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SHELLEY AT OXFORD
SHELLEY AT OXFORD
BY THOMAS JEFFERSON HOGG
WITH AN INTRODUCTION
BY R. A. STREATFEILD
METHUEN & CO.
36 ESSEX STREET W.C.
LONDON
1904
INTRODUCTION
Thomas Jefferson Hogg's account of Shelley's career at Oxford first
appeared in the form of a series of articles contributed to the _New
Monthly Magazine_ in 1832 and 1833. It was afterwards incorporated into
his _Life of Shelley_, which was published in 1858. It is by common
consent the most life-like portrait of the poet left by any of his
contemporaries. "Hogg," said Trelawny, "has painted Shelley exactly as I
knew him," and Mary Shelley, referring to Hogg's articles in her edition
of Shelley's poems, bore witness to the fidelity with which her husband's
character had been delineated. In later times everyone who has written
about Shelley has drawn upon Hogg more or less freely, for he is
practically the only authority upon Shelley's six months at Oxford. Yet,
save in the extracts that appear in various biographies of the poet, this
remarkable work is little known. Hogg's fragmentary _Life of Shelley_ was
discredited by the plainly-expressed disapproval of the Shelley family and
has never been reprinted. But the inaccuracies, to call them by no harsher
term, that disfigure Hogg's later production do not affect the value of
his earlier narrative, the substantial truth of which has never been
impugned.
In 1832 the _New Monthly Magazine_ was edited by the first Lord Lytton (at
that time Edward Lytton Bulwer), to whom Hogg was introduced by Mrs
Shelley. Hogg complained bitterly of the way in which his manuscript was
treated. "To write articles in a magazine or a review," he observed in the
Preface to his _Life of Shelley_, "is to walk in leading-strings. However,
I submitted to the requirements and restraints of bibliopolar discipline,
being content to speak of my young fellow-collegian, not exactly as I
would, but as I might. I struggled at first, and feebly, for full liberty
of speech, for a larger license of commendation and admiration, for entire
freedom of the press without censorship." Bulwer, however, was inexorable,
and it is owing, no doubt, to his salutary influence that the style of
Hogg's account of Shelley's Oxford days is so far superior to that of his
later compilation. Hogg, in fact, tacitly admitted the value of Bulwer's
emendations by reprinting the articles in question in his biography of
Shelley word for word as they appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_, not
in the form in which they originally left his pen.
Hogg himself was unquestionably a man of remarkable powers, though his
present fame depends almost entirely upon his connection with Shelley. He
was born in 1792, being the eldest son of John Hogg, a gentleman of old
family and strong Tory opinions, who lived at Norton in the county of
Durham. He was educated at Durham Grammar School, and entered University
College, Oxford, in January 1810, a short time before Shelley. The account
of his meeting with Shelley and of their intimacy down to the day of their
expulsion is told in these pages.
On the strength of a remark of Trelawny's it has often been repeated that
Hogg was a hard-headed man of the world who despised literature, "he
thought it all nonsense and barely tolerated Shakespeare." Such is not the
impression that a reader of these pages will retain, nor, I think, will he
be inclined to echo the opinion pronounced by another critic that Hogg
regarded Shelley with a kind of amused disdain. On the contrary, it is
plain that Hogg entertained for Shelley a sincere regard and admiration,
and although himself a man of temperament directly opposed to that usually
described as poetical, he was fully capable of appreciating the
transcendent qualities of his friend's genius. There is little to add to
the tale of Hogg's and Shelley's Oxford life as told in the following
narrative, but further details as to their expulsion and the causes that
led to it may be read in Professor Dowden's biography of the poet. After
leaving Oxford, Hogg established himself at York, where he was articled to
a conveyancer. There he was visited by Shelley and his young wife, Harriet
Westbrook, in the course of their wanderings. For the latter Hogg
conceived a violent passion, and during a brief absence of Shelley's
assailed her with the most unworthy proposals, which she communicated to
her husband on his return. After a painful interview Shelley forgave his
friend, but left York with his wife abruptly for Keswick. Letters passed
between Hogg and Shelley, Hogg at first demanding Harriet's forgiveness
under a threat of suicide and subsequently challenging Shelley to a duel.
One of Shelley's replies, characteristically noble in sentiment, was
printed by Hogg with cynical effrontery in his biography of the poet many
years later as a "Fragment of a Novel." After these incidents there was no
intercourse between the two until, in October 1812, the Shelleys arrived
in London, whither Hogg had moved. From that time until Shelley's final
departure from England in 1818 his connection with Hogg was resumed with
much of its old intimacy.
In the year 1813 Hogg produced a work of fiction, _The Memoirs of Prince
Alexy Haimatoff_, said to be translated from the original Latin MSS. under
the immediate inspection of the Prince, by John Brown, Esq. The tale,
which is for the most part told in stilted and extravagant language, can
hardly be called amusing, but the discussions upon liberty which are a
feature of it appear to be an echo of Shelley's conversation, and the hero
himself may possibly be intended as a portrait of the poet. Certainly
there are points in the Prince's description of himself which seem to be
borrowed from Shelley's physiognomy. "My complexion was a clear brown,
rather inclining to yellow; my hair a deep and bright black; my eyes dark
and strongly expressive of pride and anger,... my hands very small, and
my head remarkable for its roundness and diminutive size." It would be
interesting to trace in the other characters the portraits of various
members of Hogg's circle. Mr Garnett identifies Gothon as Dr Lind, the
Eton tutor whose sympathy and encouragement did much to alleviate the
misery of Shelley's school-days. The fair Rosalie ought to be Harriet, and
certain features of her character recall that unhappy damsel, but Rosalie
disliked reading and thought Aristotle an "egregious trifler," whereas
Harriet's taste in literature was of an extreme seriousness, and her
partiality for reading works of a moral tendency to her companions in
season and out of season was one of the least engaging features of her
character.
Shelley reviewed _The Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff_ in the _Critical
Review_ of December 1814, discussing the talents of the author in terms of
glowing eulogy, though he found fault with his views on the subject of
sexual relations. Soon after his York experiences Hogg had entered at the
Middle Temple and he was called to the Bar in 1817. He was not successful
as a barrister, lacking the quickness and ready eloquence that command
success. In or about the year 1826 Hogg married Jane, the widow of Edward
Ellerker Williams, who had shared Shelley's fate three years previously.
It is said that Mrs Williams insisted upon Hogg's preparing himself for
the union, or perhaps we should rather say, proving his devotion, by a
course of foreign travel. Hogg undertook the ordeal, voluntarily depriving
himself of three things, each of which, to use his own words, "daily habit
had taught me to consider a prime necessary of life--law, Greek, and an
English newspaper." In 1827 he published the record of his tour in two
volumes, entitled _Two Hundred and Nine Days; or, The Journal of a
Traveller on the Continent_, which, so far from illustrating the anguish
of hope deferred, is a storehouse of shrewd and cynical observation.
In 1833 Hogg was appointed one of the Municipal Corporation Commissioners
for England and Wales, and for many years he acted as Revising Barrister
for Northumberland, Berwick and the Northern Boroughs. About 1855 he was
commissioned by the Shelley family to write the poet's biography and was
furnished with the necessary papers. In 1858 he produced the two extant
volumes, which proved so little satisfactory to Shelley's representatives
that the materials for the continuation of his task were withdrawn and the
work interrupted, never to be resumed. Hogg died in 1862. He was a man of
varied culture; in knowledge of Greek few scholars of his time surpassed
him, and he was well read in German, French, Italian and Spanish. He was a
fair botanist, and rejoiced to think that he was born upon the anniversary
of the birth of Linnaeus, for whose concise and simple style he professed a
great admiration. Nevertheless it is chiefly as the friend and biographer
of Shelley that he interests the present generation, and the
re-publication of his account of the poet's Oxford experiences can
scarcely fail to win him new admirers.
