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diff --git a/1336-h/1336-h.htm b/1336-h/1336-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..aaa770d --- /dev/null +++ b/1336-h/1336-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,1293 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html + PUBLIC "-//W3C//DTD XHTML 1.0 Strict//EN" + "http://www.w3.org/TR/xhtml1/DTD/xhtml1-strict.dtd"> +<html> +<head> +<meta http-equiv="Content-Type" content="text/html; charset=US-ASCII" /> +<title>Shelley</title> +<style type="text/css"> +/*<![CDATA[ XML blockout */ +<!-- + P { margin-top: .75em; + margin-bottom: .75em; + } + H1, H2 { + text-align: center; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + } + H3, H4 { + text-align: left; + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + } + BODY{margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; + } + .blkquot {margin-left: 4em; margin-right: 4em;} /* block indent */ + // --> + /* XML end ]]>*/ + </style> +</head> +<body> +<h2> +<a href="#startoftext">Shelley, by Francis Thompson</a> +</h2> +<pre> +The Project Gutenberg eBook, Shelley, by Francis Thompson + + +This eBook is for the use of anyone anywhere at no cost and with +almost no restrictions whatsoever. You may copy it, give it away or +re-use it under the terms of the Project Gutenberg License included +with this eBook or online at www.gutenberg.org + + + + + +Title: Shelley + An Essay + + +Author: Francis Thompson + +Release Date: March 27, 2005 [eBook #1336] + +Language: English + +Character set encoding: ISO-646-US (US-ASCII) + + +***START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHELLEY*** +</pre> +<p><a name="startoftext"></a></p> +<p>Transcribed from the 1914 Burns & Oates edition by David Price, +email ccx074@coventry.ac.uk</p> +<h2>SHELLEY: AN ESSAY</h2> +<p>The Church, which was once the mother of poets no less than of saints, +during the last two centuries has relinquished to aliens the chief glories +of poetry, if the chief glories of holiness she has preserved for her +own. The palm and the laurel, Dominic and Dante, sanctity and +song, grew together in her soil: she has retained the palm, but forgone +the laurel. Poetry in its widest sense, <a name="citation1"></a><a href="#footnote1">{1}</a> +and when not professedly irreligious, has been too much and too long +among many Catholics either misprised or distrusted; too much and too +generally the feeling has been that it is at best superfluous, at worst +pernicious, most often dangerous. Once poetry was, as she should +be, the lesser sister and helpmate of the Church; the minister to the +mind, as the Church to the soul. But poetry sinned, poetry fell; +and, in place of lovingly reclaiming her, Catholicism cast her from +the door to follow the feet of her pagan seducer. The separation +has been ill for poetry; it has not been well for religion.</p> +<p>Fathers of the Church (we would say), pastors of the Church, pious +laics of the Church: you are taking from its walls the panoply of Aquinas—take +also from its walls the psaltery of Alighieri. Unroll the precedents +of the Church’s past; recall to your minds that Francis of Assisi +was among the precursors of Dante; that sworn to Poverty he forswore +not Beauty, but discerned through the lamp Beauty the Light God; that +he was even more a poet in his miracles than in his melody; that poetry +clung round the cowls of his Order. Follow his footsteps; you +who have blessings for men, have you no blessing for the birds? +Recall to your memory that, in their minor kind, the love poems of Dante +shed no less honour on Catholicism than did the great religious poem +which is itself pivoted on love; that in singing of heaven he sang of +Beatrice—this supporting angel was still carven on his harp even +when he stirred its strings in Paradise. What you theoretically +know, vividly realise: that with many the religion of beauty must always +be a passion and a power, that it is only evil when divorced from the +worship of the Primal Beauty. Poetry is the preacher to men of +the earthly as you of the Heavenly Fairness; of that earthly fairness +which God has fashioned to His own image and likeness. You proclaim +the day which the Lord has made, and Poetry exults and rejoices in it. +You praise the Creator for His works, and she shows you that they are +very good. Beware how you misprise this potent ally, for hers +is the art of Giotto and Dante: beware how you misprise this insidious +foe, for hers is the art of modern France and of Byron. Her value, +if you know it not, God knows, and know the enemies of God. If +you have no room for her beneath the wings of the Holy One, there is +place for her beneath the webs of the Evil One: whom you discard, he +embraces; whom you cast down from an honourable seat, he will advance +to a haughty throne; the brows you dislaurel of a just respect, he will +bind with baleful splendours; the stone which you builders reject, he +will make his head of the corner. May she not prophesy in the +temple? then there is ready for her the tripod of Delphi. Eye +her not askance if she seldom sing directly of religion: the bird gives +glory to God though it sings only of its innocent loves. Suspicion +creates its own cause; distrust begets reason for distrust. This +beautiful, wild, feline Poetry, wild because left to range the wilds, +restore to the hearth of your charity, shelter under the rafter of your +Faith; discipline her to the sweet restraints of your household, feed +her with the meat from your table, soften her with the amity of your +children; tame her, fondle her, cherish her—you will no longer +then need to flee her. Suffer her to wanton, suffer her to play, +so she play round the foot of the Cross!</p> +<p>There is a change of late years: the Wanderer is being called to +her Father’s house, but we would have the call yet louder, we +would have the proffered welcome more unstinted. There are still +stray remnants of the old intolerant distrust. It is still possible +for even a French historian of the Church to enumerate among the articles +cast upon Savonarola’s famous pile, <i>poésies érotiques, +tant des anciens que des modernes, livres impies ou corrupteurs, Ovide, +Tibulle, Properce, pour ne nommer que les plus connus, Dante, Pétrarque, +Boccace, tous ces auteurs Italiens qui déjà souillaient +les âmes et ruinaient les moeurs, en créant ou perfectionnant +la langue</i>. <a name="citation2"></a><a href="#footnote2">{2}</a> +Blameworthy carelessness at the least, which can class the <i>Vita Nuova</i> +with the <i>Ars Amandi</i> and the <i>Decameron</i>! And among +many English Catholics the spirit of poetry is still often received +with a restricted Puritanical greeting, rather than with the traditionally +Catholic joyous openness.</p> +<p>We ask, therefore, for a larger interest, not in purely Catholic +poetry, but in poetry generally, poetry in its widest sense. With +few exceptions, whatsoever in our best poets is great and good to the +non-Catholic, is great and good also to the Catholic; and though Faber +threw his edition of Shelley into the fire and never regretted the act; +though, moreover, Shelley is so little read among us that we can still +tolerate in our Churches the religious parody which Faber should have +thrown after his three-volumed Shelley; <a name="citation3"></a><a href="#footnote3">{3}</a>—in +spite of this, we are not disposed to number among such exceptions that +straying spirit of light.