shelley-第2章

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Khan；　even　Rossetti's　ballads　from　Christabel。　　It　is　present　in　the

restraint　of　Matthew　Arnold　no　less　than　in　the　exuberance　of

Swinburne；　and　affects　our　writers　who　aim　at　simplicity　no　less

than　those　who　seek　richness。　　Indeed；　nothing　is　so　artificial　as

our　simplicity。　　It　is　the　simplicity　of　the　French　stage　ingenue。

We　are　self…conscious　to　the　finger…tips；　and　this　inherent　quality；

entailing　on　our　poetry　the　inevitable　loss　of　spontaneity；　ensures

that　whatever　poets；　of　whatever　excellence；　may　be　born　to　us　from

the　Shelleian　stock；　its　founder's　spirit　can　take　among　us　no

reincarnation。　　An　age　that　is　ceasing　to　produce　child…like

children　cannot　produce　a　Shelley。　　For　both　as　poet　and　man　he　was

essentially　a　child。



Yet；　just　as　in　the　effete　French　society　before　the　Revolution　the

Queen　played　at　Arcadia；　the　King　played　at　being　a　mechanic；

everyone　played　at　simplicity　and　universal　philanthropy；　leaving

for　most　durable　outcome　of　their　philanthropy　the　guillotine；　as

the　most　durable　outcome　of　ours　may　be　execution　by　electricity；

so　in　our　own　society　the　talk　of　benevolence　and　the　cult　of

childhood　are　the　very　fashion　of　the　hour。　　We；　of　this　self…

conscious；　incredulous　generation；　sentimentalise　our　children；

analyse　our　children；　think　we　are　endowed　with　a　special　capacity

to　sympathise　and　identify　ourselves　with　children；　we　play　at　being

children。　　And　the　result　is　that　we　are　not　more　child…like；　but

our　children　are　less　child…like。　　It　is　so　tiring　to　stoop　to　the

child；　so　much　easier　to　lift　the　child　up　to　you。　　Know　you　what　it

is　to　be　a　child？　　It　is　to　be　something　very　different　from　the　man

of　to…day。　　It　is　to　have　a　spirit　yet　streaming　from　the　waters　of

baptism；　it　is　to　believe　in　love；　to　believe　in　loveliness；　to

believe　in　belief；　it　is　to　be　so　little　that　the　elves　can　reach　to

whisper　in　your　ear；　it　is　to　turn　pumpkins　into　coaches；　and　mice

into　horses；　lowness　into　loftiness；　and　nothing　into　everything；

for　each　child　has　its　fairy　godmother　in　its　own　soul；　it　is　to

live　in　a　nutshell　and　to　count　yourself　the　king　of　infinite　space；

it　is





To　see　a　world　in　a　grain　of　sand；

And　a　heaven　in　a　wild　flower；

Hold　infinity　in　the　palm　of　your　hand；

And　eternity　in　an　hour；





it　is　to　know　not　as　yet　that　you　are　under　sentence　of　life；　nor

petition　that　it　be　commuted　into　death。　　When　we　become　conscious

in　dreaming　that　we　dream；　the　dream　is　on　the　point　of　breaking；

when　we　become　conscious　in　living　that　we　live；　the　ill　dream　is

but　just　beginning。　　Now　if　Shelley　was　but　too　conscious　of　the

dream；　in　other　respects　Dryden's　false　and　famous　line　might　have

been　applied　to　him　with　very　much　less　than　it's　usual　untruth。　｛5｝

To　the　last；　in　a　degree　uncommon　even　among　poets；　he　retained　the

idiosyncrasy　of　childhood；　expanded　and　matured　without

differentiation。　　To　the　last　he　was　the　enchanted　child。



This　was；　as　is　well　known；　patent　in　his　life。　　It　is　as　really；

though　perhaps　less　obviously；　manifest　in　his　poetry；　the　sincere

effluence　of　his　life。　　And　it　may　not；　therefore；　be　amiss　to

consider　whether　it　was　conditioned　by　anything　beyond　his

congenital　nature。　　For　our　part；　we　believe　it　to　have　been　equally

largely　the　outcome　of　his　early　and　long　isolation。　　Men　given　to

retirement　and　abstract　study　are　notoriously　liable　to　contract　a

certain　degree　of　childlikeness：　　and　if　this　be　the　case　when　we

segregate　a　man；　how　much　more　when　we　segregate　a　child！　　It　is

when　they　are　taken　into　the　solution　of　school…life　that　children；

by　the　reciprocal　interchange　of　influence　with　their　fellows；

undergo　the　series　of　reactions　which　converts　them　from　children

into　boys　and　from　boys　into　men。　　The　intermediate　stage　must　be

traversed　to　reach　the　final　one。



Now　Shelley　never　could　have　been　a　man；　for　he　never　was　a　boy。