R. A. STREATFEILD
SHELLEY AT OXFORD
CHAPTER I
What is the greatest disappointment in life? The question has often been
asked. In a perfect life--that is to say, in a long course of various
disappointments, when the collector has completed the entire set and
series, which should he pronounce to be the greatest? What is the greatest
disappointment of all? The question has often been asked, and it has
received very different answers. Some have said matrimony; others, the
accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously anticipated;
others, the attainment of honours; others, the deliverance from an ancient
and intolerable nuisance, since a new and more grievous one speedily
succeeded to the old. Many solutions have been proposed, and each has
been ingeniously supported. At a very early age I had formed a splendid
picture of the glories of our two Universities. My father took pleasure in
describing his academical career. I listened to him with great delight,
and many circumstances gave additional force to these first impressions.
The clergy--and in the country they make one's principal guests--always
spoke of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their academical
days as the happiest of their lives.
When I went to school, my prejudices were strengthened; for the master
noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every remarkable
proficiency as being fit, for the University. Such expressions marked the
utmost limits of blame and of praise. Whenever any of the elder boys were
translated to college--and several went thither from our school every
year--the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. I had always
contemplated my own removal with the like feeling, and as the period
approached, I anticipated it with a reverent impatience. The appointed
day at last arrived, and I set out with a schoolfellow, about to enter the
same career, and his father. The latter was a dutiful and a most grateful
son of _alma mater_; and the conversation of this estimable man, during
our long journey, fanned the flame of my young ardour. Such, indeed, had
been the effect of his discourse for many years; and as he possessed a
complete collection of the Oxford Almanacks, and it had been a great and
frequent gratification to contemplate the engravings at the top of the
annual sheets when I visited his quiet vicarage, I was already familiar
with the aspect of the noble buildings that adorn that famous city. After
travelling for several days we reached the last stage, and soon afterwards
approached the point whence, I was told, we might discern the first
glimpse of the metropolis of learning. I strained my eyes to catch a view
of that land of promise, for which I had so eagerly longed. The summits of
towers and spires and domes appeared afar and faintly; then the prospect
was obstructed. By degrees it opened upon us again, and we saw the tall
trees that shaded the colleges. At three o'clock on a fine autumnal
afternoon we entered the streets of Oxford. Although the weather was cold
we had let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and I sat forward,
devouring every object with greedy eyes. Members of the University, of
different ages and ranks, were gliding through the quiet streets of the
venerable city in academic costume.
We devoted two or three days to the careful examination of the various
objects of interest that Oxford contains. The eye was gratified, for the
external appearance of the University even surpassed the bright picture
which my youthful imagination had painted. The outside was always
admirable; it was far otherwise with the inside. It is essential to the
greatness of a disappointment that the previous expectation should have
been great. Nothing could exceed my young anticipations--nothing could be
more complete than their overthrow. It would be impossible to describe my
feelings without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable
University. On this subject, then, I will only confess my disappointment,
and discreetly be silent as to its causes. Whatever those causes, I grew,
at least, and I own it cheerfully, soon pleased with Oxford, on the whole;
pleased with the beauty of the city and its gentle river, and the
pleasantness of the surrounding country.
Although no great facilities were afforded to the student, there were the
same opportunities of _solitary_ study as in other places. All the irksome
restraints of school were removed, and those of the University are few and
trifling. Our fare was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to
have been, in return for the enormous cost; and I liked the few companions
with whom I most commonly mixed. I continued to lead a life of tranquil
and studious and somewhat melancholy contentment until the long vacation,
which I spent with my family; and, when it expired, I returned to the
University.