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>We have among us at the present day no lineal descendant, in the +poetical order, of Shelley; and any such offspring of the aboundingly +spontaneous Shelley is hardly possible, still less likely, on account +of the defect by which (we think) contemporary poetry in general, as +compared with the poetry of the early nineteenth century, is mildewed. +That defect is the predominance of art over inspiration, of body over +soul. We do not say the <i>defect</i> of inspiration. The +warrior is there, but he is hampered by his armour. Writers of +high aim in all branches of literature, even when they are not—as +Mr. Swinburne, for instance, is—lavish in expression, are generally +over-deliberate in expression. Mr. Henry James, delineating a +fictitious writer clearly intended to be the ideal of an artist, makes +him regret that he has sometimes allowed himself to take the second-best +word instead of searching for the best. Theoretically, of course, +one ought always to try for the best word. But practically, the +habit of excessive care in word-selection frequently results in loss +of spontaneity; and, still worse, the habit of always taking the best +word too easily becomes the habit of always taking the most ornate word, +the word most removed from ordinary speech. In consequence of +this, poetic diction has become latterly a kaleidoscope, and one’s +chief curiosity is as to the precise combinations into which the pieces +will be shifted. There is, in fact, a certain band of words, the +Prætorian cohorts of poetry, whose prescriptive aid is invoked +by every aspirant to the poetical purple, and without whose prescriptive +aid none dares aspire to the poetical purple; against these it is time +some banner should be raised. Perhaps it is almost impossible +for a contemporary writer quite to evade the services of the free-lances +whom one encounters under so many standards. <a name="citation4"></a><a href="#footnote4">{4}</a> +But it is at any rate curious to note that the literary revolution against +the despotic diction of Pope seems issuing, like political revolutions, +in a despotism of its own making.</p> +<p>This, then, we cannot but think, distinguishes the literary period +of Shelley from our own. It distinguishes even the unquestionable +treasures and masterpieces of to-day from similar treasures and masterpieces +of the precedent day; even <i>the Lotus-Eaters</i> from <i>Kubla-Khan</i>; +even Rossetti’s ballads from <i>Christabel</i>. It is present +in the restraint of Matthew Arnold no less than in the exuberance of +Swinburne, and affects our writers who aim at simplicity no less than +those who seek richness. Indeed, nothing is so artificial as our +simplicity. It is the simplicity of the French stage <i>ingénue</i>. +We are self-conscious to the finger-tips; and this inherent quality, +entailing on our poetry the inevitable loss of spontaneity, ensures +that whatever poets, of whatever excellence, may be born to us from +the Shelleian stock, its founder’s spirit can take among us no +reincarnation. An age that is ceasing to produce child-like children +cannot produce a Shelley. For both as poet and man he was essentially +a child.</p> +<p>Yet, just as in the effete French society before the Revolution the +Queen played at Arcadia, the King played at being a mechanic, everyone +played at simplicity and universal philanthropy, leaving for most durable +outcome of their philanthropy the guillotine, as the most durable outcome +of ours may be execution by electricity;—so in our own society +the talk of benevolence and the cult of childhood are the very fashion +of the hour. We, of this self-conscious, incredulous generation, +sentimentalise our children, analyse our children, think we are endowed +with a special capacity to sympathise and identify ourselves with children; +we play at being children. And the result is that we are not more +child-like, but our children are less child-like. It is so tiring +to stoop to the child, so much easier to lift the child up to you. +Know you what it is to be a child? It is to be something very +different from the man of to-day. It is to have a spirit yet streaming +from the waters of baptism; it is to believe in love, to believe in +loveliness, to believe in belief; it is to be so little that the elves +can reach to whisper in your ear; it is to turn pumpkins into coaches, +and mice into horses, lowness into loftiness, and nothing into everything, +for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul; it is to live +in a nutshell and to count yourself the king of infinite space; it is</p> +<blockquote><p>To see a world in a grain of sand,<br /> + And a heaven in a wild flower,<br /> +Hold infinity in the palm of your hand,<br /> + And eternity in an hour;</p> +</blockquote> +<p>it is to know not as yet that you are under sentence of life, nor +petition that it be commuted into death. When we become conscious +in dreaming that we dream, the dream is on the point of breaking; when +we become conscious in living that we live, the ill dream is but just +beginning. Now if Shelley was but too conscious of the dream, +in other respects Dryden’s false and famous line might have been +applied to him with very much less than it’s usual untruth. <a name="citation5"></a><a href="#footnote5">{5}</a> +To the last, in a degree uncommon even among poets, he retained the +idiosyncrasy of childhood, expanded and matured without differentiation. +To the last he was the enchanted child.</p> +<p>This was, as is well known, patent in his life. It is as really, +though perhaps less obviously, manifest in his poetry, the sincere effluence +of his life. And it may not, therefore, be amiss to consider whether +it was conditioned by anything beyond his congenital nature. For +our part, we believe it to have been equally largely the outcome of +his early and long isolation. Men given to retirement and abstract +study are notoriously liable to contract a certain degree of childlikeness: +and if this be the case when we segregate a man, how much more when +we segregate a child! It is when they are taken into the solution +of school-life that children, by the reciprocal interchange of influence +with their fellows, undergo the series of reactions which converts them +from children into boys and from boys into men. The intermediate +stage must be traversed to reach the final one.</p> +<p>Now Shelley never could have been a man, for he never was a boy. +And the reason lay in the persecution which overclouded his school-days. +Of that persecution’s effect upon him, he has left us, in <i>The +Revolt of Islam</i>, a picture which to many or most people very probably +seems a poetical exaggeration; partly because Shelley appears to have +escaped physical brutality, partly because adults are inclined to smile +tenderly at childish sorrows which are not caused by physical suffering. +That he escaped for the most part bodily violence is nothing to the +purpose. It is the petty malignant annoyance recurring hour by +hour, day by day, month by month, until its accumulation becomes an +agony; it is this which is the most terrible weapon that boys have against +their fellow boy, who is powerless to shun it because, unlike the man, +he has virtually no privacy. His is the torture which the ancients +used, when they anointed their victim with honey and exposed him naked +to the restless fever of the flies. He is a little St. Sebastian, +sinking under the incessant flight of shafts which skilfully avoid the +vital parts.