this event, Shelley married
Miss Godwin, with whom he enjoyed uninterrupted
domestic felicity during the short remainder of his life.
His conduct accorded perfectly with the views, and, in a
great measure, with the practice of Milton. With that
prying injustice, which characterizes the English press,
in relation to persons holding obnoxious opinions, the
facts were misrepresented, and Shelley described as one of
the most cruel monsters. So much for his views of Religion
and Marriage. “A Friend to Virtue” is shocked
at my remark, that “opinions are not in themselves legitimate
subjects of moral approbation or censure.” He
should have quoted the whole sentence. The reason
adduced is, that they are “independent of the will.”
This I maintain to be correct. I know not what are the
grounds upon which “A Friend of Virtue” estimates his
kind. For myself, it is my honest endeavor to look
through the web of opinion, and the environment of
circumstances, to the heart. Intellectual constitutions
differ essentially. They are diversified by more or less
imagination and reasoning power, and are greatly influenced
by early impressions. Accordingly, it is very
rarely that we find two individuals who think precisely
alike on any subject. Even in the same person opinions
constantly change. Their formation originally depends
upon the peculiar traits of mind with which the individual
is endowed. His particular moral and mental experience
afterward modifies them, so that, except as far as faithful
inquiry goes, he is not responsible in the premises. We
must then look to the heart, the native disposition, the
feelings, if we would really know a man. Thus regarded,
Shelley has few equals. Speculatively he may have
been an Atheist; in his inmost soul he was a Christian.
This may appear paradoxical, but I believe it is more frequently
the case than we are aware. An inquiring, argumentative
mind, may often fail in attaining settled convictions;
while at the same time the moral nature is so
true and active, that the heart, as Wordsworth says, may
“do God's work and know it not.” Thus I believe it
was with Shelley. Veneration was his predominant sentiment.
His biographer and intimate friend, Leigh
Hunt, says of him, “He was pious towards nature—towards
his friends—towards the whole human race—towards
the meanest insect of the forest. He did himself
an injustice with the public, in using the popular name
of the Supreme Being inconsiderately. He identified it
solely with the most tyrannical notions of God, made after
the worst human fashion; and did not sufficiently reflect
that it was often used by a juster devotion to express
a sense of the Great Mover of the Universe. An impatience
in contradicting worldly and pernicious notions of
a supernatural power, led his own aspirations to be unconstrued.
As has been justly remarked by a writer
eminent for his piety—`the greatest want of religious feeling
is not to be found among the greatest infidels, but
among those who only think of religion as a matter of
course.' The more important the proposition, the more
he thought himself bound to investigate it; the greater the
demand upon his assent, the less upon their own principles
of reasoning he thought himself bound to grant it.”
Logical training was the last to which such a nature as
Shelley's should have been subjected. Under this discipline
at Oxford, he viewed all subjects through the medium
of mere reason. Exceedingly fond of argument,
in a spirit of adventurous boldness he turned the weappons
furnished him by his teachers, against the venerable
form of Christianity, and wrote Queen Mab. Be it remembered,
however, he never published it. The MSS
was thus disposed of without his knowledge, and against
his will. Yet at this very time his fellow-student tells us
that Shelley studied fifteen hours a-day—lived chiefly
upon bread, in order to save enough from his limited income
to assist poor scholars—stopped in his long walks
to give an orange to a gipsey-boy, or purchase milk for
a destitute child—talked constantly of plans for the amelioration
of society—was roused to the warmest indignation
by every casual instance of oppression—yielded up
his whole soul to the admiration of moral excellence—
and worshipped truth in every form with a singleness of
heart, and an ardor of feeling, as rare as it was inspiring.
He was, according to the same and kindred testimony,
wholly unaffected in manner, full of genuine modesty,
and possessed by an insatiable thirst for knowledge. Although
a devoted student, his heart was unchilled by
mental application. He at that time delighted in the
Platonic doctrine of the preëxistence of the soul, and loved
to believe that all knowledge now acquired is but reminiscence.
Gentle and affectionate to all, benevolent to a
fault, and deeply loved by all who knew him, it was his
misfortune to have an early experience of ill, to be thrown
rudely upon the world—to be misunderstood and slandered,
and especially to indulge the wild speculations of an
ardent mind without the slightest worldly prudence.
Shelley, phrenologically speaking, had no organ of cautiousness.
Hence his virtues and graces availed him not
in the world, much as they endeared him to those who
enjoyed his intimacy. In these remarks I would not be
misunderstood. I do not subscribe to Shelley's opinions.
I regret that he thought as he did upon many subjects for
his own sake as well as for that of society. The great
mass of his poetry is not congenial to my taste. And
yet these considerations do not blind me to the rare quality
of his genius—to the native independence of his mind
—to the noble aspirations after the beautiful and the true,
which glowed in his soul. I honor Shelley as that rare
character—a sincere man. I venerate his generous sentiments.
I recognise in him qualities which I seldom find
among the passive recipients of opinion—the tame followers
of routine. I know how much easier it is to conform
prudently to social institutions; but, as far as my
experience goes, they are full of error, and do great injustice
to humanity. I respect the man who in sincerity
of purpose discusses their claims, even if I cannot coincide
in his views. Nor is this all. I cannot lose sight
of the fact, that Shelley's nature is but partially revealed
to us. We have as it were a few stray gleams of his
wayward orb. Had it fully risen above the horizon instead
of being prematurely quenched in the sea, perchance
its beams would have clearly reflected at last, the holy effulgence
of the Star of Bethlehem. Let us pity, if we will, the
errors of Shelley's judgment; but let not prejudice blind
us to his merits. “His life,” says his wife, “was spent
in arduous study, and in acts of kindness and affection.
To see him was to love him.” Surely there is a redeeming
worth in the memory of one whose bosom was ever
ready to support the weary brow of a brother—whose
purposes were high and true—whose heart was enamored
of beauty, and devoted to his race: