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If you are not located in the United States, you -will have to check the laws of the country where you are located before -using this eBook. - -Title: The Prose Works of Percy Bysshe Shelley [Vol. II of II] - -Author: Percy Bysshe Shelley - -Editor: Richard Herne Shepherd - -Release Date: April 27, 2022 [eBook #67926] - -Language: English - -Produced by: Tim Lindell, SF2001, and the Online Distributed - Proofreading Team at https://www.pgdp.net (This book was - produced from images made available by the HathiTrust - Digital Library.) - -*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WORKS OF PERCY -BYSSHE SHELLEY [VOL. II OF II] *** - - - - - - SHELLEY’S PROSE WORKS - VOL. II. - - - - - _In Five Volumes, crown 8vo, cloth boards_, 3s. 6d. _each_. - - THE COMPLETE WORKS IN VERSE AND PROSE OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - Edited, Prefaced, and Annotated by - RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD. - - =Poetical Works=, in Three Volumes. - - Vol. I. Introduction by the Editor; Posthumous Fragments - of Margaret Nicholson; Shelley’s Correspondence with - Stockdale; The Wandering Jew (the only complete version); - Queen Mab, with the Notes; Alastor, and other Poems; - Rosalind and Helen; Prometheus Unbound; Adonais, &c. - - Vol. II. Laon and Cythna (as originally published, - instead of the emasculated “Revolt of Islam”); The Cenci; - Julian and Maddalo (from Shelley’s manuscript); Swellfoot - the Tyrant (from the copy in the Dyce Library at South - Kensington); The Witch of Atlas; Epipsychidion; Hellas. - - Vol. III. Posthumous Poems, published by Mrs. Shelley - in 1824 and 1839; The Masque of Anarchy (from Shelley’s - manuscript); and other pieces not brought together in the - ordinary editions. - - - =Prose Works=, in Two Volumes. - - Vol. I. The two Romances of Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne; the - Dublin and Marlow Pamphlets; A Refutation of Deism; Letters - to Leigh Hunt, and some Minor Writings and Fragments. - - Vol. II. Essays: Letters from Abroad; Translations and - Fragments, edited by Mrs. Shelley, and first published - in 1840, with the addition of some Minor Pieces of great - interest and rarity, including one recently discovered by - Professor Dowden. With a Bibliography of Shelley, and an - exhaustive Index of the Prose Works. - - -CHATTO & WINDUS, 111 St. Martin’s Lane W.C. - - - - - THE PROSE WORKS - OF - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY - _FROM THE ORIGINAL EDITIONS_ - - - EDITED, PREFACED, AND ANNOTATED - BY - RICHARD HERNE SHEPHERD - - - _IN TWO VOLUMES_ - VOL. II - - - LONDON - CHATTO & WINDUS - 1897 - - - - - _Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co - _At the Ballantyne Press_ - - - - -[Decoration] - -CONTENTS. - - - PAGE - A DEFENCE OF POETRY 1 - ESSAY ON THE LITERATURE, THE ARTS, - AND THE MANNERS OF THE ATHENIANS 39 - ON THE SYMPOSIUM 48 - THE BANQUET 51 - ION; OR, OF THE ILIAD 114 - MENEXENUS; OR, THE FUNERAL ORATION 132 - FRAGMENTS FROM THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO 136 - ON A PASSAGE IN CRITO 145 - THE ASSASSINS 147 - ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH 167 - ON LIFE 174 - ON A FUTURE STATE 180 - SPECULATIONS ON METAPHYSICS:-- - _The Mind_ 186 - _What Metaphysics are. - Errors in the usual Methods of Considering them_ 189 - _Difficulty of Analysing the Human Mind_ 190 - _How the Analysis should be carried on_ 191 - _Catalogue of the Phenomena of Dreams, - as connecting Sleeping and Waking_ 191 - FRAGMENTS:-- - _Speculations on Morals_:-- - _Plan of a Treatise on Morals_ 194 - _On the Nature of Virtue_ 196 - _Benevolence_ 197 - _Justice_ 201 - _Moral Science consists in considering the Difference, - not the Resemblance, of Persons_ 204 - GHOST STORIES 208 - _Fragment from Journal_ 215 - LETTERS FROM ITALY:-- - _To Thomas Love Peacock_ 221 - _To the Same_ 223 - _To the Same_ 227 - _To the Same_ 228 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 229 - _To William Godwin_ 231 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 233 - _To the Same_ 236 - _To the Same_ 239 - _To Thomas Love Peacock_ 241 - _To the Same_ 244 - _To the Same_ 249 - _To the Same_ 255 - _To the Same_ 259 - _To the Same_ 268 - _To the Same_ 277 - _To the Same_ 286 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 290 - _To Thomas Love Peacock_ 291 - _To Leigh Hunt_ 294 - _To Mrs. Gisborne_ 296 - _To Henry Reveley_ 299 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 301 - _To the Same_ 302 - _To Mrs. Gisborne_ 305 - _To Mr. John Gisborne_ 307 - _To Henry Reveley_ 309 - _To the Same_ 311 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 312 - _To Mr. John Gisborne_ 313 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 314 - _To the Same_ 314 - _To the Same_ 315 - _To the Same_ 317 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 319 - _To the Same_ 321 - _To the Editor of the “Quarterly Review”_ 322 - _To Mr. John Gisborne_ 324 - _To Henry Reveley_ 325 - _To the Same_ 326 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 326 - _To Mr. John Gisborne_ 327 - _To Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne_ 329 - _To the Same_ 329 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 330 - _To the Same_ 331 - _To the Same_ 332 - _To the Same_ 334 - _To the Same_ 341 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 342 - _To the Same_ 342 - _To Horatio Smith_ 347 - _To Mr. John Gisborne_ 350 - _To the Same_ 352 - _To ----_ 356 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 358 - _To Horatio Smith_ 359 - _To ----_ 361 - _To Mrs. Williams_ 363 - _To Mrs. Shelley_ 363 - MISCELLANEOUS ESSAYS AND LETTERS:-- - _A Letter to Lord Ellenborough_ 369 - _Prince Alexy Haimatoff_ 387 - THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SHELLEY 397 - INDEX TO THE PROSE WORKS 405 - - - - -[Decoration] - -A DEFENCE OF POETRY. - - -According to one mode of regarding those two classes of mental action, -which are called reason and imagination, the former may be considered -as mind contemplating the relations borne by one thought to another, -however produced; and the latter, as mind acting upon those thoughts -so as to colour them with its own light, and composing from them, -as from elements, other thoughts, each containing within itself the -principle of its own integrity. The one is the τὸ ποιειν, or the -principle of synthesis, and has for its object those forms which are -common to universal nature and existence itself; the other is the -τὸ λογιζειν, or principle of analysis, and its action regards the -relations of things simply as relations; considering thoughts, not in -their integral unity, but as the algebraical representations which -conduct to certain general results. Reason is the enumeration of -quantities already known; imagination is the perception of the value of -those quantities, both separately and as a whole. Reason respects the -differences, and imagination the similitudes of things. Reason is to -imagination as the instrument to the agent, as the body to the spirit, -as the shadow to the substance. - -Poetry, in a general sense, may be defined to be “the expression of the -imagination:” and poetry is connate with the origin of man. Man is an -instrument over which a series of external and internal impressions -are driven, like the alternations of an ever-changing wind over an -Æolian lyre, which move it by their motion to ever-changing melody. -But there is a principle within the human being, and perhaps within -all sentient beings, which acts otherwise than in a lyre, and produces -not melody alone, but harmony, by an internal adjustment of the sounds -and motions thus excited to the impressions which excite them. It is -as if the lyre could accommodate its chords to the motions of that -which strikes them, in a determined proportion of sound; even as the -musician can accommodate his voice to the sound of the lyre. A child -at play by itself will express its delight by its voice and motions; -and every inflexion of tone and gesture will bear exact relation to a -corresponding anti-type in the pleasurable impressions which awakened -it; it will be the reflected image of that impression; and as the lyre -trembles and sounds after the wind has died away, so the child seeks, -by prolonging in its voice and motions the duration of the effect, to -prolong also a consciousness of the cause. In relation to the objects -which delight a child, these expressions are what poetry is to higher -objects. The savage (for the savage is to ages what the child is to -years) expresses the emotions produced in him by surrounding objects in -a similar manner; and language and gesture, together with plastic or -pictorial imitation, become the image of the combined effect of those -objects and his apprehension of them. Man in society, with all his -passions and his pleasures, next becomes the object of the passions and -pleasures of man; an additional class of emotions produces an augmented -treasure of expression; and language, gesture, and the imitative arts -become at once the representation and the medium, the pencil and the -picture, the chisel and the statue, the chord and the harmony. The -social sympathies, or those laws from which as from its elements -society results, begin to develop themselves from the moment that two -human beings coexist; the future is contained within the present as -the plant within the seed; and equality, diversity, unity, contrast, -mutual dependence, become the principles alone capable of affording the -motives according to which the will of a social being is determined to -action, inasmuch as he is social; and constitute pleasure in sensation, -virtue in sentiment, beauty in art, truth in reasoning, and love in the -intercourse of kind. Hence men, even in the infancy of society, observe -a certain order in their words and actions, distinct from that of the -objects and the impressions represented by them, all expression being -subject to the laws of that from which it proceeds. But let us dismiss -those more general considerations which might involve an inquiry into -the principles of society itself, and restrict our view to the manner -in which the imagination is expressed upon its forms. - -In the youth of the world, men dance and sing and imitate natural -objects, observing in these actions, as in all others, a certain rhythm -or order. And, although all men observe a similar, they observe not the -same order, in the motions of the dance, in the melody of the song, -in the combinations of language, in the series of their imitations of -natural objects. For there is a certain order or rhythm belonging to -each of these classes of mimetic representation, from which the hearer -and the spectator receive an intenser and purer pleasure than from any -other: the sense of an approximation to this order has been called -taste by modern writers. Every man in the infancy of art, observes -an order which approximates more or less closely to that from which -this highest delight results: but the diversity is not sufficiently -marked, as that its gradations should be sensible, except in those -instances where the predominance of this faculty of approximation -to the beautiful (for so we may be permitted to name the relation -between this highest pleasure and its cause) is very great. Those in -whom it exists to excess are poets, in the most universal sense of -the word; and the pleasure resulting from the manner in which they -express the influence of society or nature upon their own minds, -communicates itself to others, and gathers a sort of reduplication -from the community. Their language is vitally metaphorical; that is, -it marks the before unapprehended relations of things and perpetuates -their apprehension, until words, which represent them, become, through -time, signs for portions or classes of thought, instead of pictures -of integral thoughts; and then, if no new poets should arise to -create afresh the associations which have been thus disorganised, -language will be dead to all the nobler purposes of human intercourse. -These similitudes or relations are finely said by Bacon to be “the -same footsteps of nature impressed upon the various subjects of the -world;”[1]--and he considers the faculty which perceives them as -the storehouse of axioms common to all knowledge. In the infancy of -society every author is necessarily a poet, because language itself is -poetry; and to be a poet is to apprehend the true and the beautiful, -in a word, the good which exists in the relation subsisting, first -between existence and perception, and secondly between perception and -expression. Every original language near to its source is in itself -the chaos of a cyclic poem: the copiousness of lexicography and the -distinctions of grammar are the works of a later age, and are merely -the catalogue and the form of the creations of poetry. - -But poets, or those who imagine and express this indestructible order, -are not only the authors of language and of music, of the dance, and -architecture, and statuary, and painting; they are the institutors -of laws and the founders of civil society, and the inventors of the -arts of life, and the teachers, who draw into a certain propinquity -with the beautiful and the true, that partial apprehension of the -agencies of the invisible world which is called religion. Hence all -original religions are allegorical or susceptible of allegory, and, -like Janus, have a double face of false and true. Poets, according to -the circumstances of the age and nation in which they appeared, were -called, in the earlier epochs of the world, legislators or prophets: a -poet essentially comprises and unites both these characters. For he not -only beholds intensely the present as it is, and discovers those laws -according to which present things ought to be ordered, but he beholds -the future in the present, and his thoughts are the germs of the flower -and the fruit of latest time. Not that I assert poets to be prophets -in the gross sense of the word, or that they can foretell the form as -surely as they foreknow the spirit of events: such is the pretence -of superstition, which would make poetry an attribute of prophecy, -rather than prophecy an attribute of poetry. A poet participates in -the eternal, the infinite, and the one; as far as relates to his -conceptions, time and place and number are not. The grammatical forms -which express the moods of time, and the difference of persons, and -the distinction of place, are convertible with respect to the highest -poetry without injuring it as poetry; and the choruses of Æschylus, and -the book of Job, and Dante’s _Paradiso_, would afford, more than any -other writings, examples of this fact, if the limits of this essay did -not forbid citation. The creations of sculpture, painting, and music, -are illustrations still more decisive. - -Language, colour, form, and religious and civil habits of action, are -all the instruments and materials of poetry; they may be called poetry -by that figure of speech which considers the effect as a synonym of -the cause. But poetry in a more restricted sense expresses those -arrangements of language, and especially metrical language, which are -created by that imperial faculty, whose throne is curtained within -the invisible nature of man. And this springs from the nature itself -of language, which is a more direct representation of the actions and -passions of our internal being, and is susceptible of more various -and delicate combinations, than colour, form, or motion, and is more -plastic and obedient to the control of that faculty of which it is the -creation. For language is arbitrarily produced by the imagination, and -has relation to thoughts alone; but all other materials, instruments, -and conditions of art, have relations among each other, which limit and -interpose between conception and expression. The former is as a mirror -which reflects, the latter as a cloud which enfeebles, the light of -which both are mediums of communication. Hence the fame of sculptors, -painters, and musicians, although the intrinsic powers of the great -masters of these arts may yield in no degree to that of those who have -employed language as the hieroglyphic of their thoughts, has never -equalled that of poets in the restricted sense of the term; as two -performers of equal skill will produce unequal effects from a guitar -and a harp. The fame of legislators and founders of religion, so long -as their institutions last, alone seems to exceed that of poets in the -restricted sense; but it can scarcely be a question, whether, if we -deduct the celebrity which their flattery of the gross opinions of the -vulgar usually conciliates, together with that which belonged to them -in their higher character of poets, any excess will remain. - -We have thus circumscribed the word poetry within the limits of that -art which is the most familiar and the most perfect expression of -the faculty itself. It is necessary, however, to make the circle -still narrower, and to determine the distinction between measured and -unmeasured language; for the popular division into prose and verse is -inadmissible in accurate philosophy. - -Sounds as well as thoughts have relation both between each other and -towards that which they represent, and a perception of the order of -those relations has always been found connected with a perception of -the order of the relations of thought. Hence the language of poets -has ever affected a sort of uniform and harmonious recurrence of -sound, without which it were not poetry, and which is scarcely less -indispensable to the communication of its influence, than the words -themselves, without reference to that peculiar order. Hence the vanity -of translation; it were as wise to cast a violet into a crucible that -you might discover the formal principle of its colour and odour, as -seek to transfuse from one language into another the creations of a -poet. The plant must spring again from its seed, or it will bear no -flower--and this is the burthen of the curse of Babel. - -An observation of the regular mode of the recurrence of harmony in -the language of poetical minds, together with its relation to music, -produced metre, or a certain system of traditional forms of harmony -and language. Yet it is by no means essential that a poet should -accommodate his language to this traditional form, so that the harmony, -which is its spirit, be observed. The practice is indeed convenient -and popular, and to be preferred, especially in such composition as -includes much action: but every great poet must inevitably innovate -upon the example of his predecessors in the exact structure of his -peculiar versification. The distinction between poets and prose-writers -is a vulgar error. The distinction between philosophers and poets -has been anticipated. Plato was essentially a poet--the truth and -splendour of his imagery, and the melody of his language, are the most -intense that it is possible to conceive. He rejected the harmony of -the epic, dramatic, and lyrical forms, because he sought to kindle -a harmony in thoughts divested of shape and action, and he forbore -to invent any regular plan of rhythm which would include, under -determinate forms, the varied pauses of his style. Cicero sought to -imitate the cadence of his periods, but with little success. Bacon -was a poet.[2] His language has a sweet and majestic rhythm, which -satisfies the sense, no less than the almost superhuman wisdom of his -philosophy satisfies the intellect; it is a strain which distends, and -then bursts the circumference of the reader’s mind, and pours itself -forth together with it into the universal element with which it has -perpetual sympathy. All the authors of revolutions in opinion are not -only necessarily poets as they are inventors, nor even as their words -unveil the permanent analogy of things by images which participate in -the life of truth; but as their periods are harmonious and rhythmical, -and contain in themselves the elements of verse; being the echo of -the eternal music. Nor are those supreme poets, who have employed -traditional forms of rhythm on account of the form and action of their -subjects, less capable of perceiving and teaching the truth of things, -than those who have omitted that form. Shakespeare, Dante, and Milton -(to confine ourselves to modern writers) are philosophers of the very -loftiest power. - -A poem is the very image of life expressed in its eternal truth. There -is this difference between a story and a poem, that a story is a -catalogue of detached facts, which have no other connexion than time, -place, circumstance, cause, and effect; the other is the creation -of actions according to the unchangeable forms of human nature, as -existing in the mind of the Creator, which is itself the image of all -other minds. The one is partial, and applies only to a definite period -of time, and a certain combination of events which can never again -recur; the other is universal, and contains within itself the germ of -a relation to whatever motives or actions have place in the possible -varieties of human nature. Time, which destroys the beauty and the use -of the story of particular facts, stripped of the poetry which should -invest them, augments that of poetry, and for ever develops new and -wonderful applications of the eternal truth which it contains. Hence -epitomes have been called the moths of just history; they eat out the -poetry of it. A story of particular facts is as a mirror which obscures -and distorts that which should be beautiful: poetry is a mirror which -makes beautiful that which is distorted. - -The parts of a composition may be poetical, without the composition -as a whole being a poem. A single sentence may be considered as a -whole, though it may be found in the midst of a series of unassimilated -portions; a single word even may be a spark of inextinguishable -thought. And thus all the great historians, Herodotus, Plutarch, Livy, -were poets; and although the plan of these writers, especially that -of Livy, restrained them from developing this faculty in its highest -degree, they made copious and ample amends for their subjection, by -filling all the interstices of their subjects with living images. - -Having determined what is poetry, and who are poets, let us proceed to -estimate its effects upon society. - -Poetry is ever accompanied with pleasure: all spirits upon which it -falls open themselves to receive the wisdom which is mingled with its -delight. In the infancy of the world, neither poets themselves nor -their auditors are fully aware of the excellence of poetry: for it acts -in a divine and unapprehended manner, beyond and above consciousness; -and it is reserved for future generations to contemplate and measure -the mighty cause and effect in all the strength and splendour of -their union. Even in modern times, no living poet ever arrived at the -fulness of his fame; the jury which sits in judgment upon a poet, -belonging as he does to all time, must be composed of his peers: it -must be empannelled by time from the selectest of the wise of many -generations. A poet is a nightingale, who sits in darkness and sings -to cheer its own solitude with sweet sounds; his auditors are as men -entranced by the melody of an unseen musician, who feel that they are -moved and softened, yet know not whence or why. The poems of Homer -and his contemporaries were the delight of infant Greece; they were -the elements of that social system which is the column upon which -all succeeding civilisation has reposed. Homer embodied the ideal -perfection of his age in human character; nor can we doubt that those -who read his verses were awakened to an ambition of becoming like to -Achilles, Hector, and Ulysses: the truth and beauty of friendship, -patriotism, and persevering devotion to an object, were unveiled -to their depths in these immortal creations: the sentiments of the -auditors must have been refined and enlarged by a sympathy with such -great and lovely impersonations, until from admiring they imitated, and -from imitation they identified themselves with the objects of their -admiration. Nor let it be objected, that these characters are remote -from moral perfection, and that they are by no means to be considered -as edifying patterns for general imitation. Every epoch, under names -more or less specious, has deified its peculiar errors; Revenge is the -naked idol of the worship of a semibarbarous age; and Self-deceit is -the veiled image of unknown evil, before which luxury and satiety lie -prostrate. But a poet considers the vices of his contemporaries as the -temporary dress in which his creations must be arrayed, and which cover -without concealing the eternal proportions of their beauty. An epic or -dramatic personage is understood to wear them around his soul, as he -may the ancient armour or modern uniform around his body; whilst it is -easy to conceive a dress more graceful than either. The beauty of the -internal nature cannot be so far concealed by its accidental vesture, -but that the spirit of its form shall communicate itself to the very -disguise, and indicate the shape it hides from the manner in which it -is worn. A majestic form and graceful motions will express themselves -through the most barbarous and tasteless costume. Few poets of the -highest class have chosen to exhibit the beauty of their conceptions in -its naked truth and splendour; and it is doubtful whether the alloy of -costume, habit, &c., be not necessary to temper this planetary music -for mortal ears. - -The whole objection, however, of the immorality of poetry rests upon -a misconception of the manner in which poetry acts to produce the -moral improvement of man. Ethical science arranges the elements which -poetry has created, and propounds schemes and proposes examples of -civil and domestic life: nor is it for want of admirable doctrines that -men hate, and despise, and censure, and deceive, and subjugate one -another. But poetry acts in another and diviner manner. It awakens and -enlarges the mind itself by rendering it the receptacle of a thousand -unapprehended combinations of thought. Poetry lifts the veil from -the hidden beauty of the world, and makes familiar objects be as if -they were not familiar; it reproduces all that it represents, and the -impersonations clothed in its Elysian light stand thenceforward in the -minds of those who have once contemplated them, as memorials of that -gentle and exalted content which extends itself over all thoughts and -actions with which it coexists. The great secret of morals is love; or -a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with -the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. -A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively; -he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the -pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great -instrument of moral good is the imagination; and poetry administers to -the effect by acting upon the cause. Poetry enlarges the circumference -of the imagination by replenishing it with thoughts of ever new -delight, which have the power of attracting and assimilating to their -own nature all other thoughts, and which form new intervals and -interstices whose void for ever craves fresh food. Poetry strengthens -the faculty which is the organ of the moral nature of man, in the same -manner as exercise strengthens a limb. A poet therefore would do ill to -embody his own conceptions of right and wrong, which are usually those -of his place and time, in his poetical creations, which participate -in neither. By this assumption of the inferior office of interpreting -the effect, in which perhaps after all he might acquit himself but -imperfectly, he would resign a glory in the participation of the cause. -There was little danger that Homer, or any of the eternal poets, should -have so far misunderstood themselves as to have abdicated this throne -of their widest dominion. Those in whom the poetical faculty, though -great, is less intense, as Euripides, Lucan, Tasso, Spenser, have -frequently affected a moral aim, and the effect of their poetry is -diminished in exact proportion to the degree in which they compel us to -advert to this purpose. - -Homer and the cyclic poets were followed at a certain interval by the -dramatic and lyrical poets of Athens, who flourished contemporaneously -with all that is most perfect in the kindred expressions of the -poetical faculty; architecture, painting, music, the dance, sculpture, -philosophy, and we may add, the forms of civil life. For although the -scheme of Athenian society was deformed by many imperfections which -the poetry existing in chivalry and Christianity has erased from the -habits and institutions of modern Europe; yet never at any other -period has so much energy, beauty and virtue, been developed; never was -blind strength and stubborn form so disciplined and rendered subject -to the will of man, or that will less repugnant to the dictates of -the beautiful and the true, as during the century which preceded the -death of Socrates. Of no other epoch in the history of our species -have we records and fragments stamped so visibly with the image of the -divinity in man. But it is poetry alone, in form, in action, and in -language, which has rendered this epoch memorable above all others, -and the storehouse of examples to everlasting time. For written poetry -existed at that epoch simultaneously with the other arts, and it is an -idle inquiry to demand which gave and which received the light, which -all, as from a common focus, have scattered over the darkest periods of -succeeding time. We know no more of cause and effect than a constant -conjunction of events: poetry is ever found to co-exist with whatever -other arts contribute to the happiness and perfection of man. I appeal -to what has already been established to distinguish between the cause -and the effect. - -It was at the period here adverted to, that the drama had its birth; -and however a succeeding writer may have equalled or surpassed those -few great specimens of the Athenian drama which have been preserved -to us, it is indisputable that the art itself never was understood -or practised according to the true philosophy of it, as at Athens. -For the Athenians employed language, action, music, painting, the -dance, and religious institutions, to produce a common effect in the -representation of the highest idealisms of passion and of power; each -division in the art was made perfect in its kind by artists of the -most consummate skill, and was disciplined into a beautiful proportion -and unity one towards the other. On the modern stage a few only of the -elements capable of expressing the image of the poet’s conception -are employed at once. We have tragedy without music and dancing; and -music and dancing without the highest impersonations of which they -are the fit accompaniment, and both without religion and solemnity. -Religious institution has indeed been usually banished from the -stage. Our system of divesting the actor’s face of a mask, on which -the many expressions appropriated to his dramatic character might be -moulded into one permanent and unchanging expression, is favourable -only to a partial and inharmonious effect; it is fit for nothing but -a monologue, where all the attention may be directed to some great -master of ideal mimicry. The modern practice of blending comedy -with tragedy, though liable to great abuse in point of practice, is -undoubtedly an extension of the dramatic circle; but the comedy should -be as in King Lear, universal, ideal, and sublime. It is perhaps the -intervention of this principle which determines the balance in favour -of King Lear against the Œdipus Tyrannus or the Agamemnon, or, if you -will, the trilogies with which they are connected; unless the intense -power of the choral poetry, especially that of the latter, should be -considered as restoring the equilibrium. King Lear, if it can sustain -this comparison, may be judged to be the most perfect specimen of the -dramatic art existing in the world; in spite of the narrow conditions -to which the poet was subjected by the ignorance of the philosophy -of the drama which has prevailed in modern Europe. Calderon, in his -religious Autos, has attempted to fulfil some of the high conditions -of dramatic representation neglected by Shakespeare; such as the -establishing a relation between the drama and religion, and the -accommodating them to music and dancing; but he omits the observation -of conditions still more important, and more is lost than gained by the -substitution of the rigidly-defined and ever-repeated idealisms of a -distorted superstition for the living impersonations of the truth of -human passions. - -But I digress.--The connexion of scenic exhibitions with the -improvement or corruption of the manners of men, has been universally -recognised: in other words, the presence or absence of poetry, in -its most perfect and universal form, has been found to be connected -with good and evil in conduct or habit. The corruption which has been -imputed to the drama as an effect, begins, when the poetry employed in -its constitution ends: I appeal to the history of manners whether the -periods of the growth of the one and the decline of the other have not -corresponded with an exactness equal to any example of moral cause and -effect. - -The drama at Athens, or wheresoever else it may have approached to its -perfection, ever co-existed with the moral and intellectual greatness -of the age. The tragedies of the Athenian poets are as mirrors in which -the spectator beholds himself, under a thin disguise of circumstance, -stript of all but that ideal perfection and energy which every one -feels to be the internal type of all that he loves, admires, and -would become. The imagination is enlarged by a sympathy with pains -and passions so mighty, that they distend in their conception the -capacity of that by which they are conceived, the good affections are -strengthened by pity, indignation, terror and sorrow; and an exalted -calm is prolonged from the satiety of this high exercise of them into -the tumult of familiar life: even crime is disarmed of half its horror -and all its contagion by being represented as the fatal consequence -of the unfathomable agencies of nature; error is thus divested of its -wilfulness; men can no longer cherish it as the creation of their -choice. In the drama of the highest order there is little food for -censure or hatred; it teaches rather self-knowledge and self-respect. -Neither the eye nor the mind can see itself, unless reflected upon -that which it resembles. The drama, so long as it continues to express -poetry, is a prismatic and many-sided mirror, which collects the -brightest rays of human nature and divides and reproduces them from the -simplicity of these elementary forms, and touches them with majesty and -beauty, and multiplies all that it reflects, and endows it with the -power of propagating its like wherever it may fall. - -But in periods of the decay of social life, the drama sympathises with -that decay. Tragedy becomes a cold imitation of the form of the great -masterpieces of antiquity, divested of all harmonious accompaniment -of the kindred arts; and often the very form misunderstood, or a weak -attempt to teach certain doctrines, which the writer considers as moral -truths; and which are usually no more than specious flatteries of some -gross vice or weakness, with which the author, in common with his -auditors, are infected. Hence what has been called the classical and -domestic drama. Addison’s “Cato” is a specimen of the one; and would it -were not superfluous to cite examples of the other! To such purposes -poetry cannot be made subservient. Poetry is a sword of lightning, ever -unsheathed, which consumes the scabbard that would contain it. And thus -we observe that all dramatic writings of this nature are unimaginative -in a singular degree; they affect sentiment and passion, which, -divested of imagination, are other names for caprice and appetite. -The period in our own history of the grossest degradation of the -drama is the reign of Charles II., when all forms in which poetry had -been accustomed to be expressed became hymns to the triumph of kingly -power over liberty and virtue. Milton stood alone illuminating an age -unworthy of him. At such periods the calculating principle pervades all -the forms of dramatic exhibition, and poetry ceases to be expressed -upon them. Comedy loves its ideal universality: wit succeeds to humour; -we laugh from self-complacency and triumph, instead of pleasure; -malignity, sarcasm, and contempt succeed to sympathetic merriment; -we hardly laugh, but we smile. Obscenity, which is ever blasphemy -against the divine beauty in life, becomes, from the very veil which it -assumes, more active if less disgusting: it is a monster for which the -corruption of society for ever brings forth new food, which it devours -in secret. - -The drama being that form under which a greater number of modes of -expression of poetry are susceptible of being combined than any -other, the connexion of poetry and social good is more observable -in the drama than in whatever other form. And it is indisputable -that the highest perfection of human society has ever corresponded -with the highest dramatic excellence; and that the corruption or the -extinction of the drama in a nation where it has once flourished, is -a mark of a corruption of manners, and an extinction of the energies -which sustain the soul of social life. But, as Macchiavelli says of -political institutions, that life may be preserved and renewed, if men -should arise capable of bringing back the drama to its principles. And -this is true with respect to poetry in its most extended sense: all -language, institution and form require not only to be produced but to -be sustained: the office and character of a poet participates in the -divine nature as regards providence, no less than as regards creation. - -Civil war, the spoils of Asia, and the fatal predominance first of -the Macedonian, and then of the Roman arms, were so many symbols of -the extinction or suspension of the creative faculty in Greece. The -bucolic writers, who found patronage under the lettered tyrants of -Sicily and Egypt, were the latest representatives of its most glorious -reign. Their poetry is intensely melodious; like the odour of the -tuberose, it overcomes and sickens the spirit with excess of sweetness; -whilst the poetry of the preceding age was as a meadow-gale of June, -which mingles the fragrance of all the flowers of the field, and -adds a quickening and harmonising spirit of its own which endows the -sense with a power of sustaining its extreme delight. The bucolic and -erotic delicacy in written poetry is correlative with that softness -in statuary, music, and the kindred arts, and even in manners and -institutions, which distinguished the epoch to which I now refer. -Nor is it the poetical faculty itself, or any misapplication of it, -to which this want of harmony is to be imputed. An equal sensibility -to the influence of the senses and the affections is to be found in -the writings of Homer and Sophocles: the former, especially, has -clothed sensual and pathetic images with irresistible attractions. The -superiority in these to succeeding writers consists in the presence of -those thoughts which belong to the inner faculties of our nature, not -in the absence of those which are connected with the external: their -incomparable perfection consists in a harmony of the union of all. It -is not what the erotic poets have, but what they have not, in which -their imperfection consists. It is not inasmuch as they were poets, -but inasmuch as they were not poets, that they can be considered with -any plausibility as connected with the corruption of their age. Had -that corruption availed so as to extinguish in them the sensibility to -pleasure, passion, and natural scenery, which is imputed to them as an -imperfection, the last triumph of evil would have been achieved. For -the end of social corruption is to destroy all sensibility to pleasure; -and, therefore, it is corruption. It begins at the imagination and the -intellect as at the core, and distributes itself thence as a paralysing -venom, through the affections into the very appetites, until all become -a torpid mass in which hardly sense survives. At the approach of such -a period, poetry ever addresses itself to those faculties which are -the last to be destroyed, and its voice is heard, like the footsteps -of Astræa, departing from the world. Poetry ever communicates all -the pleasure which men are capable of receiving: it is ever still the -light of life; the source of whatever of beautiful or generous or true -can have place in an evil time. It will readily be confessed that -those among the luxurious citizens of Syracuse and Alexandria, who -were delighted with the poems of Theocritus, were less cold, cruel, -and sensual than the remnant of their tribe. But corruption must -utterly have destroyed the fabric of human society before poetry can -ever cease. The sacred links of that chain have never been entirely -disjoined, which descending through the minds of many men is attached -to those great minds, whence as from a magnet the invisible effluence -is sent forth, which at once connects, animates, and sustains the life -of all. It is the faculty which contains within itself the seeds at -once of its own and of social renovation. And let us not circumscribe -the effects of the bucolic and erotic poetry within the limits of the -sensibility of those to whom it was addressed. They may have perceived -the beauty of those immortal compositions, simply as fragments and -isolated portions: those who are more finely organised, or born in a -happier age, may recognise them as episodes to that great poem, which -all poets, like the co-operating thoughts of one great mind, have built -up since the beginning of the world. - -The same revolutions within a narrower sphere had place in ancient -Rome; but the actions and forms of its social life never seem to have -been perfectly saturated with the poetical element. The Romans appear -to have considered the Greeks as the selectest treasuries of the -selectest forms of manners and of nature, and to have abstained from -creating in measured language, sculpture, music, or architecture, any -thing which might bear a particular relation to their own condition, -whilst it should bear a general one to the universal constitution of -the world. But we judge from partial evidence, and we judge perhaps -partially. Ennius, Varro, Pacuvius, and Accius, all great poets, have -been lost. Lucretius is in the highest, and Virgil in a very high -sense, a creator. The chosen delicacy of expressions of the latter are -as a mist of light which conceal from us the intense and exceeding -truth of his conceptions of nature. Livy is instinct with poetry. -Yet Horace, Catullus, Ovid, and generally the other great writers of -the Virgilian age, saw man and nature in the mirror of Greece. The -institutions also, and the religion of Rome, were less poetical than -those of Greece, as the shadow is less vivid than the substance. Hence -poetry in Rome seemed to follow, rather than accompany, the perfection -of political and domestic society. The true poetry of Rome lived in -its institutions; for whatever of beautiful, true, and majestic, they -contained, could have sprung only from the faculty which creates -the order in which they consist. The life of Camillus, the death of -Regulus; the expectation of the senators, in their godlike state, of -the victorious Gauls; the refusal of the republic to make peace with -Hannibal, after the battle of Cannæ, were not the consequences of a -refined calculation of the probable personal advantage to result from -such a rhythm and order in the shows of life, to those who were at once -the poets and the actors of these immortal dramas. The imagination -beholding the beauty of this order, created it out of itself according -to its own idea; the consequence was empire, and the reward everlasting -fame. These things are not the less poetry, _quia carent vate sacro_. -They are the episodes of that cyclic poem written by Time upon the -memories of men. The Past, like an inspired rhapsodist, fills the -theatre of everlasting generations with their harmony. - -At length the ancient system of religion and manners had fulfilled -the circle of its evolutions. And the world would have fallen into -utter anarchy and darkness, but that there were found poets among the -authors of the Christian and chivalric systems of manners and religion, -who created forms of opinion and action never before conceived; -which, copied into the imaginations of men, became as generals to the -bewildered armies of their thoughts. It is foreign to the present -purpose to touch upon the evil produced by these systems: except that -we protest, on the ground of the principles already established, that -no portion of it can be attributed to the poetry they contain. - -It is probable that the poetry of Moses, Job, David, Solomon, and -Isaiah, had produced a great effect upon the mind of Jesus and his -disciples. The scattered fragments preserved to us by the biographers -of this extraordinary person are all instinct with the most vivid -poetry. But his doctrines seem to have been quickly distorted. At a -certain period after the prevalence of a system of opinions founded -upon those promulgated by him, the three forms into which Plato had -distributed the faculties of mind underwent a sort of apotheosis, and -became the object of the worship of the civilised world. Here it is to -be confessed that “Light seems to thicken,” and - - “The crow makes wing to the rooky wood, - Good things of day begin to droop and drowse, - And night’s black agents to their preys do rouse.”