</p> +<p>We do not, therefore, suspect Shelley of exaggeration: he was, no +doubt, in terrible misery. Those who think otherwise must forget +their own past. Most people, we suppose, <i>must</i> forget what +they were like when they were children: otherwise they would know that +the griefs of their childhood were passionate abandonment, <i>déchirants</i> +(to use a characteristically favourite phrase of modern French literature) +as the griefs of their maturity. Children’s griefs are little, +certainly; but so is the child, so is its endurance, so is its field +of vision, while its nervous impressionability is keener than ours. +Grief is a matter of relativity; the sorrow should be estimated by its +proportion to the sorrower; a gash is as painful to one as an amputation +to another. Pour a puddle into a thimble, or an Atlantic into +Etna; both thimble and mountain overflow. Adult fools, would not +the angels smile at our griefs, were not angels too wise to smile at +them?</p> +<p>So beset, the child fled into the tower of his own soul, and raised +the drawbridge. He threw out a reserve, encysted in which he grew +to maturity unaffected by the intercourses that modify the maturity +of others into the thing we call a man. The encysted child developed +until it reached years of virility, until those later Oxford days in +which Hogg encountered it; then, bursting at once from its cyst and +the university, it swam into a world not illegitimately perplexed by +such a whim of the gods. It was, of course, only the completeness +and duration of this seclusion—lasting from the gate of boyhood +to the threshold of youth—which was peculiar to Shelley. +Most poets, probably, like most saints, are prepared for their mission +by an initial segregation, as the seed is buried to germinate: before +they can utter the oracle of poetry, they must first be divided from +the body of men. It is the severed head that makes the seraph.</p> +<p>Shelley’s life frequently exhibits in him the magnified child. +It is seen in his fondness for apparently futile amusements, such as +the sailing of paper boats. This was, in the truest sense of the +word, child-like; not, as it is frequently called and considered, childish. +That is to say, it was not a mindless triviality, but the genuine child’s +power of investing little things with imaginative interest; the same +power, though differently devoted, which produced much of his poetry. +Very possibly in the paper boat he saw the magic bark of Laon and Cythna, +or</p> +<blockquote><p> That +thinnest boat<br /> +In which the mother of the months is borne<br /> +By ebbing night into her western cave.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In fact, if you mark how favourite an idea, under varying forms, +is this in his verse, you will perceive that all the charmed boats which +glide down the stream of his poetry are but glorified resurrections +of the little paper argosies which trembled down the Isis.</p> +<p>And the child appeared no less often in Shelley the philosopher than +in Shelley the idler. It is seen in his repellent no less than +in his amiable weaknesses; in the unteachable folly of a love that made +its goal its starting-point, and firmly expected spiritual rest from +each new divinity, though it had found none from the divinities antecedent. +For we are clear that this was no mere straying of sensual appetite, +but a straying, strange and deplorable, of the spirit; that (contrary +to what Mr. Coventry Patmore has said) he left a woman not because he +was tired of her arms, but because he was tired of her soul. When +he found Mary Shelley wanting, he seems to have fallen into the mistake +of Wordsworth, who complained in a charming piece of unreasonableness +that his wife’s love, which had been a fountain, was now only +a well:</p> +<blockquote><p>Such change, and at the very door<br /> +Of my fond heart, hath made me poor.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Wordsworth probably learned, what Shelley was incapable of learning, +that love can never permanently be a fountain. A living poet, +in an article <a name="citation6"></a><a href="#footnote6">{6}</a> which +you almost fear to breathe upon lest you should flutter some of the +frail pastel-like bloom, has said the thing: “Love itself has +tidal moments, lapses and flows due to the metrical rule of the interior +heart.” Elementary reason should proclaim this true. +Love is an affection, its display an emotion: love is the air, its display +is the wind. An affection may be constant; an emotion can no more +be constant than the wind can constantly blow. All, therefore, +that a man can reasonably ask of his wife is that her love should be +indeed a well. A well; but a Bethesda-well, into which from time +to time the angel of tenderness descends to trouble the waters for the +healing of the beloved. Such a love Shelley’s second wife +appears unquestionably to have given him. Nay, she was content +that he should veer while she remained true; she companioned him intellectually, +shared his views, entered into his aspirations, and yet—yet, even +at the date of <i>Epipsychidion</i> the foolish child, her husband, +assigned her the part of moon to Emilia Viviani’s sun, and lamented +that he was barred from final, certain, irreversible happiness by a +cold and callous society. Yet few poets were so mated before, +and no poet was so mated afterwards, until Browning stooped and picked +up a fair-coined soul that lay rusting in a pool of tears.</p> +<p>In truth, his very unhappiness and discontent with life, in so far +as it was not the inevitable penalty of the ethical anarch, can only +be ascribed to this same child-like irrationality—though in such +a form it is irrationality hardly peculiar to Shelley. Pity, if +you will, his spiritual ruins and the neglected early training which +was largely their cause; but the pity due to his outward circumstances +has been strangely exaggerated. The obloquy from which he suffered +he deliberately and wantonly courted. For the rest, his lot was +one that many a young poet might envy. He had faithful friends, +a faithful wife, an income small but assured. Poverty never dictated +to his pen; the designs on his bright imagination were never etched +by the sharp fumes of necessity.