ETON AND OXFORD.
In 1805 Shelley went from Sion House to Eton. At this time Dr. Keate was
headmaster and Shelley's tutor was a Mr. Bethel, "one of the dullest men
in the establishment." At Eton Shelley was not popular either with his
teachers or his elder school-fellows, although the boys of his own age
are said to have adored him. "He was all passion," writes Mrs. Shelley;
"passionate in his resistance to an injury, passionate in his love:" and
this vehemence of temperament he displayed by organizing a rebellion
against fagging, which no doubt won for him the applause of his juniors
and equals. It was not to be expected that a lad intolerant of rule and
disregardful of restriction, who neglected punctuality in the
performance of his exercises, while he spent his leisure in translating
half of Pliny's history, should win the approbation of pedagogues. At
the same time the inspired opponent of the fagging system, the scorner
of games and muscular amusements, could not hope to find much favour
with such martinets of juvenile convention as a public school is wont to
breed. At Eton, as elsewhere, Shelley's uncompromising spirit brought
him into inconvenient contact with a world of vulgar usage, while his
lively fancy invested the commonplaces of reality with dark hues
borrowed from his own imagination. Mrs. Shelley says of him, "Tamed by
affection, but unconquered by blows, what chance was there that Shelley
should be happy at a public school?" This sentence probably contains the
pith of what he afterwards remembered of his own school life, and there
is no doubt that a nature like his, at once loving and high-spirited,
had much to suffer. It was a mistake, however, to suppose that at Eton
there were any serious blows to bear, or to assume that laws of love
which might have led a spirit so gentle as Shelley's, were adapted to
the common stuff of which the English boy is formed. The latter mistake
Shelley made continually throughout his youth; and only the advance of
years tempered his passionate enthusiasm into a sober zeal for the
improvement of mankind by rational methods. We may also trace at this
early epoch of his life that untamed intellectual ambition--that neglect
of the immediate and detailed for the transcendental and
universal--which was a marked characteristic of his genius, leading him
to fly at the highest while he overleaped the facts of ordinary human
life. "From his earliest years," says Mrs. Shelley, "all his amusements
and occupations were of a daring, and in one sense of the term, lawless
nature. He delighted to exert his powers, not as a boy, but as a man;
and so with manly powers and childish wit, he dared and achieved
attempts that none of his comrades could even have conceived. His
understanding and the early development of imagination never permitted
him to mingle in childish plays; and his natural aversion to tyranny
prevented him from paying due attention to his school duties. But he was
always actively employed; and although his endeavours were prosecuted
with puerile precipitancy, yet his aim and thoughts were constantly
directed to those great objects which have employed the thoughts of the
greatest among men; and though his studies were not followed up
according to school discipline, they were not the less diligently
applied to." This high-soaring ambition was the source both of his
weakness and his strength in art, as well as in his commerce with the
world of men. The boy who despised discipline and sought to extort her
secrets from nature by magic, was destined to become the philanthropist
who dreamed of revolutionizing society by eloquence, and the poet who
invented in "Prometheus Unbound" forms of grandeur too colossal to be
animated with dramatic life.
A strong interest in experimental science had been already excited in
him at Sion House by the exhibition of an orrery; and this interest grew
into a passion at Eton. Experiments in chemistry and electricity, of the
simpler and more striking kind, gave him intense pleasure--the more so
perhaps because they were forbidden. On one occasion he set the trunk of
an old tree on fire with a burning-glass: on another, while he was
amusing himself with a blue flame, his tutor came into the room and
received a severe shock from a highly-charged Leyden jar. During the
holidays Shelley carried on the same pursuits at Field Place. "His own
hands and clothes," says Miss Shelley, "were constantly stained and
corroded with acids, and it only seemed too probable that some day the
house would be burned down, or some serious mischief happen to himself
or others from the explosion of combustibles." This taste for science
Shelley long retained. If we may trust Mr. Hogg's memory, the first
conversation which that friend had with him at Oxford consisted almost
wholly of an impassioned monologue from Shelley on the revolution to be
wrought by science in all realms of thought. His imagination was
fascinated by the boundless vistas opened to the student of chemistry.
When he first discovered that the four elements were not final, it gave
him the acutest pleasure: and this is highly characteristic of the
genius which was always seeking to transcend and reach the life of life
withdrawn from ordinary gaze. On the other hand he seems to have
delighted in the toys of science, playing with a solar microscope, and
mixing strangest compounds in his crucibles, without taking the trouble
to study any of its branches systematically. In his later years he
abandoned these pursuits. But a charming reminiscence of them occurs in
that most delightful of his familiar poems, the "Letter to Maria
Gisborne."