[3] - -But mark how beautiful an order has sprung from the dust and blood of -this fierce chaos! how the world, as from a resurrection, balancing -itself on the golden wings of knowledge and of hope, has reassumed its -yet unwearied flight into the heaven of time. Listen to the music, -unheard by outward ears, which is as a ceaseless and invisible wind, -nourishing its everlasting course with strength and swiftness. - -The poetry in the doctrines of Jesus, and the mythology and -institutions of the Celtic conquerors of the Roman empire, outlived the -darkness and the convulsions connected with their growth and victory, -and blended themselves in a new fabric of manners and opinion. It is -an error to impute the ignorance of the dark ages to the Christian -doctrines or the predominance of the Celtic nations. Whatever of -evil their agencies may have contained sprang from the extinction of -the poetical principle, connected with the progress of despotism and -superstition. Men, from causes too intricate to be here discussed, had -become insensible and selfish: their own will had become feeble, and -yet they were its slaves, and thence the slaves of the will of others: -but fear, avarice, cruelty, and fraud, characterised a race amongst -whom no one was to be found capable of _creating_ in form, language, -or institution. The moral anomalies of such a state of society are not -justly to be charged upon any class of events immediately connected -with them, and those events are most entitled to our approbation which -could dissolve it most expeditiously. It is unfortunate for those who -cannot distinguish words from thoughts, that many of these anomalies -have been incorporated into our popular religion. - -It was not until the eleventh century that the effects of the poetry of -the Christian and chivalric systems began to manifest themselves. The -principle of equality had been discovered and applied by Plato in his -Republic, as the theoretical rule of the mode in which the materials of -pleasure and of power, produced by the common skill and labour of human -beings, ought to be distributed among them. The limitations of this -rule were asserted by him to be determined only by the sensibility of -each, or the utility to result to all. Plato, following the doctrines -of Timæus and Pythagoras, taught also a moral and intellectual system -of doctrine, comprehending at once the past, the present, and the -future condition of man. Jesus divulged the sacred and eternal truths -contained in these views to mankind, and Christianity, in its abstract -purity, became the exoteric expression of the esoteric doctrines of the -poetry and wisdom of antiquity. The incorporation of the Celtic nations -with the exhausted population of the south, impressed upon it the -figure of the poetry existing in their mythology and institutions. The -result was a sum of the action and reaction of all the causes included -in it; for it may be assumed as a maxim that no nation or religion can -supersede any other without incorporating into itself a portion of that -which it supersedes. The abolition of personal and domestic slavery, -and the emancipation of women from a great part of the degrading -restraints of antiquity, were among the consequences of these events. - -The abolition of personal slavery is the basis of the highest political -hope that it can enter into the mind of man to conceive. The freedom -of women produced the poetry of sexual love. Love became a religion, -the idols of whose worship were ever present. It was as if the statues -of Apollo and the Muses had been endowed with life and motion, and had -walked forth among their worshippers; so that earth became peopled -by the inhabitants of a diviner world. The familiar appearance and -proceedings of life became wonderful and heavenly, and a paradise was -created as out of the wrecks of Eden. And as this creation itself is -poetry, so its creators were poets; and language was the instrument -of their art: “Galeotto fù il libro, e chi lo scrisse.” The Provençal -Trouveurs, or inventors, preceded Petrarch, whose verses are as spells, -which unseal the inmost enchanted fountains of the delight which is -in the grief of love. It is impossible to feel them without becoming -a portion of that beauty which we contemplate: it were superfluous -to explain how the gentleness and elevation of mind connected with -these sacred emotions can render men more amiable, more generous -and wise, and lift them out of the dull vapours of the little world -of self. Dante understood the secret things of love even more than -Petrarch. His _Vita Nuova_ is an inexhaustible fountain of purity of -sentiment and language: it is the idealised history of that period, -and those intervals of his life which were dedicated to love. His -apotheosis to Beatrice in Paradise, and the gradations of his own love -and her loveliness, by which as by steps he feigns himself to have -ascended to the throne of the Supreme Cause, is the most glorious -imagination of modern poetry. The acutest critics have justly reversed -the judgment of the vulgar, and the order of the great acts of the -“Divina Commedia,” in the measure of the admiration which they accord -to the Hell, Purgatory, and Paradise. The latter is a perpetual hymn -of everlasting love. Love, which found a worthy poet in Plato alone -of all the ancients, has been celebrated by a chorus of the greatest -writers of the renovated world; and the music has penetrated the -caverns of society, and its echoes still drown the dissonance of arms -and superstition. At successive intervals, Ariosto, Tasso, Shakespeare, -Spenser, Calderon, Rousseau, and the great writers of our own age, have -celebrated the dominion of love, planting as it were trophies in the -human mind of that sublimest victory over sensuality and force. The -true relation borne to each other by the sexes into which human kind -is distributed, has become less misunderstood; and if the error which -confounded diversity with inequality of the powers of the two sexes has -been partially recognised in the opinions and institutions of modern -Europe, we owe this great benefit to the worship of which chivalry was -the law, and poets the prophets. - -The poetry of Dante may be considered as the bridge thrown over the -stream of time, which unites the modern and ancient world. The -distorted notions of invisible things which Dante and his rival Milton -have idealised, are merely the mask and the mantle in which these great -poets walk through eternity enveloped and disguised. It is a difficult -question to determine how far they were conscious of the distinction -which must have subsisted in their minds between their own creeds -and that of the people. Dante at least appears to wish to mark the -full extent of it by placing Riphæus, whom Virgil calls _justissimus -unus_, in Paradise, and observing a most poetical caprice in his -distribution of rewards and punishments. And Milton’s poem contains -within itself a philosophical refutation of that system of which, by a -strange and natural antithesis, it has been a chief popular support. -Nothing can exceed the energy and magnificence of the character of -Satan as expressed in “Paradise Lost.” It is a mistake to suppose that -he could ever have been intended for the popular personification of -evil. Implacable hate, patient cunning, and a sleepless refinement -of device to inflict the extremest anguish on an enemy, these things -are evil; and, although venial in a slave, are not to be forgiven in -a tyrant; although redeemed by much that ennobles his defeat in one -subdued, are marked by all that dishonours his conquest in the victor. -Milton’s Devil as a moral being is as far superior to his God, as one -who perseveres in some purpose which he has conceived to be excellent -in spite of adversity and torture, is to one who in the cold security -of undoubted triumph inflicts the most horrible revenge upon his -enemy, not from any mistaken notion of inducing him to repent of a -perseverance in enmity, but with the alleged design of exasperating -him to deserve new torments. Milton has so far violated the popular -creed (if this shall be judged to be a violation) as to have alleged no -superiority of moral virtue to his god over his devil. And this bold -neglect of a direct moral purpose is the most decisive proof of the -supremacy of Milton’s genius. He mingled as it were the elements of -human nature as colours upon a single palette, and arranged them in the -composition of his great picture according to the laws of epic truth, -that is, according to the laws of that principle by which a series -of actions of the external universe and of intelligent and ethical -beings is calculated to excite the sympathy of succeeding generations -of mankind. The Divina Commedia and Paradise Lost have conferred upon -modern mythology a systematic form; and when change and time shall have -added one more superstition to the mass of those which have arisen -and decayed upon the earth, commentators will be learnedly employed -in elucidating the religion of ancestral Europe, only not utterly -forgotten because it will have been stamped with the eternity of genius. - -Homer was the first and Dante the second epic poet: that is, the second -poet, the series of whose creations bore a defined and intelligible -relation to the knowledge and sentiment and religion of the age in -which he lived, and of the ages which followed it: developing itself -in correspondence with their development. For Lucretius had limed the -wings of his swift spirit in the dregs of the sensible world; and -Virgil, with a modesty that ill became his genius, had affected the -fame of an imitator, even whilst he created anew all that he copied; -and none among the flock of mock-birds, though their notes are sweet, -Apollonius Rhodius, Quintus Calaber, Smyrnæus, Nonnus, Lucan, Statius, -or Claudian, have sought even to fulfil a single condition of epic -truth. Milton was the third epic poet. For if the title of epic in its -highest sense be refused to the Æneid, still less can it be conceded to -the Orlando Furioso, the Gerusalemme Liberata, the Lusiad, or the Fairy -Queen. - -Dante and Milton were both deeply penetrated with the ancient religion -of the civilised world; and its spirit exists in their poetry probably -in the same proportion as its forms survived in the unreformed -worship of modern Europe. The one preceded and the other followed the -Reformation at almost equal intervals. Dante was the first religious -reformer, and Luther surpassed him rather in the rudeness and acrimony, -than in the boldness of his censures, of papal usurpation. Dante was -the first awakener of entranced Europe; he created a language, in -itself music and persuasion, out of a chaos of inharmonious barbarisms. -He was the congregator of those great spirits who presided over the -resurrection of learning; the Lucifer of that starry flock which in the -thirteenth century shone forth from republican Italy, as from a heaven, -into the darkness of the benighted world. His very words are instinct -with spirit; each is as a spark, a burning atom of inextinguishable -thought; and many yet lie covered in the ashes of their birth, and -pregnant with a lightning which has yet found no conductor. All high -poetry is infinite; it is as the first acorn, which contained all oaks -potentially. Veil after veil may be undrawn, and the inmost naked -beauty of the meaning never exposed. A great poem is a fountain for -ever overflowing with the waters of wisdom and delight; and after one -person and one age has exhausted all of its divine effluence which -their peculiar relations enable them to share, another and yet another -succeeds, and new relations are ever developed, the source of an -unforeseen and an unconceived delight. - -The age immediately succeeding to that of Dante, Petrarch, and -Boccaccio, was characterised by a revival of painting, sculpture, -and architecture. Chaucer caught the sacred inspiration, and the -superstructure of English literature is based upon the materials of -Italian invention. - -But let us not be betrayed from a defence into a critical history of -poetry and its influence on society. Be it enough to have pointed out -the effects of poets, in the large and true sense of the word, upon -their own and all succeeding times. - -But poets have been challenged to resign the civic crown to reasoners -and mechanists, on another plea. It is admitted that the exercise -of the imagination is most delightful, but it is alleged that that -of reason is more useful. Let us examine, as the grounds of this -distinction, what is here meant by utility. Pleasure or good, in a -general sense, is that which the consciousness of a sensitive and -intelligent being seeks, and in which, when found, it acquiesces. There -are two kinds of pleasure, one durable, universal, and permanent; the -other transitory and particular. Utility may either express the means -of producing the former or the latter. In the former sense, whatever -strengthens and purifies the affections, enlarges the imagination, and -adds spirit to sense, is useful. But a narrower meaning may be assigned -to the word utility, confining it to express that which banishes the -importunity of the wants of our animal nature, the surrounding men with -security of life, the dispersing the grosser delusions of superstition, -and the conciliating such a degree of mutual forbearance among men as -may consist with the motives of personal advantage. - -Undoubtedly the promoters of utility, in this limited sense, have their -appointed office in society. They follow the footsteps of poets, and -copy the sketches of their creations into the book of common life. They -make space, and give time. Their exertions are of the highest value, -so long as they confine their administration of the concerns of the -inferior powers of our nature within the limits due to the superior -ones. But while the sceptic destroys gross superstitions, let him spare -to deface, as some of the French writers have defaced, the eternal -truths charactered upon the imaginations of men. Whilst the mechanist -abridges, and the political economist combines, labour, let them beware -that their speculations, for want of correspondence with those first -principles which belong to the imagination, do not tend, as they have -in modern England, to exasperate at once the extremes of luxury and -want. They have exemplified the saying, “To him that hath, more shall -be given; and from him that hath not, the little that he hath shall be -taken away.”[4] The rich have become richer, and the poor have become -poorer; and the vessel of the state is driven between the Scylla and -Charybdis of anarchy and despotism. Such are the effects which must -ever flow from an unmitigated exercise of the calculating faculty. - -It is difficult to define pleasure in its highest sense; the definition -involving a number of apparent paradoxes. For, from an inexplicable -defect of harmony in the constitution of human nature, the pain of the -inferior is frequently connected with the pleasures of the superior -portions of our being. Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself, are -often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. -Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy -delights by affording a shadow of that pleasure which exists in pain. -This is the source also of the melancholy which is inseparable from -the sweetest melody. The pleasure that is in sorrow is sweeter than -the pleasure of pleasure itself. And hence the saying, “It is better -to go to the house of mourning than to the house of mirth.”[5] Not -that this highest species of pleasure is necessarily linked with pain. -The delight of love and friendship, the ecstasy of the admiration of -nature, the joy of the perception and still more of the creation of -poetry, is often wholly unalloyed. - -The production and assurance of pleasure in this highest sense is true -utility. Those who produce and preserve this pleasure are poets or -poetical philosophers. - -The exertions of Locke, Hume, Gibbon, Voltaire, Rousseau,[6] and their -disciples, in favour of oppressed and deluded humanity, are entitled -to the gratitude of mankind. Yet it is easy to calculate the degree -of moral and intellectual improvement which the world would have -exhibited, had they never lived. A little more nonsense would have -been talked for a century or two; and perhaps a few more men, women, -and children, burnt as heretics. We might not at this moment have been -congratulating each other on the abolition of the Inquisition in Spain. -But it exceeds all imagination to conceive what would have been the -moral condition of the world if neither Dante, Petrarch, Boccaccio, -Chaucer, Shakespeare, Calderon, Bacon, nor Milton, had ever existed; -if Raphael and Michael Angelo had never been born; if the Hebrew -poetry had never been translated; if a revival of the study of Greek -literature had never taken place; if no monuments of ancient sculpture -had been handed down to us; and if the poetry of the religion of the -ancient world had been extinguished together with its belief. The human -mind could never, except by the intervention of these excitements, -have been awakened to the invention of the grosser sciences, and that -application of analytical reasoning to the aberrations of society, -which it is now attempted to exalt over the direct expression of the -inventive and creative faculty itself. - -We have more moral, political, and historical wisdom than we know -how to reduce into practice; we have more scientific and economical -knowledge than can be accommodated to the just distribution of the -produce which it multiplies. The poetry, in these systems of thought, -is concealed by the accumulation of facts and calculating processes. -There is no want of knowledge respecting what is wisest and best in -morals, government, and political economy, or at least what is wiser -and better than what men now practise and endure. But we let “_I dare -not_ wait upon _I would_, like the poor cat in the adage.” We want the -creative faculty to imagine that which we know; we want the generous -impulse to act that which we imagine; we want the poetry of life: -our calculations have outrun conception; we have eaten more than we -can digest. The cultivation of those sciences which have enlarged -the limits of the empire of man over the external world, has, for -want of the poetical faculty, proportionally circumscribed those of -the internal world; and man, having enslaved the elements, remains -himself a slave. To what but a cultivation of the mechanical arts in a -degree disproportioned to the presence of the creative faculty, which -is the basis of all knowledge, is to be attributed the abuse of all -invention for abridging and combining labour, to the exasperation of -the inequality of mankind? From what other cause has it arisen that -the discoveries which should have lightened, have added a weight to -the curse imposed on Adam? Poetry, and the principle of Self, of which -money is the visible incarnation, are the God and Mammon of the world. - -The functions of the poetical faculty are twofold; by one it creates -new materials of knowledge, and power, and pleasure; by the other it -engenders in the mind a desire to reproduce and arrange them according -to a certain rhythm and order, which may be called the beautiful and -the good. The cultivation of poetry is never more to be desired than at -periods when, from an excess of the selfish and calculating principle, -the accumulation of the materials of external life exceed the quantity -of the power of assimilating them to the internal laws of human nature. -The body has then become too unwieldy for that which animates it. - -Poetry is indeed something divine. It is at once the centre and -circumference of knowledge; it is that which comprehends all science, -and that to which all science must be referred. It is at the same -time the root and blossom of all other systems of thought; it is that -from which all spring, and that which adorns all; and that which, if -blighted, denies the fruit and the seed, and withholds from the barren -world the nourishment and the succession of the scions of the tree -of life. It is the perfect and consummate surface and bloom of all -things; it is as the odour and the colour of the rose to the texture -of the elements which compose it, as the form and splendour of unfaded -beauty to the secrets of anatomy and corruption. What were virtue, -love, patriotism, friendship,--what were the scenery of this beautiful -universe which we inhabit; what were our consolations on this side of -the grave--and what were our aspirations beyond it, if poetry did not -ascend to bring light and fire from those eternal regions where the -owl-winged faculty of calculation dare not ever soar? Poetry is not -like reasoning, a power to be exerted according to the determination -of the will. A man cannot say, “I will compose poetry.” The greatest -poet even cannot say it; for the mind in creation is as a fading coal, -which some invisible influence, like an inconstant wind, awakens to -transitory brightness; this power arises from within, like the colour -of a flower which fades and changes as it is developed, and the -conscious portions of our nature are unprophetic either of its approach -or its departure. Could this influence be durable in its original -purity and force, it is impossible to predict the greatness of the -results; but when composition begins, inspiration is already on the -decline, and the most glorious poetry that has ever been communicated -to the world is probably a feeble shadow of the original conceptions of -the poet. I appeal to the greatest poets of the present day, whether -it is not an error to assert that the finest passages of poetry are -produced by labour and study. The toil and the delay recommended by -critics can be justly interpreted to mean no more than a careful -observation of the inspired moments, and an artificial connexion of the -spaces between their suggestions, by the intertexture of conventional -expressions; a necessity only imposed by the limitedness of the -poetical faculty itself: for Milton conceived the Paradise Lost as a -whole before he executed it in portions. We have his own authority also -for the muse having “dictated” to him the “unpremeditated song.” And -let this be an answer to those who would allege the fifty-six various -readings of the first line of the Orlando Furioso. Compositions so -produced are to poetry what mosaic is to painting. The instinct and -intuition of the poetical faculty is still more observable in the -plastic and pictorial arts: a great statue or picture grows under the -power of the artist as a child in the mother’s womb; and the very mind -which directs the hands in formation, is incapable of accounting to -itself for the origin, the gradations, or the media of the process. - -Poetry is the record of the best and happiest moments of the happiest -and best minds. We are aware of evanescent visitations of thought and -feeling, sometimes associated with place or person, sometimes regarding -our own mind alone, and always arising unforeseen and departing -unbidden, but elevating and delightful beyond all expression: so that -even in the desire and the regret they leave, there cannot but be -pleasure, participating as it does in the nature of its object. It is -as it were the interpenetration of a diviner nature through our own; -but its footsteps are like those of a wind over the sea, which the -morning calm erases, and whose traces remain only, as on the wrinkled -sand which paves it. These and corresponding conditions of being are -experienced principally by those of the most delicate sensibility -and the most enlarged imagination; and the state of mind produced -by them is at war with every base desire. The enthusiasm of virtue, -love, patriotism, and friendship, is essentially linked with such -emotions; and whilst they last, self appears as what it is, an atom to -a universe. Poets are not only subject to these experiences as spirits -of the most refined organisation, but they can colour all that they -combine with the evanescent hues of this ethereal world; a word, a -trait in the representation of a scene or a passion, will touch the -enchanted chord, and reanimate, in those who have ever experienced -those emotions, the sleeping, the cold, the buried image of the -past. Poetry thus makes immortal all that is best and most beautiful -in the world; it arrests the vanishing apparitions which haunt the -interlunations of life, and veiling them, or in language or in form, -sends them forth among mankind, bearing sweet news of kindred joy to -those with whom their sisters abide--abide, because there is no portal -of expression from the caverns of the spirit which they inhabit into -the universe of things. Poetry redeems from decay the visitations of -the divinity in man. - -Poetry turns all things to loveliness; it exalts the beauty of that -which is most beautiful, and it adds beauty to that which is most -deformed; it marries exultation and horror, grief and pleasure, -eternity and change; it subdues to union, under its light yoke, all -irreconcilable things. It transmutes all that it touches, and every -form moving within the radiance of its presence is changed by wondrous -sympathy to an incarnation of the spirit which it breathes: its secret -alchemy turns to potable gold the poisonous waters which flow from -death through life; it strips the veil of familiarity from the world, -and lays bare the naked and sleeping beauty, which is the spirit of its -forms. - -All things exist as they are perceived; at least in relation to the -percipient. - - “The mind is its own place, and in itself - Can make a heaven of hell, a hell of heaven.”[7] - -But poetry defeats the curse which binds us to be subjected to the -accident of surrounding impressions. And whether it spreads its own -figured curtain, or withdraws life’s dark veil from before the scene -of things, it equally creates for us a being within our being. It -makes us the inhabitant of a world to which the familiar world is a -chaos. It reproduces the common universe of which we are portions -and percipients, and it purges from our inward sight the film of -familiarity which obscures from us the wonder of our being. It compels -us to feel that which we perceive, and to imagine that which we -know. It creates anew the universe, after it has been annihilated in -our minds by the recurrence of impressions blunted by reiteration. -It justifies the bold and true word of Tasso: _Non merita nome di -creatore, se non Iddio ed il Poeta._ - -A poet, as he is the author to others of the highest wisdom, pleasure, -virtue and glory, so he ought personally to be the happiest, the best, -the wisest, and the most illustrious of men. As to his glory, let time -be challenged to declare whether the fame of any other institutor of -human life be comparable to that of a poet. That he is the wisest, -the happiest, and the best, inasmuch as he is a poet, is equally -incontrovertible: the greatest poets have been men of the most spotless -virtue, of the most consummate prudence, and, if we would look into the -interior of their lives, the most fortunate of men: and the exceptions, -as they regard those who possessed the poetic faculty in a high yet -inferior degree, will be found on consideration to confirm rather -than destroy the rule. Let us for a moment stoop to the arbitration -of popular breath, and usurping and uniting in our own persons the -incompatible characters of accuser, witness, judge and executioner, -let us decide without trial, testimony, or form, that certain -motives of those who are “there sitting where we dare not soar,” are -reprehensible. Let us assume that Homer was a drunkard, that Virgil was -a flatterer, that Horace was a coward, that Tasso was a madman, that -Bacon was a speculator, that Raphael was a libertine, that Spenser was -a poet laureate. It is inconsistent with this division of our subject -to cite living poets, but posterity has done ample justice to the great -names now referred to. Their errors have been weighed and found to have -been dust in the balance; if their sins “were as scarlet, they are now -white as snow:” they have been washed in the blood of the mediator -and redeemer, time. Observe in what a ludicrous chaos the imputations -of real or fictitious crime have been confused in the contemporary -calumnies against poetry and poets; consider how little is, as it -appears--or appears, as it is, look to your own motives, and judge not, -lest ye be judged. - -Poetry, as has been said, differs in this respect from logic, that -it is not subject to the control of the active powers of the mind, -and that its birth and recurrence have no necessary connexion with -the consciousness or will. It is presumptuous to determine that these -are the necessary conditions of all mental causation, when mental -effects are experienced insusceptible of being referred to them. The -frequent recurrence of the poetical power, it is obvious to suppose, -may produce in the mind a habit of order and harmony correlative -with its own nature and with its effects upon other minds. But in -the intervals of inspiration, and they may be frequent without being -durable, a poet becomes a man, and is abandoned to the sudden reflux of -the influences under which others habitually live. But as he is more -delicately organised than other men, and sensible to pain and pleasure, -both his own and that of others, in a degree unknown to them, he will -avoid the one and pursue the other with an ardour proportioned to -this difference. And he renders himself obnoxious to calumny, when he -neglects to observe the circumstances under which these objects of -universal pursuit and flight have disguised themselves in one another’s -garments. - -But there is nothing necessarily evil in this error, and thus cruelty, -envy, revenge, avarice, and the passions purely evil, have never formed -any portion of the popular imputations on the lives of poets. - -I have thought it most favourable to the cause of truth to set down -these remarks according to the order in which they were suggested -to my mind, by a consideration of the subject itself, instead of -observing the formality of a polemical reply; but if the view which -they contain be just, they will be found to involve a refutation of the -arguers against poetry, so far at least as regards the first division -of the subject. I can readily conjecture what should have moved the -gall of some learned and intelligent writers who quarrel with certain -versifiers; I, like them, confess myself unwilling to be stunned by the -Theseids of the hoarse Codri of the day. Bavius and Mævius undoubtedly -are, as they ever were, insufferable persons. But it belongs to a -philosophical critic to distinguish rather than confound. - -The first part of these remarks has related to poetry in its elements -and principles: and it has been shown, as well as the narrow limits -assigned them would permit, that what is called poetry in a restricted -sense, has a common source with all other forms of order and of beauty, -according to which the materials of human life are susceptible of being -arranged, and which is poetry in an universal sense. - -The second part will have for its object an application of these -principles to the present state of the cultivation of poetry, and a -defence of the attempt to idealise the modern forms of manners and -opinions, and compel them into a subordination to the imaginative -and creative faculty. For the literature of England, an energetic -development of which has ever preceded or accompanied a great and -free development of the national will, has arisen as it were from a -new birth. In spite of the low-thoughted envy which would undervalue -contemporary merit, our own will be a memorable age in intellectual -achievements, and we live among such philosophers and poets as surpass -beyond comparison any who have appeared since the last national -struggle for civil and religious liberty. The most unfailing herald, -companion, and follower of the awakening of a great people to work a -beneficial change in opinion or institution, is poetry. At such periods -there is an accumulation of the power of communicating and receiving -intense and impassioned conceptions respecting man and nature. The -persons in whom this power resides may often, as far as regards many -portions of their nature, have little apparent correspondence with -that spirit of good of which they are the ministers. But even whilst -they deny and abjure, they are yet compelled to serve, the power which -is seated on the throne of their own soul. It is impossible to read -the compositions of the most celebrated writers of the present day -without being startled with the electric life which burns within their -words. They measure the circumference and sound the depths of human -nature with a comprehensive and all-penetrating spirit, and they are -themselves perhaps the most sincerely astonished at its manifestations; -for it is less their spirit than the spirit of the age. Poets are -the hierophants of an unapprehended inspiration; the mirrors of the -gigantic shadows which futurity casts upon the present; the words which -express what they understand not; the trumpets which sing to battle -and feel not what they inspire; the influence which is moved not, but -moves. Poets are the unacknowledged legislators of the world. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[1] _De Augment. Scient._, cap. 1., lib. iii. - -[2] See the _Filum Labyrinthi_, and the Essay on Death particularly. - -[3] Macbeth, act iii. scene 2. - -[4] A misquotation of Mark iv. 25.--Ed. - -[5] A misquotation of Ecclesiastes vii. 2.--Ed. - -[6] Although Rousseau has been thus classed, he was essentially a poet. -The others, even Voltaire, were mere reasoners. [_Author’s note._] - -[7] Paradise Lost, Book I. l, 254-5. - - - - -[Decoration] - -ESSAY ON THE LITERATURE, THE ARTS, AND THE MANNERS OF THE ATHENIANS. - -A Fragment. - - -The period which intervened between the birth of Pericles and the death -of Aristotle, is undoubtedly, whether considered in itself, or with -reference to the effects which it has produced upon the subsequent -destinies of civilised man, the most memorable in the history of the -world. What was the combination of moral and political circumstances -which produced so unparalleled a progress during that period in -literature and the arts;--why that progress, so rapid and so sustained, -so soon received a check, and became retrograde,--are problems left -to the wonder and conjecture of posterity. The wrecks and fragments -of those subtle and profound minds, like the ruins of a fine statue, -obscurely suggest to us the grandeur and perfection of the whole. -Their very language--a type of the understandings of which it was the -creation and the image--in variety, in simplicity, in flexibility, and -in copiousness, excels every other language of the western world. Their -sculptures are such as we, in our presumption, assume to be the models -of ideal truth and beauty, and to which no artist of modern times can -produce forms in any degree comparable. Their paintings, according -to Pliny and Pausanias, were full of delicacy and harmony; and some -even were powerfully pathetic, so as to awaken, like tender music or -tragic poetry, the most overwhelming emotions. We are accustomed to -conceive the painters of the sixteenth century, as those who have -brought their art to the highest perfection, probably because none of -the ancient paintings have been preserved. For all the inventive arts -maintain, as it were, a sympathetic connexion between each other, being -no more than various expressions of one internal power, modified by -different circumstances, either of an individual, or of society; and -the paintings of that period would probably bear the same relation -as is confessedly borne by the sculptures to all succeeding ones. Of -their music we know little; but the effects which it is said to have -produced, whether they be attributed to the skill of the composer, -or the sensibility of his audience, are far more powerful than any -which we experience from the music of our own times; and if, indeed, -the melody of their compositions were more tender and delicate, and -inspiring, than the melodies of some modern European nations, their -superiority in this art must have been something wonderful, and wholly -beyond conception. - -Their poetry seems to maintain a very high, though not so -disproportionate a rank, in the comparison. Perhaps Shakespeare, from -the variety and comprehension of his genius, is to be considered, on -the whole, as the greatest individual mind, of which we have specimens -remaining. Perhaps Dante created imaginations of greater loveliness -and energy than any that are to be found in the ancient literature of -Greece. Perhaps nothing has been discovered in the fragments of the -Greek lyric poets equivalent to the sublime and chivalric sensibility -of Petrarch.--But, as a poet, Homer must be acknowledged to excel -Shakespeare in the truth, the harmony, the sustained grandeur, the -satisfying completeness of his images, their exact fitness to the -illustration, and to that to which they belong. Nor could Dante, -deficient in conduct, plan, nature, variety, and temperance, have been -brought into comparison with these men, but for those fortunate isles, -laden with golden fruit, which alone could tempt any one to embark in -the misty ocean of his dark and extravagant fiction. - -But, omitting the comparison of individual minds, which can afford no -general inference, how superior was the spirit and system of their -poetry to that of any other period! So that, had any other genius equal -in other respects to the greatest that ever enlightened the world, -arisen in that age, he would have been superior to all, from this -circumstance alone--that his conceptions would have assumed a more -harmonious and perfect form. For it is worthy of observation, that -whatever the poets of that age produced is as harmonious and perfect as -possible. If a drama, for instance, were the composition of a person of -inferior talent, it was still homogeneous and free from inequalities; -it was a whole, consistent with itself. The compositions of great minds -bore throughout the sustained stamp of their greatness. In the poetry -of succeeding ages the expectations are often exalted on Icarian wings, -and fall, too much disappointed to give a memory and a name to the -oblivious pool in which they fell. - -In physical knowledge Aristotle and Theophrastus had already--no -doubt assisted by the labours of those of their predecessors whom -they criticise--made advances worthy of the maturity of science. The -astonishing invention of geometry, that series of discoveries which -have enabled man to command the elements and foresee future events, -before the subjects of his ignorant wonder, and which have opened -as it were the doors of the mysteries of nature, had already been -brought to great perfection. Metaphysics, the science of man’s intimate -nature, and logic, or the grammar and elementary principles of that -science, received from the latter philosophers of the Periclean age a -firm basis. All our more exact philosophy is built upon the labours of -these great men, and many of the words which we employ in metaphysical -distinctions were invented by them to give accuracy and system to -their reasonings. The science of morals, or the voluntary conduct of -men in relation to themselves or others, dates from this epoch. How -inexpressibly bolder and more pure were the doctrines of those great -men, in comparison with the timid maxims which prevail in the writings -of the most esteemed modern moralists! They were such as Phocion, and -Epaminondas, and Timoleon, who formed themselves on their influence, -were to the wretched heroes of our own age. - -Their political and religious institutions are more difficult to bring -into comparison with those of other times. A summary idea may be formed -of the worth of any political and religious system, by observing the -comparative degree of happiness and of intellect produced under its -influence. And whilst many institutions and opinions, which in ancient -Greece were obstacles to the improvement of the human race, have been -abolished among modern nations, how many pernicious superstitions and -new contrivances of misrule, and unheard-of complications of public -mischief, have not been invented among them by the ever-watchful spirit -of avarice and tyranny! - -The modern nations of the civilised world owe the progress which they -have made--as well in those physical sciences in which they have -already excelled their masters, as in the moral and intellectual -inquiries, in which, with all the advantage of the experience of -the latter, it can scarcely be said that they have yet equalled -them,--to what is called the revival of learning; that is, the study -of the writers of the age which preceded and immediately followed the -government of Pericles, or of subsequent writers, who were, so to -speak, the rivers flowing from those immortal fountains. And though -there seems to be a principle in the modern world, which, should -circumstances analogous to those which modelled the intellectual -resources of the age to which we refer, into so harmonious a -proportion, again arise, would arrest and perpetuate them, and consign -their results to a more equal, extensive, and lasting improvement of -the condition of man--though justice and the true meaning of human -society are, if not more accurately, more generally understood; though -perhaps men know more, and therefore are more, as a mass, yet this -principle has never been called into action, and requires indeed a -universal and an almost appalling change in the system of existing -things. The study of modern history is the study of kings, financiers, -statesmen, and priests. The history of ancient Greece is the study -of legislators, philosophers, and poets; it is the history of men, -compared with the history of titles. What the Greeks were, was a -reality, not a promise. And what we are and hope to be, is derived, -as it were, from the influence and inspiration of these glorious -generations. - -Whatever tends to afford a further illustration of the manners and -opinions of those to whom we owe so much, and who were perhaps, on -the whole, the most perfect specimens of humanity of whom we have -authentic record, were infinitely valuable. Let us see their errors, -their weaknesses, their daily actions, their familiar conversation, -and catch the tone of their society. When we discover how far the -most admirable community ever framed was removed from that perfection -to which human society is impelled by some active power within each -bosom to aspire, how great ought to be our hopes, how resolute our -struggles! For the Greeks of the Periclean age were widely different -from us. It is to be lamented that no modern writer has hitherto -dared to show them precisely as they were. Barthélemi cannot be -denied the praise of industry and system; but he never forgets -that he is a Christian and a Frenchman. Wieland, in his delightful -novels, makes indeed a very tolerable Pagan, but cherishes too many -political prejudices, and refrains from diminishing the interest of -his romances by painting sentiments in which no European of modern -times can possibly sympathise. There is no book which shows the Greeks -precisely as they were; they seem all written for children, with the -caution that no practice or sentiment, highly inconsistent with our -present manners, should be mentioned, lest those manners should receive -outrage and violation. But there are many to whom the Greek language -is inaccessible, who ought not to be excluded by this prudery from -possessing an exact and comprehensive conception of the history of man; -for there is no knowledge concerning what man has been and may be, from -partaking of which a person can depart, without becoming in some degree -more philosophical, tolerant, and just. - -One of the chief distinctions between the manners of ancient Greece -and modern Europe, consisted in the regulations and the sentiments -respecting sexual intercourse. Whether this difference arises from -some imperfect influence of the doctrines of Jesus, who alleges the -absolute and unconditional equality of all human beings, or from the -institutions of chivalry, or from a certain fundamental difference -of physical nature existing in the Celts, or from a combination of -all or any of these causes acting on each other, is a question worthy -of voluminous investigation. The fact is, that the modern Europeans -have in this circumstance, and in the abolition of slavery, made an -improvement the most decisive in the regulation of human society; and -all the virtue and the wisdom of the Periclean age arose under other -institutions, in spite of the diminution which personal slavery and the -inferiority of women, recognised by law and opinion, must have produced -in the delicacy, the strength, the comprehensiveness, and the accuracy -of their conceptions, in moral, political, and metaphysical science, -and perhaps in every other art and science. - -The women, thus degraded, became such as it was expected they would -become. They possessed, except with extraordinary exceptions, the -habits and the qualities of slaves. They were probably not extremely -beautiful; at least there was no such disproportion in the attractions -of the external form between the female and male sex among the Greeks, -as exists among the modern Europeans. They were certainly devoid of -that moral and intellectual loveliness with which the acquisition of -knowledge and the cultivation of sentiment animates, as with another -life of overpowering grace, the lineaments and the gestures of every -form which they inhabit. Their eyes could not have been deep and -intricate from the workings of the mind, and could have entangled no -heart in soul-enwoven labyrinths. - -Let it not be imagined that because the Greeks were deprived of its -legitimate object, they were incapable of sentimental love; and that -this passion is the mere child of chivalry and the literature of modern -times. This object or its archetype forever exists in the mind, which -selects among those who resemble it that which most resembles it; and -instinctively fills up the interstices of the imperfect image, in -the same manner as the imagination moulds and completes the shapes -in clouds, or in the fire, into the resemblances of whatever form, -animal, building, &c., happens to be present to it. Man is in his -wildest state a social being: a certain degree of civilisation and -refinement ever produces the want of sympathies still more intimate -and complete; and the gratification of the senses is no longer all -that is sought in sexual connexion. It soon becomes a very small part -of that profound and complicated sentiment, which we call love, which -is rather the universal thirst for a communion not only of the senses, -but of our whole nature, intellectual, imaginative and sensitive, and -which, when individualised, becomes an imperious necessity, only to be -satisfied by the complete or partial, actual or supposed fulfilment -of its claims. This want grows more powerful in proportion to the -development which our nature receives from civilisation, for man never -ceases to be a social being. The sexual impulse, which is only one, -and often a small part of those claims, serves, from its obvious and -external nature, as a kind of type or expression of the rest, a common -basis, an acknowledged and visible link. Still it is a claim which even -derives a strength not its own from the accessory circumstances which -surround it, and one which our nature thirsts to satisfy. To estimate -this, observe the degree of intensity and durability of the love of -the male towards the female in animals and savages; and acknowledge -all the duration and intensity observable in the love of civilised -beings beyond that of savages to be produced from other causes. In the -susceptibility of the external senses there is probably no important -difference. - -Among the ancient Greeks the male sex, one half of the human race, -received the highest cultivation and refinement: whilst the other, so -far as intellect is concerned, were educated as slaves, and were raised -but few degrees in all that related to moral or intellectual excellence -above the condition of savages. The gradations in the society of man -present us with slow improvement in this respect. The Roman women -held a higher consideration in society, and were esteemed almost as -the equal partners with their husbands in the regulation of domestic -economy and the education of their children. The practices and customs -of modern Europe are essentially different from and incomparably less -pernicious than either, however remote from what an enlightened mind -cannot fail to desire as the future destiny of human beings. - -[Decoration] - - - - -[Decoration] - - ON THE SYMPOSIUM, - OR PREFACE TO THE BANQUET OF PLATO. - - A Fragment. - - -The dialogue entitled “The Banquet,” was selected by the translator -as the most beautiful and perfect among all the works of Plato.