</p> +<p>If, as has chanced to others—as chanced, for example, to Mangan—outcast +from home, health and hope, with a charred past and a bleared future, +an anchorite without detachment and self-cloistered without self-sufficingness, +deposed from a world which he had not abdicated, pierced with thorns +which formed no crown, a poet hopeless of the bays and a martyr hopeless +of the palm, a land cursed against the dews of love, an exile banned +and proscribed even from the innocent arms of childhood—he were +burning helpless at the stake of his unquenchable heart, then he might +have been inconsolable, then might he have cast the gorge at life, then +have cowered in the darkening chamber of his being, tapestried with +mouldering hopes, and hearkened to the winds that swept across the illimitable +wastes of death. But no such hapless lot was Shelley’s as +that of his own contemporaries—Keats, half chewed in the jaws +of London and spit dying on to Italy; de Quincey, who, if he escaped, +escaped rent and maimed from those cruel jaws; Coleridge, whom they +dully mumbled for the major portion of his life. Shelley had competence, +poetry, love; yet he wailed that he could lie down like a tired child +and weep away his life of care. Is it ever so with you, sad brother; +is it ever so with me? and is there no drinking of pearls except they +be dissolved in biting tears? “Which of us has his desire, +or having it is satisfied?”</p> +<p>It is true that he shared the fate of nearly all the great poets +contemporary with him, in being unappreciated. Like them, he suffered +from critics who were for ever shearing the wild tresses of poetry between +rusty rules, who could never see a literary bough project beyond the +trim level of its day but they must lop it with a crooked criticism, +who kept indomitably planting in the defile of fame the “established +canons” that had been spiked by poet after poet. But we +decline to believe that a singer of Shelley’s calibre could be +seriously grieved by want of vogue. Not that we suppose him to +have found consolation in that senseless superstition, “the applause +of posterity.” Posterity! posterity which goes to Rome, +weeps large-sized tears, carves beautiful inscriptions over the tomb +of Keats; and the worm must wriggle her curtsey to it all, since the +dead boy, wherever he be, has quite other gear to tend. Never +a bone less dry for all the tears!</p> +<p>A poet must to some extent be a chameleon and feed on air. +But it need not be the musty breath of the multitude. He can find +his needful support in the judgement of those whose judgement he knows +valuable, and such support Shelley had:</p> +<blockquote><p> La gloire<br /> +Ne compte pas toujours les voix;<br /> +Elle les pèse quelquefois.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Yet if this might be needful to him as support, neither this, nor +the applause of the present, nor the applause of posterity, could have +been needful to him as motive: the one all-sufficing motive for a great +poet’s singing is that expressed by Keats:</p> +<blockquote><p>I was taught in Paradise<br /> +To ease my breast of melodies.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Precisely so. The overcharged breast can find no ease but in +suckling the baby-song. No enmity of outward circumstances, therefore, +but his own nature, was responsible for Shelley’s doom.</p> +<p>A being with so much about it of child-like unreasonableness, and +yet withal so much of the beautiful attraction luminous in a child’s +sweet unreasonableness, would seem fore-fated by its very essence to +the transience of the bubble and the rainbow, of all things filmy and +fair. Did some shadow of this destiny bear part in his sadness? +Certain it is that, by a curious chance, he himself in <i>Julian and +Maddalo</i> jestingly foretold the manner of his end. “O +ho! You talk as in years past,” said Maddalo (Byron) to +Julian (Shelley); “If you can’t swim, Beware of Providence.” +Did no unearthly <i>dixisti</i> sound in his ears as he wrote it? +But a brief while, and Shelley, who could not swim, was weltering on +the waters of Lerici. We know not how this may affect others, +but over us it is a coincidence which has long tyrannised with an absorbing +inveteracy of impression (strengthened rather than diminished by the +contrast between the levity of the utterance and its fatal fulfilment)—thus +to behold, heralding itself in warning mockery through the very lips +of its predestined victim, the Doom upon whose breath his locks were +lifting along the coasts of Campania. The death which he had prophesied +came upon him, and Spezzia enrolled another name among the mournful +Marcelli of our tongue; Venetian glasses which foamed and burst before +the poisoned wine of life had risen to their brims.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Coming to Shelley’s poetry, we peep over the wild mask of revolutionary +metaphysics, and we see the winsome face of the child. Perhaps +none of his poems is more purely and typically Shelleian than <i>The +Cloud</i>, and it is interesting to note how essentially it springs +from the faculty of make-believe. The same thing is conspicuous, +though less purely conspicuous, throughout his singing; it is the child’s +faculty of make-believe raised to the nth power. He is still at +play, save only that his play is such as manhood stops to watch, and +his playthings are those which the gods give their children. The +universe is his box of toys. He dabbles his fingers in the day-fall. +He is gold-dusty with tumbling amidst the stars. He makes bright +mischief with the moon. The meteors nuzzle their noses in his +hand. He teases into growling the kennelled thunder, and laughs +at the shaking of its fiery chain. He dances in and out of the +gates of heaven: its floor is littered with his broken fancies. +He runs wild over the fields of ether. He chases the rolling world. +He gets between the feet of the horses of the sun. He stands in +the lap of patient Nature and twines her loosened tresses after a hundred +wilful fashions, to see how she will look nicest in his song.</p> +<p>This it was which, in spite of his essentially modern character as +a singer, qualified Shelley to be the poet of <i>Prometheus Unbound</i>, +for it made him, in the truest sense of the word, a mythological poet. +This child-like quality assimilated him to the child-like peoples among +whom mythologies have their rise. Those Nature myths which, according +to many, are the basis of all mythology, are likewise the very basis +of Shelley’s poetry. The lark that is the gossip of heaven, +the winds that pluck the grey from the beards of the billows, the clouds +that are snorted from the sea’s broad nostril, all the elemental +spirits of Nature, take from his verse perpetual incarnation and reincarnation, +pass in a thousand glorious transmigrations through the radiant forms +of his imagery.