While translating Pliny and dabbling in chemistry, Shelley was not
wholly neglectful of Etonian studies. He acquired a fluent, if not a
correct, knowledge of both Greek and Latin, and astonished his
contemporaries by the facility with which he produced verses in the
latter language. His powers of memory were extraordinary, and the
rapidity with which he read a book, taking in seven or eight lines at a
glance, and seizing the sense upon the hint of leading words, was no
less astonishing. Impatient speed and indifference to minutiae were
indeed among the cardinal qualities of his intellect. To them we may
trace not only the swiftness of his imaginative flight, but also his
frequent satisfaction with the somewhat less than perfect in artistic
execution.
That Shelley was not wholly friendless or unhappy at Eton may be
gathered from numerous small circumstances. Hogg says that his Oxford
rooms were full of handsome leaving books, and that he was frequently
visited by old Etonian acquaintances. We are also told that he spend the
40 pounds gained by his first novel, "Zastrozzi," on a farewell supper
to eight school-boy friends. A few lines, too, might be quoted from his
own poem, the "Boat on the Serchio," to prove that he did not entertain
a merely disagreeable memory of his school life. (Forman's edition,
volume 4 page 115.) Yet the general experience of Eton must have been
painful; and it is sad to read of this gentle and pure spirit being
goaded by his coarser comrades into fury, or coaxed to curse his father
and the king for their amusement. It may be worth mentioning that he was
called "the Atheist" at Eton; and though Hogg explains this by saying
that "the Atheist" was an official character among the boys, selected
from time to time for his defiance of authority, yet it is not
improbable that Shelley's avowed opinions may even then have won for him
a title which he proudly claimed in after-life. To allude to his boyish
incantations and nocturnal commerce with fiends and phantoms would
scarcely be needful, were it not that they seem to have deeply tinged
his imagination. While describing the growth of his own genius in the
"Hymn to Intellectual Beauty," he makes the following reference to
circumstances which might otherwise be trivial:--
While yet a boy, I sought for ghosts, and sped
Thro' many a listening chamber, cave, and ruin,
And starlight wood, with fearful steps pursuing
Hopes of high talk with the departed dead.
I call'd on poisonous names with which our youth is fed,
I was not heard, I saw them not--
When, musing deeply on the lot
Of life, at that sweet time when winds are wooing
All vital things that wake to bring
News of birds and blossoming,--
Sudden, thy shadow fell on me;
I shrieked, and clasped my hands in ecstasy!
Among the Eton tutors was one whose name will always be revered by
Shelley's worshippers; for he alone discerned the rare gifts of the
strange and solitary boy, and Shelley loved him. Dr. Lind was an old
man, a physician, and a student of chemistry. Shelley spent long hours
at his house, conversing with him, and receiving such instruction in
philosophy and science as the grey-haired scholar could impart. The
affection which united them must have been of no common strength or
quality; for when Shelley lay ill of a fever at Field Place, and had
conceived the probably ill-founded notion that his father intended to
place him in a mad-house, he managed to convey a message to his friend
at Eton, on the receipt of which Dr. Lind travelled to Horsham, and by
his sympathy and skill restored the sick boy's confidence. It may
incidentally be pointed out that this story, credited as true by Lady
Shelley in her Memorials, shows how early an estrangement had begun
between the poet and his father. We look, moreover, vainly for that
mother's influence which might have been so beneficial to the boy in
whom "love and life were twins, born at one birth." From Dr. Lind
Shelley not only received encouragement to pursue his chemical studies;
but he also acquired the habit of corresponding with persons unknown to
him, whose opinions he might be anxious to discover or dispute. This
habit, as we shall see in the sequel, determined Shelley's fate on two
important occasions of his life. In return for the help extended to him
at Eton, Shelley conferred undying fame on Dr. Lind; the characters of
Zonaras in "Prince Athanase," and of the hermit in "Laon and Cythna,"
are portraits painted by the poet of his boyhood's friend.
The months which elapsed between Eton and Oxford were an important
period in Shelley's life. At this time a boyish liking for his cousin,
Harriet Grove, ripened into real attachment; and though there was
perhaps no formal engagement between them, the parents on both sides
looked with approval on their love. What it concerns us to know about
this early passion, is given in a letter from a brother of Miss Grove.
"Bysshe was at that time (just after leaving Eton) more attached to my
sister Harriet than I can express, and I recollect well the moonlight
walks we four had at Strode and also at St. Irving's; that, I think, was
the name of the place, then the Duke of Norfolk's, at Horsham." For some
time after the date mentioned in this letter, Shelley and Miss Grove
kept up an active correspondence; but the views he expressed on
speculative subjects soon began to alarm her. She consulted her mother
and her father, and the engagement was broken off. The final separation
does not seem to have taken place until the date of Shelley's expulsion
from Oxford; and not the least cruel of the pangs he had to suffer at
that period, was the loss of one to whom he had given his whole heart
unreservedly. The memory of Miss Grove long continued to haunt his
imagination, nor is there much doubt that his first unhappy marriage was
contracted while the wound remained unhealed. The name of Harriet
Westbrook and something in her face reminded him of Harriet Grove; it is
even still uncertain to which Harriet the dedication of Queen Mab is
addressed. (See Medwin, volume 1 page 68.)