[8] He -despairs of having communicated to the English language any portion -of the surpassing graces of the composition, or having done more than -present an imperfect shadow of the language and the sentiment of this -astonishing production. - -Plato is eminently the greatest among the Greek philosophers, and -from, or, rather, perhaps through him, from his master Socrates, -have proceeded those emanations of moral and metaphysical knowledge, -on which a long series and an incalculable variety of popular -superstitions have sheltered their absurdities from the slow contempt -of mankind. Plato exhibits the rare union of close and subtle logic -with the Pythian enthusiasm of poetry, melted by the splendour and -harmony of his periods into one irresistible stream of musical -impressions, which hurry the persuasions onward, as in a breathless -career. His language is that of an immortal spirit, rather than a man. -Bacon is, perhaps, the only writer who, in these particulars, can be -compared with him: his imitator, Cicero, sinks in the comparison into -an ape mocking the gestures of a man. His views into the nature of mind -and existence are often obscure, only because they are profound; and -though his theories respecting the government of the world, and the -elementary laws of moral action, are not always correct, yet there is -scarcely any of his treatises which do not, however stained by puerile -sophisms, contain the most remarkable intuitions into all that can be -the subject of the human mind. His excellence consists especially in -intuition, and it is this faculty which raises him far above Aristotle, -whose genius, though vivid and various, is obscure in comparison with -that of Plato. - -The dialogue entitled the “Banquet,” is called Ερωτικος, -or a Discussion upon Love, and is supposed to have taken place at -the house of Agathon, at one of a series of festivals given by that -poet, on the occasion of his gaining the prize of tragedy at the -Dionysiaca. The account of the debate on this occasion is supposed to -have been given by Apollodorus, a pupil of Socrates, many years after -it had taken place, to a companion who was curious to hear it. This -Apollodorus appears, both from the style in which he is represented -in this piece, as well as from a passage in the Phædon, to have been -a person of an impassioned and enthusiastic disposition; to borrow -an image from the Italian painters, he seems to have been the St. -John of the Socratic group. The drama (for so the lively distinction -of character and the various and well-wrought circumstances of the -story almost entitle it to be called) begins by Socrates persuading -Aristodemus to sup at Agathon’s, uninvited. The whole of this -introduction affords the most lively conception of refined Athenian -manners. - - -[8] The Republic, though replete with considerable errors of -speculation, is, indeed, the greatest repository of important truths of -all the works of Plato. This, perhaps, is because it is the longest. He -first, and perhaps last, maintained that a state ought to be governed, -not by the wealthiest, or the most ambitious, or the most cunning, but -by the wisest; the method of selecting such rulers, and the laws by -which such a selection is made, must correspond with and arise out of -the moral freedom and refinement of the people. - - -[Decoration] - - - -THE BANQUET. - -_TRANSLATED FROM PLATO_ - - -_THE PERSONS OF THE DIALOGUE_ - - APOLLODORUS - A FRIEND OF APOLLODORUS - GLAUCO - ARISTODEMUS - SOCRATES - AGATHON - PHÆDRUS - PAUSANIAS - ERYXIMACHUS - ARISTOPHANES - DIOTIMA - ALCIBIADES - - - - -[Decoration] - -THE BANQUET. - -Translated from Plato. - - -APOLLODORUS. - -I think that the subject of your inquiries is still fresh in my memory; -for yesterday, as I chanced to be returning home from Phaleros, one -of my acquaintance, seeing me before him, called out to me from a -distance, jokingly, “Apollodorus, you Phalerian, will you not wait a -minute?”--I waited for him, and as soon as he overtook me, “I have just -been looking for you, Apollodorus,” he said, “for I wished to hear what -those discussions were on Love, which took place at the party, when -Agathon, Socrates, Alcibiades, and some others, met at supper. Some one -who heard it from Phœnix, the son of Philip, told me that you could -give a full account, but he could relate nothing distinctly himself. -Relate to me, then, I entreat you, all the circumstances. I know you -are a faithful reporter of the discussions of your friends; but, first -tell me, were you present at the party or not?” - -“Your informant,” I replied, “seems to have given you no very clear -idea of what you wish to hear, if he thinks that these discussions took -place so lately as that I could have been of the party.”--“Indeed, I -thought so,” replied he.--“For how,” said I, “O Glauco! could I have -been present? Do you not know that Agathon has been absent from the -city many years? But, since I began to converse with Socrates, and to -observe each day all his words and actions, three years are scarcely -past. Before this time I wandered about wherever it might chance, -thinking that I did something, but being in truth, a most miserable -wretch, not less than you are now, who believe that you ought to do -anything rather than practise the love of wisdom.”--“Do not cavil,” -interrupted Glauco, “but tell me, when did this party take place?” - -“Whilst we were yet children,” I replied, “when Agathon first gained -the prize of tragedy, and the day after that on which he and the chorus -made sacrifices in celebration of their success.”--“A long time ago, -it seems. But who told you all the circumstances of the discussion? -Did you hear them from Socrates himself?” “No, by Jupiter! But the -same person from whom Phœnix had his information, one Aristodemus, -a Cydathenean,--a little man who always went about without sandals. -He was present at this feast, being, I believe, more than any of his -contemporaries, a lover and admirer of Socrates. I have questioned -Socrates concerning some of the circumstances of his narration, who -confirms all that I have heard from Aristodemus.”--“Why, then,” said -Glauco, “why not relate them, as we walk, to me? The road to the city -is every way convenient, both for those who listen and those who speak.” - -Thus as we walked I gave him some account of those discussions -concerning Love; since, as I said before, I remember them with -sufficient accuracy. If I am required to relate them also to you, -that shall willingly be done; for, whensoever either I myself talk -of philosophy, or listen to others talking of it, in addition to the -improvement which I conceive there arises from such conversation, I am -delighted beyond measure; but whenever I hear your discussions about -moneyed men and great proprietors, I am weighed down with grief, and -pity you, who, doing nothing, believe that you are doing something. -Perhaps you think that I am a miserable wretch; and, indeed, I believe -that you think truly. I do not think, but well know, that you are -miserable. - -COMPANION. - -You are always the same, Apollodorus--always saying some ill of -yourself and others. Indeed, you seem to me to think every one -miserable except Socrates, beginning with yourself. I do not know what -could have entitled you to the surname of the “Madman,” for, I am sure, -you are consistent enough, for ever inveighing with bitterness against -yourself and all others, except Socrates. - -APOLLODORUS. - -My dear friend, it is manifest that I am out of my wits from this -alone--that I have such opinion as you describe concerning myself and -you. - -COMPANION. - -It is not worth while, Apollodorus, to dispute now about these things; -but do what I entreat you, and relate to us what were these discussions. - -APOLLODORUS. - -They were such as I will proceed to tell you. But let me attempt to -relate them in the order which Aristodemus observed in relating them -to me. He said that he met Socrates washed, and, contrary to his -usual custom, sandalled, and having inquired whither he went so gaily -dressed, Socrates replied, “I am going to sup at Agathon’s; yesterday -I avoided it, disliking the crowd, which would attend at the prize -sacrifices then celebrated; to-day I promised to be there, and I made -myself so gay, because one ought to be beautiful to approach one who -is beautiful. But you, Aristodemus, what think you of coming uninvited -to supper?”--“I will do,” he replied, “as you command.”--“Follow, -then, that we may, by changing its application, disarm that proverb -which says, _To the feasts of the good, the good come uninvited._ -Homer, indeed, seems not only to destroy, but to outrage the proverb; -for, describing Agamemnon as excellent in battle, and Menelaus but a -faint-hearted warrior, he represents Menelaus as coming uninvited to -the feast of one better and braver than himself.”--Aristodemus hearing -this, said, “I also am in some danger, Socrates, not as you say, but -according to Homer, of approaching like an unworthy inferior, the -banquet of one more wise and excellent than myself. Will you not, then, -make some excuse for me? for I shall not confess that I came uninvited, -but shall say that I was invited by you.”--“As we walk together,” said -Socrates, “we will consider together what excuse to make--but let us -go.” - -Thus discoursing, they proceeded. But, as they walked, Socrates, -engaged in some deep contemplation, slackened his pace, and, observing -Aristodemus waiting for him, he desired him to go on before. When -Aristodemus arrived at Agathon’s house he found the door open, and it -occurred somewhat comically, that a slave met him at the vestibule, and -conducted him where he found the guests already reclined. As soon as -Agathon saw him, “You arrive just in time to sup with us, Aristodemus,” -he said; “if you have any other purpose in your visit, defer it to a -better opportunity. I was looking for you yesterday, to invite you to -be of our party; I could not find you anywhere. But how is it that you -do not bring Socrates with you?” - -But he turning round, and not seeing Socrates behind him, said to -Agathon, “I just came hither in his company, being invited by him to -sup with you.”--“You did well,” replied Agathon, “to come; but where is -Socrates?”--“He just now came hither behind me; I myself wonder where -he can be.”--“Go and look, boy,” said Agathon, “and bring Socrates -in; meanwhile, you, Aristodemus, recline there near Eryximachus.” And -he bade a slave wash his feet that he might recline. Another slave, -meanwhile, brought word that Socrates had retired into a neighbouring -vestibule, where he stood, and, in spite of his message, refused to -come in.--“What absurdity you talk,” cried Agathon, “call him, and do -not leave him till he comes.”--“Leave him alone, by all means,” said -Aristodemus, “it is customary with him sometimes to retire in this way -and stand wherever it may chance. He will come presently, I do not -doubt; do not disturb him.”--“Well, be it as you will,” said Agathon; -“as it is, you boys, bring supper for the rest; put before us what -you will, for I resolved that there should be no master of the feast. -Consider me, and these, my friends, as guests, whom you have invited to -supper, and serve them so that we may commend you.” - -After this they began supper, but Socrates did not come in. Agathon -ordered him to be called, but Aristodemus perpetually forbade it. At -last he came in, much about the middle of supper, not having delayed -so long as was his custom. Agathon (who happened to be reclining at -the end of the table, and alone,) said, as he entered, “Come hither, -Socrates, and sit down by me; so that by the mere touch of one so wise -as you are, I may enjoy the fruit of your meditations in the vestibule; -for, I well know, you would not have departed till you had discovered -and secured it.” - -Socrates having sat down as he was desired, replied, “It would be well, -Agathon, if wisdom were of such a nature, as that when we touched each -other, it would overflow of its own accord, from him who possesses much -to him who possesses little; like the water in two chalices, which will -flow through a flock of wool from the fuller into the emptier, until -both are equal. If wisdom had this property, I should esteem myself -most fortunate in reclining near to you. I should thus soon be filled, -I think, with the most beautiful and various wisdom. Mine, indeed, is -something obscure, and doubtful, and dreamlike. But yours is radiant, -and has been crowned with amplest reward; for, though you are yet so -young, it shone forth from you, and became so manifest yesterday, that -more than thirty thousand Greeks can bear testimony to its excellence -and loveliness.”--“You are laughing at me, Socrates,” said Agathon, -“but you and I will decide this controversy about wisdom by and bye, -taking Bacchus for our judge. At present turn to your supper.” - -After Socrates and the rest had finished supper, and had reclined back -on their couches, and the libations had been poured forth, and they -had sung hymns to the god, and all other rites which are customary -had been performed, they turned to drinking. Then Pausanias made this -kind of proposal. “Come, my friends,” said he, “in what manner will -it be pleasantest for us to drink? I must confess to you that, in -reality, I am not very well from the wine we drank last night, and I -have need of some intermission. I suspect that most of you are in the -same condition, for you were here yesterday. Now, consider how we shall -drink most easily and comfortably.” - -“’Tis a good proposal, Pausanias,” said Aristophanes, “to contrive, in -some way or other, to place moderation in our cups. I was one of those -who were drenched last night.”--Eryximachus, the son of Acumenius, -hearing this, said: “I am of your opinion; I only wish to know one -thing--whether Agathon is in the humour for hard drinking?”--“Not at -all,” replied Agathon, “I confess that I am not able to drink much this -evening.”--“It is an excellent thing for us,” replied Eryximachus, -“I mean myself, Aristodemus, Phædrus, and these others, if you who -are such invincible drinkers, now refuse to drink. I ought to except -Socrates, for he is capable of drinking everything, or nothing; and -whatever we shall determine will equally suit him. Since, then, no one -present has any desire to drink much wine, I shall perhaps give less -offence if I declare the nature of drunkenness. The science of medicine -teaches us that drunkenness is very pernicious: nor would I choose to -drink immoderately myself, or counsel another to do so, especially -if he had been drunk the night before.”--“Yes,” said Phædrus, the -Myrinusian, interrupting him, “I have been accustomed to confide in -you, especially in your directions concerning medicine; and I would now -willingly do so, if the rest will do the same.” All then agreed that -they would drink at this present banquet not for drunkenness, but for -pleasure. - -“Since, then,” said Eryximachus, “it is decided that no one shall be -compelled to drink more than he pleases, I think that we may as well -send away the flute-player to play to herself; or, if she likes, to -the women within. Let us devote the present occasion to conversation -between ourselves, and if you wish, I will propose to you what shall be -the subject of our discussion.” All present desired and entreated that -he would explain.--“The exordium of my speech,” said Eryximachus, “will -be in the style of the Menalippe of Euripides, for the story which I -am about to tell belongs not to me, but to Phædrus. Phædrus has often -indignantly complained to me, saying--‘Is it not strange, Eryximachus, -that there are innumerable hymns and pæans composed for the other gods, -but that not one of the many poets who spring up in the world have -ever composed a verse in honour of Love, who is such and so great a -god? Nor any one of those accomplished sophists, who, like the famous -Prodicus, have celebrated the praise of Hercules and others, have ever -celebrated that of Love; but what is more astonishing, I have lately -met with the book of some philosopher, in which salt is extolled on -account of its utility, and many other things of the same nature are -in like manner celebrated with elaborate praise. That so much serious -thought is expended on such trifles, and that no man has dared to this -day to frame a hymn in honour of Love, who being so great a deity, is -thus neglected, may well be sufficient to excite my indignation.’ - -“There seemed to me some justice in these complaints of Phædrus; I -propose, therefore, at the same time for the sake of giving pleasure -to Phædrus, and that we may on the present occasion do something well -and befitting us, that this God should receive from those who are -now present the honour which is most due to him. If you agree to my -proposal, an excellent discussion might arise on the subject. Every one -ought, according to my plan, to praise Love with as much eloquence as -he can. Let Phædrus begin first, both because he reclines the first in -order, and because he is the father of the discussion.” - -“No one will vote against you, Eryximachus,” said Socrates, “for how -can I oppose your proposal, who am ready to confess that I know nothing -on any subject but love? Or how can Agathon, or Pausanias, or even -Aristophanes, whose life is one perpetual ministration to Venus and -Bacchus? Or how can any other whom I see here? Though we who sit last -are scarcely on an equality with you; for if those who speak before us -shall have exhausted the subject with their eloquence and reasonings, -our discourses will be superfluous. But in the name of Good Fortune, -let Phædrus begin and praise Love.” The whole party agreed to what -Socrates said, and entreated Phædrus to begin. - -What each then said on this subject, Aristodemus did not entirely -recollect, nor do I recollect all that he related to me; but only the -speeches of those who said what was most worthy of remembrance. First, -then, Phædrus began thus:-- - -“Love is a mighty deity, and the object of admiration, both to Gods -and men, for many and for various claims; but especially on account of -his origin. For that he is to be honoured as one of the most ancient -of the gods, this may serve as a testimony, that Love has no parents, -nor is there any poet or other person who has ever affirmed that -there are such. Hesiod says, that first ‘Chaos was produced; then the -broad-bosomed Earth, to be a secure foundation for all things; then -Love.’ He says that after Chaos these two were produced, the Earth and -Love. Parmenides, speaking of generation, says:--‘But he created Love -before any of the gods.’ Acusileus agrees with Hesiod. Love, therefore, -is universally acknowledged to be among the oldest of things. And in -addition to this, Love is the author of our greatest advantages; for I -cannot imagine a greater happiness and advantage to one who is in the -flower of youth than an amiable lover, or to a lover, than an amiable -object of his love. For neither birth, nor wealth, nor honours, can -awaken in the minds of men the principles which should guide those -who from their youth aspire to an honourable and excellent life, as -Love awakens them. I speak of the fear of shame, which deters them -from that which is disgraceful; and the love of glory, which incites -to honourable deeds. For it is not possible that a state or private -person should accomplish, without these incitements, anything beautiful -or great. I assert, then, that should one who loves be discovered in -any dishonourable action, or tamely enduring insult through cowardice, -he would feel more anguish and shame if observed by the object of his -passion, than if he were observed by his father, or his companions, -or any other person. In like manner, among warmly attached friends, -a man is especially grieved to be discovered by his friend in any -dishonourable act. If, then, by any contrivance, a state or army -could be composed of friends bound by strong attachment, it is beyond -calculation how excellently they would administer their affairs, -refraining from anything base, contending with each other for the -acquirement of fame, and exhibiting such valour in battle as that, -though few in numbers, they might subdue all mankind. For should one -friend desert the ranks or cast away his arms in the presence of the -other, he would suffer far acuter shame from that one person’s regard, -than from the regard of all other men. A thousand times would he prefer -to die, rather than desert the object of his attachment, and not -succour him in danger. - -“There is none so worthless whom Love cannot impel, as it were by a -divine inspiration, towards virtue, even so that he may through this -inspiration become equal to one who might naturally be more excellent; -and, in truth, as Homer says: The God breathes vigour into certain -heroes--so Love breathes into those who love, the spirit which is -produced from himself. Not only men, but even women who love, are those -alone who willingly expose themselves to die for others. Alcestis, -the daughter of Pelias, affords to the Greeks a remarkable example -of this opinion; she alone being willing to die for her husband, and -so surpassing his parents in the affection with which love inspired -her towards him, as to make them appear, in the comparison with her, -strangers to their own child, and related to him merely in name; and so -lovely and admirable did this action appear, not only to men, but even -to the Gods, that, although they conceded the prerogative of bringing -back the spirit from death to few among the many who then performed -excellent and honourable deeds, yet, delighted with this action, they -redeemed her soul from the infernal regions: so highly do the Gods -honour zeal and devotion in love. They sent back indeed Orpheus, the -son of Œagrus, from Hell, with his purpose unfulfilled, and, showing -him only the spectre of her for whom he came, refused to render up -herself. For Orpheus seemed to them, not as Alcestis, to have dared -die for the sake of her whom he loved, and thus to secure to himself a -perpetual intercourse with her in the regions to which she had preceded -him, but like a cowardly musician, to have contrived to descend -alive into Hell; and, indeed, they appointed as a punishment for his -cowardice, that he should be put to death by women. - -“Far otherwise did they reward Achilles, the son of Thetis, whom they -sent to inhabit the islands of the blessed. For Achilles, though -informed by his mother that his own death would ensue upon his killing -Hector, but that if he refrained from it he might return home and -die in old age, yet preferred revenging and honouring his beloved -Patroclus; not to die for him merely, but to disdain and reject that -life which he had ceased to share. Therefore the Greeks honoured -Achilles beyond all other men, because he thus preferred his friend to -all things else. - -“On this account have the Gods rewarded Achilles more amply than -Alcestis; permitting his spirit to inhabit the islands of the blessed. -Hence do I assert that Love is the most ancient and venerable of -deities, and most powerful to endow mortals with the possession of -happiness and virtue, both whilst they live and after they die.” - -Thus Aristodemus reported the discourse of Phædrus; and after Phædrus, -he said that some others spoke, whose discourses he did not well -remember. When they had ceased, Pausanias began thus:-- - -“Simply to praise Love, O Phædrus, seems to me too bounded a scope for -our discourse. If Love were one, it would be well. But since Love is -not one, I will endeavour to distinguish which is the Love whom it -becomes us to praise, and having thus discriminated one from the other, -will attempt to render him who is the subject of our discourse the -honour due to his divinity. We all know that Venus is never without -Love; and if Venus were one, Love would be one; but since there are -two Venuses, of necessity also must there be two Loves. For assuredly -are there two Venuses; one, the eldest, the daughter of Uranus, -born without a mother, whom we call the Uranian; the other younger, -the daughter of Jupiter and Dione, whom we call the Pandemian;--of -necessity must there also be two Loves, the Uranian and Pandemian -companions of these goddesses. It is becoming to praise all the Gods, -but the attributes which fall to the lot of each may be distinguished -and selected. For any particular action whatever in itself is neither -good nor evil; what we are now doing--drinking, singing, talking, none -of these things are good in themselves, but the mode in which they are -done stamps them with its own nature; and that which is done well, is -good, and that which is done ill, is evil. Thus, not all love, nor -every mode of love is beautiful, or worthy of commendation, but that -alone which excites us to love worthily. The Love, therefore, which -attends upon Venus Pandemos is, in truth, common to the vulgar, and -presides over transient and fortuitous connexions, and is worshipped -by the least excellent of mankind. The votaries of this deity seek -the body rather than the soul, and the ignorant rather than the wise, -disdaining all that is honourable and lovely, and considering how they -shall best satisfy their sensual necessities. This Love is derived -from the younger goddess, who partakes in her nature both of male and -female. But the attendant on the other, the Uranian, whose nature is -entirely masculine, is the Love who inspires us with affection, and -exempts us from all wantonness and libertinism. Those who are inspired -by this divinity seek the affections of those who are endowed by nature -with greater excellence and vigour both of body and mind. And it is -easy to distinguish those who especially exist under the influence of -this power, by their choosing in early youth as the objects of their -love those in whom the intellectual faculties have begun to develop. -For those who begin to love in this manner seem to me to be preparing -to pass their whole life together in a community of good and evil, -and not ever lightly deceiving those who love them, to be faithless -to their vows. There ought to be a law that none should love the -very young; so much serious affection as this deity enkindles should -not be doubtfully bestowed; for the body and mind of those so young -are yet unformed, and it is difficult to foretell what will be their -future tendencies and power. The good voluntarily impose this law upon -themselves, and those vulgar lovers ought to be compelled to the same -observance, as we deter them with all the power of the laws from the -love of free matrons. For these are the persons whose shameful actions -embolden those who observe their importunity and intemperance to -assert, that it is dishonourable to serve and gratify the objects of -our love. But no one who does this gracefully and according to law, can -justly be liable to the imputation of blame. - -“Not only friendship, but philosophy and the practice of the gymnastic -exercises, are represented as dishonourable by the tyrannical -governments under which the barbarians live. For I imagine it would -little conduce to the benefit of the governors, that the governed -should be disciplined to lofty thoughts and to the unity and communion -of steadfast friendship, of which admirable effects the tyrants -of our own country have also learned that Love is the author. For -the love of Harmodius and Aristogiton, strengthened into a firm -friendship, dissolved the tyranny. Wherever, therefore, it is declared -dishonourable in any case to serve and benefit friends, that law is a -mark of the depravity of the legislator, the avarice and tyranny of -the rulers, and the cowardice of those who are ruled. Wherever it is -simply declared to be honourable without distinction of cases, such a -declaration denotes dulness and want of subtlety of mind in the authors -of the regulation. Here the degrees of praise or blame to be attributed -by law are far better regulated; but it is yet difficult to determine -the cases to which they should refer. - -“It is evident, however, for one in whom passion is enkindled, it is -more honourable to love openly than secretly; and most honourable to -love the most excellent and virtuous, even if they should be less -beautiful than others. It is honourable for the lover to exhort and -sustain the object of his love in virtuous conduct. It is considered -honourable to attain the love of those whom we seek, and the contrary -shameful; and to facilitate this attainment, opinion has given to the -lover the permission of acquiring favour by the most extraordinary -devices, which if a person should practise for any purpose besides -this, he would incur the severest reproof of philosophy. For if any one -desirous of accumulating money, or ambitious of procuring power, or -seeking any other advantage, should, like a lover seeking to acquire -the favour of his beloved, employ prayers and entreaties in his -necessity, and swear such oaths as lovers swear, and sleep before the -threshold, and offer to subject himself to such slavery as no slave -even would endure; he would be frustrated of the attainment of what he -sought, both by his enemies and friends, these reviling him for his -flattery, those sharply admonishing him, and taking to themselves the -shame of his servility. But there is a certain grace in a lover who -does all these things, so that he alone may do them without dishonour. -It is commonly said that the Gods accord pardon to the lover alone if -he should break his oath, and that there is no oath by Venus. Thus, as -our law declares, both gods and men have given to lovers all possible -indulgence. - -“The affair, however, I imagine, stands thus: As I have before -said, love cannot be considered in itself as either honourable or -dishonourable: if it is honourably pursued, it is honourable; if -dishonourably, dishonourable: it is dishonourable basely to serve and -gratify a worthless person; it is honourable honourably to serve a -person of virtue. That Pandemic lover who loves rather the body than -the soul is worthless, nor can be constant and consistent, since he -has placed his affections on that which has no stability. For as soon -as the flower of the form, which was the sole object of his desire, -has faded, then he departs and is seen no more; bound by no faith nor -shame of his many promises and persuasions. But he who is the lover of -virtuous manners is constant during life, since he has placed himself -in harmony and desire with that which is consistent with itself. - -“These two classes of persons we ought to distinguish with careful -examination, so that we may serve and converse with the one and avoid -the other; determining, by that inquiry, by what a man is attracted, -and for what the object of his love is dear to him. On the same -account it is considered as dishonourable to be inspired with love at -once, lest time should be wanting to know and approve the character -of the object. It is considered dishonourable to be captivated by the -allurements of wealth and power, or terrified through injuries to -yield up the affections, or not to despise in the comparison with an -unconstrained choice all political influence and personal advantage. -For no circumstance is there in wealth or power so invariable and -consistent, as that no generous friendship can ever spring up from -amongst them. We have an opinion with respect to lovers which declares -that it shall not be considered servile or disgraceful, though the -lover should submit himself to any species of slavery for the sake of -his beloved. The same opinion holds with respect to those who undergo -any degradation for the sake of virtue. And also it is esteemed among -us, that if any one chooses to serve and obey another for the purpose -of becoming more wise or more virtuous through the intercourse that -might thence arise, such willing slavery is not the slavery of a -dishonest flatterer. Through this we should consider in the same -light a servitude undertaken for the sake of love as one undertaken -for the acquirement of wisdom or any other excellence, if indeed the -devotion of a lover to his beloved is to be considered a beautiful -thing. For when the lover and the beloved have once arrived at the -same point, the province of each being distinguished; the one able to -assist in the cultivation of the mind and in the acquirement of every -other excellence; the other yet requiring education, and seeking the -possession of wisdom; then alone, by the union of these conditions, -and in no other case, is it honourable for the beloved to yield up -the affections to the lover. In this servitude alone there is no -disgrace in being deceived and defeated of the object for which it was -undertaken, whereas every other is disgraceful, whether we are deceived -or no. - -“On the same principle, if any one seeks the friendship of another, -believing him to be virtuous, for the sake of becoming better through -such intercourse and affection, and is deceived, his friend turning -out to be worthless, and far from the possession of virtue; yet it -is honourable to have been so deceived. For such a one seems to have -submitted to a kind of servitude, because he would endure anything for -the sake of becoming more virtuous and wise; a disposition of mind -eminently beautiful. - -“This is that Love who attends on the Uranian deity, and is Uranian; -the author of innumerable benefits both to the state and to -individuals, and by the necessity of whose influence those who love are -disciplined into the zeal of virtue. All other loves are the attendants -on Venus Pandemos. So much, although unpremeditated, is what I have to -deliver on the subject of love, O Phædrus.” - -Pausanias having ceased (for so the learned teach me to denote the -changes of the discourse), Aristodemus said that it came to the turn -of Aristophanes to speak; but it happened that, from repletion or some -other cause, he had an hiccough which prevented him; so he turned to -Eryximachus, the physician, who was reclining close beside him, and -said--“Eryximachus, it is but fair that you should cure my hiccough, -or speak instead of me until it is over.”--“I will do both,” said -Eryximachus; “I will speak in your turn, and you, when your hiccough -has ceased, shall speak in mine. Meanwhile, if you hold your breath -some time, it will subside. If not, gargle your throat with water; -and if it still continue, take something to stimulate your nostrils, -and sneeze; do this once or twice, and even though it should be very -violent it will cease.”--“Whilst you speak,” said Aristophanes, “I will -follow your directions.”--Eryximachus then began:-- - -“Since Pausanias, beginning his discourse excellently, placed no fit -completion and development to it, I think it necessary to attempt to -fill up what he has left unfinished. He has reasoned well in defining -love as of a double nature. The science of medicine, to which I have -addicted myself, seems to teach me that the love which impels towards -those who are beautiful, does not subsist only in the souls of men, -but in the bodies also of those of all other living beings which are -produced upon earth, and, in a word, in all things which are. So -wonderful and mighty is this divinity, and so widely is his influence -extended over all divine and human things! For the honour of my -profession, I will begin by adducing a proof from medicine. The nature -of the body contains within itself this double love. For that which is -healthy and that which is diseased in a body differ and are unlike: -that which is unlike loves and desires that which is unlike. Love, -therefore, is different in a sane and in a diseased body. Pausanias has -asserted rightly that it is honourable to gratify those things in the -body which are good and healthy, and in this consists the skill of the -physician; whilst those which are bad and diseased ought to be treated -with no indulgence. The science of medicine, in a word, is a knowledge -of the love affairs of the body, as they bear relation to repletion -and evacuation; and he is the most skilful physician who can trace -those operations of the good and evil love, can make the one change -places with the other, and attract love into those parts from which -he is absent, or expel him from those which he ought not to occupy. -He ought to make those things which are most inimical, friendly, and -excite them to mutual love. But those things are most inimical which -are most opposite to each other; cold to heat, bitterness to sweetness, -dryness to moisture. Our progenitor, Æsculapius, as the poets inform -us, (and indeed I believe them,) through the skill which he possessed -to inspire love and concord in these contending principles, established -the science of medicine. - -“The gymnastic arts and agriculture, no less than medicine, are -exercised under the dominion of this God. Music, as any one may -perceive who yields a very slight attention to the subject, originates -from the same source; which Heraclitus probably meant, though he could -not express his meaning very clearly in words, when he says, ‘One -though apparently differing, yet so agrees with itself, as the harmony -of a lyre and a bow.’ It is great absurdity to say that a harmony -differs, and can exist between things whilst they are dissimilar; -but probably he meant that from sounds which first differed, like the -grave and the acute, and which afterwards agreed, harmony was produced -according to musical art. For no harmony can arise from the grave and -the acute whilst yet they differ. But harmony is symphony: symphony is, -as it were, concord. But it is impossible that concord should subsist -between things that differ, so long as they differ. Between things -which are discordant and dissimilar there is then no harmony. A rhythm -is produced from that which is quick, and that which is slow, first -being distinguished and opposed to each other, and then made accordant; -so does medicine, no less than music, establish a concord between the -objects of its art, producing love and agreement between adverse things. - -“Music is then the knowledge of that which relates to love in harmony -and system. In the very system of harmony and rhythm, it is easy to -distinguish love. The double love is not distinguishable in music -itself; but it is required to apply it to the service of mankind by -system and harmony, which is called poetry, or the composition of -melody; or by the correct use of songs and measures already composed, -which is called discipline; then one can be distinguished from the -other, by the aid of an extremely skilful artist. And the better love -ought to be honoured and preserved for the sake of those who are -virtuous, and that the nature of the vicious may be changed through -the inspiration of its spirit. This is that beautiful Uranian love, -the attendant on the Uranian muse: the Pandemian is the attendant of -Polyhymnia; to whose influence we should only so far subject ourselves, -as to derive pleasure from it without indulging to excess; in the -same manner as, according to our art, we are instructed to seek the -pleasures of the table, only so far as we can enjoy them without the -consequences of disease. In music, therefore, and in medicine, and in -all other things, human and divine, this double love ought to be traced -and discriminated; for it is in all things. - -“Even the constitution of the seasons of the year is penetrated with -these contending principles. For so often as heat and cold, dryness -and moisture, of which I spoke before, are influenced by the more -benignant love, and are harmoniously and temperately intermingled -with the seasons, they bring maturity and health to men, and to all -the other animals and plants. But when the evil and injurious love -assumes the dominion of the seasons of the year, destruction is spread -widely abroad. Then pestilence is accustomed to arise, and many other -blights and diseases fall upon animals and plants: and hoar frosts, -and hails, and mildew on the corn, are produced from that excessive -and disorderly love, with which each season of the year is impelled -towards the other; the motions of which and the knowledge of the stars, -is called astronomy. All sacrifices, and all those things in which -divination is concerned (for these things are the links by which is -maintained an intercourse and communion between the Gods and men), are -nothing else than the science of preservation and right government of -Love. For impiety is accustomed to spring up, so soon as any one ceases -to serve the more honourable Love, and worship him by the sacrifice -of good actions; but submits himself to the influences of the other, -in relation to his duties towards his parents, and the Gods, and the -living, and the dead. It is the object of divination to distinguish and -remedy the effects of these opposite loves; and divination is therefore -the author of the friendship of Gods and men, because it affords the -knowledge of what in matters of love is lawful or unlawful to men. - -“Thus every species of love possesses collectively a various and vast, -or rather universal power. But love which incites to the acquirement -of its objects according to virtue and wisdom, possesses the most -exclusive dominion, and prepares for his worshippers the highest -happiness through the mutual intercourse of social kindness which it -promotes among them, and through the benevolence which he attracts to -them from the Gods, our superiors. - -“Probably in thus praising Love, I have unwillingly omitted many -things; but it is your business, O Aristophanes, to fill up all that -I have left incomplete; or, if you have imagined any other mode of -honouring the divinity: for I observe your hiccough is over.” - -“Yes,” said Aristophanes, “but not before I applied the sneezing. I -wonder why the harmonious construction of our body should require such -noisy operations as sneezing; for it ceased the moment I sneezed.”--“Do -you not observe what you do, my good Aristophanes?” said Eryximachus; -“you are going to speak, and you predispose us to laughter, and compel -me to watch for the first ridiculous idea which you may start in your -discourse, when you might have spoken in peace.”--“Let me unsay what I -have said, then,” replied Aristophanes, laughing. “Do not watch me, I -entreat you; though I am not afraid of saying what is laughable (since -that would be all gain, and quite in the accustomed spirit of my muse), -but lest I should say what is ridiculous.”--“Do you think to throw your -dart, and escape with impunity, Aristophanes? Attend, and what you say -be careful you maintain; then, perhaps, if it pleases me, I may dismiss -you without question.” - -“Indeed, Eryximachus,” proceeded Aristophanes, “I have designed that my -discourse should be very different from yours and that of Pausanias. It -seems to me that mankind are by no means penetrated with a conception -of the power of Love, or they would have built sumptuous temples and -altars, and have established magnificent rites of sacrifice in his -honour; he deserves worship and homage more than all the other Gods, -and he has yet received none. For Love is of all the Gods the most -friendly to mortals; and the physician of those wounds, whose cure -would be the greatest happiness which could be conferred upon the human -race. I will endeavour to unfold to you his true power, and you can -relate what I declare to others. - -“You ought first to know the nature of man, and the adventures he has -gone through; for his nature was anciently far different from that -which it is at present. First, then, human beings were formerly not -divided into two sexes, male and female; there was also a third, common -to both the others, the name of which remains, though the sex itself -has disappeared. The androgynous sex, both in appearance and in name, -was common both to male and female; its name alone remains, which -labours under a reproach. - -“At the period to which I refer, the form of every human being was -round, the back and the sides being circularly joined, and each had -four arms and as many legs; two faces fixed upon a round neck, exactly -like each other; one head between the two faces; four ears, and -everything else as from such proportions it is easy to conjecture. Man -walked upright as now, in whatever direction he pleased; but when he -wished to go fast he made use of all his eight limbs, and proceeded -in a rapid motion by rolling circularly round,--like tumblers, who, -with their legs in the air, tumble round and round. We account for the -production of three sexes by supposing that, at the beginning, the -male was produced from the sun, the female from the earth; and that -sex which participated in both sexes, from the moon, by reason of the -androgynous nature of the moon. They were round, and their mode of -proceeding was round, from the similarity which must needs subsist -between them and their parent. - -“They were strong also, and had aspiring thoughts. They it was who -levied war against the Gods; and what Homer writes concerning Ephialtus -and Otus, that they sought to ascend heaven and dethrone the Gods, in -reality relates to this primitive people. Jupiter and the other Gods -debated what was to be done in this emergency. For neither could they -prevail on themselves to destroy them, as they had the giants, with -thunder, so that the race should be abolished; for in that case they -would be deprived of the honours of the sacrifices which they were in -the custom of receiving from them; nor could they permit a continuance -of their insolence and impiety. Jupiter, with some difficulty having -desired silence, at length spoke. ‘I think,’ said he, ‘I have contrived -a method by which we may, by rendering the human race more feeble, -quell the insolence which they exercise, without proceeding to their -utter destruction. I will cut each of them in half; and so they will at -once be weaker and more useful on account of their numbers. They shall -walk upright on two legs. If they show any more insolence, and will not -keep quiet, I will cut them up in half again, so they shall go about -hopping on one leg.’ - -“So saying, he cut human beings in half, as people cut eggs before -they salt them, or as I have seen eggs cut with hairs. He ordered -Apollo to take each one as he cut him, and turn his face and half -his neck towards the operation, so that by contemplating it he might -become more cautious and humble; and then, to cure him, Apollo turned -the face round, and drawing the skin upon what we now call the belly, -like a contracted pouch, and leaving one opening, that which is -called the navel, tied it in the middle. He then smoothed many other -wrinkles, and moulded the breast with much such an instrument as the -leather-cutters use to smooth the skins upon the block. He left only -a few wrinkles in the belly, near the navel, to serve as a record of -its former adventure. Immediately after this division, as each desired -to possess the other half of himself, these divided people threw their -arms around and embraced each other, seeking to grow together; and from -this resolution to do nothing without the other half, they died of -hunger and weakness: when one half died and the other was left alive, -that which was thus left sought the other and folded it to its bosom; -whether that half were an entire woman (for we now call it a woman) or -a man; and thus they perished. But Jupiter, pitying them, thought of -another contrivance. In this manner is generation now produced, by the -union of male and female; so that from the embrace of a man and woman -the race is propagated. - -“From this period, mutual love has naturally existed between human -beings; that reconciler and bond of union of their original nature, -which seeks to make two one, and to heal the divided nature of man. -Every one of us is thus the half of what may be properly termed a man, -and like a pselta cut in two, is the imperfect portion of an entire -whole, perpetually necessitated to seek the half belonging to him. - -“Such as I have described is ever an affectionate lover and a faithful -friend, delighting in that which is in conformity with his own nature. -Whenever, therefore, any such as I have described are impetuously -struck, through the sentiment of their former union, with love and -desire and the want of community, they are unwilling to be divided -even for a moment. These are they who devote their whole lives to each -other, with a vain and inexpressible longing to obtain from each other -something they know not what; for it is not merely the sensual delights -of their intercourse for the sake of which they dedicate themselves to -each other with such serious affection; but the soul of each manifestly -thirsts for, from the other, something which there are no words to -describe, and divines that which it seeks, and traces obscurely the -footsteps of its obscure desire. If Vulcan should say to persons thus -affected, ‘My good people, what is it that you want with one another?’ -And if, while they were hesitating what to answer, he should proceed -to ask, ‘Do you not desire the closest union and singleness to exist -between you, so that you may never be divided night or day? If so, I -will melt you together, and make you grow into one, so that both in -life and death ye may be undivided. Consider, is this what you desire? -Will it content you if you become that which I propose?’ We all know -that no one would refuse such an offer, but would at once feel that -this was what he had ever sought; and intimately to mix and melt and to -be melted together with his beloved, so that one should be made out of -two. - -“The cause of this desire is, that according to our original nature, -we were once entire. The desire and the pursuit of integrity and union -is that which we all love. First, as I said, we were entire, but now -we have been dwindled through our own weakness, as the Arcadians by -the Lacedemonians. There is reason to fear, if we are guilty of any -additional impiety towards the Gods, that we may be cut in two again, -and may go about like those figures painted on the columns, divided -through the middle of our nostrils, as thin as lispæ. On which account -every man ought to be exhorted to pay due reverence to the Gods, that -we may escape so severe a punishment, and obtain those things which -Love, our general and commander, incites us to desire; against whom -let none rebel by exciting the hatred of the Gods. For if we continue -on good terms with them, we may discover and possess those lost and -concealed objects of our love; a good-fortune which now befalls to few. - -“I assert, then, that the happiness of all, both men and women, -consists singly in the fulfilment of their love, and in that possession -of its objects by which we are in some degree restored to our ancient -nature. If this be the completion of felicity, that must necessarily -approach nearest to it, in which we obtain the possession and society -of those whose natures most intimately accord with our own. And if -we would celebrate any God as the author of this benefit, we should -justly celebrate Love with hymns of joy; who, in our present condition, -brings good assistance in our necessity, and affords great hopes, if -we persevere in piety towards the Gods, that he will restore us to our -original state, and confer on us the complete happiness alone suited to -our nature. - -“Such, Eryximachus, is my discourse on the subject of Love; different -indeed from yours, which I nevertheless entreat you not to turn into -ridicule, that we may not interrupt what each has separately to deliver -on the subject.” - -“I will refrain at present,” said Eryximachus, “for your discourse -delighted me. And if I did not know that Socrates and Agathon -were profoundly versed in the science of love affairs, I should -fear that they had nothing new to say, after so many and such -various imaginations. As it is, I confide in the fertility of their -geniuses.”--“Your part of the contest, at least, was strenuously -fought, Eryximachus,” said Socrates, “but if you had been in the -situation in which I am, or rather shall be, after the discourse of -Agathon, like me, you would then have reason to fear, and be reduced to -your wits’ end.”--“Socrates,” said Agathon, “wishes to confuse me with -the enchantments of his wit, sufficiently confused already with the -expectation I see in the assembly in favour of my discourse.”--“I must -have lost my memory, Agathon,” replied Socrates, “if I imagine that you -could be disturbed by a few private persons, after having witnessed -your firmness and courage in ascending the rostrum with the actors, -and in calmly reciting your compositions in the presence of so great -an assembly as that which decreed you the prize of tragedy.”--“What -then, Socrates,” retorted Agathon, “do you think me so full of the -theatre as to be ignorant that the judgment of a few wise is more -awful than that of a multitude of others, to one who rightly balances -the value of their suffrages?”--“I should judge ill indeed, Agathon,” -answered Socrates, “in thinking you capable of any rude and unrefined -conception, for I well know that if you meet with any whom you consider -wise, you esteem such alone of more value than all others. But we -are far from being entitled to this distinction, for we were also of -that assembly, and to be numbered among the rest. But should you meet -with any who are really wise, you would be careful to say nothing in -their presence which you thought they would not approve--is it not -so?”--“Certainly,” replied Agathon.--“You would not then exercise -the same caution in the presence of the multitude in which they were -included?”--“My dear Agathon,” said Phædrus, interrupting him, “if -you answer all the questions of Socrates, they will never have an -end; he will urge them without conscience so long as he can get any -person, especially one who is so beautiful, to dispute with him. I own -it delights me to hear Socrates discuss; but at present, I must see -that Love is not defrauded of the praise, which it is my province to -exact from each of you. Pay the God his due, and then reason between -yourselves if you will.” - -“Your admonition is just, Phædrus,” replied Agathon, “nor need any -reasoning I hold with Socrates impede me: we shall find many future -opportunities for discussion. I will begin my discourse then; first -having defined what ought to be the subject of it. All who have -already spoken seem to me not so much to have praised Love, as to -have felicitated mankind on the many advantages of which that deity -is the cause; what he is, the author of these great benefits, none -have yet declared. There is one mode alone of celebration which would -comprehend the whole topic, namely, first to declare what are those -benefits, and then what he is who is the author of those benefits, -which are the subject of our discourse. Love ought first to be praised, -and then his gifts declared. I assert, then, that although all the -Gods are immortally happy, Love, if I dare trust my voice to express -so awful a truth, is the happiest, and most excellent, and the most -beautiful. That he is the most beautiful is evident; first, O Phædrus, -from this circumstance, that he is the youngest of the Gods; and, -secondly, from his fleetness, and from his repugnance to all that -is old; for he escapes with the swiftness of wings from old age; a -thing in itself sufficiently swift, since it overtakes us sooner than -there is need; and which Love, who delights in the intercourse of the -young, hates, and in no manner can be induced to enter into community -with. The ancient proverb, which says that like is attracted by like, -applies to the attributes of Love. I concede many things to you, O -Phædrus, but this I do not concede, that Love is more ancient than -Saturn and Jupiter. I assert that he is not only the youngest of the -Gods, but invested with everlasting youth. Those ancient deeds among -the Gods recorded by Hesiod and Parmenides, if their relations are to -be considered as true, were produced not by Love, but by Necessity. For -if Love had been then in Heaven, those violent and sanguinary crimes -never would have taken place; but there would ever have subsisted that -affection and peace, in which the Gods now live, under the influence of -Love. - -“He is young, therefore, and being young is tender and soft. There were -need of some poet like Homer to celebrate the delicacy and tenderness -of Love. For Homer says, that the goddess Calamity is delicate, and -that her feet are tender. ‘Her feet are soft,’ he says, ‘for she treads -not upon the ground, but makes her path upon the heads of men.’ He -gives as an evidence of her tenderness, that she walks not upon that -which is hard, but that which is soft. The same evidence is sufficient -to make manifest the tenderness of Love. For Love walks not upon the -earth, nor over the heads of men, which are not indeed very soft; but -he dwells within, and treads on the softest of existing things, having -established his habitation within the souls and inmost nature of Gods -and men; not indeed in all souls--for wherever he chances to find a -hard and rugged disposition, there he will not inhabit, but only where -it is most soft and tender. Of needs must he be the most delicate of -all things, who touches lightly with his feet only the softest parts of -those things which are the softest of all. - -“He is then the youngest and the most delicate of all divinities; and -in addition to this, he is, as it were, the most moist and liquid. -For if he were otherwise, he could not, as he does, fold himself -around everything, and secretly flow out and into every soul. His -loveliness, that which Love possesses far beyond all other things, is -a manifestation of the liquid and flowing symmetry of his form; for -between deformity and Love there is eternal contrast and repugnance. -His life is spent among flowers, and this accounts for the immortal -fairness of his skin; for the winged Love rests not in his flight on -any form, or within any soul the flower of whose loveliness is faded, -but there remains most willingly where is the odour and radiance of -blossoms, yet unwithered. Concerning the beauty of the God, let this be -sufficient, though many things must remain unsaid. Let us next consider -the virtue and power of Love. - -“What is most admirable in Love is, that he neither inflicts nor -endures injury in his relations either with Gods or men. Nor if he -suffers any thing does he suffer it through violence, nor doing any -thing does he act it with violence, for Love is never even touched -with violence. Every one willingly administers every thing to Love; -and that which every one voluntarily concedes to another, the laws, -which are the kings of the republic, decree that is just for him to -possess. In addition to justice, Love participates in the highest -temperance; for if temperance is defined to be the being superior to -and holding under dominion pleasures and desires; then Love, than whom -no pleasure is more powerful, and who is thus more powerful than all -persuasions and delights, must be excellently temperate. In power and -valour Mars cannot contend with Love: the love of Venus possesses Mars; -the possessor is always superior to the possessed, and he who subdues -the most powerful must of necessity be the most powerful of all. - -“The justice and temperance and valour of the God have been thus -declared;--there remains to exhibit his wisdom. And first, that, like -Eryximachus, I may honour my own profession, the God is a wise poet; -so wise that he can even make a poet one who was not before: for every -one, even if before he were ever so undisciplined, becomes a poet as -soon as he is touched by Love;--a sufficient proof that Love is a great -poet, and well skilled in that science according to the discipline -of music. For what any one possesses not, or knows not, that can he -neither give nor teach another. And who will deny that the divine -poetry, by which all living things are produced upon the earth, is not -harmonised by the wisdom of Love? Is it not evident that Love was the -author of all the arts of life with which we are acquainted, and that -he whose teacher has been Love, becomes eminent and illustrious, whilst -he who knows not Love, remains forever unregarded and obscure? Apollo -invented medicine, and divination, and archery, under the guidance -of desire and Love; so that Apollo was the disciple of Love. Through -him the Muses discovered the arts of literature, and Vulcan that of -moulding brass, and Minerva the loom, and Jupiter the mystery of the -dominion which he now exercises over gods and men. So were the Gods -taught and disciplined by the love of that which is beautiful; for -there is no love towards deformity. - -“At the origin of things, as I have before said, many fearful deeds are -reported to have been done among the Gods, on account of the dominion -of Necessity. But so soon as this deity sprang forth from the desire -which forever tends in the universe towards that which is lovely, then -all blessings descended upon all living things, human and divine. Love -seems to me, O Phædrus, a divinity the most beautiful and the best of -all, and the author to all others of the excellencies with which his -own nature is endowed. Nor can I restrain the poetic enthusiasm which -takes possession of my discourse, and bids me declare that Love is -the divinity who creates peace among men, and calm upon the sea, the -windless silence of storms, repose and sleep in sadness. Love divests -us of all alienation from each other, and fills our vacant hearts with -overflowing sympathy; he gathers us together in such social meetings -as we now delight to celebrate, our guardian and our guide in dances, -and sacrifices, and feasts. Yes, Love, who showers benignity upon the -world, and before whose presence all harsh passions flee and perish; -the author of all soft affections; the destroyer of all ungentle -thoughts; merciful, mild; the object of the admiration of the wise, and -the delight of gods; possessed by the fortunate, and desired by the -unhappy, therefore unhappy because they possess him not; the father of -grace, and delicacy, and gentleness, and delight, and persuasion, and -desire; the cherisher of all that is good, the abolisher of all evil; -our most excellent pilot, defence, saviour and guardian in labour and -in fear, in desire and in reason; the ornament and governor of all -things human and divine; the best, the loveliest; in whose footsteps -every one ought to follow, celebrating him excellently in song, and -bearing each his part in that divinest harmony which Love sings to all -things which live and are, soothing the troubled minds of Gods and men. -This, O Phædrus, is what I have to offer in praise of the divinity; -partly composed, indeed, of thoughtless and playful fancies, and partly -of such serious ones as I could well command.” - -No sooner had Agathon ceased, than a loud murmur of applause arose from -all present; so becomingly had the fair youth spoken, both in praise -of the God, and in extenuation of himself. Then Socrates, addressing -Eryximachus, said, “Was not my fear reasonable, son of Acumenus? Did -I not divine what has, in fact, happened,--that Agathon’s discourse -would be so wonderfully beautiful, as to preoccupy all interest in -what I should say?”--“You, indeed, divined well so far, O Socrates,” -said Eryximachus, “that Agathon would speak eloquently, but not that, -therefore, you would be reduced to any difficulty.”--“How, my good -friend, can I or any one else be otherwise than reduced to difficulty, -who speak after a discourse so various and so eloquent, and which -otherwise had been sufficiently wonderful, if, at the conclusion, -the splendour of the sentences, and the choice selection of the -expressions, had not struck all the hearers with astonishment; so that -I, who well know that I can never say anything nearly so beautiful as -this, would, if there had been any escape, have run away for shame. The -story of Gorgias came into my mind, and I was afraid lest in reality -I should suffer what Homer describes; and lest Agathon, scanning my -discourse with the head of the eloquent Gorgias, should turn me to -stone for speechlessness. I immediately perceived how ridiculously -I had engaged myself with you to assume a part in rendering praise -to love, and had boasted that I was well skilled in amatory matters, -being so ignorant of the manner in which it is becoming to render him -honour, as I now perceive myself to be. I, in my simplicity, imagined -that the truth ought to be spoken concerning each of the topics of -our praise, and that it would be sufficient, choosing those which -are the most honourable to the God, to place them in as luminous an -arrangement as we could. I had, therefore, great hopes that I should -speak satisfactorily, being well aware that I was acquainted with the -true foundations of the praise which we have engaged to render. But -since, as it appears, our purpose has been, not to render Love his -due honour, but to accumulate the most beautiful and the greatest -attributes of his divinity, whether they in truth belong to it or not, -and that the proposed question is not how Love ought to be praised, but -how we should praise him most eloquently, my attempt must of necessity -fail. It is on this account, I imagine, that in your discourses you -have attributed everything to Love, and have described him to be the -author of such and so great effects as, to those who are ignorant of -his true nature, may exhibit him as the most beautiful and the best of -all things. Not, indeed, to those who know the truth. Such praise has a -splendid and imposing effect, but as I am unacquainted with the art of -rendering it, my mind, which could not foresee what would be required -of me, absolves me from that which my tongue promised. Farewell, then, -for such praise I can never render. - -“But if you desire, I will speak what I feel to be true; and that I -may not expose myself to ridicule, I entreat you to consider that I -speak without entering into competition with those who have preceded -me. Consider, then, Phædrus, whether you will exact from me such a -discourse, containing the mere truth with respect to Love, and composed -of such unpremeditated expressions as may chance to offer themselves to -my mind.”--Phædrus and the rest bade him speak in the manner which he -judged most befitting.--“Permit me, then, O Phædrus, to ask Agathon -a few questions, so that, confirmed by his agreement with me, I may -proceed.”--“Willingly,” replied Phædrus, “ask.”--Then Socrates thus -began:-- - -“I applaud, dear Agathon, the beginning of your discourse, where you -say we ought first to define and declare what Love is, and then his -works. This rule I particularly approve. But, come, since you have -given us a discourse of such beauty and majesty concerning Love, you -are able, I doubt not, to explain this question, whether Love is -the love of something or nothing? I do not ask you of what parents -Love is; for the inquiry, of whether Love is the love of any father -or mother, would be sufficiently ridiculous. But if I were asking -you to describe that which a father is, I should ask, not whether a -father was the love of any one, but whether a father was the father -of any one or not; you would undoubtedly reply, that a father was the -father of a son or daughter; would you not?”--“Assuredly.”--“You would -define a mother in the same manner?”--“Without doubt.”--“Yet bear -with me, and answer a few more questions, for I would learn from you -that which I wish to know. If I should inquire, in addition, is not a -brother, through the very nature of his relation, the brother of some -one?”--“Certainly.”--“Of a brother or sister, is he not?”--“Without -question.”--“Try to explain to me then the nature of Love; Love is the -love of something or nothing?”--“Of something, certainly.” - -“Observe and remember this concession. Tell me yet farther, whether -Love desires that of which it is the Love or not?”--“It desires it, -assuredly.”--“Whether possessing that which it desires and loves, or -not possessing it, does it desire and love?”--“Not possessing it, I -should imagine.”--“Observe now, whether it does not appear, that, of -necessity, desire desires that which it wants and does not possess, -and no longer desires that which it no longer wants: this appears -to me, Agathon, of necessity to be; how does it appear to you?”--“It -appears so to me also.”--“Would any one who was already illustrious, -desire to be illustrious; would any one already strong, desire to -be strong? From what has already been conceded, it follows that he -would not. If any one already strong, should desire to be strong; or -any one already swift, should desire to be swift; or any one already -healthy, should desire to be healthy, it must be concluded that they -still desired the advantages of which they already seemed possessed. -To destroy the foundation of this error, observe, Agathon, that each -of these persons must possess the several advantages in question, at -the moment present to our thoughts, whether he will or no. And, now, is -it possible that those advantages should be at that time the objects -of his desire? For, if any one should say, being in health, ‘I desire -to be in health;’ being rich, ‘I desire to be rich, and thus still -desire those things which I already possess;’ we might say to him, -‘You, my friend, possess health, and strength, and riches; you do not -desire to possess now, but to continue to possess them in future; for, -whether you will or no, they now belong to you. Consider then, whether, -when you say that you desire things present to you, and in your own -possession, you say anything else than that you desire the advantages -to be for the future also in your possession.’ What else could he -reply?”--“Nothing, indeed.”--“Is not Love, then, the love of that -which is not within its reach, and which cannot hold in security, for -the future, those things of which it obtains a present and transitory -possession?”--“Evidently.”--“Love, therefore, and everything else that -desires anything, desires that which is absent and beyond his reach, -that which it has not, that which is not itself, that which it wants; -such are the things of which there are desire and love?”--“Assuredly.” - -“Come,” said Socrates, “let us review your concessions. Is Love -anything else than the love first of something; and, secondly, of -those things of which it has need?”--“Nothing.”--“Now, remember of -those things you said in your discourse, that Love was the love--if -you wish I will remind you. I think you said something of this kind, -that all the affairs of the gods were admirably disposed through the -love of the things which are beautiful; for, there was no love of -things deformed; did you not say so?”--“I confess that I did.”--“You -said what was most likely to be true, my friend; and if the matter be -so, the love of beauty must be one thing, and the love of deformity -another.”--“Certainly.”--“It is conceded, then, that Love loves that -which he wants but possesses not?”--“Yes, certainly.”--“But Love -wants and does not possess beauty?”--“Indeed it must necessarily -follow.”--“What, then! call you that beautiful which has need of beauty -and possesses not?”--“Assuredly no.”--“Do you still assert, then, -that Love is beautiful, if all that we have said be true?”--“Indeed, -Socrates,” said Agathon, “I am in danger of being convicted of -ignorance, with respect to all that I then spoke.”--“You spoke most -eloquently, my dear Agathon; but bear with my questions yet a moment. -You admit that things which are good are also beautiful?”--“No -doubt.”--“If Love, then, be in want of beautiful things, and things -which are good are beautiful, he must be in want of things which are -good?”--“I cannot refute your arguments, Socrates.”--“You cannot refute -truth, my dear Agathon: to refute Socrates is nothing difficult. - -“But I will dismiss these questionings. At present let me endeavour, -to the best of my power, to repeat to you, on the basis of the points -which have been agreed upon between me and Agathon, a discourse -concerning Love, which I formerly heard from the prophetess Diotima, -who was profoundly skilled in this and many other doctrines, and who, -ten years before the pestilence, procured to the Athenians, through -their sacrifices, a delay of the disease; for it was she who taught me -the science of things relating to Love. - -“As you well remarked, Agathon, we ought to declare who and what -is Love, and then his works. It is easiest to relate them in the -same order as the foreign prophetess observed when, questioning -me, she related them. For I said to her much the same things that -Agathon has just said to me--that Love was a great deity, and that -he was beautiful; and she refuted me with the same reasons as I -have employed to refute Agathon, compelling me to infer that he was -neither beautiful nor good, as I said.--‘What then,’ I objected, ‘O -Diotima, is Love ugly and evil?’--‘Good words, I entreat you,’ said -Diotima; ‘do you think that every thing which is not beautiful, must -of necessity be ugly?’--‘Certainly.’--‘And everything that is not -wise, ignorant? Do you not perceive that there is something between -ignorance and wisdom?’--‘What is that?’--‘To have a right opinion or -conjecture. Observe, that this kind of opinion, for which no reason can -be rendered, cannot be called knowledge; for how can that be called -knowledge, which is without evidence or reason? Nor ignorance, on the -other hand; for how can that be called ignorance which arrives at the -persuasion of that which it really is? A right opinion is something -between understanding and ignorance.’--I confessed that what she -alleged was true.--‘Do not then say,’ she continued, ‘that what is -not beautiful is of necessity deformed, nor what is not good is of -necessity evil; nor, since you have confessed that Love is neither -beautiful nor good, infer, therefore, that he is deformed or evil, but -rather something intermediate.’ - -“‘But,’ I said, ‘love is confessed by all to be a great God.’--‘Do -you mean, when you say all, all those who know, or those who know -not, what they say?’--‘All collectively.’--‘And how can that be, -Socrates?’ said she laughing; ‘how can he be acknowledged to be a great -God, by those who assert that he is not even a God at all?’--‘And who -are they?’ I said--‘You for one, and I for another.’--‘How can you -say that, Diotima?’--‘Easily,’ she replied, ‘and with truth; for tell -me, do you not own that all the Gods are beautiful and happy? or will -you presume to maintain that any God is otherwise?’--‘By Jupiter, not -I!’--‘Do you not call those alone happy who possess all things that -are beautiful and good?’--‘Certainly.’--‘You have confessed that Love, -through his desire for things beautiful and good, possesses not those -materials of happiness.’--‘Indeed such was my concession.’--‘But how -can we conceive a God to be without the possession of what is beautiful -and good?’--‘In no manner, I confess.’--‘Observe, then, that you do -not consider Love to be a God.’--‘What, then,’ I said, ‘is Love a -mortal?’--‘By no means.’--‘But what, then?’--‘Like those things which I -have before instanced, he is neither mortal nor immortal, but something -intermediate.’--‘What is that, O Diotima?’--‘A great dæmon, Socrates; -and everything dæmoniacal holds an intermediate place between what is -divine and what is mortal.’ - -“‘What is his power and nature?’ I inquired.--‘He interprets and makes -a communication between divine and human things, conveying the prayers -and sacrifices of men to the Gods, and communicating the commands -and directions concerning the mode of worship most pleasing to them, -from Gods to men. He fills up that intermediate space between these -two classes of beings, so as to bind together, by his own power, the -whole universe of things. Through him subsist all divination, and the -science of sacred things as it relates to sacrifices, and expiations, -and disenchantments, and prophecy, and magic. The divine nature cannot -immediately communicate with what is human, but all that intercourse -and converse which is conceded by the Gods to men, both whilst they -sleep and when they wake, subsists through the intervention of Love; -and he who is wise in the science of this intercourse is supremely -happy, and participates in the dæmoniacal nature; whilst he who is -wise in any other science or art, remains a mere ordinary slave. These -dæmons are, indeed, many and various, and one of them is Love.’ - -“‘Who are the parents of Love?’ I inquired.--‘The history of what you -ask,’ replied Diotima, ‘is somewhat long; nevertheless I will explain -it to you. On the birth of Venus the Gods celebrated a great feast, -and among them came Plenty, the son of Metis. After supper, Poverty, -observing the profusion, came to beg, and stood beside the door. Plenty -being drunk with nectar, for wine was not yet invented, went out into -Jupiter’s garden, and fell into a deep sleep. Poverty wishing to have -a child by Plenty, on account of her low estate, lay down by him, and -from his embraces conceived Love. Love is, therefore, the follower and -servant of Venus, because he was conceived at her birth, and because by -nature he is a lover of all that is beautiful, and Venus was beautiful. -And since Love is the child of Poverty and Plenty, his nature and -fortune participate in that of his parents. He is for ever poor, and -so far from being delicate and beautiful, as mankind imagine, he is -squalid and withered; he flies low along the ground, and is homeless -and unsandalled; he sleeps without covering before the doors, and in -the unsheltered streets; possessing thus far his mother’s nature, that -he is ever the companion of want. But, inasmuch as he participates in -that of his father, he is for ever scheming to obtain things which are -good and beautiful; he is fearless, vehement, and strong; a dreadful -hunter, for ever weaving some new contrivance; exceedingly cautious -and prudent, and full of resources; he is also, during his whole -existence, a philosopher, a powerful enchanter, a wizard, and a subtle -sophist. And, as his nature is neither mortal nor immortal, on the same -day when he is fortunate and successful, he will at one time flourish, -and then die away, and then, according to his father’s nature, again -revive. All that he acquires perpetually flows away from him, so that -Love is never either rich or poor, and holding for ever an intermediate -state between ignorance and wisdom. The case stands thus;--no God -philosophises or desires to become wise, for he is wise; nor, if there -exist any other being who is wise, does he philosophise. Nor do the -ignorant philosophise, for they desire not to become wise; for this -is the evil of ignorance, that he who has neither intelligence, nor -virtue, nor delicacy of sentiment, imagines that he possesses all -those things sufficiently. He seeks not, therefore, that possession, -of whose want he is not aware.’--‘Who, then, O Diotima,’ I inquired, -‘are philosophers, if they are neither the ignorant nor the wise?’--‘It -is evident, even to a child, that they are those intermediate persons, -among whom is Love. For Wisdom is one of the most beautiful of all -things; Love is that which thirsts for the beautiful, so that Love is -of necessity a philosopher, philosophy being an intermediate state -between ignorance and wisdom. His parentage accounts for his condition, -being the child of a wise and well provided father, and of a mother -both ignorant and poor. - -“‘Such is the dæmoniacal nature, my dear Socrates; nor do I wonder at -your error concerning Love, for you thought, as I conjecture from what -you say, that Love was not the lover but the beloved, and thence, well -concluded that he must be supremely beautiful; for that which is the -object of Love must indeed be fair, and delicate, and perfect, and -most happy; but Love inherits, as I have declared, a totally opposite -nature.’--‘Your words have persuasion in them, O stranger,’ I said; -‘be it as you say. But this Love, what advantages does he afford to -men?’--‘I will proceed to explain it to you, Socrates. Love being such -and so produced as I have described, is, indeed, as you say, the love -of things which are beautiful. But if any one should ask us, saying: -O Socrates and Diotima, why is Love the love of beautiful things? Or, -in plainer words, what does the lover of that which is beautiful, -love in the object of his love, and seek from it?’--‘He seeks,’ I -said, interrupting her, ‘the property and possession of it.’--‘But -that,’ she replied, ‘might still be met with another question, What -has he, who possesses that which is beautiful?’--‘Indeed, I cannot -immediately reply.’--‘But, if changing the beautiful for good, any one -should inquire,--I ask, O Socrates, what is that which he who loves -that which is good, loves in the object of his love?’--‘To be in his -possession,’ I replied.--‘And what has he, who has the possession of -good?’--‘This question is of easier solution, he is happy.’--‘Those who -are happy, then, are happy through the possession; and it is useless -to inquire what he desires, who desires to be happy; the question -seems to have a complete reply. But do you think that this wish and -this love are common to all men, and that all desire that that which -is good should be for ever present to them?’--‘Certainly, common to -all.’--‘Why do we not say then, Socrates, that every one loves? if, -indeed, all love perpetually the same thing? But we say that some love, -and some do not.’--‘Indeed I wonder why it is so.’--‘Wonder not,’ said -Diotima, ‘for we select a particular species of love, and apply to it -distinctively, the appellation of that which is universal.’---- - -“‘Give me an example of such a select application.’--‘Poetry; which is -a general name signifying every cause whereby anything proceeds from -that which is not, into that which is; so that the exercise of every -inventive art is poetry, and all such artists poets. Yet they are -not called poets, but distinguished by other names; and one portion -or species of poetry, that which has relation to music and rhythm, -is divided from all others, and known by the name belonging to all. -For this is alone properly called poetry, and those who exercise the -art of this species of poetry, poets. So with respect to Love. Love -is indeed universally all that earnest desire for the possession of -happiness and that which is good; the greatest and the subtlest love, -and which inhabits the heart of every living being; but those who seek -this object through the acquirement of wealth, or the exercise of the -gymnastic arts, or philosophy, are not said to love, nor are called -lovers; one species alone is called love, and those alone are said to -be lovers, and to love, who seek the attainment of the universal desire -through one species of love, which is peculiarly distinguished by the -name belonging to the whole. It is asserted by some, that they love, -who are seeking the lost half of their divided being. But I assert, -that Love is neither the love of half nor of the whole, unless, my -friend, it meets with that which is good; since men willingly cut off -their own hands and feet, if they think that they are the cause of -evil to them. Nor do they cherish and embrace that which may belong -to themselves, merely because it is their own; unless, indeed, any -one should choose to say, that that which is good is attached to his -own nature and is his own, whilst that which is evil is foreign and -accidental; but love nothing but that which is good. Does it not appear -so to you?’--‘Assuredly.’--‘Can we then simply affirm that men love -that which is good?’--‘Without doubt.’--‘What, then, must we not add, -that, in addition to loving that which is good, they love that it -should be present to themselves?’--‘Indeed that must be added.’--‘And -not merely that it should be present, but that it should ever be -present?’--‘This also must be added.’ - -“‘Love, then, is collectively the desire in men that good should -be for ever present to them.’--‘Most true.’--‘Since this is the -general definition of Love, can you explain in what mode of attaining -its object, and in what species of actions, does Love peculiarly -consist?’--‘If I knew what you ask, O Diotima, I should not have so -much wondered at your wisdom, nor have sought you out for the purpose -of deriving improvement from your instructions.’--‘I will tell you,’ -she replied: ‘Love is the desire of generation in the beautiful, both -with relation to the body and the soul.’--‘I must be a diviner to -comprehend what you say, for, being such as I am, I confess that I do -not understand it.’--‘But I will explain it more clearly. The bodies -and the souls of all human beings are alike pregnant with their future -progeny, and when we arrive at a certain age, our nature impels us to -bring forth and propagate. This nature is unable to produce in that -which is deformed, but it can produce in that which is beautiful. -The intercourse of the male and female in generation, a divine work, -through pregnancy and production, is, as it were, something immortal in -mortality. These things cannot take place in that which is incongruous; -for that which is deformed is incongruous, but that which is beautiful -is congruous with what is mortal and divine. Beauty is, therefore, -the fate, and the Juno Lucina to generation. Wherefore, whenever that -which is pregnant with the generative principle, approaches that which -is beautiful, it becomes transported with delight, and is poured forth -in overflowing pleasure, and propagates. But when it approaches that -which is deformed it is contracted by sadness, and being repelled and -checked, it does not produce, but retains unwillingly that with which -it is pregnant. Wherefore, to one pregnant, and, as it were, already -bursting with the load of his desire, the impulse towards that which -is beautiful is intense, on account of the great pain of retaining -that which he has conceived. Love, then, O Socrates, is not as you -imagine the love of the beautiful.’--‘What, then?’--‘Of generation and -production in the beautiful.’--‘Why then of generation?’--‘Generation -is something eternal and immortal in mortality. It necessarily, from -what has been confessed, follows, that we must desire immortality -together with what is good, since Love is the desire that good be -for ever present to us. Of necessity Love must also be the desire of -immortality.’ - -“Diotima taught me all this doctrine in the discourse we had together -concerning Love; and, in addition, she inquired, ‘What do you think, -Socrates, is the cause of this love and desire? Do you not perceive -how all animals, both those of the earth and of the air, are affected -when they desire the propagation of their species, affected even to -weakness and disease by the impulse of their love; first, longing -to be mixed with each other, and then seeking nourishment for their -offspring, so that the feeblest are ready to contend with the strongest -in obedience to this law, and to die for the sake of their young, or to -waste away with hunger, and do or suffer anything so that they may not -want nourishment. It might be said that human beings do these things -through reason, but can you explain why other animals are thus affected -through love?’--I confessed that I did not know.--‘Do you imagine -yourself,’ said she, ‘to be skilful in the science of Love, if you are -ignorant of these things?’--‘As I said before, O Diotima, I come to -you, well knowing how much I am in need of a teacher. But explain to -me, I entreat you, the cause of these things, and of the other things -relating to Love.’--‘If,’ said Diotima, ‘you believe that Love is of -the same nature as we have mutually agreed upon, wonder not that such -are its effects. For the mortal nature seeks, so far as it is able, to -become deathless and eternal. But it can only accomplish this desire -by generation, which for ever leaves another new in place of the old. -For, although each human being be severally said to live, and be the -same from youth to old age, yet, that which is called the same, never -contains within itself the same things, but always is becoming new by -the loss and change of that which it possessed before; both the hair -and the flesh, and the bones, and the entire body. - -“‘And not only does this change take place in the body, but also with -respect to the soul. Manners, morals, opinions, desires, pleasures, -sorrows, fears; none of these ever remain unchanged in the same -persons; but some die away, and others are produced. And, what is yet -more strange is, that not only does some knowledge spring up, and -another decay, and that we are never the same with respect to our -knowledge, but that each several object of our thoughts suffers the -same revolution. That which is called meditation, or the exercise of -memory, is the science of the escape or departure of memory; for, -forgetfulness is the going out of knowledge; and meditation, calling -up a new memory in the place of that which has departed, preserves -knowledge; so that, though for ever displaced and restored, it seems to -be the same. In this manner every thing mortal is preserved: not that -it is constant and eternal, like that which is divine; but that in the -place of what has grown old and is departed, it leaves another new like -that which it was itself. By this contrivance, O Socrates, does what -is mortal, the body and all other things, partake of immortality; that -which is immortal, is immortal in another manner. Wonder not, then, if -every thing by nature cherishes that which was produced from itself, -for this earnest Love is a tendency towards eternity.’ - -“Having heard this discourse, I was astonished, and asked, ‘Can these -things be true, O wisest Diotima?’ And she, like an accomplished -sophist, said, ‘Know well, O Socrates, that if you only regard that -love of glory which inspires men, you will wonder at your own -unskilfulness in not having discovered all that I now declare. Observe -with how vehement a desire they are affected to become illustrious and -to prolong their glory into immortal time, to attain which object, far -more ardently than for the sake of their children, all men are ready to -engage in many dangers, and expend their fortunes, and submit to any -labours and incur any death. Do you believe that Alcestis would have -died in the place of Admetus, or Achilles for the revenge of Patroclus, -or Codrus for the kingdom of his posterity, if they had not believed -that the immortal memory of their actions, which we now cherish, would -have remained after their death? Far otherwise; all such deeds are done -for the sake of ever-living virtue, and this immortal glory which they -have obtained; and inasmuch as any one is of an excellent nature, so -much the more is he impelled to attain this reward. For they love what -is immortal. - -“‘Those whose bodies alone are pregnant with this principle of -immortality are attracted by women, seeking through the production -of children what they imagine to be happiness and immortality and an -enduring remembrance; but they whose souls are far more pregnant than -their bodies, conceive and produce that which is more suitable to the -soul. What is suitable to the soul? Intelligence, and every other power -and excellence of the mind; of which all poets, and all other artists -who are creative and inventive, are the authors. The greatest and most -admirable wisdom is that which regulates the government of families -and states, and which is called moderation and justice. Whosoever, -therefore, from his youth feels his soul pregnant with the conception -of these excellences, is divine; and when due time arrives, desires to -bring forth; and wandering about, he seeks the beautiful in which he -may propagate what he has conceived; for there is no generation in -that which is deformed; he embraces those bodies which are beautiful -rather than those which are deformed, in obedience to the principle -which is within him, which is ever seeking to perpetuate itself. And -if he meets, in conjunction with loveliness of form, a beautiful, -generous, and gentle soul, he embraces both at once, and immediately -undertakes to educate this object of his love, and is inspired with an -overflowing persuasion to declare what is virtue, and what he ought to -be who would attain to its possession, and what are the duties which -it exacts. For, by the intercourse with, and as it were, the very -touch of that which is beautiful, he brings forth and produces what he -had formerly conceived; and nourishes and educates that which is thus -produced together with the object of his love, whose image, whether -absent or present, is never divided from his mind. So that those who -are thus united are linked by a nobler community and a firmer love, -as being the common parents of a lovelier and more endearing progeny -than the parents of other children. And every one who considers what -posterity Homer and Hesiod, and the other great poets, have left behind -them, the sources of their own immortal memory and renown, or what -children of his soul Lycurgus has appointed to be the guardians, not -only of Lacedæmon, but of all Greece; or what an illustrious progeny -of laws Solon has produced, and how many admirable achievements, both -among the Greeks and Barbarians, men have left as the pledges of that -love which subsisted between them and the beautiful, would choose -rather to be the parent of such children than those in a human shape. -For divine honours have often been rendered to them on account of such -children, but on account of those in human shape, never. - -“‘Your own meditation, O Socrates, might perhaps have initiated you -in all these things which I have already taught you on the subject -of Love. But those perfect and sublime ends to which these are only -the means, I know not that you would have been competent to discover. -I will declare them, therefore, and will render them as intelligible -as possible: do you meanwhile strain all your attention to trace the -obscure depth of the subject. He who aspires to love rightly, ought -from his earliest youth to seek an intercourse with beautiful forms, -and first to make a single form the object of his love, and therein -to generate intellectual excellences. He ought, then, to consider -that beauty in whatever form it resides is the brother of that beauty -which subsists in another form; and if he ought to pursue that which -is beautiful in form, it would be absurd to imagine that beauty is not -one and the same thing in all forms, and would therefore remit much -of his ardent preference towards one, through his perception of the -multitude of claims upon his love. In addition, he would consider the -beauty which is in souls more excellent than that which is in form. -So that one endowed with an admirable soul, even though the flower of -the form were withered, would suffice him as the object of his love -and care, and the companion with whom he might seek and produce such -conclusions as tend to the improvement of youth; so that it might -be led to observe the beauty and the conformity which there is in -the observation of its duties and the laws, and to esteem little the -mere beauty of the outward form. He would then conduct his pupil to -science, so that he might look upon the loveliness of wisdom; and that -contemplating thus the universal beauty, no longer would he unworthily -and meanly enslave himself to the attractions of one form in love, -nor one subject of discipline or science, but would turn towards the -wide ocean of intellectual beauty, and from the sight of the lovely -and majestic forms which it contains, would abundantly bring forth his -conceptions in philosophy; until, strengthened and confirmed, he should -at length steadily contemplate one science, which is the science of -this universal beauty. - -“‘Attempt, I entreat you, to mark what I say with as keen an -observation as you can. He who has been disciplined to this point -in Love, by contemplating beautiful objects gradually, and in their -order, now arriving at the end of all that concerns Love, on a sudden -beholds a beauty wonderful in its nature. This is it, O Socrates, for -the sake of which all the former labours were endured. It is eternal, -unproduced, indestructible; neither subject to increase nor decay: -not, like other things, partly beautiful and partly deformed; not at -one time beautiful and at another time not; not beautiful in relation -to one thing and deformed in relation to another; not here beautiful -and there deformed; not beautiful in the estimation of one person and -deformed in that of another; nor can this supreme beauty be figured -to the imagination like a beautiful face, or beautiful hands, or any -portion of the body, nor like any discourse, nor any science. Nor -does it subsist in any other that lives or is, either in earth, or -in heaven, or in any other place; but it is eternally uniform and -consistent, and monoeidic with itself. All other things are beautiful -through a participation of it, with this condition, that although they -are subject to production and decay, it never becomes more or less, or -endures any change. When any one, ascending from a correct system of -Love, begins to contemplate this supreme beauty, he already touches the -consummation of his labour. For such as discipline themselves upon this -system, or are conducted by another beginning to ascend through these -transitory objects which are beautiful, towards that which is beauty -itself, proceeding as on steps from the love of one form to that of -two, and from that of two, to that of all forms which are beautiful; -and from beautiful forms to beautiful habits and institutions, and -from institutions to beautiful doctrines; until, from the meditation -of many doctrines, they arrive at that which is nothing else than -the doctrine of the supreme beauty itself, in the knowledge and -contemplation of which at length they repose. - -“‘Such a life as this, my dear Socrates,’ exclaimed the stranger -Prophetess, ’spent in the contemplation of the beautiful, is the -life for men to live; which if you chance ever to experience, you -will esteem far beyond gold and rich garments, and even those lovely -persons whom you and many others now gaze on with astonishment, and are -prepared neither to eat nor drink so that you may behold and live for -ever with these objects of your love! What then shall we imagine to be -the aspect of the supreme beauty itself, simple, pure, uncontaminated -with the intermixture of human flesh and colours, and all other idle -and unreal shapes attendant on mortality; the divine, the original, -the supreme, the monoeidic beautiful itself? What must be the life of -him who dwells with and gazes on that which it becomes us all to seek? -Think you not that to him alone is accorded the prerogative of bringing -forth, not images and shadows of virtue, for he is in contact not -with a shadow but with reality; with virtue itself, in the production -and nourishment of which he becomes dear to the Gods, and if such a -privilege is conceded to any human being, himself immortal.’ - -“Such, O Phædrus, and my other friends, was what Diotima said. -And being persuaded by her words, I have since occupied myself in -attempting to persuade others, that it is not easy to find a better -assistant than Love in seeking to communicate immortality to our human -natures. Wherefore I exhort every one to honour Love; I hold him in -honour, and chiefly exercise myself in amatory matters, and exhort -others to do so; and now and ever do I praise the power and excellence -of Love, in the best manner that I can. Let this discourse, if it -pleases you, Phædrus, be considered as an encomium of Love; or call it -by what other name you will.” - -The whole assembly praised his discourse, and Aristophanes was on the -point of making some remarks on the allusion made by Socrates to him -in a part of his discourse, when suddenly they heard a loud knocking -at the door of the vestibule, and a clamour as of revellers, attended -by a flute-player.--“Go, boys,” said Agathon, “and see who is there: -if they are any of our friends, call them in; if not, say that we have -already done drinking.”--A minute afterwards, they heard the voice of -Alcibiades in the vestibule excessively drunk and roaring out:--“Where -is Agathon? Lead me to Agathon!”--The flute-player, and some of his -companions then led him in, and placed him against the door-post, -crowned with a thick crown of ivy and violets, and having a quantity -of fillets on his head.--“My friends,” he cried out, “hail! I am -excessively drunk already, but I’ll drink with you, if you will. If -not, we will go away after having crowned Agathon, for which purpose I -came. I assure you that I could not come yesterday, but I am now here -with these fillets round my temples, that from my own head I may crown -his who, with your leave, is the most beautiful and wisest of men. Are -you laughing at me because I am drunk? Ay, I know what I say is true, -whether you laugh or not. But tell me at once whether I shall come in, -or no. Will you drink with me?” - -Agathon and the whole party desired him to come in, and recline among -them; so he came in, led by his companions. He then unbound his fillets -that he might crown Agathon, and though Socrates was just before his -eyes, he did not see him, but sat down by Agathon, between Socrates and -him, for Socrates moved out of the way to make room for him. When he -sat down, he embraced Agathon and crowned him; and Agathon desired the -slaves to untie his sandals, that he might make a third, and recline -on the same couch. “By all means,” said Alcibiades, “but what third -companion have we here?” And at the same time turning round and seeing -Socrates, he leaped up and cried out:--“O Hercules! what have we here? -You, Socrates, lying in ambush for me wherever I go! and meeting me -just as you always do, when I least expected to see you! And, now, what -are you come here for? Why have you chosen to recline exactly in this -place, and not near Aristophanes, or any one else who is, or wishes -to be ridiculous, but have contrived to take your place beside the -most delightful person of the whole party?”--“Agathon,” said Socrates, -“see if you cannot defend me. I declare my friendship for this man is -a bad business: from the moment that I first began to know him I have -never been permitted to converse with, or so much as look upon any one -else. If I do, he is so jealous and suspicious that he does the most -extravagant things, and hardly refrains from beating me. I entreat you -to prevent him from doing anything of that kind at present. Procure -a reconciliation: or, if he perseveres in attempting any violence, I -entreat you to defend me.”--“Indeed,” said Alcibiades, “I will not be -reconciled to you; I shall find another opportunity to punish you for -this. But now,” said he, addressing Agathon, “lend me some of those -fillets, that I may crown the wonderful head of this fellow, lest I -incur the blame, that having crowned you, I neglected to crown him who -conquers all men with his discourses, not yesterday alone as you did, -but ever.” - -Saying this he took the fillets, and having bound the head of -Socrates, and again having reclined, said: “Come, my friends, you -seem to be sober enough. You must not flinch, but drink, for that -was your agreement with me before I came in. I choose as president, -until you have drunk enough--myself. Come, Agathon, if you have got -a great goblet, fetch it out. But no matter, that wine-cooler will -do; bring it, boy!” And observing that it held more than eight cups, -he first drank it off, and then ordered it to be filled for Socrates, -and said:--“Observe, my friends, I cannot invent any scheme against -Socrates, for he will drink as much as any one desires him, and not -be in the least drunk.” Socrates, after the boy had filled up, drank -it off; and Eryximachus said:--“Shall we then have no conversation or -singing over our cups, but drink down stupidly, just as if we were -thirsty?” And Alcibiades said: “Ah, Eryximachus, I did not see you -before; hail, you excellent son of a wise and excellent father!”--“Hail -to you also,” replied Eryximachus, “but what shall we do?”--“Whatever -you command, for we ought to submit to your directions; a physician is -worth a hundred common men. Command us as you please.”--“Listen then,” -said Eryximachus, “before you came in, each of us had agreed to deliver -as eloquent a discourse as he could in praise of Love, beginning at -the right hand; all the rest of us have fulfilled our engagement; you -have not spoken, and yet have drunk with us: you ought to bear your -part in the discussion; and having done so, command what you please to -Socrates, who shall have the privilege of doing so to his right-hand -neighbour, and so on to the others.”--“Indeed, there appears some -justice in your proposal, Eryximachus, though it is rather unfair to -induce a drunken man to set his discourse in competition with that -of those who are sober. And, besides, did Socrates really persuade -you that what he just said about me was true, or do you not know that -matters are in fact exactly the reverse of his representation? For I -seriously believe that, should I praise in his presence, be he god or -man, any other beside himself, he would not keep his hands off me. But -I assure you, Socrates, I will praise no one beside yourself in your -presence.” - -“Do so, then,” said Eryximachus, “praise Socrates if you -please.”--“What,” said Alcibiades, “shall I attack him, and punish -him before you all?”--“What have you got into your head now,” said -Socrates, “are you going to expose me to ridicule, and to misrepresent -me? Or what are you going to do?”--“I will only speak the truth; will -you permit me on this condition?”--“I not only permit, but exhort -you to say all the truth you know,” replied Socrates. “I obey you -willingly,” said Alcibiades, “and if I advance anything untrue, do you, -if you please, interrupt me, and convict me of misrepresentation, for -I would never willingly speak falsely. And bear with me if I do not -relate things in their order, but just as I remember them, for it is -not easy for a man in my present condition to enumerate systematically -all your singularities. - -“I will begin the praise of Socrates by comparing him to a certain -statue. Perhaps he will think that this statue is introduced for -the sake of ridicule, but I assure you that it is necessary for the -illustration of truth. I assert, then, that Socrates is exactly like -those Silenuses that sit in the sculptors’ shops, and which are carved -holding flutes or pipes, but which, when divided in two, are found -to contain withinside the images of the gods. I assert that Socrates -is like the satyr Marsyas. That your form and appearance are like -these satyrs’, I think that even you will not venture to deny; and -how like you are to them in all other things, now hear. Are you not -scornful and petulant? If you deny this, I will bring witnesses. Are -you not a piper, and far more wonderful a one than he? For Marsyas, -and whoever now pipes the music that he taught, for that music which -is of heaven, and described as being taught by Marsyas, enchants men -through the power of the mouth. For if any musician, be he skilful or -not, awakens this music, it alone enables him to retain the minds of -men, and from the divinity of its nature makes evident those who are in -want of the gods and initiation. You differ only from Marsyas in this -circumstance, that you effect without instruments, by mere words, all -that he can do. For when we hear Pericles, or any other accomplished -orator, deliver a discourse, no one, as it were, cares any thing about -it. But when any one hears you, or even your words related by another, -though ever so rude and unskilful a speaker, be that person a woman, -man or child, we are struck and retained, as it were, by the discourse -clinging to our mind. - -“If I was not afraid that I am a great deal too drunk, I would confirm -to you by an oath the strange effects which I assure you I have -suffered from his words, and suffer still; for when I hear him speak, -my heart leaps up far more than the hearts of those who celebrate -the Corybantic mysteries; my tears are poured out as he talks, a -thing I have seen happen to many others beside myself. I have heard -Pericles and other excellent orators, and have been pleased with their -discourses, but I suffered nothing of this kind; nor was my soul ever -on those occasions disturbed and filled with self-reproach, as if it -were slavishly laid prostrate. But this Marsyas here has often affected -me in the way I describe, until the life which I lead seemed hardly -worth living. Do not deny it, Socrates, for I well know that if even -now I chose to listen to you, I could not resist, but should again -suffer the same effects. For, my friends, he forces me to confess -that while I myself am still in want of many things, I neglect my own -necessities, and attend to those of the Athenians. I stop my ears, -therefore, as from the Syrens, and flee away as fast as possible, that -I may not sit down beside him and grow old in listening to his talk. -For this man has reduced me to feel the sentiment of shame, which I -imagine no one would readily believe was in me; he alone inspires me -with remorse and awe. For I feel in his presence my incapacity of -refuting what he says, or of refusing to do that which he directs; -but when I depart from him, the glory which the multitude confers -overwhelms me. I escape, therefore, and hide myself from him, and when -I see him I am overwhelmed with humiliation, because I have neglected -to do what I have confessed to him ought to be done; and often and -often have I wished that he were no longer to be seen among men. But if -that were to happen, I well know that I should suffer far greater pain; -so that where I can turn, or what I can do with this man, I know not. -All this have I and many others suffered from the pipings of this satyr. - -“And observe, how like he is to what I said, and what a wonderful power -he possesses. Know that there is not one of you who is aware of the -real nature of Socrates; but since I have begun, I will make him plain -to you. You observe how passionately Socrates affects the intimacy of -those who are beautiful, and how ignorant he professes himself to be; -appearances in themselves excessively Silenic. This, my friends, is the -external form with which, like one of the sculptured Sileni, he has -clothed himself; for if you open him, you will find within admirable -temperance and wisdom. For he cares not for mere beauty, but despises -more than any one can imagine all external possessions, whether it be -beauty or wealth, or glory, or any other thing for which the multitude -felicitates the possessor. He esteems these things and us who honour -them, as nothing, and lives among men, making all the objects of their -admiration the playthings of his irony. But I know not if any one of -you have ever seen the divine images which are within, when he has been -opened and is serious. I have seen them, and they are so supremely -beautiful, so golden, so divine, and wonderful, that everything which -Socrates commands surely ought to be obeyed, even like the voice of a -God. - -“At one time we were fellow-soldiers, and had our mess together in -the camp before Potidæa. Socrates there overcame not only me, but -every one beside, in endurance of toils: when, as often happens in a -campaign, we were reduced to few provisions, there were none who could -sustain hunger like Socrates; and when we had plenty, he alone seemed -to enjoy our military fare. He never drank much willingly, but when -he was compelled he conquered all even in that to which he was least -accustomed; and what is most astonishing, no person ever saw Socrates -drunk either then or at any other time. In the depth of winter (and the -winters there are excessively rigid,) he sustained calmly incredible -hardships; and amongst other things, whilst the frost was intolerably -severe, and no one went out of their tents, or if they went out, wrapt -themselves up carefully, and put fleeces under their feet, and bound -their legs with hairy skins, Socrates went out only with the same cloak -on that he usually wore, and walked barefoot upon the ice; more easily, -indeed, than those who had sandalled themselves so delicately: so that -the soldiers thought that he did it to mock their want of fortitude. -It would indeed be worth while to commemorate all that this brave man -did and endured in that expedition. In one instance he was seen early -in the morning, standing in one place wrapt in meditation; and as -he seemed not to be able to unravel the subject of his thoughts, he -still continued to stand as inquiring and discussing within himself, -and when noon came, the soldiers observed him, and said to one -another--‘Socrates has been standing there thinking, ever since the -morning.’ At last some Ionians came to the spot, and having supped, as -it was summer, bringing their blankets, they lay down to sleep in the -cool; they observed that Socrates continued to stand there the whole -night until morning, and that, when the sun rose, he saluted it with a -prayer and departed. - -“I ought not to omit what Socrates is in battle. For in that battle -after which the generals decreed to me the prize of courage, Socrates -alone of all men was the saviour of my life, standing by me when I had -fallen and was wounded, and preserving both myself and my arms from the -hands of the enemy. On that occasion I entreated the generals to decree -the prize, as it was most due, to him. And this, O Socrates, you cannot -deny, that the generals wishing to conciliate a person of my rank, -desired to give me the prize, you were far more earnestly desirous than -the generals that this glory should be attributed not to yourself, but -me. - -“But to see Socrates when our army was defeated and scattered in flight -at Delius, was a spectacle worthy to behold. On that occasion I was -among the cavalry, and he on foot, heavily armed. After the total rout -of our troops, he and Laches retreated together; I came up by chance, -and seeing them, bade them be of good cheer, for that I would not leave -them. As I was on horseback, and therefore less occupied by a regard of -my own situation, I could better observe than at Potidæa the beautiful -spectacle exhibited by Socrates on this emergency. How superior was -he to Laches in presence of mind and courage! Your representation of -him on the stage, O Aristophanes, was not wholly unlike his real self -on this occasion, for he walked and darted his regards around with a -majestic composure, looking tranquilly both on his friends and enemies; -so that it was evident to every one, even from afar, that whoever -should venture to attack him would encounter a desperate resistance. He -and his companion thus departed in safety; for those who are scattered -in flight are pursued and killed, whilst men hesitate to touch those -who exhibit such a countenance as that of Socrates even in defeat. - -“Many other and most wonderful qualities might well be praised in -Socrates; but such as these might singly be attributed to others. But -that which is unparalleled in Socrates, is, that he is unlike, and -above comparison, with all other men, whether those who have lived in -ancient times, or those who exist now. For it may be conjectured, that -Brasidas and many others are such as was Achilles. Pericles deserves -comparison with Nestor and Antenor; and other excellent persons of -various times may, with probability, be drawn into comparison with -each other. But to such a singular man as this, both himself and his -discourses are so uncommon, no one, should he seek, would find a -parallel among the present or the past generations of mankind; unless -they should say that he resembled those with whom I lately compared -him, for, assuredly, he and his discourses are like nothing but the -Silen and the Satyrs. At first I forgot to make you observe how like -his discourses are to those Satyrs when they are opened, for, if -any one will listen to the talk of Socrates, it will appear to him -at first extremely ridiculous; the phrases and expressions which he -employs, fold around his exterior the skin, as it were, of a rude -and wanton Satyr. He is always talking about great market-asses, and -brass-founders, and leather-cutters, and skin-dressers; and this is -his perpetual custom, so that any dull and unobservant person might -easily laugh at his discourse. But if any one should see it opened, -as it were, and get within the sense of his words, he would then find -that they alone of all that enters into the mind of man to utter, had -a profound and persuasive meaning, and that they were most divine; and -that they presented to the mind innumerable images of every excellence, -and that they tended towards objects of the highest moment, or rather -towards all that he who seeks the possession of what is supremely -beautiful and good need regard as essential to the accomplishment of -his ambition. - -“These are the things, my friends, for which I praise Socrates.” - -Alcibiades having said this, the whole party burst into a laugh at -his frankness, and Socrates said, “You seem to be sober enough, -Alcibiades, else you would not have made such a circuit of words, only -to hide the main design for which you made this long speech, and which, -as it were carelessly, you just throw in at the last; now, as if you -had not said all this for the mere purpose of dividing me and Agathon? -You think that I ought to be your friend, and to care for no one else. -I have found you out; it is evident enough for what design you invented -all this Satyrical and Silenic drama. But, my dear Agathon, do not let -his device succeed. I entreat you to permit no one to throw discord -between us.”--“No doubt,” said Agathon, “he sat down between us only -that he might divide us; but this shall not assist his scheme, for I -will come and sit near you.”--“Do so,” said Socrates, “come, there is -room for you by me.”--“Oh, Jupiter!” exclaimed Alcibiades, “what I -endure from that man! He thinks to subdue every way; but, at least, I -pray you, let Agathon remain between us.”--“Impossible,” said Socrates, -“you have just praised me; I ought to praise him sitting at my right -hand. If Agathon is placed beside you, will he not praise me before -I praise him? Now, my dear friend, allow the young man to receive -what praise I can give him. I have a great desire to pronounce his -encomium.”--“Quick, quick, Alcibiades,” said Agathon, “I cannot stay -here, I must change my place, or Socrates will not praise me.”--Agathon -then arose to take his place near Socrates. - -He had no sooner reclined than there came in a number of revellers--for -some one who had gone out had left the door open--and took their places -on the vacant couches, and everything became full of confusion; and no -order being observed, every one was obliged to drink a great quantity -of wine. Eryximachus, and Phædrus, and some others, said Aristodemus, -went home to bed; that, for his part, he went to sleep on his couch, -and slept long and soundly--the nights were then long--until the cock -crew in the morning. When he awoke he found that some were still fast -asleep, and others had gone home, and that Aristophanes, Agathon, and -Socrates had alone stood it out, and were still drinking out of a -great goblet which they passed round and round. Socrates was disputing -between them. The beginning of their discussion Aristodemus said that -he did not recollect, because he was asleep; but it was terminated -by Socrates forcing them to confess, that the same person is able to -compose both tragedy and comedy, and that the foundations of the tragic -and comic arts were essentially the same. They, rather convicted than -convinced, went to sleep. Aristophanes first awoke, and then, it being -broad daylight, Agathon. Socrates, having put them to sleep, went away, -Aristodemus following him, and coming to the Lyceum he washed himself, -as he would have done anywhere else, and after having spent the day -there in his accustomed manner, went home in the evening. - - -[Decoration] - - - - -[Decoration] - - ION; - OR, OF THE ILIAD. - - Translated from Plato. - - - Socrates _and_ Ion. - -_Socrates._ Hail to thee, O Ion! from whence returnest thou amongst us -now?--from thine own native Ephesus? - -_Ion._ No, Socrates; I come from Epidaurus and the feasts in honour of -Æsculapius. - -_Socrates._ Had the Epidaurians instituted a contest of rhapsody in -honour of the God? - -_Ion._ And not in rhapsodies alone; there were contests in every -species of music. - -_Socrates._ And in which did you contend? And what was the success of -your efforts? - -_Ion._ I bore away the first prize at the games, O Socrates. - -_Socrates._ Well done! You have now only to consider how you shall win -the Panathenæa. - -_Ion._ That may also happen, God willing. - -_Socrates._ Your profession, O Ion, has often appeared to me an -enviable one. For, together with the nicest care of your person, and -the most studied elegance of dress, it imposes upon you the necessity -of a familiar acquaintance with many and excellent poets, and -especially with Homer, the most admirable of them all. Nor is it merely -because you can repeat the verses of this great poet, that I envy you, -but because you fathom his inmost thoughts. For he is no rhapsodist -who does not understand the whole scope and intention of the poet, and -is not capable of interpreting it to his audience. This he cannot do -without a full comprehension of the meaning of the author he undertakes -to illustrate; and worthy, indeed, of envy are those who can fulfil -these conditions. - -_Ion._ Thou speakest truth, O Socrates. And, indeed, I have expended -my study particularly on this part of my profession. I flatter myself -that no man living excels me in the interpretation of Homer; neither -Metrodorus of Lampsacus, nor Stesimbrotus the Thasian, nor Glauco, nor -any other rhapsodist of the present times can express so many various -and beautiful thoughts upon Homer as I can. - -_Socrates._ I am persuaded of your eminent skill, O Ion. You will not, -I hope, refuse me a specimen of it? - -_Ion._ And, indeed, it would be worth your while to hear me declaim -upon Homer. I deserve a golden crown from his admirers. - -_Socrates._ And I will find leisure some day or other to request you -to favour me so far. At present, I will only trouble you with one -question. Do you excel in explaining Homer alone, or are you conscious -of a similar power with regard to Hesiod and Archilochus? - -_Ion._ I possess this high degree of skill with regard to Homer alone, -and I consider that sufficient. - -_Socrates._ Are there any subjects upon which Homer and Hesiod say the -same things? - -_Ion._ Many, as it seems to me. - -_Socrates._ Whether do you demonstrate these things better in Homer or -Hesiod? - -_Ion._ In the same manner, doubtless; inasmuch as they say the same -words with regard to the same things. - -_Socrates._ But with regard to those things in which they -differ;--Homer and Hesiod both treat of divination, do they not? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ Do you think that you or a diviner would make the best -exposition, respecting all that these poets say of divination, both as -they agree and as they differ? - -_Ion._ A diviner probably. - -_Socrates._ Suppose you were a diviner, do you not think that you -could explain the discrepancies of those poets on the subject of your -profession, if you understand their agreement? - -_Ion._ Clearly so. - -_Socrates._ How does it happen then that you are possessed of skill to -illustrate Homer, and not Hesiod, or any other poet in an equal degree? -Is the subject-matter of the poetry of Homer different from all other -poets’? Does he not principally treat of war and social intercourse, -and of the distinct functions and characters of the brave man and the -coward, the professional and private person, the mutual relations which -subsist between the Gods and men; together with the modes of their -intercourse, the phænomena of Heaven, the secrets of Hades, and the -origin of Gods and heroes? Are not these the materials from which Homer -wrought his poem? - -_Ion._ Assuredly, O Socrates. - -_Socrates._ And the other poets, do they not treat of the same matter? - -_Ion._ Certainly: but not like Homer. - -_Socrates._ How! Worse? - -_Ion._ Oh! far worse. - -_Socrates._ Then Homer treats of them better than they? - -_Ion._ Oh! Jupiter!--how much better! - -_Socrates._ Amongst a number of persons employed in solving a problem -of arithmetic, might not a person know, my dear Ion, which had given -the right answer? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ The same person who had been aware of the false one, or -some other? - -_Ion._ The same, clearly. - -_Socrates._ That is, some one who understood arithmetic? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ Among a number of persons giving their opinions on -the wholesomeness of different foods, whether would one person be -capable to pronounce upon the rectitude of the opinions of those who -judged rightly, and another on the erroneousness of those which were -incorrect, or would the same person be competent to decide respecting -them both? - -_Ion._ The same, evidently. - -_Socrates._ What would you call that person? - -_Ion._ A physician. - -_Socrates._ We may assert then, universally, that the same person who -is competent to determine the truth, is competent also to determine the -falsehood of whatever assertion is advanced on the same subject; and, -it is manifest, that he who cannot judge respecting the falsehood, or -unfitness of what is said upon a given subject, is equally incompetent -to determine upon its truth or beauty? - -_Ion._ Assuredly. - -_Socrates._ The same person would then be competent or incompetent for -both? - -_Ion._ Yes. - -_Socrates._ Do you not say that Homer and the other poets, and among -them Hesiod and Archilochus, speak of the same things, but unequally; -one better and the other worse? - -_Ion._ And I speak truth. - -_Socrates._ But if you can judge of what is well said by the one, you -must also be able to judge of what is ill said by another, inasmuch as -it expresses less correctly. - -_Ion._ It should seem so. - -_Socrates._ Then, my dear friend, we should not err if we asserted that -Ion possessed a like power of illustration respecting Homer and all -other poets; especially since he confesses that the same person must be -esteemed a competent judge of all those who speak on the same subjects; -inasmuch as those subjects are understood by him when spoken of by one, -and the subject-matter of almost all the poets is the same. - -_Ion._ What can be the reason then, O Socrates, that when any other -poet is the subject of conversation I cannot compel my attention, -and I feel utterly unable to declaim anything worth talking of, and -positively go to sleep? But when any one makes mention of Homer, my -mind applies itself without effort to the subject; I awaken as if it -were from a trance, and a profusion of eloquent expressions suggest -themselves involuntarily? - -_Socrates._ It is not difficult to suggest the cause of this, my dear -friend. You are evidently unable to declaim on Homer according to art -and knowledge; for did your art endow you with this faculty, you would -be equally capable of exerting it with regard to any other of the -poets. Is not poetry, as an art or a faculty, a thing entire and one? - -_Ion._ Assuredly. - -_Socrates._ The same mode of consideration must be admitted with -respect to all arts which are severally one and entire. Do you desire -to hear what I understand by this, O Ion? - -_Ion._ Yes, by Jupiter, Socrates, I am delighted with listening to you -wise men. - -_Socrates._ It is you who are wise, my dear Ion; you rhapsodists, -actors, and the authors of the poems you recite. I, like an -unprofessional and private man, can only speak the truth. Observe how -common, vulgar, and level to the comprehension of any one, is the -question which I now ask relative to the same consideration belonging -to one entire art. Is not painting an art whole and entire? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ Did you ever know a person competent to judge of the -paintings of Polygnotus, the son of Aglaophon, and incompetent to -judge of the production of any other painter; who, on the supposition -of the works of other painters being exhibited to him, was wholly at -a loss, and very much inclined to go to sleep, and lost all faculty -of reasoning on the subject; but when his opinion was required of -Polygnotus, or any one single painter you please, awoke, paid attention -to the subject, and discoursed on it with great eloquence and sagacity? - -_Ion._ Never, by Jupiter! - -_Socrates._ Did you ever know any one very skilful in determining -the merits of Dædalus, the son of Metion, Epius, the son of Panopus, -Theodorus the Samian, or any other great sculptor, who was immediately -at a loss, and felt sleepy the moment any other sculptor was mentioned? - -_Ion._ I never met with such a person certainly. - -_Socrates._ Nor, do I think, that you ever met with a man professing -himself a judge of poetry and rhapsody, and competent to criticise -either Olympus, Thamyris, Orpheus, or Phemius of Ithaca, the -rhapsodist, who, the moment he came to Ion the Ephesian, felt -himself quite at a loss, and utterly incompetent to judge whether he -rhapsodised well or ill. - -_Ion._ I cannot refute you, Socrates, but of this I am conscious to -myself: that I excel all men in the copiousness and beauty of my -illustrations of Homer, as all who have heard me will confess, and with -respect to other poets, I am deserted of this power. It is for you to -consider what may be the cause of this distinction. - -_Socrates._ I will tell you, O Ion, what appears to me to be the cause -of this inequality of power. It is that you are not master of any art -for the illustration of Homer, but it is a divine influence which moves -you, like that which resides in the stone called magnet by Euripides, -and Heraclea by the people. For not only does this stone possess the -power of attracting iron rings, but it can communicate to them the -power of attracting other rings; so that you may see sometimes a long -chain of rings, and other iron substances, attached and suspended -one to the other by this influence. And as the power of the stone -circulates through all the links of this series, and attaches each -to each, so the Muse, communicating through those whom she has first -inspired, to all others capable of sharing in the inspiration, the -influence of that first enthusiasm, creates a chain and a succession. -For the authors of those great poems which we admire, do not attain -to excellence through the rules of any art, but they utter their -beautiful melodies of verse in a state of inspiration, and, as it -were, _possessed_ by a spirit not their own. Thus the composers of -lyrical poetry create those admired songs of theirs in a state of -divine insanity, like the Corybantes, who lose all control over -their reason in the enthusiasm of the sacred dance; and, during this -supernatural possession, are excited to the rhythm and harmony which -they communicate to men. Like the Bacchantes, who, when possessed by -the God, draw honey and milk from the rivers, in which, when they come -to their senses, they find nothing but simple water. For the souls of -the poets, as poets tell us, have this peculiar ministration in the -world. They tell us that these souls, flying like bees from flower -to flower, and wandering over the gardens and the meadows, and the -honey-flowing fountains of the Muses, return to us laden with the -sweetness of melody; and arrayed as they are in the plumes of rapid -imagination, they speak truth. For a Poet is indeed a thing ethereally -light, winged, and sacred, nor can he compose anything worth calling -poetry until he becomes inspired, and, as it were, mad, or whilst any -reason remains in him. For whilst a man retains any portion of the -thing called reason, he is utterly incompetent to produce poetry or -to vaticinate. Thus, those who declaim various and beautiful poetry -upon any subject, as for instance upon Homer, are not enabled to do so -by art or study; but every rhapsodist or poet, whether dithyrambic, -encomiastic, choral, epic, or iambic, is excellent in proportion -to the extent of his participation in the divine influence, and -the degree in which the Muse itself has descended on him. In other -respects, poets may be sufficiently ignorant and incapable. For they -do not compose according to any art which they have acquired, but -from the impulse of the divinity within them; for did they know any -rules of criticism according to which they could compose beautiful -verses upon one subject, they would be able to exert the same faculty -with respect to all or any other. The God seems purposely to have -deprived all poets, prophets, and soothsayers of every particle of -reason and understanding, the better to adapt them to their employment -as his ministers and interpreters; and that we, their auditors, may -acknowledge that those who write so beautifully, are possessed, -and address us, inspired by the God. Tynnicus the Chalcidean, is a -manifest proof of this, for he never before composed any poem worthy -to be remembered; and yet, was the author of that Pæan which everybody -sings, and which excels almost every other hymn, and which he himself -acknowledges to have been inspired by the Muse. And, thus, it appears -to me that the God proves beyond a doubt, that these transcendent -poems are not human as the work of men, but divine as coming from -the God. Poets then are the interpreters of the divinities--each -being possessed by some one deity; and to make this apparent, the God -designedly inspires the worst poets with the sublimest verse. Does it -seem to you that I am in the right, O Ion? - -_Ion._ Yes, by Jupiter! My mind is enlightened by your words, O -Socrates, and it appears to me that great poets interpret to us through -some divine election of the God. - -_Socrates._ And do not you rhapsodists interpret poets? - -_Ion._ We do. - -_Socrates._ Thus you interpret the interpreters? - -_Ion._ Evidently. - -_Socrates._ Remember this, and tell me; and do not conceal that -which I ask. When you declaim well, and strike your audience with -admiration; whether you sing of Ulysses rushing upon the threshold of -his palace, discovering himself to the suitors, and pouring his shafts -out at his feet; or of Achilles assailing Hector; or those affecting -passages concerning Andromache, or Hecuba, or Priam, are you then -self-possessed? or, rather, are you not rapt and filled with such -enthusiasm by the deeds you recite, that you fancy yourself in Ithaca -or Troy, or wherever else the poem transports you? - -_Ion._ You speak most truly, Socrates, nor will I deny it; for, when -I recite of sorrow my eyes fill with tears; and, when of fearful or -terrible deeds, my hair stands on end, and my heart beats fast. - -_Socrates._ Tell me, Ion, can we call him in his senses, who weeps -while dressed in splendid garments, and crowned with a golden coronal, -not losing any of these things? and is filled with fear when surrounded -by ten thousand friendly persons, not one among whom desires to despoil -or injure him? - -_Ion._ To say the truth, we could not. - -_Socrates._ Do you often perceive your audience moved also? - -_Ion._ Many among them, and frequently. I, standing on the rostrum, -see them weeping, with eyes fixed earnestly on me, and overcome by my -declamation. I have need so to agitate them; for if they weep, I laugh, -taking their money; if they should laugh, I must weep, going without it. - -_Socrates._ Do you not perceive that your auditor is the last link of -that chain which I have described as held together through the power -of the magnet? You rhapsodists and actors are the middle links, of -which the poet is the first--and through all these the God influences -whichever mind he selects, as they conduct this power one to the -other; and thus, as rings from the stone, so hangs a long series of -chorus-dancers, teachers, and disciples from the Muse. Some poets are -influenced by one Muse, some by another; we call them possessed, and -this word really expresses the truth, for they are held. Others, who -are interpreters, are inspired by the first links, the poets, and are -filled with enthusiasm, some by one, some by another; some by Orpheus, -some by Musæus, but the greater number are possessed and inspired by -Homer. You, O Ion, are influenced by Homer. If you recite the works -of any other poet, you get drowsy, and are at a loss what to say; but -when you hear any of the compositions of that poet you are roused, your -thoughts are excited, and you grow eloquent;--for what you say of Homer -is not derived from any art or knowledge, but from divine inspiration -and possession. As the Corybantes feel acutely the melodies of him by -whom they are inspired, and abound with verse and gesture for his songs -alone, and care for no other; thus, you, O Ion, are eloquent when you -expound Homer, and are barren of words with regard to every other poet. -And this explains the question you asked, wherefore Homer, and no other -poet, inspires you with eloquence. It is that you are thus excellent in -your praise, not through science but from divine inspiration. - -_Ion._ You say the truth, Socrates. Yet, I am surprised that you should -be able to persuade me that I am possessed and insane when I praise -Homer. I think I shall not appear such to you when you hear me. - -_Socrates._ I desire to hear you, but not before you have answered me -this one question. What subject does Homer treat best? for, surely, he -does not treat all equally. - -_Ion._ You are aware that he treats of every thing. - -_Socrates._ Does Homer mention subjects on which you are ignorant? - -_Ion._ What can those be? - -_Socrates._ Does not Homer frequently dilate on various arts--on -chariot-driving, for instance? if I remember the verses I will repeat -them. - -_Ion._ I will repeat them, for I remember them. - -_Socrates._ Repeat what Nestor says to his son Antilochus, counselling -him to be cautious in turning, during the chariot-race at the funeral -games of Patroclus. - - _Ion_ (_repeats_). - Αὐτὸς δὲ κλινθῆναι εϋπλέκτῳ ἐνὶ δίφρῳ - Ἧκ’ ἐπ’ ἀριστερὰ τοῖιν ἀτὰρ τὸν δεξιὸν ἵππον - Κένσαι ὁμοκλήσας, εἶξαί τέ οἱ ἡνία χερσίν. - Ἐν νύσσῃ δέ τοι ἵππος ἀριστερὸς ἐγχριμφθήτω, - Ὡς ἄν τοι πλήμνη γε δοάσσεται ἄκρον ἱκέσθαι - Κύκλου ποιητοῖο· λίθου δ’ ἀλέασθαι ἐπαυρεῖν. - _Il._ ψ. 335. - -_Socrates._ Enough. Now, O Ion, would a physician or a charioteer be -the better judge as to Homer’s sagacity on this subject? - -_Ion._ Of course, a charioteer. - -_Socrates._ Because he understands the art--or from what other reason? - -_Ion._ From his knowledge of the art. - -_Socrates._ For one science is not gifted with the power of judging of -another--a steersman, for instance, does not understand medicine? - -_Ion._ Without doubt. - -_Socrates._ Nor a physician, architecture? - -_Ion._ Of course not. - -_Socrates._ Is it not thus with every art? If we are adepts in one, we -are ignorant of another. But first, tell me, do not all arts differ one -from the other? - -_Ion._ They do. - -_Socrates._ For you, as well as I, can testify that when we say an art -is the knowledge of one thing, we do not mean that it is the knowledge -of another. - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ For, if each art contained the knowledge of all things, -why should we call them by different names? we do so that we may -distinguish them one from the other. Thus, you as well as I, know that -these are five fingers; and if I asked you whether we both meant the -same thing or another, when we speak of arithmetic--would you not say -the same? - -_Ion._ Yes. - -_Socrates._ And tell me, when we learn one art we must both learn the -same things with regard to it; and other things if we learn another? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ And he who is not versed in an art, is not a good judge of -what is said or done with respect to it? - -_Ion._ Certainly not. - -_Socrates._ To return to the verses which you just recited, do you -think that you or a charioteer would be better capable of deciding -whether Homer had spoken rightly or not? - -_Ion._ Doubtless a charioteer. - -_Socrates._ For you are a rhapsodist, and not a charioteer? - -_Ion._ Yes. - -_Socrates._ And the art of reciting verses is different from that of -driving chariots? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ And if it is different, it supposes a knowledge of -different things? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ And when Homer introduces Hecamede, the concubine of -Nestor, giving Machaon a posset to drink, and he speaks thus:-- - - Οἴνῳ πραμνείῳ, φησίν· ἐπὶ δ’ αἴγειον κνῆ τυρὸν - Κνήστι χαλκείῃ· παρὰ δὲ κρόμιον ποτῷ ὄψον. - _Il._ λʹ. 639. - -does it belong to the medical or rhapsodical art, to determine whether -Homer speaks rightly on this subject? - -_Ion._ The medical. - -_Socrates._ And when he says-- - - Ἡ δὲ μολυβδαίνῃ ἰκέλη ἐς βυσσὸν ἵκανεν, - Ἥ τε κατ’ ἀγραύλοιο βοὸς κέρας ἐμμεμαυῖα - Ἔρχεται ὠμηστῇσι μετ’ ἰχθύσι πῆμα φέρουσα. - _Il._ ωʹ. 80. - -does it belong to the rhapsodical or the piscatorial art, to determine -whether he speaks rightly or not? - -_Ion._ Manifestly to the piscatorial art. - -_Socrates._ Consider whether you are not inspired to make some such -demand as this to me:--Come, Socrates, since you have found in Homer -an accurate description of these arts, assist me also in the inquiry -as to his competence on the subject of soothsayers and divination; and -how far he speaks well or ill on such subjects; for he often treats of -them in the Odyssey, and especially when he introduces Theoclymenus the -Soothsayer of the Melampians, prophesying to the Suitors:-- - - Δαίμονι, τί κακὸν τόδε πάσχετε; νυκτὶ μὲν ὑμέων - Εἱλύαται κεφαλαί τε προσωπά τε νέρθε τε γυῖα, - Οἰμωγὴ δὲ δέδηε, δεδάκρυνται δὲ παρειαί. - Εἰδώλων τε πλέον πρόθυρον, πλείη δὲ καὶ αὐλὴ - Ἱεμένων ἕρεβόσδε ὑπὸ ζόφον· ἠέλιος δὲ - Οὐρανοῦ ἐξαπόλωλε, κακὴ δ’ ἐπδέδρομεν ἁχλύς. - _Odyss._ υ. 351. - -Often too in the Iliad, as at the battle at the walls; for he there -says-- - - Ὄρνις γάρ σφιν ἐπῆλθε περησέμεναι μεμαῶσιν, - Αἰετὸς ὑψιπέτης, ἐπ’ ἀριστερὰ λαὸν ἐέργων, - Φοινήεντα δράκοντα φέρων ὀνύχεσσι πέλωρον, - Ζωὸν, ἔτ’ ἀσπαίροντα· καὶ οὔπω λήθετο χάρμης. - Κόψε γὰρ αὐτὸν ἔχοντα κατὰ στῆθος παρὰ δειρὴν, - Ἰδνωθεὶς ὀπίσω. ὁ δ’ ἀπὸ ἕθεν ἧκε χαμάζε - Ἀλγήσας ὀδύνῃσι, μέσῳ δ’ ἐγκάββαλ’ ὁμίλῳ· - Αὐτὸς δὲ κλάγξας ἕπετο πνοιῇς ἀνέμοιο. - _Il._ μʹ. - -I assert, it belongs to a soothsayer both to observe and to judge -respecting such appearances as these. - -_Ion._ And you assert the truth, O Socrates. - -_Socrates._ And you also, my dear Ion. For we have in our turn recited -from the Odyssey and the Iliad, passages relating to vaticination, to -medicine and the piscatorial art; and as you are more skilled in Homer -than I can be, do you now make mention of whatever relates to the -rhapsodist and his art; for a rhapsodist is competent above all other -men to consider and pronounce on whatever has relation to his art. - -_Ion._ Or with respect to everything else mentioned by Homer. - -_Socrates._ Do not be so forgetful as to say everything. A good memory -is particularly necessary for a rhapsodist. - -_Ion._ And what do I forget? - -_Socrates._ Do you not remember that you admitted the art of reciting -verses was different from that of driving chariots? - -_Ion._ I remember. - -_Socrates._ And did you not admit that being different, the subjects of -its knowledge must also be different? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ You will not assert that the art of rhapsody is that of -universal knowledge; a rhapsodist may be ignorant of some things. - -_Ion._ Except, perhaps, such things as we now discuss, O Socrates. - -_Socrates._ What do you mean by _such_ subjects, besides those which -relate to other arts? And with which among them do you profess a -competent acquaintance, since not with all? - -_Ion._ I imagine that the rhapsodist has a perfect knowledge of what -it is becoming for a man to speak--what for a woman; what for a slave, -what for a free man; what for the ruler, what for him who is governed. - -_Socrates._ How! do you think that a rhapsodist knows better than a -pilot what the captain of a ship in a tempest ought to say? - -_Ion._ In such a circumstance I allow that the pilot would know best. - -_Socrates._ Has the rhapsodist or the physician the clearest knowledge -of what ought to be said to a sick man? - -_Ion._ In that case the physician. - -_Socrates._ But you assert that he knows what a slave ought to say? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ To take for example, in the driving of cattle; a rhapsodist -would know much better than the herdsman what ought to be said to a -slave engaged in bringing back a herd of oxen run wild? - -_Ion._ No, indeed. - -_Socrates._ But what a woman should say concerning spinning wool? - -_Ion._ Of course not. - -_Socrates._ He would know, however, what a man, who is a general, -should say when exhorting his troops? - -_Ion._ Yes; a rhapsodist would know that. - -_Socrates._ How! is rhapsody and strategy the same art? - -_Ion._ I know what it is fitting for a general to say. - -_Socrates._ Probably because you are learned in war, O Ion. For if you -are equally expert in horsemanship and playing on the harp, you would -know whether a man rode well or ill. But if I should ask you which -understands riding best, a horseman or a harper, what would you answer? - -_Ion._ A horseman, of course. - -_Socrates._ And if you knew a good player on the harp, you would in the -same way say that he understood harp-playing and not riding? - -_Ion._ Certainly. - -_Socrates._ Since you understand strategy, you can tell me which is the -most excellent, the art of war or rhapsody? - -_Ion._ One does not appear to me to excel the other. - -_Socrates._ One is not better than the other, say you? Do you say that -tactics and rhapsody are two arts or one? - -_Ion._ They appear to me to be the same. - -_Socrates._ Then a good rhapsodist is also a good general. - -_Ion._ Of course. - -_Socrates._ And a good general is a good rhapsodist? - -_Ion._ I do not say that. - -_Socrates._ You said that a good rhapsodist was also a good general. - -_Ion._ I did. - -_Socrates._ Are you not the best rhapsodist in Greece? - -_Ion._ By far, O Socrates. - -_Socrates._ And you are also the most excellent general among the -Greeks? - -_Ion._ I am. I learned the art from Homer. - -_Socrates._ How is it then, by Jupiter, that being both the best -general and the best rhapsodist among us, you continually go about -Greece rhapsodising, and never lead our armies? Does it seem to you -that the Greeks greatly need golden-crowned rhapsodists, and have no -want of generals? - -_Ion._ My native town, O Socrates, is ruled by yours, and requires no -general for her wars;--and neither will your city nor the Lacedemonians -elect me to lead their armies--you think your own generals sufficient. - -_Socrates._ My good Ion, are you acquainted with Apollodorus the -Cyzicenian? - -_Ion._ Who do you mean? - -_Socrates._ He whom, though a stranger, the Athenians often elected -general; and Phanosthenes the Andrian, and Heraclides the Clazomenian, -all foreigners, but whom this city has chosen, as being great men, to -lead its armies, and to fill other high offices. Would not, therefore, -Ion the Ephesian be elected and honoured if he were esteemed capable? -Were not the Ephesians originally from Athens, and is Ephesus the least -of cities? But if you spoke true, Ion, and praise Homer according to -art and knowledge, you have deceived me,--since you declared that -you were learned on the subject of Homer, and would communicate your -knowledge to me--but you have disappointed me, and are far from keeping -your word. For you will not explain in what you are so excessively -clever, though I greatly desire to learn; but, as various as Proteus, -you change from one thing to another, and to escape at last, you -disappear in the form of a general, without disclosing your Homeric -wisdom. If, therefore, you possess the learning which you promised to -expound on the subject of Homer, you deceive me and are false. But if -you are eloquent on the subject of this Poet, not through knowledge, -but by inspiration, being possessed by him, ignorant the while of the -wisdom and beauty you display, then I allow that you are no deceiver. -Choose then whether you will be considered false or inspired? - -_Ion._ It is far better, O Socrates, to be thought inspired. - -_Socrates._ It is better both for you and for us, O Ion, to say that -you are the inspired, and not the learned, eulogist of Homer. - -[Decoration] - - - - -[Decoration] - - MENEXENUS, - OR - THE FUNERAL ORATION. - - A Fragment. - - - Socrates _and_ Menexenus. - -_Socrates._ Whence comest thou, O Menexenus? from the forum? - -_Menexenus._ Even so; and from the senate-house. - -_Socrates._ What was thy business with the senate? Art thou persuaded -that thou hast attained to that perfection of discipline and -philosophy, from which thou mayest aspire to undertake greater matters? -Wouldst thou, at thine age, my wonderful friend, assume to thyself the -government of us who are thine elders, lest thy family should at any -time fail in affording us a protector? - -_Menexenus._ Thou, O Socrates, shouldst permit and counsel me to enter -into public life. I would earnestly endeavour to fit myself for the -attempt. If otherwise, I would abstain. On the present occasion, I went -to the senate-house, merely from having heard that the senate was about -to elect one to speak concerning those who are dead. Thou knowest that -the celebration of their funeral approaches? - -_Socrates._ Assuredly. But whom have they chosen? - -_Menexenus._ The election is deferred until to-morrow; I imagine that -either Dion or Archinus will be chosen. - -_Socrates._ In truth, Menexenus, the condition of him who dies in -battle is, in every respect, fortunate and glorious. If he is poor, he -is conducted to his tomb with a magnificent and honourable funeral, -amidst the praises of all; if even he were a coward, his name is -included in a panegyric pronounced by the most learned men; from which -all the vulgar expressions, which unpremeditated composition might -admit, have been excluded by the careful labour of leisure; who praise -so admirably, enlarging upon every topic remotely or immediately -connected with the subject, and blending so eloquent a variety of -expressions, that, praising in every manner the state of which we are -citizens, and those who have perished in battle, and the ancestors who -preceded our generation, and ourselves who yet live, they steal away -our spirits as with enchantment. Whilst I listen to their praises, O -Menexenus, I am penetrated with a very lofty conception of myself, and -overcome by their flatteries. I appear to myself immeasurably more -honourable and generous than before, and many of the strangers who -are accustomed to accompany me, regard me with additional veneration, -after having heard these relations; they seem to consider the whole -state, including me, much more worthy of admiration, after they have -been soothed into persuasion by the orator. The opinion thus inspired -of my own majesty will last me more than three days sometimes, and the -penetrating melody of the words descends through the ears into the -mind, and clings to it; so that it is often three or four days before I -come to my senses sufficiently to perceive in what part of the world I -am, or succeed in persuading myself that I do not inhabit one of the -islands of the blessed. So skilful are these orators of ours. - -_Menexenus._ Thou always laughest at the orators, O Socrates. On the -present occasion, however, the unforeseen election will preclude the -person chosen from the advantages of a preconcerted speech: the speaker -will probably be reduced to the necessity of extemporising. - -_Socrates._ How so, my good friend? Every one of the candidates has, -without doubt, his oration prepared; and if not, there were little -difficulty, on this occasion, of inventing an unpremeditated speech. -If, indeed, the question were of Athenians, who should speak in the -Peloponnesus; or of Peloponnesians, who should speak at Athens, an -orator who would persuade and be applauded, must employ all the -resources of his skill. But to the orator who contends for the -approbation of those whom he praises, success will be little difficult. - -_Menexenus._ Is that thy opinion, O Socrates? - -_Socrates._ In truth it is. - -_Menexenus._ Shouldst thou consider thyself competent to pronounce this -oration, if thou shouldst be chosen by the senate? - -_Socrates._ There would be nothing astonishing if I should consider -myself equal to such an undertaking. My mistress in oratory was perfect -in the science which she taught, and had formed many other excellent -orators, and one of the most eminent among the Greeks, Pericles, the -son of Xantippus. - -_Menexenus._ Who is she? Assuredly thou meanest Aspasia. - -_Socrates._ Aspasia, and Connus the son of Metrobius, the two -instructors. From the former of these I learned rhetoric, and from the -latter music. There would be nothing wonderful if a man so educated -should be capable of great energy of speech. A person who should have -been instructed in a manner totally different from me; who should have -learned rhetoric from Antiphon the son of Rhamnusius, and music from -Lampses, would be competent to succeed in such an attempt as praising -the Athenians to the Athenians. - -_Menexenus._ And what shouldst thou have to say, if thou wert chosen to -pronounce the oration? - -_Socrates._ Of my own, probably nothing. But yesterday I heard Aspasia -declaim a funeral oration over these same persons. She had heard, as -thou sayest, that the Athenians were about to choose an orator, and she -took the occasion of suggesting a series of topics proper for such an -orator to select; in part extemporaneously, and in part such as she had -already prepared. I think it probable that she composed the oration by -interweaving such fragments of oratory as Pericles might have left. - -_Menexenus._ Rememberest thou what Aspasia said? - -_Socrates._ Unless I am greatly mistaken. I learned it from her; and -she is so good a school-mistress, that I should have been beaten if I -had not been perfect in my lesson. - -_Menexenus._ Why not repeat it to me? - -_Socrates._ I fear lest my mistress be angry, should I publish her -discourse. - -_Menexenus._ O, fear not. At least deliver a discourse; you will do -what is exceedingly delightful to me, whether it be of Aspasia or any -other. I entreat you to do me this pleasure. - -_Socrates._ But you will laugh at me, who, being old, attempt to repeat -a pleasant discourse. - -_Menexenus._ O no, Socrates; I entreat you to speak, however it may be. - -_Socrates._ I see that I must do what you require. In a little while, -if you should ask me to strip naked and dance, I shall be unable to -refuse you, at least, if we are alone. Now, listen. She spoke thus, if -I recollect, beginning with the dead, in whose honour the oration is -supposed to have been delivered. - - - - -[Decoration] - -FRAGMENTS - -FROM THE REPUBLIC OF PLATO. - - -I. But it would be almost impossible to build your city in such a -situation that it would need no imposts?--Impossible.--Other persons -would then be required, who might undertake to conduct from another -city those things of which they stood in need?--Certainly.--But the -merchant who should return to his own city, without any of those -articles which it needed, would return empty-handed. It will be -necessary, therefore, not only to produce a sufficient supply, but -such articles, both in quantity and in kind, as may be required to -remunerate those who conduct the imports. There will be needed then -more husbandmen, and other artificers, in our city. There will be -needed also other persons who will undertake the conveyance of the -imports and the exports, and these persons are called merchants. If the -commerce which these necessities produce is carried on by sea, other -persons will be required who are accustomed to nautical affairs. And, -in the city itself, how shall the products of each man’s labour be -transported from one to another; those products, for the sake of the -enjoyment and the ready distribution of which, they were first induced -to institute a civil society?--By selling and buying, surely.--A -market and money, as a symbol of exchange, arises out of this -necessity?--Evidently.--When the husbandman, or any other artificer, -brings the produce of his labours to the public place, and those who -desire to barter their produce for it do not happen to arrive exactly -at the same time, would he not lose his time, and the profit of it, -if he were to sit in the market waiting for them?--Assuredly.--But, -there are persons, who, perceiving this, will take upon themselves the -arrangement between the buyer and the seller. In constituted civil -societies, those who are employed on this service, ought to be the -infirm, and unable to perform any other; but, exchanging on one hand -for money, what any person comes to sell, and giving the articles thus -bought for a similar equivalent to those who might wish to buy. - - -II. Description of a frugal enjoyment of the goods of the world. - - -III. But with this system of life some are not contented. They must -have beds and tables, and other furniture. They must have scarce -ointments and perfumes, women, and a thousand superfluities of the same -character. The things which we mentioned as sufficient, houses, and -clothes, and food, are not enough. Painting and mosaic-work must be -cultivated, and works in gold and ivory. The society must be enlarged -in consequence. This city, which is of a healthy proportion, will not -suffice, but it must be replenished with a multitude of persons, whose -occupations are by no means indispensable. Huntsmen and mimics, persons -whose occupation it is to arrange forms and colours, persons whose -trade is the cultivation of the more delicate arts, poets and their -ministers, rhapsodists, actors, dancers, manufacturers of all kinds of -instruments and schemes of female dress, and an immense crowd of other -ministers to pleasure and necessity. Do you not think we should want -schoolmasters, tutors, nurses, hair-dressers, barbers, manufacturers -and cooks? Should we not want pig-drivers, which were not wanted -in our more modest city, in this one, and a multitude of others to -administer to other animals, which would then become necessary articles -of food,--or should we not?--Certainly we should.--Should we not want -physicians much more, living in this manner than before? The same tract -of country would no longer provide sustenance for the state. Must we -then not usurp from the territory of our neighbours, and then we should -make aggressions, and so we have discovered the origin of war; which is -the principal cause of the greatest public and private calamities.--C. -xi. - - -IV. And first, we must improve upon the composers of fabulous histories -in verse, to compose them according to the rules of moral beauty; and -those not composed according to the rules must be rejected; and we must -persuade mothers and nurses to teach those which we approve to their -children, and to form their minds by moral fables, far more than their -bodies by their hands.--Lib. ii. - - - V. ON THE DANGER OF THE STUDY OF ALLEGORICAL COMPOSITION - (IN A LARGE SENSE) FOR YOUNG PEOPLE. - -For a young person is not competent to judge what portions of a -fabulous composition are allegorical and what literal; but the opinions -produced by a literal acceptation of that which has no meaning, or a -bad one, except in an allegorical sense, are often irradicable.--Lib ii. - - -VI.--God then, since he is good, cannot be, as is vulgarly supposed, -the cause of all things; he is the cause, indeed, of very few things. -Among the great variety of events which happen in the course of human -affairs, evil prodigiously overbalances good in everything which -regards men. Of all that is good there can be no other cause than God; -but some other cause ought to be discovered for evil, which should -never be imputed as an effect to God.--L. ii. - - -VII.--Plato’s doctrine of punishment, as laid down [here], is refuted -by his previous reasonings. - - -VIII.--THE UNCHANGEABLE NATURE OF GOD. - -Do you think that God is like a vulgar conjuror, and that he is capable -for the sake of effect, of assuming, at one time, one form, and at -another time, another? Now, in his own character, converting his proper -form into a multitude of shapes, now deceiving us, and offering vain -images of himself to our imagination? Or do you think that God is -single and one, and least of all things capable of departing from his -permanent nature and appearance? - - -IX.--THE PERMANENCY OF WHAT IS EXCELLENT. - -But everything, in proportion as it is excellent, either in art or -nature, or in both, is least susceptible of receiving change from any -external influence. - - -X.--AGAINST SUPERSTITIOUS TALES. - -Nor should mothers terrify their children by these fables, that Gods go -about in the night-time, resembling strangers, in all sorts of forms: -at once blaspheming the Gods and rendering their children cowardly. - - -XI.--THE TRUE ESSENCE OF FALSEHOOD AND ITS ORIGIN. - -Know you not that, that which is truly false, if it may be permitted me -so to speak, all, both gods and men detest?--How do you mean?--Thus: -No person is willing to falsify in matters of the highest concern to -himself concerning those matters, but fears, above all things, lest he -should accept falsehood.--Yet, I understand you not.--You think that -I mean something profound. I say that no person is willing in his own -mind to receive or to assert a falsehood, to be ignorant, to be in -error, to possess that which is not true. This is truly to be called -falsehood, this ignorance and error in the mind itself. What is usually -called falsehood, or deceit in words, is but a voluntary imitation of -what the mind itself suffers in the involuntary possession of that -falsehood, an image of later birth, and scarcely, in a strict and -complete sense, deserving the name of falsehood.--Lib. ii. - - -XII.--AGAINST A BELIEF IN HELL. - -If they are to possess courage, are not those doctrines alone to be -taught, which render death least terrible? Or do you conceive that -any man can be brave who is subjected to a fear of death? that he who -believes the things that are related of hell, and thinks that they -are truth, will prefer in battle, death to slavery, or defeat?--Lib. -iii.--_Then follows a criticism on the poetical accounts of hell._ - - -XIII.--ON GRIEF. - -We must then abolish the custom of lamenting and commiserating the -deaths of illustrious men. Do we assert that an excellent man will -consider it anything dreadful that his intimate friend, who is also an -excellent man, should die?--By no means (_an excessive refinement_). He -will abstain then from lamenting over his loss, as if he had suffered -some great evil?--Surely.--May we not assert in addition, that such -a person as we have described suffices to himself for all purposes -of living well and happily, and in no manner needs the assistance -or society of another? that he would endure with resignation the -destitution of a son, or a brother, or possessions, or whatever -external adjuncts of life might have been attached to him? and that, -on the occurrence of such contingencies, he would support them with -moderation and mildness, by no means bursting into lamentations, or -resigning himself to despondence?--Lib. iii. - -_Then he proceeds to allege passages of the poets in which opposite -examples were held up to approbation and imitation._ - - -XIV.--THE INFLUENCE OF EARLY CONSTANT IMITATION. - -Do you not apprehend that imitations, if they shall have been practised -and persevered in from early youth, become established in the habits -and nature, in the gestures of the body, and the tones of the voice, -and lastly, in the intellect itself?--C. iii. - - -XV.--ON THE EFFECT OF BAD TASTE IN ART. - -Nor must we restrict the poets alone to an exhibition of the example -of virtuous manners in their compositions, but all other artists must -be forbidden, either in sculpture, or painting, or architecture, to -employ their skill upon forms of an immoral, unchastened, monstrous, -or illiberal type, either in the forms of living beings, or in -architectural arrangements. And the artist capable of this employment -of his art, must not be suffered in our community, lest those destined -to be guardians of the society, nourished upon images of deformity and -vice, like cattle upon bad grass, gradually gathering and depasturing -every day a little, may ignorantly establish one great evil composed of -these many evil things, in their minds.--C. iii. - -_The monstrous figures called Arabesques, however in some of them is -to be found a mixture of a truer and simpler taste, which are found in -the ruined palaces of the Roman Emperors, bear, nevertheless, the same -relation to the brutal profligacy and killing luxury which required -them, as the majestic figures of Castor and Pollux, and the simple -beauty of the sculpture of the frieze of the Parthenon, bear to the -more beautiful and simple manners of the Greeks of that period. With -a liberal interpretation, a similar analogy might be extended into -literary composition._ - - -XVI.--AGAINST THE LEARNED PROFESSIONS. - -What better evidence can you require of a corrupt and pernicious -system of discipline in a state, than that not merely persons of base -habits and plebeian employments, but men who pretend to have received -a liberal education, require the assistance of lawyers and physicians, -and those too who have attained to a singular degree (so desperate are -these diseases of body and mind) of skill. Do you not consider it an -abject necessity, a proof of the deepest degradation, to need to be -instructed in what is just or what is needful, as by a master and a -judge, with regard to your personal knowledge and suffering? - -_What would Plato have said to a priest, such as his office is in -modern times?_--C. iii. - - -XVII.--ON MEDICINE. - -Do you not think it an abject thing to require the assistance of the -medicinal art, not for the cure of wounds, or such external diseases as -result from the accidents of the seasons (επητειην), but on account of -sloth and the superfluous indulgences which we have already condemned; -this being filled with wind and water, like holes in earth, and -compelling the elegant successors of Æsculapius to invent new names, -flatulences, and catarrhs, &c., for the new diseases which are the -progeny of your luxury and sloth?--L. iii. - - -XVIII.--THE EFFECT OF THE DIETETIC SYSTEM. - -Herodicus being pædotribe (παιδοτρίβης, _Magister palæstræ_), and his -health becoming weak, united the gymnastic with the medical art, and -having condemned himself to a life of weariness, afterwards extended -the same pernicious system to others. He made his life a long death. -For humouring the disease, mortal in its own nature, to which he was -subject, without being able to cure it, he postponed all other purposes -to the care of medicating himself, and through his whole life was -subject to an access of his malady, if he departed in any degree from -his accustomed diet, and by the employment of this skill, dying by -degrees, he arrived at an old age.--L. iii. - -Æsculapius never pursued these systems, nor Machaon or Podalirius. They -never undertook the treatment of those whose frames were inwardly and -thoroughly diseased, so to prolong a worthless existence, and bestow -on a man a long and wretched being, during which they might generate -children in every respect the inheritors of their infirmity.--L. iii. - - -XIX.--AGAINST WHAT IS FALSELY CALLED “KNOWLEDGE OF THE WORLD.” - -A man ought not to be a good judge until he be old; because he -ought not have acquired a knowledge of what injustice is, until his -understanding has arrived at maturity: not apprehending its nature from -a consideration of its existence in himself; but having contemplated -it distinct from his own nature in that of others, for a long time, -until he shall perceive what an evil it is, not from his own experience -and its effects within himself, but from his observations of them as -resulting in others. Such a one were indeed an honourable judge, and -a good; for he who has a good mind, is good. But that judge who is -considered so wise, who having himself committed great injustice, is -supposed to be qualified for the detection of it in others, and who is -quick to suspect, appears keen, indeed, as long as he associates with -those who resemble him; because, deriving experience from the example -afforded by a consideration of his own conduct and character, he acts -with caution; but when he associates with men of universal experience -and real virtue, he exposes the defects resulting from such experience -as he possesses, by distrusting men unreasonably and mistaking true -virtue, having no example of it within himself with which to compare -the appearances manifested in others: yet, such a one finding more -associates who are virtuous than such as are wise, necessarily appears, -both to himself and others, rather to be wise than foolish.--But we -ought rather to search for a wise and good judge; one who has examples -within himself of that upon which he is to pronounce.--C. iii. - - -XX.--Those who use gymnastics unmingled with music become too savage, -whilst those who use music unmingled with gymnastics, become more -delicate than is befitting. - - - - -[Decoration] - - ON A PASSAGE IN CRITO. - - [_Prefatory note by Mrs. Shelley._] - - It is well known that when Socrates was condemned to death, - his friends made arrangements for his escape from prison - and his after security; of which he refused to avail - himself, from the reason, that a good citizen ought to - obey the laws of his country. On this Shelley makes the - following remarks-- - - -The reply is simple, Indeed, your city cannot subsist, because the -laws are no longer of avail. For how can the laws be said to exist, -when those who deserve to be nourished in the Prytanea at the public -expense, are condemned to suffer the penalties only due to the most -atrocious criminals; whilst those against, and to protect from whose -injustice, the laws were framed, live in honour and security? I neither -overthrow your state, nor infringe your laws. Although you have -inflicted an injustice on me, which is sufficient, according to the -opinions of the multitude, to authorise me to consider you and me as in -a state of warfare; yet, had I the power, so far from inflicting any -revenge, I would endeavour to overcome you by benefits. All that I do -at present is, that which the peaceful traveller would do, who, caught -by robbers in a forest, escapes from them whilst they are engaged in -the division of the spoil. And this I do, when it would not only be -indifferent, but delightful to me to die, surrounded by my friends, -secure of the inheritance of glory, and escaping, after such a life as -mine, from the decay of mind and body which must soon begin to be my -portion should I live. But I prefer the good, which I have it in my -power yet to perform. - -Such are the arguments which overturn the sophism placed in the mouth -of Socrates by Plato. But there are others which prove that he did well -to die. - -[Decoration] - - - - -[Decoration] - - THE ASSASSINS. - - A Fragment of a Romance. - - - CHAPTER I. - -Jerusalem, goaded on to resistance by the incessant usurpations and -insolence of Rome, leagued together its discordant factions to rebel -against the common enemy and tyrant. Inferior to their foe in all but -the unconquerable hope of liberty, they surrounded their city with -fortifications of uncommon strength, and placed in array before the -temple a band rendered desperate by patriotism and religion. Even the -women preferred to die, rather than survive the ruin of their country. -When the Roman army approached the walls of the sacred city, its -preparations, its discipline, and its numbers, evinced the conviction -of its leader, that he had no common barbarians to subdue. At the -approach of the Roman army, the strangers withdrew from the city. - -Among the multitudes which from every nation of the East had assembled -at Jerusalem, was a little congregation of Christians. They were -remarkable neither for their numbers nor their importance. They -contained among them neither philosophers nor poets. Acknowledging -no laws but those of God, they modelled their conduct towards their -fellow-men by the conclusions of their individual judgment on the -practical application of these laws. And it was apparent from the -simplicity and severity of their manners, that this contempt for -human institutions had produced among them a character superior in -singleness and sincere self-apprehension to the slavery of pagan -customs and the gross delusions of antiquated superstition. Many of -their opinions considerably resembled those of the sect afterwards -known by the name of Gnostics. They esteemed the human understanding -to be the paramount rule of human conduct; they maintained that the -obscurest religious truth required for its complete elucidation no more -than the strenuous application of the energies of mind. It appeared -impossible to them that any doctrine could be subversive of social -happiness which is not capable of being confuted by arguments derived -from the nature of existing things. With the devoutest submission to -the law of Christ, they united an intrepid spirit of inquiry as to -the correctest mode of acting in particular instances of conduct that -occur among men. Assuming the doctrines of the Messiah concerning -benevolence and justice for the regulation of their actions, they could -not be persuaded to acknowledge that there was apparent in the divine -code any prescribed rule whereby, for its own sake, one action rather -than another, as fulfilling the will of their great Master, should be -preferred. - -The contempt with which the magistracy and priesthood regarded this -obscure community of speculators, had hitherto protected them from -persecution. But they had arrived at that precise degree of eminence -and prosperity which is peculiarly obnoxious to the hostility of the -rich and powerful. The moment of their departure from Jerusalem was the -crisis of their future destiny. Had they continued to seek a precarious -refuge in a city of the Roman empire, this persecution would not have -delayed to impress a new character on their opinions and their conduct; -narrow views, and the illiberality of sectarian patriotism, would not -have failed speedily to obliterate the magnificence and beauty of their -wild and wonderful condition. - -Attached from principle to peace, despising and hating the pleasures -and the customs of the degenerate mass of mankind, this unostentatious -community of good and happy men fled to the solitudes of Lebanon. To -Arabians and enthusiasts the solemnity and grandeur of these desolate -recesses possessed peculiar attractions. It well accorded with the -justice of their conceptions on the relative duties of man towards his -fellow in society, that they should labour in unconstrained equality -to dispossess the wolf and the tiger of their empire, and establish on -its ruins the dominion of intelligence and virtue. No longer would the -worshippers of the God of Nature be indebted to a hundred hands for -the accommodation of their simple wants. No longer would the poison of -a diseased civilization embrue their very nutriment with pestilence. -They would no longer owe their very existence to the vices, the fears, -and the follies of mankind. Love, friendship, and philanthropy, would -now be the characteristic disposers of their industry. It is for his -mistress or his friend that the labourer consecrates his toil; others -are mindful, but he is forgetful, of himself. “God feeds the hungry -ravens, and clothes the lilies of the fields, and yet Solomon in all -his glory is not like to one of these.” - -Rome was now the shadow of her former self. The light of her grandeur -and loveliness had passed away. The latest and the noblest of her -poets and historians had foretold in agony her approaching slavery and -degradation. The ruins of the human mind, more awful and portentous -than the desolation of the most solemn temples, threw a shade of -gloom upon her golden palaces which the brutal vulgar could not see, -but which the mighty felt with inward trepidation and despair. The -ruins of Jerusalem lay defenceless and uninhabited upon the burning -sands; none visited, but in the depth of solemn awe, this accursed and -solitary spot. Tradition says that there was seen to linger among the -scorched and shattered fragments of the temple, one being, whom he that -saw dared not to call man, with clasped hands, immoveable eyes, and a -visage horribly serene. Not on the will of the capricious multitude, -nor the constant fluctuations of the many and the weak, depends the -change of empires and religions. These are the mere insensible elements -from which a subtler intelligence moulds its enduring statuary. They -that direct the changes of this mortal scene breathe the decrees of -their dominion from a throne of darkness and of tempest. The power of -man is great. - -After many days of wandering, the Assassins pitched their tents in -the valley of Bethzatanai. For ages had this fertile valley lain -concealed from the adventurous search of man, among mountains of -everlasting snow. The men of elder days had inhabited this spot. -Piles of monumental marble and fragments of columns that in their -integrity almost seemed the work of some intelligence more sportive -and fantastic than the gross conceptions of mortality, lay in heaps -beside the lake, and were visible beneath its transparent waves. The -flowering orange-tree, the balsam, and innumerable odoriferous shrubs, -grew wild in the desolated portals. The fountain tanks had overflowed, -and amid the luxuriant vegetation of their margin, the yellow snake -held its unmolested dwelling. Hither came the tiger and the bear to -contend for those once domestic animals who had forgotten the secure -servitude of their ancestors. No sound, when the famished beast of -prey had retreated in despair from the awful desolation of this place, -at whose completion he had assisted, but the shrill cry of the stork, -and the flapping of his heavy wings from the capital of the solitary -column, and the scream of the hungry vulture baffled of its only -victim. The lore of ancient wisdom was sculptured in mystic characters -on the rocks. The human spirit and the human hand had been busy here -to accomplish its profoundest miracles. It was a temple dedicated to -the god of knowledge and of truth. The palaces of the Caliphs and the -Cæsars might easily surpass these ruins in magnitude and sumptuousness: -but they were the design of tyrants and the work of slaves. Piercing -genius and consummate prudence had planned and executed Bethzatanai. -There was deep and important meaning in every lineament of its -fantastic sculpture. The unintelligible legend, once so beautiful and -perfect, so full of poetry and history, spoke, even in destruction, -volumes of mysterious import, and obscure significance. - -But in the season of its utmost prosperity and magnificence, art -might not aspire to vie with nature in the valley of Bethzatanai. All -that was wonderful and lovely was collected in this deep seclusion. -The fluctuating elements seemed to have been rendered everlastingly -permanent in forms of wonder and delight. The mountains of Lebanon -had been divided to their base to form this happy valley; on every -side their icy summits darted their white pinnacles into the clear -blue sky, imaging, in their grotesque outline, minarets, and ruined -domes, and columns worn with time. Far below, the silver clouds rolled -their bright volumes in many beautiful shapes, and fed the eternal -springs, that, spanning the dark chasms like a thousand radiant -rainbows, leaped into the quiet vale, then, lingering in many a dark -glade among the groves of cypress and of palm, lost themselves in the -lake. The immensity of these precipitous mountains with their starry -pyramids of snow, excluded the sun, which overtopped not, even in its -meridian, their overhanging rocks. But a more heavenly and serener -light was reflected from their icy mirrors, which, piercing through -the many-tinted clouds, produced lights and colours of inexhaustible -variety. The herbage was perpetually verdant, and clothed the darkest -recesses of the caverns and the woods. - -Nature, undisturbed, had become an enchantress in these solitudes; she -had collected here all that was wonderful and divine from the armoury -of her omnipotence. The very winds breathed health and renovation, and -the joyousness of youthful courage. Fountains of crystalline water -played perpetually among the aromatic flowers, and mingled a freshness -with their odour. The pine boughs became instruments of exquisite -contrivance, among which every varying breeze waked music of new and -more delightful melody. Meteoric shapes, more effulgent than the -moonlight, hung on the wandering clouds, and mixed in discordant dance -around the spiral fountains. Blue vapours assumed strange lineaments -under the rocks and among the ruins, lingering like ghosts with -slow and solemn step. Through a dark chasm to the east, in the long -perspective of a portal glittering with the unnumbered riches of the -subterranean world, shone the broad moon, pouring in one yellow and -unbroken stream her horizontal beams. Nearer the icy region, autumn and -spring held an alternate reign. The sere leaves fell and choked the -sluggish brooks; the chilling fogs hung diamonds on every spray; and in -the dark cold evening the howling winds made melancholy music in the -trees. Far above, shone the bright throne of winter, clear, cold, and -dazzling. Sometimes there was seen the snow-flakes to fall before the -sinking orb of the beamless sun, like a shower of fiery sulphur. The -cataracts, arrested in their course, seemed, with their transparent -columns, to support the dark-browed rocks. Sometimes the icy whirlwind -scooped the powdery snow aloft, to mingle with the hissing meteors, and -scatter spangles through the rare and rayless atmosphere. - -Such strange scenes of chaotic confusion and harrowing sublimity, -surrounding and shutting in the vale, added to the delights of its -secure and voluptuous tranquillity. No spectator could have refused to -believe that some spirit of great intelligence and power had hallowed -these wild and beautiful solitudes to a deep and solemn mystery. - -The immediate effect of such a scene, suddenly presented to the -contemplation of mortal eyes, is seldom the subject of authentic -record. The coldest slave of custom cannot fail to recollect some few -moments in which the breath of spring or the crowding clouds of sunset, -with the pale moon shining through their fleecy skirts, or the song of -some lonely bird perched on the only tree of an unfrequented heath, -has awakened the touch of nature. And they were Arabians who entered -the valley of Bethzatanai; men who idolized nature and the God of -nature; to whom love and lofty thoughts, and the apprehensions of an -uncorrupted spirit, were sustenance and life. Thus securely excluded -from an abhorred world, all thought of its judgment was cancelled by -the rapidity of their fervid imaginations. They ceased to acknowledge, -or deigned not to advert to, the distinctions with which the majority -of base and vulgar minds control the longings and struggles of the soul -towards its place of rest. A new and sacred fire was kindled in their -hearts and sparkled in their eyes. Every gesture, every feature, the -minutest action, was modelled to beneficence and beauty by the holy -inspiration that had descended on their searching spirits. The epidemic -transport communicated itself through every heart with the rapidity of -a blast from heaven. They were already disembodied spirits; they were -already the inhabitants of paradise. To live, to breathe, to move, was -itself a sensation of immeasurable transport. Every new contemplation -of the condition of his nature brought to the happy enthusiast an -added measure of delight, and impelled to every organ, where mind is -united with external things, a keener and more exquisite perception of -all that they contain of lovely and divine. To love, to be beloved, -suddenly became an insatiable famine of his nature, which the wide -circle of the universe, comprehending beings of such inexhaustible -variety and stupendous magnitude of excellence appeared too narrow and -confined to satiate. - -Alas, that these visitings of the spirit of life should fluctuate and -pass away! That the moments when the human mind is commensurate with -all that it can conceive of excellent and powerful, should not endure -with its existence and survive its most momentous change! But the -beauty of a vernal sunset, with its overhanging curtains of empurpled -cloud, is rapidly dissolved, to return at some unexpected period, and -spread an alleviating melancholy over the dark vigils of despair. - -It is true the enthusiasm of overwhelming transport which had inspired -every breast among the Assassins is no more. The necessity of daily -occupation and the ordinariness of that human life, the burthen of -which it is the destiny of every human being to bear, had smothered, -not extinguished, that divine and eternal fire. Not the less indelible -and permanent were the impressions communicated to all; not the more -unalterably were the features of their social character modelled and -determined by its influence. - - - CHAPTER II. - -Rome had fallen. Her senate-house had become a polluted den of thieves -and liars; her solemn temples, the arena of theological disputants, who -made fire and sword the missionaries of their inconceivable beliefs. -The city of the monster Constantine, symbolising, in the consequences -of its foundation, the wickedness and weakness of his successors, -feebly imaged with declining power the substantial eminence of the -Roman name. Pilgrims of a new and mightier faith crowded to visit the -lonely ruins of Jerusalem, and weep and pray before the sepulchre of -the Eternal God. The earth was filled with discord, tumult, and ruin. -The spirit of disinterested virtue had armed one-half of the civilised -world against the other. Monstrous and detestable creeds poisoned and -blighted the domestic charities. There was no appeal to natural love, -or ancient faith, from pride, superstition, and revenge. - -Four centuries had passed thus terribly characterised by the most -calamitous revolutions. The Assassins, meanwhile, undisturbed by the -surrounding tumult, possessed and cultivated their fertile valley. The -gradual operation of their peculiar condition had matured and perfected -the singularity and excellence of their character. That cause, which -had ceased to act as an immediate and overpowering excitement, became -the unperceived law of their lives, and sustenance of their natures. -Their religious tenets had also undergone a change, corresponding with -the exalted condition of their moral being. The gratitude which they -owed to the benignant Spirit by which their limited intelligences had -not only been created but redeemed, was less frequently adverted to, -became less the topic of comment or contemplation; not, therefore, did -it cease to be their presiding guardian, the guide of their inmost -thoughts, the tribunal of appeal for the minutest particulars of their -conduct. They learned to identify this mysterious benefactor with the -delight that is bred among the solitary rocks, and has its dwelling -alike in the changing colours of the clouds and the inmost recesses of -the caverns. Their future also no longer existed, but in the blissful -tranquillity of the present. Time was measured and created by the -vices and the miseries of men, between whom and the happy nation of -the Assassins there was no analogy nor comparison. Already had their -eternal peace commenced. The darkness had passed away from the open -gates of death. - -The practical results produced by their faith and condition upon -their external conduct were singular and memorable. Excluded from the -great and various community of mankind, these solitudes became to -them a sacred hermitage, in which all formed, as it were, one being, -divided against itself by no contending will or factious passions. -Every impulse conspired to one end, and tended to a single object. -Each devoted his powers to the happiness of the other. Their republic -was the scene of the perpetual contentions of benevolence; not the -heartless and assumed kindness of commercial man, but the genuine -virtue that has a legible superscription in every feature of the -countenance, and every motion of the frame. The perverseness and -calamities of those who dwelt beyond the mountains that encircled -their undisturbed possessions, were unknown and unimagined. Little -embarrassed by the complexities of civilised society, they knew not -to conceive any happiness that can be satiated without participation, -or that thirsts not to reproduce and perpetually generate itself. The -path of virtue and felicity was plain and unimpeded. They clearly -acknowledged, in every case, that conduct to be entitled to preference -which would obviously produce the greatest pleasure. They could not -conceive an instance in which it would be their duty to hesitate, in -causing, at whatever expense, the greatest and most unmixed delight. - -Hence arose a peculiarity which only failed to germinate in uncommon -and momentous consequences, because the Assassins had retired from -the intercourse of mankind, over whom other motives and principles of -conduct than justice and benevolence prevail. It would be a difficult -matter for men of such a sincere and simple faith, to estimate the -final results of their intentions, among the corrupt and slavish -multitude. They would be perplexed also in their choice of the means, -whereby their intentions might be fulfilled. To produce immediate pain -or disorder for the sake of future benefit, is consonant, indeed, -with the purest religion and philosophy, but never fails to excite -invincible repugnance in the feelings of the many. Against their -predilections and distastes an Assassin, accidentally the inhabitant of -a civilised community, would wage unremitting hostility from principle. -He would find himself compelled to adopt means which they would abhor, -for the sake of an object which they could not conceive that he should -propose to himself. Secure and self-enshrined in the magnificence and -pre-eminence of his conceptions, spotless as the light of heaven, he -would be the victim among men of calumny and persecution. Incapable -of distinguishing his motives, they would rank him among the vilest -and most atrocious criminals. Great, beyond all comparison with them, -they would despise him in the presumption of their ignorance. Because -his spirit burned with an unquenchable passion for their welfare, -they would lead him, like his illustrious master, amidst scoffs, and -mockery, and insult, to the remuneration of an ignominious death. - -Who hesitates to destroy a venomous serpent that has crept near his -sleeping friend, except the man who selfishly dreads lest the malignant -reptile should turn its fury on himself? And if the poisoner has -assumed a human shape, if the bane be distinguished only from the -viper’s venom by the excess and extent of its devastation, will the -saviour and avenger here retract and pause, entrenched behind the -superstition of the indefeasible divinity of man? Is the human form, -then, the mere badge of a prerogative for unlicensed wickedness and -mischief? Can the power derived from the weakness of the oppressed, -or the ignorance of the deceived, confer the right in security to -tyrannise and defraud? - -The subject of regular governments, and the disciple of established -superstition, dares not to ask this question. For the sake of the -eventual benefit, he endures what he esteems a transitory evil, and -the moral degradation of man disquiets not his patience. But the -religion of an Assassin imposes other virtues than endurance, when his -fellow-men groan under tyranny, or have become so bestial and abject -that they cannot feel their chains. An Assassin believes that man is -eminently man, and only then enjoys the prerogatives of his privileged -condition, when his affections and his judgment pay tribute to the -God of Nature. The perverse, and vile, and vicious--what were they? -Shapes of some unholy vision, moulded by the spirit of Evil, which -the sword of the merciful destroyer should sweep from this beautiful -world. Dreamy nothings; phantasms of misery and mischief, that hold -their death-like state on glittering thrones, and in the loathsome -dens of poverty. No Assassin would submissively temporise with vice, -and in cold charity become a pander to falsehood and desolation. His -path through the wilderness of civilized society would be marked with -the blood of the oppressor and the ruiner. The wretch, whom nations -tremblingly adore, would expiate in his throttling grasp a thousand -licensed and venerable crimes. - -How many holy liars and parasites, in solemn guise, would his saviour -arm drag from their luxurious couches, and plunge in the cold charnel, -that the green and many-legged monsters of the slimy grave might eat -off at their leisure the lineaments of rooted malignity and detested -cunning. The respectable man--the smooth, smiling, polished villain, -whom all the city honours; whose very trade is lies and murder; who -buys his daily bread with the blood and tears of men, would feed the -ravens with his limbs. The Assassin would cater nobly for the eyeless -worms of earth, and the carrion fowls of heaven. - -Yet here, religion and human love had imbued the manners of those -solitary people with inexpressible gentleness and benignity. Courage -and active virtue, and the indignation against vice, which becomes -a hurrying and irresistible passion, slept like the imprisoned -earthquake, or the lightning shafts that hang in the golden clouds -of evening. They were innocent, but they were capable of more than -innocence; for the great principles of their faith were perpetually -acknowledged and adverted to; nor had they forgotten, in this -uninterrupted quiet, the author of their felicity. - -Four centuries had thus worn away without producing an event. Men had -died, and natural tears had been shed upon their graves, in sorrow that -improves the heart. Those who had been united by love had gone to death -together, leaving to their friends the bequest of a most sacred grief, -and of a sadness that is allied to pleasure. Babes that hung upon -their mothers’ breasts had become men; men had died; and many a wild -luxuriant weed that overtopped the habitations of the vale, had twined -its roots around their disregarded bones. Their tranquil state was like -a summer sea, whose gentle undulations disturb not the reflected stars, -and break not the long still line of the rainbow hues of sunrise. - - - CHAPTER III. - -Where all is thus calm, the slightest circumstance is recorded and -remembered. Before the sixth century had expired one incident occurred, -remarkable and strange. A young man, named Albedir, wandering in the -woods, was startled by the screaming of a bird of prey, and, looking -up, saw blood fall, drop by drop, from among the intertwined boughs of -a cedar. Having climbed the tree, he beheld a terrible and dismaying -spectacle. A naked human body was impaled on the broken branch. It was -maimed and mangled horribly; every limb bent and bruised into frightful -distortion, and exhibiting a breathing image of the most sickening -mockery of life. A monstrous snake had scented its prey from among the -mountains--and above hovered a hungry vulture. From amidst this mass of -desolated humanity, two eyes, black and inexpressibly brilliant, shone -with an unearthly lustre. Beneath the blood-stained eye-brows their -steady rays manifested the serenity of an immortal power, the collected -energy of a deathless mind, spell-secured from dissolution. A bitter -smile of mingled abhorrence and scorn distorted his wounded lip--he -appeared calmly to observe and measure all around--self-possession had -not deserted the shattered mass of life. - -The youth approached the bough on which the breathing corpse was hung. -As he approached, the serpent reluctantly unwreathed his glittering -coils, and crept towards his dark and loathsome cave. The vulture, -impatient of his meal, fled to the mountain, that re-echoed with his -hoarse screams. The cedar branches creaked with their agitating weight, -faintly, as the dismal wind arose. All else was deadly silent. - -At length a voice issued from the mangled man. It rattled in hoarse -murmurs from his throat and lungs--his words were the conclusion of -some strange mysterious soliloquy. They were broken, and without -apparent connexion, completing wide intervals of inexpressible -conceptions. - -“The great tyrant is baffled, even in success. Joy! joy! to his -tortured foe! Triumph to the worm whom he tramples under his feet! -Ha! His suicidal hand might dare as well abolish the mighty frame of -things! Delight and exultation sit before the closed gates of death!