Literary and General Lectures and Essays. Charles Kingsley

and his awful awakening after the murder, not to any mere dread of external punishment, but to an overwhelming, instinctive, inarticulate sense of having done wrong, what is?

      Yes; that law exists, let it never be forgotten, is the real meaning of Byron, down to that last terrible “Don Juan,” in which he sits himself down, in artificial calm, to trace the gradual rotting and degradation of a man without law, the slave of his own pleasures; a picture happily never finished, because he who painted it was taken away before he had learnt, perhaps when he was beginning to turn back from—the lower depth within the lowest deep.

      Now to this whole form of consciousness, poor Shelley’s mind is altogether antipodal.  His whole life through was a denial of external law, and a substitution in its place of internal sentiment.  Byron’s cry is: There is a law, and therefore I am miserable.  Why cannot I keep the law?  Shelley’s is: There is a law, and therefore I am miserable.  Why should not the law be abolished?—Away with it, for it interferes with my sentiments—Away with marriage, “custom and faith, the foulest birth of time.”—We do not wish to follow him down into the fearful sins which he defended with the small powers of reasoning—and they were peculiarly small—which he possessed.  Let any one who wishes to satisfy himself of the real difference between Byron’s mind and Shelley’s, compare the writings in which each of them treats the same subject—namely, that frightful question about the relation of the sexes, which forms, evidently, Manfred’s crime; and see if the result is not simply this, that Shelley glorifies what Byron damns.  “Lawless love” is Shelley’s expressed ideal of the relation of the sexes; and his justice, his benevolence, his pity, are all equally lawless.  “Follow your instincts,” is his one moral rule, confounding the very lowest animal instincts with those lofty ideas of might, which it was the will of Heaven that he should retain, ay, and love, to the very last, and so reducing them all to the level of sentiments.  “Follow your instincts”—But what if our instincts lead us to eat animal food?  “Then you must follow the instincts of me, Percy Bysshe Shelley.  I think it horrible, cruel; it offends my taste.”  What if our instincts lead us to tyrannise over our fellow-men?  “Then you must repress those instincts.  I, Shelley, think that, too, horrible and cruel.”  Whether it be vegetarianism or liberty, the rule is practically the same—sentiment which, in his case, as in the case of all sentimentalists, turns out to mean at last, not the sentiments of mankind in general, but the private sentiments of the writer.  This is Shelley; a sentimentalist pure and simple; incapable of anything like inductive reasoning; unable to take cognisance of any facts but those which please his taste, or to draw any conclusion from them but such as also pleases his taste; as, for example, in that eighth stanza of the “Ode to Liberty,” which, had it been written by any other man but Shelley, possessing the same knowledge as he, one would have called a wicked and deliberate lie—but in his case, is to be simply passed over with a sigh, like a young lady’s proofs of table-turning and rapping spirits.  She wished to see it so—and therefore so she saw it.

      For Shelley’s nature is utterly womanish.  Not merely his weak points, but his strong ones, are those of a woman.  Tender and pitiful as a woman; and yet, when angry, shrieking, railing, hysterical as a woman.  The physical distaste for meat and fermented liquors, coupled with the hankering after physical horrors, are especially feminine.  The nature of a woman looks out of that wild, beautiful, girlish face—the nature: but not the spirit; not

      The reason firm, the temperate will,

      Endurance, foresight, strength and skill.

      The lawlessness of the man, with the sensibility of the woman. . . .  Alas for him!  He, too, might have discovered what Byron did; for were not his errors avenged upon him within, more terribly even than without?  His cries are like the wails of a child, inarticulate, peevish, irrational; and yet his pain fills his whole being, blackens the very face of nature to him: but he will not confess himself in the wrong.  Once only, if we recollect rightly, the truth flashes across him for a moment, and the clouds of selfish sorrow:

      Alas, I have nor hope nor health,

      Nor peace within, nor calm around;

      Nor that content surpassing wealth

      The sage in meditation found,

      And walked with inward glory crowned.

      “Nor”—alas for the spiritual bathos, which follows that short gleam of healthy feeling, and coming to himself—

      —fame nor power, nor love, nor leisure,

      Others I see whom these surround,

      Smiling they live and call life pleasure,

      To me that cup has been dealt in another measure!

      Poor Shelley!  As if the peace within, and the calm around, and the content surpassing wealth, were things which were to be put in the same category with fame, and power, and love, and leisure.  As if they were things which could be “dealt” to any man; instead of depending (as Byron, who, amid all his fearful sins, was a man, knew well enough) upon a man’s self, a man’s own will, and that will exerted to do a will exterior to itself, to know and to obey a law.  But no, the cloud of sentiment must close over again, and

      Yet now despair itself is mild

      Even as the winds and waters are;

      I could lie down like a tired child,

      And weep away this life of care,

      Which I have borne, and still must bear,

      Till death like sleep might seize on me,

      And I might feel in the warm air,

      My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea

      Breathe o’er my dying brain its last monotony!

      Too beautiful to laugh at, however empty and sentimental.  True: but why beautiful?  Because there is a certain sincerity in it, which breeds coherence and melody, which, in short, makes it poetry.  But what if such a tone of mind be consciously encouraged, even insincerely affected as the ideal state for a poet’s mind, as his followers have done?

      The mischief which such a man would do is conceivable enough.  He stands out, both by his excellences and his defects, as the spokesman and ideal of all the unrest and unhealth of sensitive young men for many a year after.  His unfulfilled prophecies only help to increase that unrest.  Who shall blame either him for uttering those prophecies, or them for longing for their fulfilment?  Must we not thank the man who gives us fresh hope that this earth will not be always as it is now?  His notion of what it will be may be, as Shelley’s was, vague, even in some things wrong and undesirable.  Still, we must accept his hope and faith in the spirit, not in the letter.  So have thousands of young men felt, who would have shrunk with disgust from some of poor Shelley’s details of the “good time coming.”  And shame on him who should wish to rob them of such a hope, even if it interfered with his favourite “scheme of unfulfilled prophecy.”  So men have felt Shelley’s spell a wondrous one—perhaps, they think, a life-giving regenerative one.  And yet what dream at once more shallow and more impossible?  Get rid of kings and priests; marriage may stay, pending discussions on the rights of women.  Let the poet speak—what he is to say being, of course, a matter of utterly secondary import, provided only that he be a poet; and then the millennium will appear of itself, and the devil be exorcised with a kiss from all hearts—except, of course, these of “pale priests” and “tyrants with their sneer of cold command” (who, it seems, have not been got rid of after all), and the Cossacks and Croats whom they may choose to call to their rescue.  And on the appearance of the said Cossacks and Croats, the poet’s vision stops short, and all is blank beyond.  A recipe for the production of millenniums which has this one advantage, that it is small enough to be comprehended by the very smallest minds, and reproduced thereby, with a difference, in such spasmodic melodies as seem to those small minds to be imitations of Shelley’s nightingale notes.

      For nightingale notes they truly are.  In spite of all his faults—and there are few poetic faults in which he does not indulge, to their very highest power—in spite of his “interfluous” and “innumerous,”