In his childhood Shelley scribbled verses with fluency by no means
unusual in the case of forward boys; and we have seen that at Sion House
he greedily devoured the sentimental novels of the day. His favourite
poets at the time of which I am now writing, were Monk Lewis and
Southey; his favourite books in prose were romances by Mrs. Radcliffe
and Godwin. He now began to yearn for fame and publicity. Miss Shelley
speaks of a play written by her brother and her sister Elizabeth, which
was sent to Matthews the comedian, and courteously returned as unfit for
acting. She also mentions a little volume of her own verses, which the
boy had printed with the tell-tale name of "H-ll-n Sh-ll-y" on the
title-page. Medwin gives a long account of a poem on the story of the
Wandering Jew, composed by him in concert with Shelley during the winter
of 1809-1810. They sent the manuscript to Thomas Campbell, who returned
it with the observation that it contained but two good lines:--
It seemed as if an angel's sigh
Had breathed the plaintive symphony.
Undeterred by this adverse criticism, Shelley subsequently offered "The
Wandering Jew" to two publishers, Messrs. Ballantyne and Co. of
Edinburgh, and Mr. Stockdale of Pall Mall; but it remained in MS. at
Edinburgh till 1831, when a portion was printed in "Fraser's Magazine."
Just before leaving Eton he finished a novel of "Zastrozzi", which some
critics trace to its source in "Zofloya the Moor," perused by him at
Sion House. The most astonishing fact about this incoherent medley of
mad sentiment is that it served to furnish forth the 40-pound Eton
supper already spoken of, that it was duly ushered into the world of
letters by Messrs. Wilkie and Robinson on the 5th of June, 1810, and
that it was seriously reviewed. The dates of Shelley's publications now
come fast and frequent. In the late summer of 1810 he introduced himself
to Mr. J.J. Stockdale, the then fashionable publisher of poems and
romances, at his house of business in Pall Mall. With characteristic
impetuosity the young author implored assistance in a difficulty. He had
commissioned a printer in Horsham to strike off the astounding number of
1480 copies of a volume of poems; and he had no money to pay the
printer's bill. Would Stockdale help him out of this dilemma, by taking
up the quires and duly ushering the book into the world? Throughout his
life Shelley exercised a wonderful fascination over the people with whom
he came in contact, and almost always won his way with them as much by
personal charm as by determined and impassioned will. Accordingly on
this occasion Stockdale proved accommodating. The Horsham printer was
somehow satisfied; and on the 17th of September, 1810, the little book
came out with the title of "Original Poetry, by Victor and Cazire." This
volume has disappeared; and much fruitless conjecture has been expended
upon the question of Shelley's collaborator in his juvenile attempt.
Cazire stands for some one; probably it is meant to represent a woman's
name, and that woman may have been either Elizabeth Shelley or Harriet
Grove. The "Original Poetry" had only been launched a week, when
Stockdale discovered on a closer inspection of the book that it
contained some verses well known to the world as the production of M.G.
Lewis. He immediately communicated with Shelley, and the whole edition
was suppressed--not, however, before about one hundred copies had passed
into circulation. To which of the collaborators this daring act of petty
larceny was due, we know not; but we may be sure that Shelley satisfied
Stockdale on the point of piracy, since the publisher saw no reason to
break with him. On the 14th of November in the same year he issued
Shelley's second novel from his press, and entered into negotiations
with him for the publication of more poetry. The new romance was named
"St. Irvyne, or the Rosicrucian." This tale, no less unreadable than
"Zastrozzi," and even more chaotic in its plan, contained a good deal of
poetry, which has been incorporated in the most recent editions of
Shelley's works. A certain interest attaches to it as the first known
link between Shelley and William Godwin, for it was composed under the
influence of the latter's novel, "St. Leon." The title, moreover,
carries us back to those moonlight walks with Harriet Grove alluded to
above. Shelley's earliest attempts in literature have but little value
for the student of poetry, except in so far as they illustrate the
psychology of genius and its wayward growth. Their intrinsic merit is
almost less than nothing, and no one could predict from their perusal
the course which the future poet of "The Cenci" and "Epipsychidion" was
to take. It might indeed be argued that the defects of his great
qualities, the over-ideality, the haste, the incoherence, and the want
of grasp on narrative, are glaringly apparent in these early works. But
while this is true, the qualities themselves are absent. A cautious
critic will only find food in "Zastrozzi" and "St. Irvyne" for wondering
how such flowers and fruits of genius could have lain concealed within a
germ apparently so barren. There is even less of the real Shelley
discernible in these productions, than of the real Byron in the "Hours
of Idleness."
