SHELLEY’S PROSE WORKS
VOL. I.
_In Five Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth boards_, =3s. 6d.= _each_.
THE COMPLETE WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY.
Edited, Prefaced, and Annotated by RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD.
=Poetical Works=, in Three Volumes.
Vol. I. Introduction by the Editor; Posthumous Fragments
of Margaret Nicholson; Shelley’s Correspondence with
Stockdale; The Wandering Jew (the only complete version);
Queen Mab, with the Notes; Alastor, and other Poems;
Rosalind and Helen; Prometheus Unbound; Adonais, &c.
Vol. II. Laon and Cythna (as originally published,
instead of the emasculated “Revolt of Islam”); The Cenci;
Julian and Maddalo (from Shelley’s manuscript); Swellfoot
the Tyrant (from the copy in the Dyce Library at South
Kensington); The Witch of Atlas; Epipsychidion; Hellas.
Vol. III. Posthumous Poems, published by Mrs. Shelley
in 1824 and 1839; The Masque of Anarchy (from Shelley’s
manuscript); and other pieces not brought together in the
ordinary editions.
=Prose Works=, in Two Volumes.
Vol. I. The two Romances of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne; the
Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets; A Refutation of Deism; Letters
to Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments.
Vol. II. Essays: Letters from Abroad; Translations and
Fragments, edited by Mrs. Shelley, and first published
in 1840, with the addition of some Minor Pieces of great
interest and rarity, including one recently discovered by
Professor Dowden. With a Bibliography of Shelley, and an
exhaustive Index of the Prose Works.
CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. Martin’s Lane W.C.
THE PROSE WORKS
OF
PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY
_FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS_
EDITED, PREFACED, AND ANNOTATED
BY
RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD
_IN TWO VOLUMES_
VOL. I
LONDON
CHATTO & WINDUS
1897
_Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co.
_At the Ballantyne Press_
[Decoration]
EDITOR’S PREFACE.
These two volumes contain a complete collection of Shelley’s Prose
Writings; the two youthful prose romances of _Zastrozzi_ and
_St. Irvyne_; the Dublin and Marlow pamphlets; the long-lost and
lately-found _Refutation of Deism_; the Letter to Lord Ellenborough;
the curious review of Hogg’s romance of Alexy Haimatoff, recently
unearthed by Professor Dowden; a number of minor papers originally
published by Medwin; and the entire collection of “Essays and Letters
from Abroad,” first issued by Mrs. Shelley in 1840, and which throw so
much light on Shelley’s character and genius. The Bibliography appended
to the second volume will, it is hoped, be of real service to all
lovers and students of Shelley.
Shelley is another instance of the fact that a great master of verse is
always a good writer of prose. Whatever may be thought of the crudity
of his juvenile romances--and the greatest Shelleyan enthusiasts,
Browning, Swinburne, and Rossetti, have successively laughed at
them--they contain at least vivid descriptions of natural appearances;
while his political pamphlets, as a recent writer has pointed out, are
weighty and sententious to a wonderful degree, considering the age at
which they were written. That he was a delightful letter-writer, full
of grace and easy fluency, the letters to Peacock and to Leigh Hunt
abundantly prove; while of his critical powers, especially in regard to
sculpture and painting, both these and the posthumous papers published
by Medwin give us no mean idea, though we may not be prepared to go
quite so far as Mr. Matthew Arnold does when he says that he doubts
whether Shelley’s “delightful Essays and Letters, which deserve to be
far more read than they are now, will not resist the wear and tear of
time better, and finally come to stand higher, than his poetry.”
RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD
Kingston Vale, _Lent, 1888_.
[Decoration]
CONTENTS.