--I -fear not to dwell beneath their black and ghastly shadow. Here thy -power may not avail! Thou createst--’tis mine to ruin and destroy.--I -was thy slave--I am thy equal, and thy foe.--Thousands tremble before -thy throne, who, at my voice, shall dare to pluck the golden crown -from thine unholy head!” He ceased. The silence of noon swallowed up -his words. Albedir clung tighter to the tree--he dared not for dismay -remove his eyes. He remained mute in the perturbation of deep and -creeping horror. - -“Albedir!” said the same voice, “Albedir! in the name of God, approach. -He that suffered me to fall, watches thee;--the gentle and merciful -spirits of sweet human love delight not in agony and horror. For -pity’s sake approach, in the name of thy good God, approach, Albedir!” -The tones were mild and clear as the responses of Æolian music. They -floated to Albedir’s ear like the warm breath of June that lingers in -the lawny groves, subduing all to softness. Tears of tender affection -started into his eyes. It was as the voice of a beloved friend. The -partner of his childhood, the brother of his soul, seemed to call for -aid, and pathetically to remonstrate with delay. He resisted not the -magic impulse, but advanced towards the spot, and tenderly attempted -to remove the wounded man. He cautiously descended the tree with his -wretched burthen, and deposited it on the ground. - -A period of strange silence intervened. Awe and cold horror were slowly -succeeding to the softer sensations of tumultuous pity, when again he -heard the silver modulations of the same enchanting voice. “Weep not -for me, Albedir! What wretch so utterly lost, but might inhale peace -and renovation from this paradise! I am wounded, and in pain; but -having found a refuge in this seclusion, and a friend in you, I am -worthier of envy than compassion. Bear me to your cottage secretly: -I would not disturb your gentle partner by my appearance. She must -love me more dearly than a brother. I must be the playmate of your -children; already I regard them with a father’s love. My arrival must -not be regarded as a thing of mystery and wonder. What, indeed, but -that men are prone to error and exaggeration, is less inexplicable, -than that a stranger, wandering on Lebanon, fell from the rocks into -the vale? Albedir,” he continued, and his deepening voice assumed awful -solemnity, “in return for the affection with which I cherish thee and -thine, thou owest this submission.” - -Albedir implicitly submitted; not even a thought had power to refuse -its deference. He reassumed his burthen, and proceeded towards the -cottage. He watched until Khaled should be absent, and conveyed the -stranger into an apartment appropriated for the reception of those -who occasionally visited their habitation. He desired that the door -should be securely fastened, and that he might not be visited until the -morning of the following day. - -Albedir waited with impatience for the return of Khaled. The -unaccustomed weight of even so transitory a secret hung on his -ingenuous and unpractised nature, like a blighting, clinging curse. The -stranger’s accents had lulled him to a trance of wild and delightful -imagination. Hopes, so visionary and aerial, that they had assumed no -denomination, had spread themselves over his intellectual frame, and, -phantoms as they were, had modelled his being to their shape. Still his -mind was not exempt from the visitings of disquietude and perturbation. -It was a troubled stream of thought, over whose fluctuating waves -unsearchable fate seemed to preside, guiding its unforeseen -alternations with an inexorable hand. Albedir paced earnestly the -garden of his cottage, revolving every circumstance attendant on the -incident of the day. He re-imaged with intense thought the minutest -recollections of the scene. In vain--he was the slave of suggestions -not to be controlled. Astonishment, horror, and awe--tumultuous -sympathy, and a mysterious elevation of soul, hurried away all activity -of judgment, and overwhelmed, with stunning force, every attempt at -deliberation or inquiry. - -His reveries were interrupted at length by the return of Khaled. -She entered the cottage, that scene of undisturbed repose, in the -confidence that change might as soon overwhelm the eternal world, as -disturb this inviolable sanctuary. She started to behold Albedir. -Without preface or remark, he recounted with eager haste the -occurrences of the day. Khaled’s tranquil spirit could hardly keep -pace with the breathless rapidity of his narration. She was bewildered -with staggering wonder even to hear his confused tones, and behold his -agitated countenance. - - - CHAPTER IV. - -On the following morning Albedir arose at sunrise, and visited the -stranger. He found him already risen, and employed in adorning the -lattice of his chamber with flowers from the garden. There was -something in his attitude and occupation singularly expressive of his -entire familiarity with the scene. Albedir’s habitation seemed to have -been his accustomed home. He addressed his host in a tone of gay and -affectionate welcome, such as never fails to communicate by sympathy -the feelings from which it flows. - -“My friend,” said he, “the balm of the dew of our vale is sweet; or is -this garden the favoured spot where the winds conspire to scatter the -best odours they can find? Come, lend me your arm awhile, I feel very -weak.” He motioned to walk forth, but, as if unable to proceed, rested -on the seat beside the door. For a few moments they were silent, if the -interchange of cheerful and happy looks is to be called silence. At -last he observed a spade that rested against the wall. “You have only -one spade, brother,” said he; “you have only one, I suppose, of any of -the instruments of tillage. Your garden ground, too, occupies a certain -space which it will be necessary to enlarge. This must be quickly -remedied. I cannot earn my supper of to-night, nor of to-morrow; but -thenceforward, I do not mean to eat the bread of idleness. I know that -you would willingly perform the additional labour which my nourishment -would require; I know, also, that you would feel a degree of pleasure -in the fatigue arising from this employment, but I shall contest with -you such pleasures as these, and such pleasures as these alone.” His -eyes were somewhat wan, and the tone of his voice languid as he spoke. - -As they were thus engaged, Khaled came towards them. The stranger -beckoned to her to sit beside him, and taking her hands within his -own, looked attentively on her mild countenance. Khaled inquired if -he had been refreshed by sleep. He replied by a laugh of careless -and inoffensive glee; and placing one of her hands within Albedir’s, -said, “If this be sleep, here in this odorous vale, where these sweet -smiles encompass us, and the voices of those who love are heard--if -these be the visions of sleep, sister, those who lie down in misery -shall arise lighter than the butterflies. I came from amid the tumult -of a world, how different from this! I am unexpectedly among you, in -the midst of a scene such as my imagination never dared to promise. -I must remain here--I must not depart.” Khaled, recovering from the -admiration and astonishment caused by the stranger’s words and manner, -assured him of the happiness which she should feel in such an addition -to her society. Albedir, too, who had been more deeply impressed -than Khaled by the event of his arrival, earnestly reassured him of -the ardour of the affection with which he had inspired them. The -stranger smiled gently to hear the unaccustomed fervour of sincerity -which animated their address, and was rising to retire, when Khaled -said, “You have not yet seen our children, Maimuna and Abdallah. They -are by the water-side, playing with their favourite snake. We have -only to cross yonder little wood, and wind down a path cut in the -rock that overhangs the lake, and we shall find them beside a recess -which the shore makes there, and which a chasm, as it were, among the -rocks and woods, encloses. Do you think you could walk there?” “To -see your children, Khaled? I think I could, with the assistance of -Albedir’s arm, and yours.”--So they went through the wood of ancient -cypress, intermingled with the brightness of many-tinted blooms, -which gleamed like stars through its romantic glens. They crossed the -green meadow, and entered among the broken chasms, beautiful as they -were in their investiture of odoriferous shrubs. They came at last, -after pursuing a path which wound through the intricacies of a little -wilderness, to the borders of the lake. They stood on the rock which -overhung it, from which there was a prospect of all the miracles of -nature and of art which encircled and adorned its shores. The stranger -gazed upon it with a countenance unchanged by any emotion, but, as it -were, thoughtfully and contemplatingly. As he gazed, Khaled ardently -pressed his hand, and said, in a low yet eager voice, “Look, look, -lo there!” He turned towards her, but her eyes were not on him. She -looked below--her lips were parted by the feelings which possessed her -soul--her breath came and went regularly but inaudibly. She leaned over -the precipice, and her dark hair hanging beside her face, gave relief -to its fine lineaments, animated by such love as exceeds utterance. -The stranger followed her eyes, and saw that her children were in the -glen below; then raising his eyes, exchanged with her affectionate -looks of congratulation and delight. The boy was apparently eight years -old, the girl about two years younger. The beauty of their form and -countenance was something so divine and strange, as overwhelmed the -senses of the beholder like a delightful dream, with insupportable -ravishment. They were arrayed in a loose robe of linen, through which -the exquisite proportions of their form appeared. Unconscious that they -were observed, they did not relinquish the occupation in which they -were engaged. They had constructed a little boat of the bark of trees, -and had given it sails of interwoven feathers, and launched it on the -water. They sat beside a white flat stone, on which a small snake lay -coiled, and when their work was finished, they arose and called to the -snake in melodious tones, so that it understood their language. For it -unwreathed its shining circles and crept to the boat, into which no -sooner had it entered than the girl loosened the band which held it to -the shore, and it sailed away. Then they ran round and round the little -creek, clapping their hands, and melodiously pouring out wild sounds, -which the snake seemed to answer by the restless glancing of his neck. -At last a breath of wind came from the shore, and the boat changed its -course, and was about to leave the creek, which the snake perceived -and leaped into the water, and came to the little children’s feet. The -girl sang to it, and it leaped into her bosom, and she crossed her fair -hands over it, as if to cherish it there. Then the boy answered with a -song, and it glided from beneath her hands and crept towards him. While -they were thus employed, Maimuna looked up, and seeing her parents on -the cliff, ran to meet them up the steep path that wound around it; and -Abdallah, leaving his snake, followed joyfully. - - - - -[Decoration] - - ON THE PUNISHMENT OF DEATH. - - A Fragment. - - -The first law which it becomes a Reformer to propose and support, at -the approach of a period of great political change, is the abolition of -the punishment of death. - -It is sufficiently clear that revenge, retaliation, atonement, -expiation, are rules and motives, so far from deserving a place in any -enlightened system of political life, that they are the chief sources -of a prodigious class of miseries in the domestic circles of society. -It is clear that however the spirit of legislation may appear to frame -institutions upon more philosophical maxims, it has hitherto, in -those cases which are termed criminal, done little more than palliate -the spirit, by gratifying a portion of it; and afforded a compromise -between that which is best;--the inflicting of no evil upon a sensitive -being, without a decisively beneficial result in which he should at -least participate;--and that which is worst; that he should be put to -torture for the amusement of those whom he may have injured, or may -seem to have injured. - -Omitting these remoter considerations, let us inquire what _Death_ is; -that which is applied as a measure of transgressions of indefinite -shades of distinction, so soon as they shall have passed that -degree and colour of enormity, with which it is supposed no inferior -infliction is commensurate. - -And first, whether death is good or evil, a punishment or a reward, -or whether it be wholly indifferent, no man can take upon himself -to assert. That that within us which thinks and feels, continues to -think and feel after the dissolution of the body, has been the almost -universal opinion of mankind, and the accurate philosophy of what I -may be permitted to term the modern Academy, by showing the prodigious -depth and extent of our ignorance respecting the causes and nature -of sensation, renders probable the affirmative of a proposition, the -negative of which it is so difficult to conceive, and the popular -arguments against which, derived from what is called the atomic system, -are proved to be applicable only to the relation which one object bears -to another, as apprehended by the mind, and not to existence itself, -or the nature of that essence which is the medium and receptacle of -objects. - -The popular system of religion suggests the idea that the mind, after -death, will be painfully or pleasurably affected according to its -determinations during life. However ridiculous and pernicious we must -admit the vulgar accessories of this creed to be, there is a certain -analogy, not wholly absurd, between the consequences resulting to -an individual during life from the virtuous or vicious, prudent or -imprudent, conduct of his external actions, to those consequences which -are conjectured to ensue from the discipline and order of his internal -thoughts, as affecting his condition in a future state. They omit, -indeed, to calculate upon the accidents of disease, and temperament, -and organisation, and circumstance, together with the multitude of -independent agencies which affect the opinions, the conduct, and the -happiness of individuals, and produce determinations of the will, and -modify the judgment, so as to produce effects the most opposite in -natures considerably similar. These are those operations in the order -of the whole of nature, tending, we are prone to believe, to some -definite mighty end, to which the agencies of our peculiar nature are -subordinate; nor is there any reason to suppose, that in a future -state they should become suddenly exempt from that subordination. The -philosopher is unable to determine whether our existence in a previous -state has affected our present condition, and abstains from deciding -whether our present condition would affect us in that which may be -future. That, if we continue to exist, the manner of our existence will -be such as no inferences nor conjectures, afforded by a consideration -of our earthly experience, can elucidate, is sufficiently obvious. -The opinion that the vital principle within us, in whatever mode it -may continue to exist, must lose that consciousness of definite and -individual being which now characterises it, and become a unit in the -vast sum of action and of thought which disposes and animates the -universe, and is called God, seems to belong to that class of opinion -which has been designated as indifferent. - -To compel a person to know all that can be known by the dead, -concerning that which the living fear, hope, or forget; to plunge him -into the pleasure or pain which there awaits him; to punish or reward -him in a manner and in a degree incalculable and incomprehensible by -us; to disrobe him at once from all that intertexture of good and -evil with which Nature seems to have clothed every form of individual -existence, is to inflict on him the doom of death. - -A certain degree of pain and terror usually accompany the infliction of -death. This degree is infinitely varied by the infinite variety in the -temperament and opinions of the sufferers. As a measure of punishment, -strictly so considered, and as an exhibition, which, by its known -effects on the sensibility of the sufferer, is intended to intimidate -the spectators from incurring a similar liability, it is singularly -inadequate. - -Firstly,--Persons of energetic character, in whom, as in men who suffer -for political crimes, there is a large mixture of enterprise, and -fortitude, and disinterestedness, and the elements, though misguided -and disarranged, by which the strength and happiness of a nation might -have been cemented, die in such a manner, as to make death appear -not evil, but good. The death of what is called a traitor, that is, -a person who, from whatever motive, would abolish the government of -the day, is as often a triumphant exhibition of suffering virtue, -as the warning of a culprit. The multitude, instead of departing -with a panic-stricken approbation of the laws which exhibited such a -spectacle, are inspired with pity, admiration and sympathy; and the -most generous among them feel an emulation to be the authors of such -flattering emotions, as they experience stirring in their bosoms. -Impressed by what they see and feel, they make no distinction between -the motives which incited the criminals to the actions for which they -suffer, or the heroic courage with which they turned into good that -which their judges awarded to them as evil, or the purpose itself -of those actions, though that purpose may happen to be eminently -pernicious. The laws in this case lose that sympathy, which it ought -to be their chief object to secure, and in a participation of which, -consists their chief strength in maintaining those sanctions by which -the parts of the social union are bound together, so as to produce, as -nearly as possible, the ends for which it is instituted. - -Secondly--persons of energetic character, in communities not modelled -with philosophical skill to turn all the energies which they contain to -the purposes of common good, are prone also to fall into the temptation -of undertaking, and are peculiarly fitted for despising the perils -attendant upon consummating, the most enormous crimes. Murder, rapes, -extensive schemes of plunder, are the actions of persons belonging to -this class; and death is the penalty of conviction. But the coarseness -of organisation, peculiar to men capable of committing acts wholly -selfish, is usually found to be associated with a proportionate -insensibility to fear or pain. Their sufferings communicate to those of -the spectators, who may be liable to the commission of similar crimes, -a sense of the lightness of that event, when closely examined, which -at a distance, as uneducated persons are accustomed to do, probably -they regarded with horror. But a great majority of the spectators are -so bound up in the interests and the habits of social union that no -temptation would be sufficiently strong to induce them to a commission -of the enormities to which this penalty is assigned. The more powerful, -the richer among them,--and a numerous class of little tradesmen are -richer and more powerful than those who are employed by them, and the -employer, in general, bears this relation to the employed,--regard -their own wrongs as, in some degree, avenged, and their own rights -secured by this punishment, inflicted as the penalty of whatever crime. -In cases of murder or mutilation, this feeling is almost universal. In -those, therefore, whom this exhibition does not awaken to the sympathy -which extenuates crime and discredits the law which restrains it, it -produces feelings more directly at war with the genuine purposes of -political society. It excites those emotions which it is the chief -object of civilisation to extinguish for ever, and in the extinction -of which alone there can be any hope of better institutions than those -under which men now misgovern one another. Men feel that their revenge -is gratified, and that their security is established, by the extinction -and the sufferings of beings, in most respects resembling themselves; -and their daily occupations constraining them to a precise form in all -their thoughts, they come to connect inseparably the idea of their own -advantage with that of the death and torture of others. It is manifest -that the object of sane polity is directly the reverse; and that laws -founded upon reason, should accustom the gross vulgar to associate -their ideas of security and of interest with the reformation, and the -strict restraint, for that purpose alone, of those who might invade it. - -The passion of revenge is originally nothing more than an habitual -perception of the ideas of the sufferings of the person who inflicts -an injury, as connected, as they are in a savage state, or in such -portions of society as are yet undisciplined to civilisation, with -security that that injury will not be repeated in future. This feeling, -engrafted upon superstition and confirmed by habit, at last loses sight -of the only object for which it may be supposed to have been implanted, -and becomes a passion and a duty to be pursued and fulfilled, even to -the destruction of those ends to which it originally tended. The other -passions, both good and evil, Avarice, Remorse, Love, Patriotism, -present a similar appearance; and to this principle of the mind -over-shooting the mark at which it aims, we owe all that is eminently -base or excellent in human nature; in providing for the nutriment or -the extinction of which consists the true art of the legislator.[9] - -Nothing is more clear than that the infliction of punishment in -general, in a degree which the reformation and the restraint of those -who transgress the laws does not render indispensable, and none more -than death, confirms all the inhuman and unsocial impulses of men. It -is almost a proverbial remark, that those nations in which the penal -code has been particularly mild, have been distinguished from all -others by the rarity of crime. But the example is to be admitted to -be equivocal. A more decisive argument is afforded by a consideration -of the universal connexion of ferocity of manners, and a contempt of -social ties, with the contempt of human life. Governments which derive -their institutions from the existence of circumstances of barbarism and -violence, with some rare exceptions perhaps, are bloody in proportion -as they are despotic, and form the manners of their subjects to a -sympathy with their own spirit. - -The spectators who feel no abhorrence at a public execution, but rather -a self-applauding superiority, and a sense of gratified indignation, -are surely excited to the most inauspicious emotions. The first -reflection of such a one is the sense of his own internal and actual -worth, as preferable to that of the victim, whom circumstances have led -to destruction. The meanest wretch is impressed with a sense of his -own comparative merit. He is one of those on whom the tower of Siloam -fell not--he is such a one as Jesus found not in all Samaria, who, in -his own soul, throws the first stone at the woman taken in adultery. -The popular religion of the country takes its designation from that -illustrious person whose beautiful sentiment I have quoted. Any one who -has stript from the doctrines of this person the veil of familiarity, -will perceive how adverse their spirit is to feelings of this nature. - - -[9] The savage and the illiterate are but faintly aware of the -distinction between the future and the past; they make actions -belonging to periods so distinct, the subjects of similar feelings; -they live only in the present, or in the past as it is present. It is -in this that the philosopher excels one of the many; it is this which -distinguishes the doctrine of philosophic necessity from fatalism; and -that determination of the will, by which it is the active source of -future events, from that liberty or indifference, to which the abstract -liability of irremediable actions is attached, according to the notions -of the vulgar. - -This is the source of the erroneous excesses of Remorse and Revenge; -the one extending itself over the future, and the other over the past; -provinces in which their suggestions can only be the sources of evil. -The purpose of a resolution to act more wisely and virtuously in -future, and the sense of a necessity of caution in repressing an enemy, -are the sources from which the enormous superstitions implied in the -words cited have arisen. - - - - -[Decoration] - - ON LIFE. - - -Life and the world, or whatever we call that which we are and feel, -is an astonishing thing. The mist of familiarity obscures from us the -wonder of our being. We are struck with admiration at some of its -transient modifications, but it is itself the great miracle. What are -changes of empires, the wreck of dynasties, with the opinions which -supported them; what is the birth and the extinction of religious and -of political systems, to life? What are the revolutions of the globe -which we inhabit, and the operations of the elements of which it is -composed, compared with life? What is the universe of stars, and suns, -of which this inhabited earth is one, and their motions, and their -destiny, compared with life? Life, the great miracle, we admire not, -because it is so miraculous. It is well that we are thus shielded by -the familiarity of what is at once so certain and so unfathomable, from -an astonishment which would otherwise absorb and overawe the functions -of that which is its object. - -If any artist, I do not say had executed, but had merely conceived in -his mind the system of the sun, and the stars, and planets, they not -existing, and had painted to us in words, or upon canvas, the spectacle -now afforded by the nightly cope of heaven, and illustrated it by the -wisdom of astronomy, great would be our admiration. Or had he imagined -the scenery of this earth, the mountains, the seas, and the rivers; -the grass, and the flowers, and the variety of the forms and masses of -the leaves of the woods, and the colours which attend the setting and -the rising sun, and the hues of the atmosphere, turbid or serene, these -things not before existing, truly we should have been astonished, and -it would not have been a vain boast to have said of such a man, “Non -merita nome di creatore, se non Iddio ed il Poeta.”[10] But now these -things are looked on with little wonder, and to be conscious of them -with intense delight is esteemed to be the distinguishing mark of a -refined and extraordinary person. The multitude of men care not for -them. It is thus with Life--that which includes all. - -What is life? Thoughts and feelings arise, with or without our will, -and we employ words to express them. We are born, and our birth is -unremembered, and our infancy remembered but in fragments; we live -on, and in living we lose the apprehension of life. How vain is it to -think that words can penetrate the mystery of our being! Rightly used -they may make evident our ignorance to ourselves; and this is much. -For what are we? Whence do we come? and whither do we go? Is birth the -commencement, is death the conclusion of our being? What is birth and -death? - -The most refined abstractions of logic conduct to a view of life, -which, though startling to the apprehension, is, in fact, that which -the habitual sense of its repeated combinations has extinguished in us. -It strips, as it were, the painted curtain from this scene of things. I -confess that I am one of those who am unable to refuse my assent to the -conclusions of those philosophers who assert that nothing exists but as -it is perceived. - -It is a decision against which all our persuasions struggle, and we -must be long convicted before we can be convinced that the solid -universe of external things is “such stuff as dreams are made of.” The -shocking absurdities of the popular philosophy of mind and matter, its -fatal consequences in morals, and their violent dogmatism concerning -the source of all things, had early conducted me to materialism. This -materialism is a seducing system to young and superficial minds. It -allows its disciples to talk, and dispenses them from thinking. But -I was discontented with such a view of things as it afforded; man -is a being of high aspirations, “looking both before and after,” -whose “thoughts wander through eternity,” disclaiming alliance with -transience and decay; incapable of imagining to himself annihilation; -existing but in the future and the past; being, not what he is, but -what he has been and shall be. Whatever may be his true and final -destination, there is a spirit within him at enmity with nothingness -and dissolution. This is the character of all life and being. Each is -at once the centre and the circumference; the point to which all things -are referred, and the line in which all things are contained. Such -contemplations as these, materialism and the popular philosophy of mind -and matter alike forbid; they are only consistent with the intellectual -system. - -It is absurd to enter into a long recapitulation of arguments -sufficiently familiar to those inquiring minds, whom alone a writer on -abstruse subjects can be conceived to address. Perhaps the most clear -and vigorous statement of the intellectual system is to be found in Sir -William Drummond’s Academical Questions. After such an exposition, it -would be idle to translate into other words what could only lose its -energy and fitness by the change. Examined point by point, and word by -word, the most discriminating intellects have been able to discern no -train of thoughts in the process of reasoning, which does not conduct -inevitably to the conclusion which has been stated. - -What follows from the admission? It establishes no new truth, it gives -us no additional insight into our hidden nature, neither its action -nor itself. Philosophy, impatient as it may be to build, has much -work yet remaining as pioneer for the overgrowth of ages. It makes -one step towards this object; it destroys error, and the roots of -error. It leaves, what it is too often the duty of the reformer in -political and ethical questions to leave, a vacancy. It reduces the -mind to that freedom in which it would have acted, but for the misuse -of words and signs, the instruments of its own creation. By signs, I -would be understood in a wide sense, including what is properly meant -by that term, and what I peculiarly mean. In this latter sense, almost -all familiar objects are signs, standing, not for themselves, but for -others, in their capacity of suggesting one thought which shall lead to -a train of thoughts. Our whole life is thus an education of error. - -Let us recollect our sensations as children. What a distinct and -intense apprehension had we of the world and of ourselves! Many of the -circumstances of social life were then important to us which are now -no longer so. But that is not the point of comparison on which I mean -to insist. We less habitually distinguished all that we saw and felt, -from ourselves. They seemed, as it were, to constitute one mass. There -are some persons who, in this respect, are always children. Those who -are subject to the state called reverie, feel as if their nature were -dissolved into the surrounding universe, or as if the surrounding -universe were absorbed into their being. They are conscious of no -distinction. And these are states which precede, or accompany, or -follow an unusually intense and vivid apprehension of life. As men grow -up this power commonly decays, and they become mechanical and habitual -agents. Thus feelings and then reasonings are the combined result of -a multitude of entangled thoughts, and of a series of what are called -impressions, planted by reiteration. - -The view of life presented by the most refined deductions of the -intellectual philosophy, is that of unity. Nothing exists but as -it is perceived. The difference is merely nominal between those two -classes of thought, which are vulgarly distinguished by the names of -ideas and of external objects. Pursuing the same thread of reasoning, -the existence of distinct individual minds, similar to that which -is employed in now questioning its own nature, is likewise found to -be a delusion. The words _I_, _you_, _they_, are not signs of any -actual difference subsisting between the assemblage of thoughts thus -indicated, but are merely marks employed to denote the different -modifications of the one mind. - -Let it not be supposed that this doctrine conducts to the monstrous -presumption that I, the person who now write and think, am that one -mind. I am but a portion of it. The words _I_, and _you_, and _they_ -are grammatical devices invented simply for arrangement, and totally -devoid of the intense and exclusive sense usually attached to them. It -is difficult to find terms adequate to express so subtle a conception -as that to which the Intellectual Philosophy has conducted us. We are -on that verge where words abandon us, and what wonder if we grow dizzy -to look down the dark abyss of how little we know! - -The relations of _things_ remain unchanged, by whatever system. By the -word _things_ is to be understood any object of thought, that is, any -thought upon which any other thought is employed, with an apprehension -of distinction. The relations of these remain unchanged; and such is -the material of our knowledge. - -What is the cause of life? that is, how was it produced, or what -agencies distinct from life have acted or act upon life? All recorded -generations of mankind have wearily busied themselves in inventing -answers to this question; and the result has been,--Religion. Yet, that -the basis of all things cannot be, as the popular philosophy alleges, -mind, is sufficiently evident. Mind, as far as we have any experience -of its properties, and beyond that experience how vain is argument! -cannot create, it can only perceive. It is said also to be the cause. -But cause is only a word expressing a certain state of the human mind -with regard to the manner in which two thoughts are apprehended to be -related to each other. If any one desires to know how unsatisfactorily -the popular philosophy employs itself upon this great question, they -need only impartially reflect upon the manner in which thoughts develop -themselves in their minds. It is infinitely improbable that the cause -of mind, that is, of existence, is similar to mind. - -[Decoration] - - -[10] _Vide supra_, p. 35.