In the Michaelmas Term of 1810 Shelley was matriculated as a Commoner of
University College, Oxford; and very soon after his arrival he made the
acquaintance of a man who was destined to play a prominent part in his
subsequent history, and to bequeath to posterity the most brilliant, if
not in all respects the most trustworthy, record of his marvellous
youth. Thomas Jefferson Hogg was unlike Shelley in temperament and
tastes. His feet were always planted on the earth, while Shelley flew
aloft to heaven with singing robes around him, or the mantel of the
prophet on his shoulders. (He told Trelawny that he had been attracted
to Shelley simply by his "rare talents as a scholar;" and Trelawny has
recorded his opinion that Hogg's portrait of their friend was faithful,
in spite of a total want of sympathy with his poetic genius. This
testimony is extremely valuable.) Hogg had much of the cynic in his
nature; he was a shrewd man of the world, and a caustic humorist.
Positive and practical, he chose the beaten path of life, rose to
eminence as a lawyer, and cherished the Church and State opinions of a
staunch Tory. Yet, though he differed so essentially from the divine
poet, he understood the greatness of Shelley at a glance, and preserved
for us a record of his friend's early days, which is incomparable for
the vividness of its portraiture. The pages which narrate Shelley's
course of life at Oxford have all the charm of a romance. No novel
indeed is half so delightful as that picture, at once affectionate and
satirical, tender and humorous, extravagant and delicately shaded, of
the student life enjoyed together for a few short months by the
inseparable friends. To make extracts from a masterpiece of such
consummate workmanship is almost painful. Future biographers of Shelley,
writing on a scale adequate to the greatness of their subject, will be
content to lay their pens down for a season at this point, and let Hogg
tell the tale in his own wayward but inimitable fashion. I must confine
myself to a few quotations and a barren abstract, referring my readers
to the ever-memorable pages 48--286 of Hogg's first volume, for the life
that cannot be transferred to these.
"At the commencement of Michaelmas term," says this biographer, "that
is, at the end of October, in the year 1810, I happened one day to sit
next to a freshman at dinner; it was his first appearance in hall. His
figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our
table, where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He
ate little, and had no acquaintance with any one." The two young men
began a conversation, which turned upon the respective merits of German
and Italian poetry, a subject they neither of them knew anything about.
After dinner it was continued in Hogg's rooms, where Shelley soon led
the talk to his favourite topic of science. "As I felt, in truth, but a
slight interest in the subject of his conversation, I had leisure to
examine, and I may add, to admire, the appearance of my very
extraordinary guest. It was a sum of many contradictions. His figure was
slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong.
He was tall, but he stooped so much, that he 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, unbrushed. His gestures 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 APPEARED 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 fingers 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 countenance. 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 expression 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."
In another place Hogg gives some details which complete the impression
of Shelley's personal appearance, and which are fully corroborated by
Trelawny's recollections of a later date. "There were many striking
contrasts in the character and behaviour of Shelley, and one of the most
remarkable was a mixture, or alternation, of awkwardness with
agility--of the clumsy with the graceful. He would stumble in stepping
across the floor of a drawing room; he would trip himself up on a
smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in the most inconceivable
manner in ascending the commodious, facile, and well-carpeted staircase
of an elegant mansion, so as to bruise his nose or his lip on the upper
steps, or to tread upon his hands, and even occasionally to disturb the
composure of a well-bred footman; on the contrary, he would often glide
without collision through a crowded assembly, thread with unerring
dexterity a most intricate path, or securely and rapidly tread the most
arduous and uncertain ways."