PAGE
ZASTROZZI 1
ST. IRVYNE; OR, THE ROSICRUCIAN 113
AN ADDRESS TO THE IRISH PEOPLE 221
PROPOSALS FOR AN ASSOCIATION 263
DECLARATION OF RIGHTS 284
A REFUTATION OF DEISM 289
HISTORY OF A SIX WEEKS’ TOUR 331
A PROPOSAL FOR PUTTING REFORM TO THE VOTE 357
“WE PITY THE PLUMAGE, BUT FORGET THE DYING BIRD” 367
LETTERS TO LEIGH HUNT 381
THE SHELLEY PAPERS:--
_The Coliseum: A Fragment_ 393
_Critical Notices of the Sculpture in the Florence Gallery_:--
_On the Niobe_ 402
_The Minerva_ 405
_On the Venus called Anadyomine_ 407
_A Bas-relief_ 408
_Michael Angelo’s Bacchus_ 409
_A Juno_ 410
_An Apollo_ 410
_Arch of Titus_ 411
_Remarks on “Mandeville” and Mr. Godwin_ 412
_On “Frankenstein”_ 417
_On the Revival of Literature_ 420
_A System of Government by Juries_ 422
_On Love_ 426
ZASTROZZI,
A ROMANCE.
BY
P. B. S.
----That their God
May prove their foe, and with repenting hand
Abolish his own works.--This would surpass
Common revenge.
Paradise Lost.
LONDON, Printed for G. Wilkie and J. Robinson: 57, PATERNOSTER ROW.
1810.
[Decoration]
ZASTROZZI.
A Romance.
CHAPTER I.
Torn from the society of all he held dear on earth, the victim of
secret enemies, and exiled from happiness, was the wretched Verezzi!
All was quiet; a pitchy darkness involved the face of things, when,
urged by fiercest revenge, Zastrozzi placed himself at the door of the
inn where, undisturbed, Verezzi slept.
Loudly he called the landlord. The landlord, to whom the bare name of
Zastrozzi was terrible, trembling obeyed the summons.
“Thou knowest Verezzi the Italian? He lodges here.”
“He does,” answered the landlord.
“Him, then, have I devoted to destruction,” exclaimed Zastrozzi. “Let
Ugo and Bernardo follow you to his apartment; I will be with you to
prevent mischief.”
Cautiously they ascended--successfully they executed their revengeful
purpose, and bore the sleeping Verezzi to the place, where a chariot
waited to convey the vindictive Zastrozzi’s prey to the place of its
destination.
Ugo and Bernardo lifted the still sleeping Verezzi into the chariot.
Rapidly they travelled onwards for several hours. Verezzi was still
wrapped in deep sleep, from which all the movements he had undergone
had been insufficient to rouse him.
Zastrozzi and Ugo were masked, as was Bernardo, who acted as postilion.
It was still dark, when they stopped at a small inn, on a remote and
desolate heath; and waiting but to change horses, again advanced. At
last day appeared--still the slumbers of Verezzi remained unbroken.
Ugo fearfully questioned Zastrozzi as to the cause of his extraordinary
sleep. Zastrozzi, who, however, was well acquainted with it, gloomily
answered, “I know not.”
Swiftly they travelled during the whole of the day, over which Nature
seemed to have drawn her most gloomy curtain. They stopped occasionally
at inns, to change horses and obtain refreshments.
Night came on--they forsook the beaten track, and, entering an immense
forest, made their way slowly through the rugged underwood.
At last they stopped--they lifted their victim from the chariot, and
bore him to a cavern, which yawned in a dell close by.
Not long did the hapless victim of unmerited persecution enjoy an
oblivion which deprived him of a knowledge of his horrible situation.
He awoke--and overcome by excess of terror, started violently from the
ruffians’ arms.
They had now entered the cavern; Verezzi supported himself against a
fragment of rock which jutted out.
“Resistance is useless,” exclaimed Zastrozzi. “Following us in
submissive silence can alone procure the slightest mitigation of your
punishment.”
Verezzi followed as fast as his frame, weakened by unnatural sleep, and
enfeebled by recent illness, would permit; yet, scarcely believing that
he was awake, and not thoroughly convinced of the reality of the scene
before him, he viewed everything with that kind of inexplicable horror
which a terrible dream is wont to excite.
After winding down the rugged descent for some time, they arrived at an
iron door, which at first sight appeared to be part of the rock itself.
Everything had till now been obscured by total darkness; and Verezzi,
for the first time, saw the masked faces of his persecutors, which a
torch brought by Bernardo rendered visible.
The massy door flew open.
The torches from without rendered the darkness which reigned within
still more horrible; and Verezzi beheld the interior of this cavern
as a place whence he was never again about to emerge--as his grave.