</p> +<p>Thus, but not in the Wordsworthian sense, he is a veritable poet +of Nature. For with Nature the Wordsworthians will admit no tampering: +they exact the direct interpretative reproduction of her; that the poet +should follow her as a mistress, not use her as a handmaid. To +such following of Nature, Shelley felt no call. He saw in her +not a picture set for his copying, but a palette set for his brush; +not a habitation prepared for his inhabiting, but a Coliseum whence +he might quarry stones for his own palaces. Even in his descriptive +passages the dream-character of his scenery is notorious; it is not +the clear, recognisable scenery of Wordsworth, but a landscape that +hovers athwart the heat and haze arising from his crackling fantasies. +The materials for such visionary Edens have evidently been accumulated +from direct experience, but they are recomposed by him into such scenes +as never had mortal eye beheld. “Don’t you wish you +had?” as Turner said. The one justification for classing +Shelley with the Lake poet is that he loved Nature with a love even +more passionate, though perhaps less profound. Wordsworth’s +<i>Nightingale and Stockdove</i> sums up the contrast between the two, +as though it had been written for such a purpose. Shelley is the +“creature of ebullient heart,” who</p> +<blockquote><p>Sings as if the god of wine<br /> +Had helped him to a valentine.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Wordsworth’s is the</p> +<blockquote><p>—Love with quiet blending,<br /> +Slow to begin and never ending,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>the “serious faith and inward glee.”</p> +<p>But if Shelley, instead of culling Nature, crossed with its pollen +the blossoms of his own soul, that Babylonian garden is his marvellous +and best apology. For astounding figurative opulence he yields +only to Shakespeare, and even to Shakespeare not in absolute fecundity +but in images. The sources of his figurative wealth are specialised, +sources of Shakespeare’s are universal. It would have been +as conscious an effort for him to speak without figure as it is for +most men to speak with figure. Suspended in the dripping well +of his imagination the commonest object becomes encrusted with imagery. +Herein again he deviates from the true Nature poet, the normal Wordsworth +type of Nature poet: imagery was to him not a mere means of expression, +not even a mere means of adornment; it was a delight for its own sake.</p> +<p>And herein we find the trail by which we would classify him. +He belongs to a school of which not impossibly he may hardly have read +a line—the Metaphysical School. To a large extent he <i>is</i> +what the Metaphysical School should have been. That school was +a certain kind of poetry trying for a range. Shelley is the range +found. Crashaw and Shelley sprang from the same seed; but in the +one case the seed was choked with thorns, in the other case it fell +on good ground. The Metaphysical School was in its direct results +an abortive movement, though indirectly much came of it—for Dryden +came of it. Dryden, to a greater extent than is (we imagine) generally +perceived, was Cowley systematised; and Cowley, who sank into the arms +of Dryden, rose from the lap of Donne.</p> +<p>But the movement was so abortive that few will thank us for connecting +with it the name of Shelley. This is because to most people the +Metaphysical School means Donne, whereas it ought to mean Crashaw. +We judge the direction of a development by its highest form, though +that form may have been produced but once, and produced imperfectly. +Now the highest product of the Metaphysical School was Crashaw, and +Crashaw was a Shelley <i>manqué</i>; he never reached the Promised +Land, but he had fervid visions of it. The Metaphysical School, +like Shelley, loved imagery for its own sake: and how beautiful a thing +the frank toying with imagery may be, let <i>The Skylark</i> and <i>The +Cloud</i> witness. It is only evil when the poet, on the straight +way to a fixed object, lags continually from the path to play. +This is commendable neither in poet nor errand-boy. The Metaphysical +School failed, not because it toyed with imagery, but because it toyed +with it frostily. To sport with the tangles of Neæra’s +hair may be trivial idleness or caressing tenderness, exactly as your +relation to Neæra is that of heartless gallantry or of love. +So you may toy with imagery in mere intellectual ingenuity, and then +you might as well go write acrostics: or you may toy with it in raptures, +and then you may write a <i>Sensitive Plant</i>. In fact, the +Metaphysical poets when they went astray cannot be said to have done +anything so dainty as is implied by <i>toying</i> with imagery. +They cut it into shapes with a pair of scissors. From all such +danger Shelley was saved by his passionate spontaneity. No trappings +are too splendid for the swift steeds of sunrise. His sword-hilt +may be rough with jewels, but it is the hilt of an Excalibur. +His thoughts scorch through all the folds of expression. His cloth +of gold bursts at the flexures, and shows the naked poetry.</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>It is this gift of not merely embodying but apprehending everything +in figure which co-operates towards creating his rarest characteristics, +so almost preternaturally developed in no other poet, namely, his well-known +power to condense the most hydrogenic abstraction. Science can +now educe threads of such exquisite tenuity that only the feet of the +tiniest infant-spiders can ascend them; but up the filmiest insubstantiality +Shelley runs with agile ease. To him, in truth, nothing is abstract. +The dustiest abstractions</p> +<blockquote><p>Start, and tremble under his feet,<br /> +And blossom in purple and red.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The coldest moon of an idea rises haloed through his vaporous imagination. +The dimmest-sparked chip of a conception blazes and scintillates in +the subtile oxygen of his mind. The most wrinkled Æson of +an abstruseness leaps rosy out of his bubbling genius. In a more +intensified signification than it is probable that Shakespeare dreamed +of, Shelley gives to airy nothing a local habitation and a name. +Here afresh he touches the Metaphysical School, whose very title was +drawn from this habitual pursuit of abstractions, and who failed in +that pursuit from the one cause omnipresent with them, because in all +their poetic smithy they had left never a place for a forge. They +laid their fancies chill on the anvil. Crashaw, indeed, partially +anticipated Shelley’s success, and yet further did a later poet, +so much further that we find it difficult to understand why a generation +that worships Shelley should be reviving Gray, yet almost forget the +name of Collins. The generality of readers, when they know him +at all, usually know him by his <i>Ode on the Passions</i>. In +this, despite its beauty, there is still a <i>soupçon</i> of +formalism, a lingering trace of powder from the eighteenth century periwig, +dimming the bright locks of poetry. Only the literary student +reads that little masterpiece, the <i>Ode to Evening</i>, which sometimes +heralds the Shelleian strain, while other passages are the sole things +in the language comparable to the miniatures of <i>Il Penseroso</i>. +Crashaw, Collins, Shelley—three ricochets of the one pebble, three +jets from three bounds of the one Pegasus! Collins’s Pity, +“with eyes of dewy light,” is near of kin to Shelley’s +Sleep, “the filmy-eyed”; and the “shadowy tribes of +mind” are the lineal progenitors of “Thought’s crowned +powers.” This, however, is personification, wherein both +Collins and Shelley build on Spenser: the dizzying achievement to which +the modern poet carried personification accounts for but a moiety, if +a large moiety, of his vivifying power over abstractions. Take +the passage (already alluded to) in that glorious chorus telling how +the Hours come</p> +<blockquote><p> From the temples high<br /> + Of man’s ear and eye<br /> +Roofed over Sculpture and Poesy,</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p> From those skiey towers<br /> + Where Thought’s crowned powers<br /> +Sit watching your dance, ye happy Hours!