This word-portrait corresponds in its main details to the descriptions
furnished by other biographers, who had the privilege of Shelley's
friendship. His eyes were blue, unfathomably dark and lustrous. His hair
was brown; but very early in life it became grey, while his unwrinkled
face retained to the last a look of wonderful youth. It is admitted on
all sides that no adequate picture was ever painted of him. Mulready is
reported to have said that he was too beautiful to paint. And yet,
although so singularly lovely, he owed less of his charm to regularity
of feature or to grace of movement, than to an indescribable personal
fascination. One further detail Hogg pointedly insists upon. Shelley's
voice "was excruciating; it was intolerably shrill, harsh and
discordant." This is strongly stated; but, though the terms are
certainly exaggerated, I believe that we must trust this first
impression made on Shelley's friend. There is a considerable mass of
convergent testimony to the fact that Shelley's voice was high pitched,
and that when he became excited, he raised it to a scream. The epithets
"shrill," "piercing," "penetrating," frequently recur in the
descriptions given of it. At the same time its quality seems to have
been less dissonant than thrilling; there is abundance of evidence to
prove that he could modulate it exquisitely in the reading of poetry,
and its tone proved no obstacle to the persuasive charms of his
eloquence in conversation. Like all finely tempered natures, he vibrated
in harmony with the subjects of his thought. Excitement made his
utterance shrill and sharp. Deep feeling of the sense of beauty lowered
its tone to richness; but the timbre was always acute, in sympathy with
his intense temperament. All was of one piece in Shelley's nature. This
peculiar voice, varying from moment to moment, and affecting different
sensibilities in divers ways, corresponds to the high-strung passion of
his life, his fine-drawn and ethereal fancies, and the clear vibrations
of his palpitating verse. Such a voice, far-reaching, penetrating, and
unearthly, befitted one who lived in rarest ether on the topmost heights
of human thought.
The acquaintance begun that October evening soon ripened into close
friendship. Shelley and Hogg from this time forward spent a large part
of their days and nights together in common studies, walks and
conversations. It was their habit to pass the morning, each in his own
rooms, absorbed in private reading. At one o'clock they met and lunched,
and then started for long rambles in the country. Shelley frequently
carried pistols with him upon these occasions, and would stop to fix his
father's franks upon convenient trees and shoot at them. The practice of
pistol shooting, adopted so early in life, was afterwards one of his
favourite amusements in the company of Byron. Hogg says that in his use
of fire-arms he was extraordinarily careless. "How often have I lamented
that Nature, which so rarely bestows upon the world a creature endowed
with such marvellous talents, ungraciously rendered the gift less
precious by implanting a fatal taste for perilous recreations, and a
thoughtlessness in the pursuit of them, that often caused his existence
from one day to another to seem in itself miraculous." On their return
from these excursions the two friends, neither of whom cared for dining
in the College Hall, drank tea and supped together, Shelley's rooms
being generally chosen as the scene of their symposia.
These rooms are described as a perfect palace of confusion--chaos on
chaos heaped of chemical apparatus, books, electrical machines,
unfinished manuscripts, and furniture worn into holes by acids. It was
perilous to use the poet's drinking-vessels, less perchance a
seven-shilling piece half dissolved in aqua regia should lurk at the
bottom of the bowl. Handsome razors were used to cut the lids of wooden
boxes, and valuable books served to support lamps or crucibles; for in
his vehement precipitation Shelley always laid violent hands on what he
found convenient to the purpose of the moment. Here the friends talked
and read until late in the night. Their chief studies at this time were
in Locke and Hume and the French essayists. Shelley's bias toward
metaphysical speculation was beginning to assert itself. He read the
School Logic with avidity, and practised himself without intermission in
dialectical discussion. Hogg observes, what is confirmed by other
testimony, that in reasoning Shelley never lost sight of the essential
bearings of the topic in dispute, never condescended to personal or
captious arguments, and was Socratically bent on following the dialogue
wherever it might lead, without regard for consequences. Plato was
another of their favourite authors; but Hogg expressly tells us that
they only approached the divine philosopher through the medium of
translations. It was not until a later period that Shelley studied his
dialogues in the original: but the substance of them, seen through Mdme.
Dacier's version, acted powerfully on the poet's sympathetic intellect.
In fact, although at the time he had adopted the conclusions of
materialism, he was at heart all through his life an idealist. Therefore
the mixture of the poet and the sage in Plato fascinated him. The
doctrine of anamnesis, which offers so strange a vista to speculative
reverie, by its suggestion of an earlier existence in which our
knowledge was acquired, took a strong hold upon his imagination; he
would stop in the streets to gaze wistfully at babies, wondering whether
their newly imprisoned souls were not replete with the wisdom stored up
in a previous life.
In the acquisition of knowledge he was then as ever unrelaxing. "No
student ever read more assiduously. He was to be found, book in hand, at
all hours; reading in season and out of season; at table, in bed, and
especially during a walk; not only in the quiet country, and in retired
paths; not only at Oxford, in the public walks, and High Street, but in
the most crowded thoroughfares of London. Nor was he less absorbed by
the volume that was open before him, in Cheapside, in Cranbourne Alley,
or in Bond Street, than in a lonely lane, or a secluded library.