Again he struggled with his persecutors, but his enfeebled frame was
insufficient to support a conflict with the strong-nerved Ugo, and,
subdued, he sank fainting into his arms.
His triumphant persecutor bore him into the damp cell, and chained him
to the wall. An iron chain encircled his waist; his limbs, which not
even a little straw kept from the rock, were fixed by immense staples
to the flinty floor; and but one of his hands was left at liberty, to
take the scanty pittance of bread and water which was daily allowed him.
Everything was denied him but thought, which, by comparing the present
with the past, was his greatest torment.
Ugo entered the cell every morning and evening, to bring coarse bread
and a pitcher of water, seldom, yet sometimes, accompanied by Zastrozzi.
In vain did he implore mercy, pity, and even death: useless were all
his inquiries concerning the cause of his barbarous imprisonment--a
stern silence was maintained by his relentless gaoler.
Languishing in painful captivity, Verezzi passed days and nights
seemingly countless, in the same monotonous uniformity of horror and
despair. He scarcely now shuddered when the slimy lizard crossed
his naked and motionless limbs. The large earth-worms, which turned
themselves in his long and matted hair, almost ceased to excite
sensations of horror.
Days and nights were undistinguishable from each other; and the period
which he had passed there, though in reality but a few weeks, was
lengthened by his perturbed imagination into many years. Sometimes he
scarcely supposed that his torments were earthly, but that Ugo, whose
countenance bespoke him a demon, was the fury who blasted his reviving
hopes. His mysterious removal from the inn near Munich also confused
his ideas, and he never could bring his thoughts to any conclusion on
the subject which occupied them.
One evening, overcome by long watching, he sank to sleep, for almost
the first time since his confinement, when he was aroused by a
loud crash, which seemed to burst over the cavern. Attentively he
listened--he even hoped, though hope was almost dead within his breast.
Again he listened--again the same noise was repeated: it was but a
violent thunderstorm which shook the elements above.
Convinced of the folly of hope, he addressed a prayer to his
Creator--to Him who hears a suppliant from the bowels of the earth. His
thoughts were elevated above terrestrial enjoyments--his sufferings
sank into nothing on the comparison.
Whilst his thoughts were thus employed, a more violent crash shook the
cavern. A scintillating flame darted from the ceiling to the floor.
Almost at the same instant the roof fell in.
A large fragment of the rock was laid athwart the cavern; one end being
grooved into the solid wall, the other having almost forced open the
massy iron door.
Verezzi was chained to a piece of rock which remained immovable. The
violence of the storm was past, but the hail descended rapidly, each
stone of which wounded his naked limbs. Every flash of lightning,
although now distant, dazzled his eyes, unaccustomed as they had been
to the least ray of light.
The storm at last ceased, the pealing thunders died away in
indistinct murmurs, and the lightning was too faint to be visible.
Day appeared--no one had yet been to the cavern. Verezzi concluded
that they either intended him to perish with hunger, or that some
misfortune, by which themselves had suffered, had occurred. In the most
solemn manner, therefore, he now prepared himself for death, which he
was fully convinced within himself was rapidly approaching.
His pitcher of water was broken by the falling fragments, and a small
crust of bread was all that now remained of his scanty allowance of
provisions.
A burning fever raged through his veins; and, delirious with despairing
illness, he cast from him the crust which alone could now retard the
rapid advances of death.
Oh! what ravages did the united efforts of disease and suffering make
on the manly and handsome figure of Verezzi! His bones had almost
started through his skin; his eyes were sunken and hollow; and his
hair, matted with the damps, hung in strings upon his faded cheek.
The day passed as had the morning--death was every instant before his
eyes--a lingering death by famine--he felt its approaches; night came,
but with it brought no change. He was aroused by a noise against the
iron door: it was the time when Ugo usually brought fresh provisions.
The noise lessened; at last it totally ceased--with it ceased all hope
of life in Verezzi’s bosom. A cold tremor pervaded his limbs--his eyes
but faintly presented to his imagination the ruined cavern--he sank, as
far as the chains which encircled his waist would permit him, upon the
flinty pavement; and, in the crisis of the fever which then occurred,
his youth and good constitution prevailed.