<br /> + Our feet now, every palm,<br /> + Are sandalled with calm,<br /> +And the dew of our wings is a rain of balm;<br /> + And beyond our eyes<br /> + The human love lies<br /> +Which makes all it gazes on Paradise.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>Any partial explanation will break in our hands before it reaches +the root of such a power. The root, we take it, is this. +He had an instinctive perception (immense in range and fertility, astonishing +for its delicate intuition) of the underlying analogies the secret subterranean +passages, between matter and soul; the chromatic scales, whereat we +dimly guess, by which the Almighty modulates through all the keys of +creation. Because, the more we consider it, the more likely does +it appear that Nature is but an imperfect actress, whose constant changes +of dress never change her manner and method, who is the same in all +her parts.</p> +<p>To Shelley’s ethereal vision the most rarified mental or spiritual +music traced its beautiful corresponding forms on the sand of outward +things. He stood thus at the very junction-lines of the visible +and invisible, and could shift the points as he willed. His thoughts +became a mounted infantry, passing with baffling swiftness from horse +to foot or foot to horse. He could express as he listed the material +and the immaterial in terms of each other. Never has a poet in +the past rivalled him as regards this gift, and hardly will any poet +rival him as regards it in the future: men are like first to see the +promised doom lay its hand on the tree of heaven and shake down the +golden leaves. <a name="citation7"></a><a href="#footnote7">{7}</a></p> +<p>The finest specimens of this faculty are probably to be sought in +that Shelleian treasury, <i>Prometheus Unbound</i>. It is unquestionably +the greatest and most prodigal exhibition of Shelley’s powers, +this amazing lyric world, where immortal clarities sigh past in the +perfumes of the blossoms, populate the breathings of the breeze, throng +and twinkle in the leaves that twirl upon the bough; where the very +grass is all a-rustle with lovely spirit-things, and a weeping mist +of music fills the air. The final scenes especially are such a +Bacchic reel and rout and revelry of beauty as leaves one staggered +and giddy; poetry is spilt like wine, music runs to drunken waste. +The choruses sweep down the wind, tirelessly, flight after flight, till +the breathless soul almost cries for respite from the unrolling splendours. +Yet these scenes, so wonderful from a purely poetical standpoint that +no one could wish them away, are (to our humble thinking) nevertheless +the artistic error of the poem. Abstractedly, the development +of Shelley’s idea required that he should show the earthly paradise +which was to follow the fall of Zeus. But dramatically with that +fall the action ceases, and the drama should have ceased with it. +A final chorus, or choral series, of rejoicings (such as does ultimately +end the drama where Prometheus appears on the scene) would have been +legitimate enough. Instead, however, the bewildered reader finds +the drama unfolding itself through scene after scene which leaves the +action precisely where it found it, because there is no longer an action +to advance. It is as if the choral <i>finale</i> of an opera were +prolonged through two acts.</p> +<p>We have, nevertheless, called <i>Prometheus</i> Shelley’s greatest +poem because it is the most comprehensive storehouse of his power. +Were we asked to name the most <i>perfect</i> among his longer efforts, +we should name the poem in which he lamented Keats: under the shed petals +of his lovely fancy giving the slain bird a silken burial. Seldom +is the death of a poet mourned in true poetry. Not often is the +singer coffined in laurel-wood. Among the very few exceptions +to such a rule, the greatest is <i>Adonais</i>. In the English +language only <i>Lycidas</i> competes with it; and when we prefer <i>Adonais</i> +to <i>Lycidas</i>, we are following the precedent set in the case of +Cicero: <i>Adonais</i> is the longer. As regards command over +abstraction, it is no less characteristically Shelleian than <i>Prometheus</i>. +It is throughout a series of abstractions vitalised with daring exquisiteness, +from Morning who sought:</p> +<blockquote><p>Her eastern watch-tower, and her hair unbound,<br /> +Wet with the tears which should adorn the ground,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>and who</p> +<blockquote><p>Dimmed the aerial eyes that kindle day,</p> +</blockquote> +<p>to the Dreams that were the flock of the dead shepherd, the Dreams</p> +<blockquote><p>Whom near the living streams<br /> +Of his young spirit he fed; and whom he taught<br /> +The love that was its music;</p> +</blockquote> +<p>of whom one sees, as she hangs mourning over him,</p> +<blockquote><p>Upon the silken fringe of his faint eyes,<br /> +Like dew upon a sleeping flower, there lies<br /> +A tear some dream has loosened from his brain!<br /> +Lost angel of a ruined Paradise!<br /> +She knew not ’twas her own; as with no stain<br /> +She faded like a cloud which hath outwept its rain.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>In the solar spectrum, beyond the extreme red and extreme violet +rays, are whole series of colours, demonstrable, but imperceptible to +gross human vision. Such writing as this we have quoted renders +visible the invisibilities of imaginative colour.</p> +<p>One thing prevents <i>Adonais</i> from being ideally perfect: its +lack of Christian hope. Yet we remember well the writer of a popular +memoir on Keats proposing as “the best consolation for the mind +pained by this sad record” Shelley’s inexpressibly sad exposition +of Pantheistic immortality:</p> +<blockquote><p>He is a portion of the loveliness<br /> +Which once he made more lovely, <i>etc</i>.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>What desolation can it be that discerns comfort in this hope, whose +wan countenance is as the countenance of a despair? What deepest +depth of agony is it that finds consolation in this immortality: an +immortality which thrusts you into death, the maw of Nature, that your +dissolved elements may circulate through her veins?</p> +<p>Yet such, the poet tells me, is my sole balm for the hurts of life. +I am as the vocal breath floating from an organ. I too shall fade +on the winds, a cadence soon forgotten. So I dissolve and die, +and am lost in the ears of men: the particles of my being twine in newer +melodies, and from my one death arise a hundred lives. Why, through +the thin partition of this consolation Pantheism can hear the groans +of its neighbour, Pessimism. Better almost the black resignation +which the fatalist draws from his own hopelessness, from the fierce +kisses of misery that hiss against his tears.