Sometimes a vulgar fellow would attempt to insult or annoy the eccentric
student in passing. Shelley always avoided the malignant interruption by
stepping aside with his vast and quiet agility." And again:--"I never
beheld eyes that devoured the pages more voraciously than his; I am
convinced that two-thirds of the period of the day and night were often
employed in reading. It is no exaggeration to affirm, that out of
twenty-four hours, he frequently read sixteen. At Oxford, his diligence
in this respect was exemplary, but it greatly increased afterwards, and
I sometimes thought that he carried it to a pernicious excess: I am
sure, at least, that I was unable to keep pace with him." With Shelley
study was a passion, and the acquisition of knowledge was the entrance
into a thrice-hallowed sanctuary. "The irreverent many cannot comprehend
the awe--the careless apathetic worldling cannot imagine the
enthusiasm--nor can the tongue that attempts only to speak of things
visible to the bodily eye, express the mighty emotion that inwardly
agitated him, when he approached, for the first time, a volume which he
believed to be replete with the recondite and mystic philosophy of
antiquity: his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame
trembled, and his entire attention was immediately swallowed up in the
depths of contemplation. The rapid and vigorous conversion of his soul
to intellect can only be compared with the instantaneous ignition and
combustion, which dazzle the sight, when a bundle of dry reeds, or other
light inflammable substance, is thrown upon a fire already rich with
accumulated heat."
As at Eton, so at Oxford, Shelley refused to keep the beaten track of
prescribed studies, or to run in ordinary grooves of thought. The mere
fact that Aristotle was a duty, seems to have disgusted him with the
author of the Organon, from whom, had his works been prohibited to
undergraduates, he would probably have been eager to learn much. For
mathematics and jurisprudence he evinced a marked distaste. The common
business of the English Parliament had no attraction for him, and he
read few newspapers. While his mind was keenly interested in great
political questions, he could not endure the trivial treatment of them
in the daily press, and cared far more for principles than for the
incidents of party warfare. Here again he showed that impatience of
detail, and that audacity of self-reliant genius, which were the source
of both his weakness and his strength. He used to speak with aversion of
a Parliamentary career, and told Hogg that though this had been
suggested to him, as befitting his position, by the Duke of Norfolk, he
could never bring himself to mix with the rabble of the House. It is
none the less true, however, that he entertained some vague notion of
eventually succeeding to his father's seat.
Combined with his eager intellectual activity, there was something
intermittent and fitful in the working of his mental faculties. Hogg, in
particular, mentions one of his habits in a famous passage, which, since
it brings the two friends vividly before us, may here be quoted. "I was
enable to continue my studies afterwards in the evening, in consequence
of a very remarkable peculiarity. My young and energetic friend was then
overcome by extreme drowsiness, which speedily and completely vanquished
him; he would sleep from two to four hours, often so soundly that his
slumbers resembled a deep lethargy; he lay occasionally upon the sofa,
but more commonly stretched upon the rug before a large fire, like a
cat; and his little round head was exposed to such a fierce heat, that I
used to wonder how he was able to bear it. Sometimes I have interposed
some shelter, but rarely with any permanent effect; for the sleeper
usually contrived to turn himself, and to roll again into the spot where
the fire glowed the brightest. His torpor was generally profound, but he
would sometimes discourse incoherently for a long while in his sleep. At
six he would suddenly compose himself, even in the midst of a most
animated narrative, or of earnest discussion; and he would lie buried in
entire forgetfulness, in a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he
would suddenly start up, and, rubbing his eyes with great violence, and
passing his fingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once
into a vehement argument, or begin to recite verses, either of his own
composition or from the works of others, with a rapidity and an energy
that were often quite painful."
Shelley's moral qualities are described with no less enthusiasm than his
intellectual and physical beauty by the friend from whom I have already
drawn so largely. Love was the root and basis of his nature: this love,
first developed as domestic affection, next as friendship, then as a
youth's passion, now began to shine with steady lustre as an
all-embracing devotion to his fellow-men. There is something inevitably
chilling in the words "benevolence" and "philanthropy." A disillusioned
world is inclined to look with languid approbation on the former, and to
disbelieve in the latter. Therefore I will not use them to describe that
intense and glowing passion of unselfishness, which throughout his life
led Shelley to find his strongest interests in the joys and sorrows of
his fellow-creatures, which inflamed his imagination with visions of
humanity made perfect, and which filled his days with sweet deeds of
unnumbered charities. I will rather collect from the page of his
friend's biography a few passages recording the first impression of his
character, the memory of which may be carried by the reader through the
following brief record of his singular career:--
"His speculations were as wild as the experience of twenty-one years has
shown them to be; but the zealous earnestness for the augmentation of
knowledge, and the glowing philanthropy and boundless benevolence that
marked them, and beamed forth in the whole deportment of that
extraordinary boy, are not less astonishing than they would have been if
the whole of his glorious anticipations had been prophetic; for these
high qualities, at least, I have never found a parallel."
"In no individual perhaps was the moral sense ever more completely
developed than in Shelley; in no being was the perception of right and
of wrong more acute.