At the commencement of Michaelmas term--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
anyone. I know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such
familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a
society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. We have often
endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and
especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently remote
from all the associations we were able to trace. The stranger had
expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical and imaginative works of
the German school; I dissented from his criticisms. He upheld the
originality of the German writings; I asserted their want of nature.
"What modern literature," said he, "will you compare to theirs?"
I named the Italian. This roused all his impetuosity; and few, as I soon
discovered, were more impetuous in argumentative conversation. So eager
was our dispute that, when the servants came in to clear the tables, we
were not aware that we had been left alone. I remarked that it was time to
quit the hall, and I invited the stranger to finish the discussion at my
rooms. He eagerly assented. He lost the thread of his discourse in the
transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of Germany; for, as
soon as he arrived at my rooms, and whilst I was lighting the candles, he
said calmly, and to my great surprise, that he was not qualified to
maintain such a discussion, for he was alike ignorant of Italian and
German, and had only read the works of the Germans, in translations, and
but little of Italian poetry, even at second hand. For my part, I
confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that I knew nothing of German,
and but little of Italian; that I had spoken only through others, and,
like him, had hitherto seen by the glimmering light of translations.
It is upon such scanty data that young men reason; upon such slender
materials do they build up their opinions. It may be urged, however, that
if they did not discourse freely with each other upon insufficient
information--for such alone can be acquired in the pleasant morning of
life, and until they educate themselves--they would be constrained to
observe a perpetual silence, and to forego the numerous advantages that
flow from frequent and liberal discussion.
I inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine and dessert,
how long he had been at Oxford, and how he liked it? He answered my
questions with a certain impatience, and, resuming the subject of our
discussion, he remarked that, "Whether the literature of Germany or of
Italy be the more original, or in a purer and more accurate taste, is of
little importance, for polite letters are but vain trifling; the study of
languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of Latin and Greek also, is
merely the study of words and phrases, of the names of things; it matters
not how they are called. It is surely far better to investigate things
themselves." I inquired, a little bewildered, how this was to be effected?
He answered, "Through the physical sciences, and especially through
chemistry;" and, raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he
discoursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal in
defence of the Germans, of chemistry and chemical analysis. Concerning
that science, then so popular, I had merely a scanty and vulgar knowledge,
gathered from elementary books, and the ordinary experiments of popular
lecturers. I listened, therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition,
interposing a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the
extent of his own studies and manipulations. 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
characterises 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 recognised 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. I admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his
ardour in the cause of science and his thirst for knowledge. I seemed to
have found in him all those intellectual qualities which I had vainly
expected to meet with in a University. But there was one physical blemish
that threatened to neutralise all his excellence. "This is a fine, clever
fellow!" I said to myself, "but I can never bear his society; I shall
never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me. What a pity it is!" I
am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds, and
the voice of the stranger was excruciating. It was intolerably shrill,
harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension. It was perpetual, and
without any remission; it excoriated the ears. He continued to discourse
on chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and
sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks,
that speak in various notes during the day and the night at Oxford,
proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a
lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to
derive much pleasure and instruction from it. I am ashamed to own that the
cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit
so indispensable a civility--I invited him to return to tea. He gladly
assented, promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his hat,
hurried out of the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran through the
silent quadrangle and afterwards along High Street.
An hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared and the tea was made,
and I again heard the footsteps of one running quickly. My guest suddenly
burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and
chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been
disappointed in the lecture. Few persons attended; it was dull and
languid, and he was resolved never to go to another.
"I went away, indeed," he added, with an arch look, and in a shrill
whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"I went away, indeed, before the
lecture was finished. I stole away, for it was so stupid, and I was so
cold that my teeth chattered. The Professor saw me, and appeared to be
displeased. I thought I could have got out without being observed, but I
struck my knee against a bench and made a noise, and he looked at me. I am
determined that he shall never see me again."
"What did the man talk about?"
"About stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in a
melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound. "About
stones! stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so drily. It was
wonderfully tiresome, and stones are not interesting things in
themselves!"