</p> +<p>With some gleams, it is true, of more than mock solace, <i>Adonais</i> +is lighted; but they are obtained by implicitly assuming the personal +immortality which the poem explicitly denies; as when, for instance, +to greet the dead youth,</p> +<blockquote><p>The inheritors of unfulfilled renown<br /> +Rose from their thrones, built beyond mortal thought<br /> +Far in the unapparent.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>And again the final stanza of the poem:</p> +<blockquote><p>The breath whose might I have invoked in song<br /> +Descends on me; my spirit’s bark is driven<br /> +Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng<br /> +Whose sails were never to the tempest riven;<br /> +The massy earth, the spherèd skies are given:<br /> +I am borne darkly, fearfully afar;<br /> +Whilst, burning through the inmost veil of heaven,<br /> +The soul of Adonais like a star<br /> +Beacons from the abode where the eternal are.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>The Soul of Adonais?—Adonais, who is but</p> +<blockquote><p> A portion of the +loveliness<br /> +Which once he made more lovely.</p> +</blockquote> +<p>After all, to finish where we began, perhaps the poems on which the +lover of Shelley leans most lovingly, which he has oftenest in his mind, +which best represent Shelley to him and which he instinctively reverts +to when Shelley’s name is mentioned are some of the shorter poems +and detached lyrics. Here Shelley forgets for a while all that +ever makes his verse turbid; forgets that he is anything but a poet, +forgets sometimes that he is anything but a child; lies back in his +skiff, and looks at the clouds. He plays truant from earth, slips +through the wicket of fancy into heaven’s meadow, and goes gathering +stars. Here we have that absolute virgin-gold of song which is +the scarcest among human products, and for which we can go to but three +poets—Coleridge, Shelley, Chopin, <a name="citation8"></a><a href="#footnote8">{8}</a> +and perhaps we should add Keats. <i>Christabel</i> and <i>Kubla-Khan</i>; +<i>The Skylark</i>, <i>The Cloud</i>, and <i>The Sensitive Plant</i> +(in its first two parts). <i>The Eve of Saint Agnes</i> and <i>The +Nightingale</i>; certain of the Nocturnes;—these things make very +quintessentialised loveliness. It is attar of poetry.</p> +<p>Remark, as a thing worth remarking, that, although Shelley’s +diction is at other times singularly rich, it ceases in these poems +to be rich, or to obtrude itself at all; it is imperceptible; his Muse +has become a veritable Echo, whose body has dissolved from about her +voice. Indeed, when his diction is richest, nevertheless the poetry +so dominates the expression that we feel the latter only as an atmosphere +until we are satiated with the former; then we discover with surprise +to how imperial a vesture we had been blinded by gazing on the face +of his song. A lesson, this, deserving to be conned by a generation +so opposite in tendency as our own: a lesson that in poetry, as in the +Kingdom of God, we should not take thought too greatly wherewith we +shall be clothed, but seek first <a name="citation9"></a><a href="#footnote9">{9}</a> +the spirit, and all these things will be added unto us.</p> +<p>On the marvellous music of Shelley’s verse we need not dwell, +except to note that he avoids that metronomic beat of rhythm which Edgar +Poe introduced into modern lyric measures, as Pope introduced it into +the rhyming heroics of his day. Our varied metres are becoming +as painfully over-polished as Pope’s one metre. Shelley +could at need sacrifice smoothness to fitness. He could write +an anapæst that would send Mr. Swinburne into strong shudders +(e.g., “stream did glide”) when he instinctively felt that +by so forgoing the more obvious music of melody he would better secure +the higher music of harmony. If we have to add that in other ways +he was far from escaping the defects of his merits, and would sometimes +have to acknowledge that his Nilotic flood too often overflowed its +banks, what is this but saying that he died young?</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>It may be thought that in our casual comments on Shelley’s +life we have been blind to its evil side. That, however, is not +the case. We see clearly that he committed grave sins, and one +cruel crime; but we remember also that he was an Atheist from his boyhood; +we reflect how gross must have been the moral neglect in the training +of a child who <i>could</i> be an Atheist from his boyhood: and we decline +to judge so unhappy a being by the rules which we should apply to a +Catholic. It seems to us that Shelley was struggling—blindly, +weakly, stumblingly, but still struggling—towards higher things. +His Pantheism is an indication of it. Pantheism is a half-way +house, and marks ascent or descent according to the direction from which +it is approached. Now Shelley came to it from absolute Atheism; +therefore in his case it meant rise. Again, his poetry alone would +lead us to the same conclusion, for we do not believe that a truly corrupted +spirit can write consistently ethereal poetry. We should believe +in nothing, if we believed that, for it would be the consecration of +a lie. Poetry is a thermometer: by taking its average height you +can estimate the normal temperature of its writer’s mind. +The devil can do many things. But the devil cannot write poetry. +He may mar a poet, but he cannot make a poet. Among all the temptations +wherewith he tempted St. Anthony, though we have often seen it stated +that he howled, we have never seen it stated that he sang.</p> +<p>Shelley’s anarchic principles were as a rule held by him with +some misdirected view to truth. He disbelieved in kings. +And is it not a mere fact—regret it if you will—that in +all European countries, except two, monarchs are a mere survival, the +obsolete buttons on the coat-tails of rule, which serve no purpose but +to be continually coming off? It is a miserable thing to note +how every little Balkan State, having obtained liberty (save the mark!) +by Act of Congress, straightway proceeds to secure the service of a +professional king. These gentlemen are plentiful in Europe. +They are the “noble Chairmen” who lend their names for a +consideration to any enterprising company which may be speculating in +Liberty. When we see these things, we revert to the old lines +in which Persius tells how you cannot turn Dama into a freeman by twirling +him round your finger and calling him Marcus Dama.</p> +<p>Again, Shelley desired a religion of humanity, and that meant, to +him, a religion for humanity, a religion which, unlike the spectral +Christianity about him, should permeate and regulate the whole organisation +of men. And the feeling is one with which a Catholic must sympathise, +in an age when—if we may say so without irreverence—the +Almighty has been made a constitutional Deity, with certain state-grants +of worship, but no influence over political affairs. In these +matters his aims were generous, if his methods were perniciously mistaken. +In his theory of Free Love alone, borrowed like the rest from the Revolution, +his aim was as mischievous as his method. At the same time he +was at least logical. His theory was repulsive, but comprehensible. +Whereas from our present <i>via media</i>—facilitation of divorce—can +only result the era when the young lady in reduced circumstances will +no longer turn governess but will be open to engagement as wife at a +reasonable stipend.