"As his love of intellectual pursuits was vehement, and the vigour of
his genius almost celestial, so were the purity and sanctity of his life
most conspicuous."
"I never knew any one so prone to admire as he was, in whom the
principle of veneration was so strong."
"I have had the happiness to associate with some of the best specimens
of gentlemen; but with all due deference for those admirable persons
(may my candour and my preference be pardoned), I can affirm that
Shelley was almost the only example I have yet found that was never
wanting, even in the most minute particular, of the infinite and various
observances of pure, entire, and perfect gentility."
"Shelley was actually offended, and indeed more indignant than would
appear to be consistent with the singular mildness of his nature, at a
coarse and awkward jest, especially if it were immodest, or uncleanly;
in the latter case his anger was unbounded, and his uneasiness
pre-eminent; he was, however, sometimes vehemently delighted by
exquisite and delicate sallies, particularly with a fanciful, and
perhaps somewhat fantastical facetiousness--possibly the more because he
was himself utterly incapable of pleasantry."
"I could never discern in him any more than two fixed principles. The
first was a strong irrepressible love of liberty; of liberty in the
abstract, and somewhat after the pattern of the ancient republics,
without reference to the English constitution, respecting which he knew
little and cared nothing, heeding it not at all. The second was an
equally ardent love of toleration of all opinions, but more especially
of religious opinions; of toleration, complete, entire, universal,
unlimited; and, as a deduction and corollary from which latter
principle, he felt an intense abhorrence of persecution of every kind,
public or private."
The testimony in the foregoing extracts as to Shelley's purity and
elevation of moral character is all the stronger, because it is given by
a man not over-inclined to praise, and of a temperament as unlike the
poet's as possible. If we were to look only upon this side of his
portrait, we should indeed be almost forced to use the language of his
most enthusiastic worshippers, and call him an archangel. But it must be
admitted that, though so pure and gentle and exalted, Shelley's virtues
were marred by his eccentricity, by something at times approaching
madness, which paralyzed his efficiency by placing him in a glaringly
false relation to some of the best men in the world around him. He
possessed certain good qualities in excess; for, though it sounds
paradoxical, it is none the less true that a man may be too tolerant,
too fond of liberty: and it was precisely the extravagance of these
virtues in Shelley which drove him into acts and utterances so
antagonistic to society as to be intolerable.
Of Shelley's poetical studies we hear but little at this epoch. His
genius by a stretch of fancy might be compared to one of those double
stars which dart blue and red rays of light: for it was governed by two
luminaries, poetry and metaphysics; and at this time the latter seems to
have been in the ascendant. It is, however, interesting to learn that he
read and re-read Landor's "Gebir"--stronger meat than either Southey's
epics or the ghost-lyrics of Monk Lewis. Hogg found him one day busily
engaged in correcting proofs of some original poems. Shelley asked his
friend what he thought of them, and Hogg answered that it might be
possible by a little alteration to turn them into capital burlesques.
The idea took the young poet's fancy; and the friends between them soon
effected a metamorphosis in Shelley's serious verses, by which they
became unmistakably ridiculous. Having achieved their purpose, they now
bethought them of the proper means of publication. Upon whom should the
poems, a medley of tyrannicide and revolutionary raving, be fathered?
Peg Nicholson, a mad washerwoman, had recently attempted George the
Third's life with a carving-knife. No more fitting author could be
found. They would give their pamphlet to the world as her work, edited
by an admiring nephew. The printer appreciated the joke no less than the
authors of it. He provided splendid paper and magnificent type; and
before long the book of nonsense was in the hands of Oxford readers. It
sold for the high price of half-a-crown a copy; and, what is hardly
credible, the gownsmen received it as a genuine production. "It was
indeed a kind of fashion to be seen reading it in public, as a mark of
nice discernment, of a delicate and fastidious taste in poetry, and the
best criterion of a choice spirit." Such was the genesis of "Posthumous
Fragments of Margaret Nicholson", edited by John Fitz Victor. The name
of the supposititious nephew reminds us of "Original Poems" by Victor
and Cazire, and raises the question whether the poems in that lost
volume may not have partly furnished forth this Oxford travesty.
Shelley's next publication, or quasi-publication, was neither so
innocent in substance nor so pleasant in its consequences. After leaving
Eton, he continued the habit, learned from Dr. Lind, of corresponding
with distinguished persons whom he did not personally know. Thus we find
him about this time addressing Miss Felicia Browne (afterwards Mrs.