We took tea, and soon afterwards had supper, as was usual. He discoursed
after supper with as much warmth as before of the wonders of chemistry; of
the encouragement that Napoleon afforded to that most important science;
of the French chemists and their glorious discoveries, and of the
happiness of visiting Paris and sharing in their fame and their
experiments. The voice, however, seemed to me more cruel than ever. He
spoke, likewise, of his own labours and of his apparatus, and starting up
suddenly after supper, he proposed that I should go instantly with him to
see the galvanic trough. I looked at my watch, and observed that it was
too late; that the fire would be out, and the night was cold. He resumed
his seat, saying that I might come on the morrow early, to breakfast,
immediately after chapel. He continued to declaim in his rapturous strain,
asserting that chemistry was, in truth, the only science that deserved to
be studied. I suggested doubts. I ventured to question the pre-eminence of
the science, and even to hesitate in admitting its utility. He described
in glowing language some discoveries that had lately been made; but the
enthusiastic chemist candidly allowed that they were rather brilliant than
useful, asserting, however, that they would soon be applied to purposes of
solid advantage.
"Is not the time of by far the larger proportion of the human species," he
inquired, with his fervid manner and in his piercing tones, "wholly
consumed in severe labour? And is not this devotion of our race--of the
whole of our race, I may say (for those who, like ourselves, are indulged
with an exemption from the hard lot are so few in comparison with the
rest, that they scarcely deserve to be taken into account)--absolutely
necessary to procure subsistence, so that men have no leisure for
recreation or the high improvement of the mind? Yet this incessant toil is
still inadequate to procure an abundant supply of the common necessaries
of life. Some are doomed actually to want them, and many are compelled to
be content with an insufficient provision. We know little of the peculiar
nature of those substances which are proper for the nourishment of
animals; we are ignorant of the qualities that make them fit for this end.
Analysis has advanced so rapidly of late that we may confidently
anticipate that we shall soon discover wherein their aptitude really
consists; having ascertained the cause, we shall next be able to command
it, and to produce at our pleasure the desired effects. It is easy, even
in our present state of ignorance, to reduce our ordinary food to carbon,
or to lime; a moderate advancement in chemical science will speedily
enable us, we may hope, to create, with equal facility, food from
substances that appear at present to be as ill adapted to sustain us. What
is the cause of the remarkable fertility of some lands, and of the
hopeless sterility of others? A spadeful of the most productive soil does
not to the eye differ much from the same quantity taken from the most
barren. The real difference is probably very slight; by chemical agency
the philosopher may work a total change, and may transmute an unfruitful
region into a land of exuberant plenty. Water, like the atmospheric air,
is compounded of certain gases; in the progress of scientific discovery a
simple and sure method of manufacturing the useful fluid, in every
situation and in any quantity, may be detected. The arid deserts of Africa
may then be refreshed by a copious supply and may be transformed at once
into rich meadows and vast fields of maize and rice. The generation of
heat is a mystery, but enough of the theory of caloric has already been
developed to induce us to acquiesce in the notion that it will hereafter,
and perhaps at no very distant period, be possible to produce heat at
will, and to warm the most ungenial climates as readily as we now raise
the temperature of our apartments to whatever degree we may deem agreeable
or salutary. If, however, it be too much to anticipate that we shall ever
become sufficiently skilful to command such a prodigious supply of heat,
we may expect, without the fear of disappointment, soon to understand its
nature and the causes of combustion, so far at least, as to provide
ourselves cheaply with a fund of heat that will supersede our costly and
inconvenient fuel, and will suffice to warm our habitations, for culinary
purposes and for the various demands of the mechanical arts. We could not
determine without actual experiment whether an unknown substance were
combustible; when we shall have thoroughly investigated the properties of
fire, it may be that we shall be qualified to communicate to clay, to
stones, and to water itself, a chemical recomposition that will render
them as inflammable as wood, coals and oil; for the difference of
structure is minute and invisible, and the power of feeding flame may,