And　the　reason　lay　in　the　persecution　which　overclouded　his　school…

days。　　Of　that　persecution's　effect　upon　him；　he　has　left　us；　in　The

Revolt　of　Islam；　a　picture　which　to　many　or　most　people　very

probably　seems　a　poetical　exaggeration；　partly　because　Shelley

appears　to　have　escaped　physical　brutality；　partly　because　adults

are　inclined　to　smile　tenderly　at　childish　sorrows　which　are　not

caused　by　physical　suffering。　　That　he　escaped　for　the　most　part

bodily　violence　is　nothing　to　the　purpose。　　It　is　the　petty

malignant　annoyance　recurring　hour　by　hour；　day　by　day；　month　by

month；　until　its　accumulation　becomes　an　agony；　it　is　this　which　is

the　most　terrible　weapon　that　boys　have　against　their　fellow　boy；

who　is　powerless　to　shun　it　because；　unlike　the　man；　he　has

virtually　no　privacy。　　His　is　the　torture　which　the　ancients　used；

when　they　anointed　their　victim　with　honey　and　exposed　him　naked　to

the　restless　fever　of　the　flies。　　He　is　a　little　St。　Sebastian；

sinking　under　the　incessant　flight　of　shafts　which　skilfully　avoid

the　vital　parts。



We　do　not；　therefore；　suspect　Shelley　of　exaggeration：　　he　was；　no

doubt；　in　terrible　misery。　　Those　who　think　otherwise　must　forget

their　own　past。　　Most　people；　we　suppose；　MUST　forget　what　they　were

like　when　they　were　children：　　otherwise　they　would　know　that　the

griefs　of　their　childhood　were　passionate　abandonment；　DECHIRANTS

（to　use　a　characteristically　favourite　phrase　of　modern　French

literature）　as　the　griefs　of　their　maturity。　　Children's　griefs　are

little；　certainly；　but　so　is　the　child；　so　is　its　endurance；　so　is

its　field　of　vision；　while　its　nervous　impressionability　is　keener

than　ours。　　Grief　is　a　matter　of　relativity；　the　sorrow　should　be

estimated　by　its　proportion　to　the　sorrower；　a　gash　is　as　painful　to

one　as　an　amputation　to　another。　　Pour　a　puddle　into　a　thimble；　or

an　Atlantic　into　Etna；　both　thimble　and　mountain　overflow。　　Adult

fools；　would　not　the　angels　smile　at　our　griefs；　were　not　angels　too

wise　to　smile　at　them？



So　beset；　the　child　fled　into　the　tower　of　his　own　soul；　and　raised

the　drawbridge。　　He　threw　out　a　reserve；　encysted　in　which　he　grew

to　maturity　unaffected　by　the　intercourses　that　modify　the　maturity

of　others　into　the　thing　we　call　a　man。　　The　encysted　child

developed　until　it　reached　years　of　virility；　until　those　later

Oxford　days　in　which　Hogg　encountered　it；　then；　bursting　at　once

from　its　cyst　and　the　university；　it　swam　into　a　world　not

illegitimately　perplexed　by　such　a　whim　of　the　gods。　　It　was；　of

course；　only　the　completeness　and　duration　of　this　seclusion

lasting　from　the　gate　of　boyhood　to　the　threshold　of　youthwhich

was　peculiar　to　Shelley。　　Most　poets；　probably；　like　most　saints；

are　prepared　for　their　mission　by　an　initial　segregation；　as　the

seed　is　buried　to　germinate：　　before　they　can　utter　the　oracle　of

poetry；　they　must　first　be　divided　from　the　body　of　men。　　It　is　the

severed　head　that　makes　the　seraph。



Shelley's　life　frequently　exhibits　in　him　the　magnified　child。　　It

is　seen　in　his　fondness　for　apparently　futile　amusements；　such　as

the　sailing　of　paper　boats。　　This　was；　in　the　truest　sense　of　the

word；　child…like；　not；　as　it　is　frequently　called　and　considered；

childish。　　That　is　to　say；　it　was　not　a　mindless　triviality；　but　the

genuine　child's　power　of　investing　little　things　with　imaginative

interest；　the　same　power；　though　differently　devoted；　which　produced

much　of　his　poetry。　　Very　possibly　in　the　paper　boat　he　saw　the

magic　bark　of　Laon　and　Cythna；　or





That　thinnest　boat

In　which　the　mother　of　the　months　is　borne

By　ebbing　night　into　her　western　cave。





In　fact；　if　you　mark　how　favourite　an　idea；　under　varying　forms；　is

this　in　his　verse；　you　will　perceive　that　all　the　charmed　boats

which　glide　down　the　stream　of　his　poetry　are　but　glorified

resurrections　of　the　little　paper　argosies　which　trembled　down　the

Isis。



And　the　child　appeared　no　less　often　in　Shelley　the　philosopher　than

in　Shell