Hemans) and Leigh Hunt. He plied his correspondents with all kinds of
questions; and as the dialectical interest was uppermost at Oxford, he
now endeavoured to engage them in discussions on philosophical and
religious topics. We have seen that his favourite authors were Locke,
Hume, and the French materialists. With the impulsiveness peculiar to
his nature, he adopted the negative conclusions of a shallow
nominalistic philosophy. It was a fundamental point with him to regard
all questions, however sifted and settled by the wise of former ages, as
still open; and in his inordinate thirst for liberty, he rejoiced to be
the Deicide of a pernicious theological delusion. In other words, he
passed at Oxford by one leap from a state of indifferentism with regard
to Christianity, into an attitude of vehement antagonism. With a view to
securing answers to his missives, he printed a short abstract of Hume's
and other arguments against the existence of a Deity, presented in a
series of propositions, and signed with a mathematically important
"Q.E.D." This document he forwarded to his proposed antagonists,
expressing his inability to answer its arguments, and politely
requesting them to help him. When it so happened that any incautious
correspondents acceded to this appeal, Shelley fell with merciless
severity upon their feeble and commonplace reasoning. The little
pamphlet of two pages was entitled "The Necessity of Atheism"; and its
proposed publication, beyond the limits of private circulation already
described, is proved by an advertisement (February 9, 1811) in the
"Oxford University and City Herald". It was not, however, actually
offered for sale.
A copy of this syllabus reached a Fellow of another college, who made
the Master of the University acquainted with the fact. On the morning of
March 25, 1811, Shelley was sent for to the Senior Common Room, and
asked whether he acknowledged himself to be the author of the obnoxious
pamphlet. On his refusal to answer this question, he was served with a
formal sentence of expulsion duly drawn up and sealed. The college
authorities have been blamed for unfair dealing in this matter. It is
urged that they ought to have proceeded by the legal method of calling
witnesses; and that the sentence was not only out of all proportion to
the offence, but that it ought not to have been executed till persuasion
had been tried. With regard to the former indictment, I do not think
that a young man still in statu pupillari, who refused to purge himself
of what he must have known to be a serious charge, had any reason to
expect from his tutors the formalities of an English court of law. There
is no doubt that the Fellows were satisfied of his being the real
author; else they could not have ventured on so summary a measure as
expulsion. Their question was probably intended to give the culprit an
occasion for apology, of which they foresaw he would not avail himself.
With regard to the second, it is true that Shelley was amenable to
kindness, and that gentle and wise treatment from men whom he respected
might possibly have brought him to retract his syllabus. But it must be
remembered that he despised the Oxford dons with all his heart; and they
were probably aware of this. He was a dexterous, impassioned reasoner,
whom they little cared to encounter in argument on such a topic. During
his short period of residence, moreover, he had not shown himself so
tractable as to secure the good wishes of superiors, who prefer
conformity to incommensurable genius. It is likely that they were not
averse to getting rid of him as a man dangerous to the peace of their
society; and now they had a good occasion. Nor was it to be expected
that the champion and apostle of Atheism--and Shelley was certainly
both, in spite of Hogg's attempts to tone down the purpose of his
document--should be unmolested in his propaganda by the aspirants to fat
livings and ecclesiastical dignities. Real blame, however, attaches to
these men: first, for their dulness to discern Shelley's amiable
qualities; and, secondly, for the prejudgment of the case implied in the
immediate delivery of their sentence. Both Hogg and Shelley accused
them, besides, of a gross brutality, which was, to say the least,
unseemly on so serious an occasion. At the beginning of this century the
learning and the manners of Oxford dons were at a low ebb; and the
Fellows of University College acted harshly but not altogether unjustly,
ignorantly but after their own kind, in this matter of Shelley's
expulsion. $Non ragionem di lor, ma guarda e passa. Hogg, who stood by
his friend manfully at this crisis, and dared the authorities to deal
with him as they had dealt with Shelley, adding that they had just as
much real proof to act upon in his case, and intimating his intention of
returning the same answer as to the authorship of the pamphlet, was
likewise expelled. The two friends left Oxford together by coach on the
morning of the 26th of March.
Shelley felt his expulsion acutely. At Oxford he had enjoyed the
opportunities of private reading which the University afforded in those
days of sleepy studies and innocuous examinations. He delighted in the
security of his "oak," and above all things he found pleasure in the
society of his one chosen friend. He was now obliged to exchange these
good things for the tumult and discomfort of London. His father, after
clumsily attempting compromises, had forbidden his return to Field
Place. The whole fabric of his former life was broken up. The last hope
of renewing his engagement with his cousin had to be abandoned. His
pecuniary position was precarious, and in a short time he was destined
to lose the one friend who had so generously shared his fate. Yet the
notion of recovering his position as a student in one of our great
Universities, of softening his father's indignation, or of ameliorating
his present circumstances by the least concession, never seems to have
occurred to him. He had suffered in the cause of truth and liberty, and
he willingly accepted his martyrdom for conscience' sake.