perhaps, be easily added to any substance, or taken away from it. What a
comfort would it be to the poor at all times, and especially at this
season, if we were capable of solving this problem alone, if we could
furnish them with a competent supply of heat! These speculations may
appear wild, and it may seem improbable that they will ever be realised to
persons who have not extended their views of what is practicable by
closely watching science in its course onward; but there are many
mysterious powers, many irresistible agents with the existence and with
some of the phenomena of which all are acquainted. What a mighty
instrument would electricity be in the hands of him who knew how to wield
it, in what manner to direct its omnipotent energies, and we may command
an indefinite quantity of the fluid. By means of electrical kites we may
draw down the lightning from heaven! What a terrible organ would the
supernal shock prove, if we were able to guide it; how many of the secrets
of nature would such a stupendous force unlock. The galvanic battery is a
new engine; it has been used hitherto to an insignificant extent, yet has
it wrought wonders already; what will not an extraordinary combination of
troughs, of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of
metallic plates, effect? The balloon has not yet received the perfection
of which it is surely capable; the art of navigating the air is in its
first and most helpless infancy; the aerial mariner still swims on
bladders, and has not mounted even the rude raft; if we weigh this
invention, curious as it is, with some of the subjects I have mentioned,
it will seem trifling, no doubt--a mere toy, a feather in comparison with
the splendid anticipations of the philosophical chemist; yet it ought not
altogether to be contemned. It promises prodigious facilities for
locomotion, and will enable us to traverse vast tracts with ease and
rapidity, and to explore unknown countries without difficulty. Why are we
still so ignorant of the interior of Africa?--why do we not despatch
intrepid aeronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole
peninsula in a few weeks? The shadow of the first balloon, which a
vertical sun would project precisely underneath it, as it glided silently
over that hitherto unhappy country, would virtually emancipate every
slave, and would annihilate slavery for ever."
With such fervour did the slender, beardless stranger speculate concerning
the march of physical science; 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. When he had ceased to predict the coming honours
of chemistry, and to promise the rich harvest of benefits it was soon to
yield, I suggested that, although its results were splendid, yet for those
who could not hope to make discoveries themselves, it did not afford so
valuable a course of mental discipline as the moral sciences; moreover,
that, if chemists asserted that their science alone deserved to be
cultivated, the mathematicians made the same assertion, and with equal
confidence, respecting their studies; but that I was not sufficiently
advanced myself in mathematics to be able to judge how far it was well
founded. He declared that he knew nothing of mathematics, and treated the
notion of their paramount importance with contempt.
"What do you say of metaphysics?" I continued; "is that science, too, the
study of words only?"
"Ay, metaphysics," he said, in a solemn tone, and with a mysterious air,
"that is a noble study indeed! If it were possible to make any discoveries
there, they would be more valuable than anything the chemists have done,
or could do; they would disclose the analysis of mind, and not of mere
matter!" Then, rising from his chair, he paced slowly about the room, with
prodigious strides, and discoursed of souls with still greater animation
and vehemence than he had displayed in treating of gases--of a future
state--and especially of a former state--of pre-existence, obscured for a
time through the suspension of consciousness--of personal identity, and
also of ethical philosophy, in a deep and earnest tone of elevated
morality, until he suddenly remarked that the fire was nearly out, and the
candles were glimmering in their sockets, when he hastily apologised for
remaining so long. I promised to visit the chemist in his laboratory, the
alchemist in his study, the wizard in his cave, not at breakfast on that
day, for it was already one, but in twelve hours--one hour after noon--and
to hear some of the secrets of nature; and for that purpose he told me his
name, and described the situation of his rooms. I lighted him downstairs
as well as I could with the stump of a candle which had dissolved itself
into a lump, and I soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in
the still night. That sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear, that
I still seem to hear Shelley's hasty steps.