</p> +<p>We spoke of the purity of Shelley’s poetry. We know of +but three passages to which exception can be taken. One is happily +hidden under a heap of Shelleian rubbish. Another is offensive, +because it presents his theory of Free Love in its most odious form. +The third is very much a matter, we think, for the individual conscience. +Compare with this the genuinely corrupt Byron, through the cracks and +fissures of whose heaving versification steam up perpetually the sulphurous +vapours from his central iniquity. We cannot credit that any Christian +ever had his faith shaken through reading Shelley, unless his faith +were shaken before he read Shelley. Is any safely havened bark +likely to slip its cable, and make for a flag planted on the very reef +where the planter himself was wrecked?</p> +<p>* * * * *</p> +<p>Why indeed (one is tempted to ask in concluding) should it be that +the poets who have written for us the poetry richest in skiey grain, +most free from admixture with the duller things of earth—the Shelleys, +the Coleridges, the Keats—are the very poets whose lives are among +the saddest records in literature? Is it that (by some subtile +mystery of analogy) sorrow, passion, and fantasy are indissolubly connected, +like water, fire, and cloud; that as from sun and dew are born the vapours, +so from fire and tears ascend the “visions of aërial joy”; +that the harvest waves richest over the battlefields of the soul; that +the heart, like the earth, smells sweetest after rain; that the spell +on which depend such necromantic castles is some spirit of pain charm-poisoned +at their base? <a name="citation10"></a><a href="#footnote10">{10}</a> +Such a poet, it may be, mists with sighs the window of his life until +the tears run down it; then some air of searching poetry, like an air +of searching frost, turns it to a crystal wonder. The god of golden +song is the god, too, of the golden sun; so peradventure song-light +is like sunlight, and darkens the countenance of the soul. Perhaps +the rays are to the stars what thorns are to the flowers; and so the +poet, after wandering over heaven, returns with bleeding feet. +Less tragic in its merely temporal aspect than the life of Keats or +Coleridge, the life of Shelley in its moral aspect is, perhaps, more +tragical than that of either; his dying seems a myth, a figure of his +living; the material shipwreck a figure of the immaterial.</p> +<p>Enchanted child, born into a world unchildlike; spoiled darling of +Nature, playmate of her elemental daughters; “pard-like spirit, +beautiful and swift,” laired amidst the burning fastnesses of +his own fervid mind; bold foot along the verges of precipitous dream; +light leaper from crag to crag of inaccessible fancies; towering Genius, +whose soul rose like a ladder between heaven and earth with the angels +of song ascending and descending it;—he is shrunken into the little +vessel of death, and sealed with the unshatterable seal of doom, and +cast down deep below the rolling tides of Time. Mighty meat for +little guests, when the heart of Shelley was laid in the cemetery of +Caius Cestius! Beauty, music, sweetness, tears—the mouth +of the worm has fed of them all. Into that sacred bridal-gloom +of death where he holds his nuptials with eternity let not our rash +speculations follow him. Let us hope rather that as, amidst material +nature, where our dull eyes see only ruin, the finer eye of science +has discovered life in putridity and vigour in decay,—seeing dissolution +even and disintegration, which in the mouth of man symbolise disorder, +to be in the works of God undeviating order, and the manner of our corruption +to be no less wonderful than the manner of our health,—so, amidst +the supernatural universe, some tender undreamed surprise of life in +doom awaited that wild nature, which, worn by warfare with itself, its +Maker, and all the world, now</p> +<blockquote><p>Sleeps, and never palates more the dug,<br /> +The beggar’s nurse, and Cæsar’s.</p> +</blockquote> +<h2>FOOTNOTES</h2> +<p><a name="footnote1"></a><a href="#citation1">{1}</a> That is +to say, taken as the general animating spirit of the Fine Arts.</p> +<p><a name="footnote2"></a><a href="#citation2">{2}</a> The Abbé +Bareille was not, of course, responsible for Savonarola’s taste, +only for thus endorsing it.</p> +<p><a name="footnote3"></a><a href="#citation3">{3}</a> We mean, +of course, the hymn, “I rise from dreams of time.”</p> +<p><a name="footnote4"></a><a href="#citation4">{4}</a> We are +a little surprised at the fact, because so many Victorian poets are, +or have been, prose-writers as well. Now, according to our theory, +the practice of prose should maintain fresh and comprehensive a poet’s +diction, should save him from falling into the hands of an exclusive +coterie of poetic words. It should react upon his metrical vocabulary +to its beneficial expansion, by taking him outside his aristocratic +circle of language, and keeping him in touch with the great commonalty, +the proletariat of speech. For it is with words as with men: constant +intermarriage within the limits of a patrician clan begets effete refinement; +and to reinvigorate the stock, its veins must be replenished from hardy +plebeian blood.</p> +<p><a name="footnote5"></a><a href="#citation5">{5}</a> Wordsworth’s +adaptation of it, however, is true. Men are not “children +of a larger growth,” but the child <i>is</i> father of the man, +since the parent is only partially reproduced in his offspring.</p> +<p><a name="footnote6"></a><a href="#citation6">{6}</a> <i>The +Rhythm of Life</i>, by Alice Meynell.</p> +<p><a name="footnote7"></a><a href="#citation7">{7}</a> “And +the stars of heaven fell unto the earth, even as a fig-tree casteth +her untimely figs, when she is shaken of a mighty wind” (Rev. +vi, 13).</p> +<p><a name="footnote8"></a><a href="#citation8">{8}</a> Such analogies +between master in sister-arts are often interesting. In some respects, +is not Brahms the Browning of music?</p> +<p><a name="footnote9"></a><a href="#citation9">{9}</a> Seek <i>first</i>, +not seek <i>only</i>.</p> +<p><a name="footnote10"></a><a href="#citation10">{10}</a> We +hope that we need not refer the reader, for the methods of magic architecture, +to Ariosto and that Atlas among enchanters, Beckford.</p> +<p>***END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK SHELLEY***</p> +<pre> + + +***** This file should be named 1336-h.htm or 1336-h.zip****** + + +This and all associated files of various formats will be found in: +https://www.gutenberg.org/dirs/1/3/3/1336 + + + +Updated editions will replace the previous one--the old editions +will be renamed. + +Creating the works from public domain print editions means that no +one owns a United States copyright in these works, so the Foundation +(and you!) can copy and distribute it in the United States without +permission and without paying copyright royalties. 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