--Ed. - - - - -[Decoration] - - ON A FUTURE STATE. - - -It has been the persuasion of an immense majority of human beings -in all ages and nations that we continue to live after death,--that -apparent termination of all the functions of sensitive and intellectual -existence. Nor has mankind been contented with supposing that species -of existence which some philosophers have asserted; namely, the -resolution of the component parts of the mechanism of a living being -into its elements, and the impossibility of the minutest particle of -these sustaining the smallest diminution. They have clung to the idea -that sensibility and thought, which they have distinguished from the -objects of it, under the several names of spirit and matter, is, in its -own nature, less susceptible of division and decay, and that, when the -body is resolved into its elements, the principle which animated it -will remain perpetual and unchanged. Some philosophers--and those to -whom we are indebted for the most stupendous discoveries in physical -science, suppose, on the other hand, that intelligence is the mere -result of certain combinations among the particles of its objects; -and those among them who believe that we live after death, recur to -the interposition of a supernatural power, which shall overcome the -tendency inherent in all material combinations, to dissipate and be -absorbed into other forms. - -Let us trace the reasonings which in one and the other have conducted -to these two opinions, and endeavour to discover what we ought to -think on a question of such momentous interest. Let us analyse the -ideas and feelings which constitute the contending beliefs, and -watchfully establish a discrimination between words and thoughts. Let -us bring the question to the test of experience and fact; and ask -ourselves, considering our nature in its entire extent, what light we -derive from a sustained and comprehensive view of its component parts, -which may enable us to assert, with certainty, that we do or do not -live after death. - -The examination of this subject requires that it should be stript of -all those accessory topics which adhere to it in the common opinion -of men. The existence of a God, and a future state of rewards and -punishments, are totally foreign to the subject. If it be proved that -the world is ruled by a Divine Power, no inference necessarily can -be drawn from that circumstance in favour of a future state. It has -been asserted, indeed, that as goodness and justice are to be numbered -among the attributes of the Deity, he will undoubtedly compensate the -virtuous who suffer during life, and that he will make every sensitive -being, who does not deserve punishment, happy for ever. But this view -of the subject, which it would be tedious as well as superfluous to -develop and expose, satisfies no person, and cuts the knot which we -now seek to untie. Moreover, should it be proved, on the other hand, -that the mysterious principle which regulates the proceedings of the -universe, is neither intelligent nor sensitive, yet it is not an -inconsistency to suppose at the same time, that the animating power -survives the body which it has animated, by laws as independent of any -supernatural agent as those through which it first became united with -it. Nor, if a future state be clearly proved, does it follow that it -will be a state of punishment or reward. - -By the word death, we express that condition in which natures -resembling ourselves apparently cease to be that which they were. We -no longer hear them speak, nor see them move. If they have sensations -and apprehensions, we no longer participate in them. We know no more -than that those external organs, and all that fine texture of material -frame, without which we have no experience that life or thought can -subsist, are dissolved and scattered abroad. The body is placed under -the earth, and after a certain period there remains no vestige even -of its form. This is that contemplation of inexhaustible melancholy, -whose shadow eclipses the brightness of the world. The common observer -is struck with dejection of the spectacle. He contends in vain against -the persuasion of the grave, that the dead indeed cease to be. The -corpse at his feet is prophetic of his own destiny. Those who have -preceded him, and whose voice was delightful to his ear; whose touch -met his like sweet and subtle fire; whose aspect spread a visionary -light upon his path--these he cannot meet again. The organs of sense -are destroyed, and the intellectual operations dependent on them have -perished with their sources. How can a corpse see or feel? its eyes are -eaten out, and its heart is black and without motion. What intercourse -can two heaps of putrid clay and crumbling bones hold together? When -you can discover where the fresh colours of the faded flower abide, -or the music of the broken lyre, seek life among the dead. Such are -the anxious and fearful contemplations of the common observer, though -the popular religion often prevents him from confessing them even to -himself. - -The natural philosopher, in addition to the sensations common to all -men inspired by the event of death, believes that he sees with more -certainty that it is attended with the annihilation of sentiment and -thought. He observes the mental powers increase and fade with those -of the body, and even accommodate themselves to the most transitory -changes of our physical nature. Sleep suspends many of the faculties -of the vital and intellectual principle; drunkenness and disease will -either temporarily or permanently derange them. Madness or idiotcy may -utterly extinguish the most excellent and delicate of those powers. In -old age the mind gradually withers; and as it grew and was strengthened -with the body, so does it together with the body sink into decrepitude. -Assuredly these are convincing evidences that so soon as the organs of -the body are subjected to the laws of inanimate matter, sensation, and -perception, and apprehension, are at an end. It is probable that what -we call thought is not an actual being, but no more than the relation -between certain parts of that infinitely varied mass, of which the rest -of the universe is composed, and which ceases to exist so soon as those -parts change their position with regard to each other. Thus colour, -and sound, and taste, and odour exist only relatively. But let thought -be considered as some peculiar substance, which permeates, and is the -cause of, the animation of living beings. Why should that substance -be assumed to be something essentially distinct from all others, and -exempt from subjection to those laws from which no other substance is -exempt? It differs, indeed, from all other substances, as electricity, -and light, and magnetism, and the constituent parts of air and earth, -severally differ from all others. Each of these is subject to change -and to decay, and to conversion into other forms. Yet the difference -between light and earth is scarcely greater than that which exists -between life, or thought, and fire. The difference between the two -former was never alleged as an argument for the eternal permanence of -either, in that form under which they first might offer themselves to -our notice. Why should the difference between the two latter substances -be an argument for the prolongation of the existence of one and not -the other, when the existence of both has arrived at their apparent -termination? To say that fire exists without manifesting any of the -properties of fire, such as light, heat, &c., or that the principle of -life exists without consciousness, or memory, or desire, or motive, is -to resign, by an awkward distortion of language, the affirmative of the -dispute. To say that the principle of life _may_ exist in distribution -among various forms, is to assert what cannot be proved to be either -true or false, but which, were it true, annihilates all hope of -existence after death, in any sense in which that event can belong to -the hopes and fears of men. Suppose, however, that the intellectual and -vital principle differs in the most marked and essential manner from -all other known substances; that they have all some resemblance between -themselves which it in no degree participates. In what manner can this -concession be made an argument for its imperishability? All that we -see or know perishes and is changed. Life and thought differ indeed -from everything else. But that it survives that period, beyond which we -have no experience of its existence, such distinction and dissimilarity -affords no shadow of proof, and nothing but our own desires could have -led us to conjecture or imagine. - -Have we existed before birth? It is difficult to conceive the -possibility of this. There is, in the generative principle of each -animal and plant, a power which converts the substances by which it -is surrounded into a substance homogeneous with itself. That is, the -relation between certain elementary particles of matter undergo a -change, and submit to new combinations. For when we use the words -_principle_, _power_, _cause_, &c., we mean to express no real being, -but only to class under those terms a certain series of co-existing -phenomena; but let it be supposed that this principle is a certain -substance which escapes the observation of the chemist and anatomist. -It certainly _may be_; though it is sufficiently unphilosophical to -allege the possibility of an opinion as a proof of its truth. Does it -see, hear, feel, before its combination with those organs on which -sensation depends? Does it reason, imagine, apprehend, without those -ideas which sensation alone can communicate? If we have not existed -before birth; if, at the period when the parts of our nature on which -thought and life depend, seem to be woven together, they are woven -together; if there are no reasons to suppose that we have existed -before that period at which our existence apparently commences, then -there are no grounds for supposition that we shall continue to exist -after our existence has apparently ceased. So far as thought and life -is concerned, the same will take place with regard to us, individually -considered, after death, as had place before our birth. - -It is said that it is possible that we should continue to exist in -some mode totally inconceivable to us at present. This is a most -unreasonable presumption. It casts on the adherents of annihilation -the burthen of proving the negative of a question, the affirmative of -which is not supported by a single argument, and which, by its very -nature, lies beyond the experience of the human understanding. It is -sufficiently easy, indeed, to form any proposition, concerning which -we are ignorant, just not so absurd as not to be contradictory in -itself, and defy refutation. The possibility of whatever enters into -the wildest imagination to conceive is thus triumphantly vindicated. -But it is enough that such assertions should be either contradictory -to the known laws of nature, or exceed the limits of our experience, -that their fallacy or irrelevancy to our consideration should be -demonstrated. They persuade, indeed, only those who desire to be -persuaded. - -This desire to be for ever as we are; the reluctance to a violent and -unexperienced change, which is common to all the animated and inanimate -combinations of the universe, is, indeed, the secret persuasion which -has given birth to the opinions of a future state. - - - - -[Decoration] - - SPECULATIONS ON METAPHYSICS. - - - I. THE MIND. - -I. It is an axiom in mental philosophy, that we can think of nothing -which we have not perceived. When I say that we can think of nothing, -I mean, we can imagine nothing, we can reason of noticing, we can -remember nothing, we can foresee nothing. The most astonishing -combinations of poetry, the subtlest deductions of logic and -mathematics, are no other than combinations which the intellect makes -of sensations according to its own laws. A catalogue of all the -thoughts of the mind, and of all their possible modifications, is a -cyclopædic history of the universe. - -But, it will be objected, the inhabitants of the various planets of -this and other solar systems; and the existence of a Power bearing the -same relation to all that we perceive and are, as what we call a cause -does to what we call effect, were never subjects of sensation, and yet -the laws of mind almost universally suggest, according to the various -disposition of each, a conjecture, a persuasion, or a conviction of -their existence. The reply is simple; these thoughts are also to -be included in the catalogue of existence; they are modes in which -thoughts are combined; the objection only adds force to the conclusion, -that beyond the limits of perception and thought nothing can exist. - -Thoughts, or ideas, or notions, call them what you will, differ from -each other, not in kind, but in force. It has commonly been supposed -that those distinct thoughts which affect a number of persons, -at regular intervals, during the passage of a multitude of other -thoughts, which are called _real_, or _external objects_, are totally -different in kind from those which affect only a few persons, and -which recur at irregular intervals, and are usually more obscure and -indistinct, such as hallucinations, dreams, and the ideas of madness. -No essential distinction between any one of these ideas, or any class -of them, is founded on a correct observation of the nature of things, -but merely on a consideration of what thoughts are most invariably -subservient to the security and happiness of life; and if nothing -more were expressed by the distinction, the philosopher might safely -accommodate his language to that of the vulgar. But they pretend to -assert an essential difference, which has no foundation in truth, and -which suggests a narrow and false conception of universal nature, the -parent of the most fatal errors in speculation. A specific difference -between every thought of the mind is, indeed, a necessary consequence -of that law by which it perceives diversity and number; but a generic -and essential difference is wholly arbitrary. The principle of the -agreement and similarity of all thoughts, is, that they are all -thoughts; the principle of their disagreement consists in the variety -and irregularity of the occasions on which they arise in the mind. That -in which they agree, to that in which they differ, is as everything to -nothing. Important distinctions, of various degrees of force, indeed, -are to be established between them, if they were, as they may be, -subjects of ethical and œconomical discussion; but that is a question -altogether distinct. - -By considering all knowledge as bounded by perception, whose operations -may be indefinitely combined, we arrive at a conception of Nature -inexpressibly more magnificent, simple and true, than accords with the -ordinary systems of complicated and partial consideration. Nor does a -contemplation of the universe, in this comprehensive and synthetical -view, exclude the subtlest analysis of its modifications and parts. - - * * * * * - -A scale might be formed, graduated according to the decrees of -a combined ratio of intensity, duration, connexion, periods of -recurrence, and utility, which would be the standard, according to -which all ideas might be measured, and an uninterrupted chain of nicely -shadowed distinctions would be observed, from the faintest impression -on the senses, to the most distinct combination of those impressions; -from the simplest of those combinations, to that mass of knowledge -which, including our own nature, constitutes what we call the universe. - - * * * * * - -We are intuitively conscious of our own existence, and of that -connexion in the train of our successive ideas, which we term our -identity. We are conscious also of the existence of other minds; but -not intuitively. Our evidence, with respect to the existence of other -minds, is founded upon a very complicated relation of ideas, which it -is foreign to the purpose of this treatise to anatomise. The basis -of this relation is, undoubtedly, a periodical recurrence of masses -of ideas, which our voluntary determinations have, in one peculiar -direction, no power to circumscribe or to arrest, and against the -recurrence of which they can only imperfectly provide. The irresistible -laws of thought constrain us to believe that the precise limits of our -actual ideas are not the actual limits of possible ideas; the law, -according to which these deductions are drawn, is called analogy; and -this is the foundation of all our inferences, from one idea to another, -inasmuch as they resemble each other. - -We see trees, houses, fields, living beings in our own shape, and -in shapes more or less analogous to our own. These are perpetually -changing the mode of their existence relatively to us. To express the -varieties of these modes, we say, _we move_, _they move_; and as this -motion is continual, though not uniform, we express our conception of -the diversities of its course by--_it has been_, _it is_, _it shall -be_. These diversities are events or objects, and are essential, -considered relatively to human identity, for the existence of the human -mind. For if the inequalities, produced by what has been termed the -operations of the external universe, were levelled by the perception -of our being, uniting, and filling up their interstices, motion and -mensuration, and time, and space; the elements of the human mind being -thus abstracted, sensation and imagination cease. Mind cannot be -considered pure. - - -I.--WHAT METAPHYSICS ARE. ERRORS IN THE USUAL METHODS OF CONSIDERING -THEM. - -We do not attend sufficiently to what passes within ourselves. We -combine words, combined a thousand times before. In our minds we assume -entire opinions; and in the expression of those opinions, entire -phrases, when we would philosophise. Our whole style of expression and -sentiment is infected with the tritest plagiarisms. Our words are dead, -our thoughts are cold and borrowed. - -Let us contemplate facts; let us, in the great study of ourselves, -resolutely compel the mind to a rigid consideration of itself. We -are not content with conjecture, and inductions, and syllogisms, in -sciences regarding external objects. As in these, let us also, in -considering the phenomena of mind, severely collect those facts which -cannot be disputed. Metaphysics will thus possess this conspicuous -advantage over every other science, that each student, by attentively -referring to his own mind, may ascertain the authorities, upon which -any assertions regarding it are supported. There can thus be no -deception, we ourselves being the depositaries of the evidence of the -subject which we consider. - -Metaphysics may be defined as an inquiry concerning those things -belonging to, or connected with, the internal nature of man. - -It is said that mind produces motion; and it might as well have been -said, that motion produces mind. - - - II.--DIFFICULTY OF ANALYSING THE HUMAN MIND. - -If it were possible that a person should give a faithful history of -his being, from the earliest epochs of his recollection, a picture -would be presented such as the world has never contemplated before. A -mirror would be held up to all men in which they might behold their -own recollections, and, in dim perspective, their shadowy hopes and -fears,--all that they dare not, or that daring and desiring, they could -not expose to the open eyes of day. But thought can with difficulty -visit the intricate and winding chambers which it inhabits. It is like -a river whose rapid and perpetual stream flows outwards;--like one in -dread who speeds through the recesses of some haunted pile, and dares -not look behind. The caverns of the mind are obscure, and shadowy; or -pervaded with a lustre, beautifully bright indeed, but shining not -beyond their portals. If it were possible to be where we have been, -vitally and indeed--if, at the moment of our presence there, we could -define the results of our experience,--if the passage from sensation -to reflection--from a state of passive perception to voluntary -contemplation, were not so dizzying and so tumultuous, this attempt -would be less difficult. - - - III.--HOW THE ANALYSIS SHOULD BE CARRIED ON. - -Most of the errors of philosophers have arisen from considering the -human being in a point of view too detailed and circumscribed. He is -not a moral, and an intellectual,--but also, and pre-eminently, an -imaginative being. His own mind is his law; his own mind is all things -to him. If we would arrive at any knowledge which should be serviceable -from the practical conclusions to which it leads, we ought to consider -the mind of man and the universe as the great whole on which to -exercise our speculations. Here, above all, verbal disputes ought to be -laid aside, though this has long been their chosen field of battle. It -imports little to inquire whether thought be distinct from the objects -of thought. The use of the words _external_ and _internal_, as applied -to the establishment of this distinction, has been the symbol and the -source of much dispute. This is merely an affair of words, and as the -dispute deserves, to say, that when speaking of the objects of thought, -we indeed only describe one of the forms of thought--or that, speaking -of thought, we only apprehend one of the operations of the universal -system of beings. - - - IV.--CATALOGUE OF THE PHENOMENA OF DREAMS, AS CONNECTING SLEEPING AND - WAKING. - - -I. Let us reflect on our infancy, and give as faithfully as possible a -relation of the events of sleep. - -And first I am bound to present a faithful picture of my own peculiar -nature relatively to sleep. I do not doubt that were every individual -to imitate me, it would be found that among many circumstances peculiar -to their individual nature, a sufficiently general resemblance would -be found to prove the connexion existing between those peculiarities -and the most universal phenomena. I shall employ caution, indeed, -as to the facts which I state, that they contain nothing false or -exaggerated. But they contain no more than certain elucidations -of my own nature; concerning the degree in which it resembles, or -differs from, that of others, I am by no means accurately aware. It -is sufficient, however, to caution the reader against drawing general -inferences from particular instances. - -I omit the general instances of delusion in fever or delirium, as well -as mere dreams considered in themselves. A delineation of this subject, -however inexhaustible and interesting, is to be passed over. - -What is the connexion of sleeping and of waking? - - - II. I distinctly remember dreaming three several times, - between intervals of two or more years, the same precise - dream. It was not so much what is ordinarily called a - dream; the single image, unconnected with all other images, - of a youth who was educated at the same school with myself, - presented itself in sleep. Even now, after the lapse of - many years, I can never hear the name of this youth, - without the three places where I dreamed of him presenting - themselves distinctly to my mind. - - - III. In dreams, images acquire associations peculiar to - dreaming; so that the idea of a particular house, when it - recurs a second time in dreams, will have relation with - the idea of the same house, in the first time, of a nature - entirely different from that which the house excites, when - seen or thought of in relation to waking ideas. - - - IV. I have beheld scenes, with the intimate and - unaccountable connexion of which with the obscure parts - of my own nature, I have been irresistibly impressed. I - have beheld a scene which has produced no unusual effect - on my thoughts. After the lapse of many years I have - dreamed of this scene. It has hung on my memory, it has - haunted my thoughts, at intervals, with the pertinacity of - an object connected with human affections. I have visited - this scene again. Neither the dream could be dissociated - from the landscape, nor the landscape from the dream, nor - feelings, such as neither singly could have awakened, from - both. But the most remarkable event of this nature, which - ever occurred to me, happened five years ago at Oxford. I - was walking with a friend, in the neighbourhood of that - city, engaged in earnest and interesting conversation. - We suddenly turned the corner of a lane, and the view, - which its high banks and hedges had concealed, presented - itself. The view consisted of a windmill, standing in one - among many plashy meadows, inclosed with stone walls; the - irregular and broken ground, between the wall and the road - on which we stood; a long low hill behind the windmill, and - a grey covering of uniform cloud spread over the evening - sky. It was that season when the last leaf had just fallen - from the scant and stunted ash. The scene surely was a - common scene; the season and the hour little calculated - to kindle lawless thought; it was a tame uninteresting - assemblage of objects, such as would drive the imagination - for refuge in serious and sober talk, to the evening - fireside, and the dessert of winter fruits and wine. The - effect which it produced on me was not such as could have - been expected. I suddenly remembered to have seen that - exact scene in some dream of long[11]---- - - -[11] _Here I was obliged to leave off, overcome by thrilling -horror._--This remark closes this fragment, which was written in -1815. I remember well his coming to me from writing it, pale and -agitated, to seek refuge in conversation from the fearful emotions it -excited.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - - - - -[Decoration] - - FRAGMENTS. - - SPECULATIONS ON MORALS. - - - I.--PLAN OF A TREATISE ON MORALS. - -That great science which regards nature and the operations of the -human mind, is popularly divided into Morals and Metaphysics. The -latter relates to a just classification, and the assignment of distinct -names to its ideas; the former regards simply the determination of -that arrangement of them which produces the greatest and most solid -happiness. It is admitted that a virtuous or moral action is that -action which, when considered in all its accessories and consequences, -is fitted to produce the highest pleasure to the greatest number of -sensitive beings. The laws according to which all pleasure, since it -cannot be equally felt by all sensitive beings, ought to be distributed -by a voluntary agent, are reserved for a separate chapter. - -The design of this little treatise is restricted to the development of -the elementary principles of morals. As far as regards that purpose, -metaphysical science will be treated merely so far as a source of -negative truth; whilst morality will be considered as a science, -respecting which we can arrive at positive conclusions. - -The misguided imaginations of men have rendered the ascertaining of -what _is not true_, the principal direct service which metaphysical -science can bestow upon moral science. Moral science itself is the -doctrine of the voluntary actions of man, as a sentient and social -being. These actions depend on the thoughts in his mind. But there -is a mass of popular opinion, from which the most enlightened -persons are seldom wholly free, into the truth or falsehood of -which it is incumbent on us to inquire, before we can arrive at any -firm conclusions as to the conduct which we ought to pursue in the -regulation of our own minds, or towards our fellow-beings; or before we -can ascertain the elementary laws, according to which these thoughts, -from which these actions flow, are originally combined. - - * * * * * - -The object of the forms according to which human society is -administered, is the happiness of the individuals composing the -communities which they regard, and these forms are perfect or imperfect -in proportion to the degree in which they promote this end. - -This object is not merely the quantity of happiness enjoyed by -individuals as sensitive beings, but the mode in which it should be -distributed among them as social beings. It is not enough, if such a -coincidence can be conceived as possible, that one person or class -of persons should enjoy the highest happiness, whilst another is -suffering a disproportionate degree of misery. It is necessary that -the happiness produced by the common efforts, and preserved by the -common care, should be distributed according to the just claims of -each individual; if not, although the quantity produced should be -the same, the end of society would remain unfulfilled. The object is -in a compound proportion to the quantity of happiness produced, and -the correspondence of the mode in which it is distributed, to the -elementary feelings of man as a social being. - -The disposition in an individual to promote this object is called -virtue; and the two constituent parts of virtue, benevolence and -justice, are correlative with these two great portions of the only true -object of all voluntary actions of a human being. Benevolence is the -desire to be the author of good, and justice the apprehension of the -manner in which good ought to be done. - -Justice and benevolence result from the elementary laws of the human -mind. - - - CHAPTER I. - - ON THE NATURE OF VIRTUE. - - SECT. I. General View of the Nature and Objects of - Virtue.--2. The Origin and Basis of Virtue, as founded - on the Elementary Principles of Mind.--3. The Laws which - flow from the nature of Mind regulating the application of - those principles to human actions.--4. Virtue, a possible - attribute of man. - -We exist in the midst of a multitude of beings like ourselves, upon -whose happiness most of our actions exert some obvious and decisive -influence. - -The regulation of this influence is the object of moral science. - -We know that we are susceptible of receiving painful or pleasurable -impressions of greater or less intensity and duration. That is called -good which produces pleasure; that is called evil which produces pain. -These are general names, applicable to every class of causes, from -which an over-balance of pain or pleasure may result. But when a human -being is the active instrument of generating or diffusing happiness, -the principle through which it is most effectually instrumental to that -purpose, is called virtue. And benevolence, or the desire to be the -author of good, united with justice, or an apprehension of the manner -in which that good is to be done, constitutes virtue. - -But, wherefore should a man be benevolent and just? The immediate -emotions of his nature, especially in its most inartificial state, -prompt him to inflict pain, and to arrogate dominion. He desires to -heap superfluities to his own store, although others perish with -famine. He is propelled to guard against the smallest invasion of -his own liberty, though he reduces others to a condition of the most -pitiless servitude. He is revengeful, proud, and selfish. Wherefore -should he curb these propensities? - -It is inquired for what reason a human being should engage in procuring -the happiness, or refrain from producing the pain of another? When a -reason is required to prove the necessity of adopting any system of -conduct, what is it that the objector demands? He requires proof of -that system of conduct being such as will most effectually promote the -happiness of mankind. To demonstrate this, is to render a moral reason. -Such is the object of Virtue. - -A common sophism, which, like many others, depends on the abuse of a -metaphorical expression to a literal purpose, has produced much of the -confusion which has involved the theory of morals. It is said that no -person is bound to be just or kind, if, on his neglect, he should fail -to incur some penalty. Duty is obligation. There can be no obligation -without an obliger. Virtue is a law, to which it is the will of the -lawgiver that we should conform; which will we should in no manner -be bound to obey, unless some dreadful punishment were attached to -disobedience. This is the philosophy of slavery and superstition. - -In fact, no person can be _bound_ or _obliged_, without some power -preceding to bind and oblige. If I observe a man bound hand and -foot, I know that some one bound him. But if I observe him returning -self-satisfied from the performance of some action, by which he has -been the willing author of extensive benefit, I do not infer that the -anticipation of hellish agonies, or the hope of heavenly reward, has -constrained him to such an act.[12] - - * * * * * - -It remains to be stated in what manner the sensations which constitute -the basis of virtue originate in the human mind; what are the laws -which it receives there; how far the principles of mind allow it to be -an attribute of a human being; and, lastly, what is the probability of -persuading mankind to adopt it as a universal and systematic motive of -conduct. - - - BENEVOLENCE. - -There is a class of emotions which we instinctively avoid. A human -being, such as is man considered in his origin, a child a month old, -has a very imperfect consciousness of the existence of other natures -resembling itself. All the energies of its being are directed to the -extinction of the pains with which it is perpetually assailed. At -length it discovers that it is surrounded by natures susceptible of -sensations similar to its own. It is very late before children attain -to this knowledge. If a child observes, without emotion, its nurse or -its mother suffering acute pain, it is attributable rather to ignorance -than insensibility. So soon as the accents and gestures, significant of -pain, are referred to the feelings which they express, they awaken in -the mind of the beholder a desire that they should cease. Pain is thus -apprehended to be evil for its own sake, without any other necessary -reference to the mind by which its existence is perceived, than such -as is indispensable to its perception. The tendencies of our original -sensations, indeed, all have for their object the preservation of our -individual being. But these are passive and unconscious. In proportion -as the mind acquires an active power, the empire of these tendencies -becomes limited. Thus an infant, a savage, and a solitary beast, -is selfish, because its mind is incapable of receiving an accurate -intimation of the nature of pain as existing in beings resembling -itself. The inhabitant of a highly civilised community will more -acutely sympathise with the sufferings and enjoyments of others, than -the inhabitant of a society of a less degree of civilisation. He who -shall have cultivated his intellectual powers by familiarity with the -highest specimens of poetry and philosophy, will usually sympathise -more than one engaged in the less refined functions of manual labour. -Every one has experience of the fact, that to sympathise with the -sufferings of another, is to enjoy a transitory oblivion of his own. - -The mind thus acquires, by exercise, a habit, as it were, of perceiving -and abhorring evil, however remote from the immediate sphere of -sensations with which that individual mind is conversant. Imagination -or mind employed in prophetically imaging forth its objects, is that -faculty of human nature on which every gradation of its progress, nay, -every, the minutest, change, depends. Pain or pleasure, if subtly -analysed, will be found to consist entirely in prospect. The only -distinction between the selfish man and the virtuous man is, that the -imagination of the former is confined within a narrow limit, whilst -that of the latter embraces a comprehensive circumference. In this -sense, wisdom and virtue may be said to be inseparable, and criteria -of each other. Selfishness is the offspring of ignorance and mistake; -it is the portion of unreflecting infancy, and savage solitude, or of -those whom toil or evil occupations have blunted or rendered torpid; -disinterested benevolence is the product of a cultivated imagination, -and has an intimate connexion with all the arts which add ornament, or -dignity, or power, or stability to the social state of man. Virtue -is thus entirely a refinement of civilised life; a creation of the -human mind; or, rather, a combination which it has made, according to -elementary rules contained within itself, of the feelings suggested by -the relations established between man and man. - -All the theories which have refined and exalted humanity, or those -which have been devised as alleviations of its mistakes and evils, have -been based upon the elementary emotions of disinterestedness, which -we feel to constitute the majesty of our nature. Patriotism, as it -existed in the ancient republics, was never, as has been supposed, a -calculation of personal advantages. When Mutius Scævola thrust his hand -into the burning coals, and Regulus returned to Carthage, and Epicharis -sustained the rack silently, in the torments of which she knew that -she would speedily perish, rather than betray the conspirators to the -tyrant;[13] these illustrious persons certainly made a small estimate -of their private interest. If it be said that they sought posthumous -fame; instances are not wanting in history which prove that men have -even defied infamy for the sake of good. But there is a great error -in the world with respect to the selfishness of fame. It is certainly -possible that a person should seek distinction as a medium of personal -gratification. But the love of fame is frequently no more than a -desire that the feelings of others should confirm, illustrate, and -sympathise with, our own. In this respect it is allied with all that -draws us out of ourselves. It is the “last infirmity of noble minds.” -Chivalry was likewise founded on the theory of self-sacrifice. Love -possesses so extraordinary a power over the human heart, only because -disinterestedness is united with the natural propensities. These -propensities themselves are comparatively impotent in cases where the -imagination of pleasure to be given, as well as to be received, does -not enter into the account. Let it not be objected that patriotism, and -chivalry, and sentimental love, have been the fountains of enormous -mischief. They are cited only to establish the proposition that, -according to the elementary principles of mind, man is capable of -desiring and pursuing good for its own sake. - - - JUSTICE. - -The benevolent propensities are thus inherent in the human mind. We are -impelled to seek the happiness of others. We experience a satisfaction -in being the authors of that happiness. Everything that lives is open -to impressions of pleasure and pain. We are led by our benevolent -propensities to regard every human being indifferently with whom we -come in contact. They have preference only with respect to those -who offer themselves most obviously to our notice. Human beings are -indiscriminating and blind; they will avoid inflicting pain, though -that pain should be attended with eventual benefit; they will seek to -confer pleasure without calculating the mischief that may result. They -benefit one at the expense of many. - -There is a sentiment in the human mind that regulates benevolence in -its application as a principle of action. This is the sense of justice. -Justice, as well as benevolence, is an elementary law of human nature. -It is through this principle that men are impelled to distribute any -means of pleasure which benevolence may suggest the communication of -to others, in equal portions among an equal number of applications. If -ten men are shipwrecked on a desert island, they distribute whatever -subsistence may remain to them into equal portions among themselves. -If six of them conspire to deprive the remaining four of their share, -their conduct is termed unjust. - -The existence of pain has been shown to be a circumstance which the -human mind regards with dissatisfaction, and of which it desires the -cessation. It is equally according to its nature to desire that the -advantages to be enjoyed by a limited number of persons should be -enjoyed equally by all. This proposition is supported by the evidence -of indisputable facts. Tell some ungarbled tale of a number of persons -being made the victims of the enjoyments of one, and he who would -appeal in favour of any system which might produce such an evil to -the primary emotions of our nature, would have nothing to reply. Let -two persons, equally strangers, make application for some benefit in -the possession of a third to bestow, and to which he feels that they -have an equal claim. They are both sensitive beings; pleasure and pain -affect them alike. - - - CHAPTER II. - -It is foreign to the general scope of this little treatise to encumber -a simple argument by controverting any of the trite objections of habit -or fanaticism. But there are two; the first, the basis of all political -mistake, and the second, the prolific cause and effect of religious -error, which it seems useful to refute. - -First, it is inquired, “Wherefore should a man be benevolent and just?” -The answer has been given in the preceding chapter. - -If a man persists to inquire why he ought to promote the happiness -of mankind, he demands a mathematical or metaphysical reason for a -moral action. The absurdity of this scepticism is more apparent, but -not less real, than the exacting a moral reason for a mathematical -or metaphysical fact. If any person should refuse to admit that all -the radii of a circle are of equal length, or that human actions are -necessarily determined by motives, until it could be proved that these -radii and these actions uniformly tended to the production of the -greatest general good, who would not wonder at the unreasonable and -capricious association of his ideas? - - * * * * * - -The writer of a philosophical treatise may, I imagine, at this -advanced era of human intellect, be held excused from entering into a -controversy with those reasoners, if such there are, who would claim an -exemption from its decrees in favour of any one among those diversified -systems of obscure opinion respecting morals, which, under the name of -religions, have in various ages and countries prevailed among mankind. -Besides that if, as these reasoners have pretended, eternal torture -or happiness will ensue as the consequence of certain actions, we -should be no nearer the possession of a standard to determine what -actions were right and wrong, even if this pretended revelation, which -is by no means the case, had furnished us with a complete catalogue -of them. The character of actions as virtuous or vicious would by no -means be determined alone by the personal advantage or disadvantage -of each moral agent individually considered. Indeed, an action is -often virtuous in proportion to the greatness of the personal calamity -which the author willingly draws upon himself by daring to perform -it. It is because an action produces an overbalance of pleasure or -pain to the greatest number of sentient beings, and not merely because -its consequences are beneficial or injurious to the author of that -action, that it is good or evil. Nay, this latter consideration has a -tendency to pollute the purity of virtue, inasmuch as it consists in -the motive rather than in the consequences of an action. A person who -should labour for the happiness of mankind lest he should be tormented -eternally in Hell, would with reference to that motive possess as -little claim to the epithet of virtuous, as he who should torture, -imprison, and burn them alive, a more usual and natural consequence of -such principles, for the sake of the enjoyments of Heaven. - -My neighbour, presuming on his strength, may direct me to perform or -to refrain from a particular action; indicating a certain arbitrary -penalty in the event of disobedience within his power to inflict. My -action, if modified by his menaces, can in no degree participate in -virtue. He has afforded me no criterion as to what is right or wrong. -A king, or an assembly of men, may publish a proclamation affixing any -penalty to any particular action, but that is not immoral because such -penalty is affixed. Nothing is more evident than that the epithet of -virtue is inapplicable to the refraining from that action on account -of the evil arbitrarily attached to it. If the action is in itself -beneficial, virtue would rather consist in not refraining from it, but -in firmly defying the personal consequences attached to its performance. - -Some usurper of supernatural energy might subdue the whole globe to his -power; he might possess new and unheard-of resources for induing his -punishments with the most terrible attributes of pain. The torments -of his victims might be intense in their degree, and protracted to -an infinite duration. Still the “will of the lawgiver” would afford -no surer criterion as to what actions were right or wrong. It would -only increase the possible virtue of those who refuse to become the -instruments of his tyranny. - - - II.--MORAL SCIENCE CONSISTS IN CONSIDERING THE DIFFERENCE, NOT THE - RESEMBLANCE, OF PERSONS. - -The internal influence, derived from the constitution of the mind from -which they flow, produces that peculiar modification of actions, which -makes them intrinsically good or evil. - -To attain an apprehension of the importance of this distinction, let -us visit, in imagination, the proceedings of some metropolis. Consider -the multitude of human beings who inhabit it, and survey, in thought, -the actions of the several classes into which they are divided. Their -obvious actions are apparently uniform: the stability of human society -seems to be maintained sufficiently by the uniformity of the conduct of -its members, both with regard to themselves and with regard to others. -The labourer arises at a certain hour, and applies himself to the task -enjoined him. The functionaries of government and law are regularly -employed in their offices and courts. The trader holds a train of -conduct from which he never deviates. The ministers of religion employ -an accustomed language, and maintain a decent and equable regard. The -army is drawn forth, the motions of every soldier are such as they were -expected to be; the general commands, and his words are echoed from -troop to troop. The domestic actions of men are, for the most part, -undistinguishable one from the other, at a superficial glance. The -actions which are classed under the general appellation of marriage, -education, friendship, &c., are perpetually going on, and to a -superficial glance, are similar one to the other. - -But, if we would see the truth of things, they must be stripped of this -fallacious appearance of uniformity. In truth, no one action has, when -considered in its whole extent, any essential resemblance with any -other. Each individual, who composes the vast multitude which we have -been contemplating, has a peculiar frame of mind, which, whilst the -features of the great mass of his actions remain uniform, impresses the -minuter lineaments with its peculiar hues. Thus, whilst his life, as a -whole, is like the lives of other men, in detail it is most unlike; and -the more subdivided the actions become, that is, the more they enter -into that class which have a vital influence on the happiness of others -and his own, so much the more are they distinct from those of other men. - - “Those little nameless unremember’d acts - Of kindness and of love,”[14] - -as well as those deadly outrages which are inflicted by a look, a -word--or less--the very refraining from some faint and most evanescent -expression of countenance; these flow from a profounder source than -the series of our habitual conduct, which, it has been already said, -derives its origin from without. These are the actions, and such as -these, which make human life what it is, and are the fountains of -all the good and evil with which its entire surface is so widely and -impartially overspread; and though they are called minute, they are -called so in compliance with the blindness of those who cannot estimate -their importance. It is in the due appreciating the general effects of -their peculiarities, and in cultivating the habit of acquiring decisive -knowledge respecting the tendencies arising out of them in particular -cases, that the most important part of moral science consists. The -deepest abyss of these vast and multitudinous caverns, it is necessary -that we should visit. - -This is the difference between social and individual man. Not that this -distinction is to be considered definite, or characteristic of one -human being as compared with another; it denotes rather two classes -of agency, common in a degree to every human being. None is exempt, -indeed, from that species of influence which affects, as it were, the -surface of his being, and gives the specific outline to his conduct. -Almost all that is ostensible submits to that legislature created by -the general representation of the past feelings of mankind--imperfect -as it is from a variety of causes, as it exists in the government, -the religion, and domestic habits. Those who do not nominally, yet -actually, submit to the same power. The external features of their -conduct, indeed, can no more escape it, than the clouds can escape from -the stream of the wind; and his opinion, which he often hopes he has -dispassionately secured from all contagion of prejudice and vulgarity, -would be found, on examination, to be the inevitable excrescence of -the very usages from which he vehemently dissents. Internally all -is conducted otherwise; the efficiency, the essence, the vitality -of actions, derives its colour from what is no ways contributed to -from any external source. Like the plant, which while it derives the -accident of its size and shape from the soil in which it springs, and -is cankered, or distorted, or inflated, yet retains those qualities -which essentially divide it from all others; so that hemlock continues -to be poison, and the violet does not cease to emit its odour in -whatever soil it may grow. - -We consider our own nature too superficially. We look on all that in -ourselves with which we can discover a resemblance in others; and -consider those resemblances as the materials of moral knowledge. It is -in the differences that it actually consists. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[12] A leaf of manuscript is wanting here, manifestly treating of -self-love and disinterestedness.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - -[13] Tacitus. - -[14] Wordsworth, _Tintern Abbey_.--Ed. - -[Decoration] - - - - -[Decoration] - - GHOST STORIES. - - - _Geneva, Sunday, 18th August 1816._ - -See Apollo’s Sexton,[15] who tells us many mysteries of his trade. -We talk of Ghosts. Neither Lord Byron nor M. G. L. seem to believe -in them; and they both agree, in the very face of reason, that none -could believe in ghosts without believing in God. I do not think that -all the persons who profess to discredit these visitations, really -discredit them; or, if they do in the daylight, are not admonished by -the approach of loneliness and midnight, to think more respectfully of -the world of shadows. - -Lewis recited a poem, which he had composed at the request of the -Princess of Wales. The Princess of Wales, he premised, was not only a -believer in ghosts, but in magic and witchcraft, and asserted, that -prophecies made in her youth had been accomplished since. The tale was -of a lady in Germany. - -This lady, Minna, had been exceedingly attached to her husband, and -they had made a vow that the one who died first, should return after -death to visit the other as a ghost. She was sitting one day alone -in her chamber, when she heard an unusual sound of footsteps on the -stairs. The door opened, and her husband’s spectre, gashed with a deep -wound across the forehead, and in military habiliments, entered. She -appeared startled at the apparition; and the ghost told her, that when -he should visit her in future, she would hear a passing bell toll, and -these words distinctly uttered close to her ear, “Minna, I am here.” On -inquiry, it was found that her husband had fallen in battle on the very -day she was visited by the vision. The intercourse between the ghost -and the woman continued for some time, until the latter laid aside all -terror, and indulged herself in the affection which she had felt for -him while living. One evening she went to a ball, and permitted her -thoughts to be alienated by the attentions of a Florentine gentleman, -more witty, more graceful, and more gentle, as it appeared to her, -than any person she had ever seen. As he was conducting her through -the dance, a death bell tolled. Minna, lost in the fascination of the -Florentine’s attentions, disregarded, or did not hear the sound. A -second peal, louder and more deep, startled the whole company, when -Minna heard the ghost’s accustomed whisper, and raising her eyes, saw -in an opposite mirror the reflection of the ghost, standing over her. -She is said to have died of terror. - -Lewis told four other stories--all grim. - - - I. - -A young man who had taken orders, had just been presented with a -living, on the death of the incumbent. It was in the Catholic part -of Germany. He arrived at the parsonage on a Saturday night; it -was summer, and waking about three o’clock in the morning, and it -being broad day, he saw a venerable-looking man, but with an aspect -exceedingly melancholy, sitting at a desk in the window, reading, and -two beautiful boys standing near him, whom he regarded with looks -of the profoundest grief. Presently he rose from his seat, the boys -followed him, and they were no more to be seen. The young man, much -troubled, arose, hesitating whether he should regard what he had seen -as a dream, or a waking phantasy. To divert his dejection, he walked -towards the church, which the sexton was already employed in preparing -for the morning service. The first sight that struck him was a -portrait, the exact resemblance of the man whom he had seen sitting in -his chamber. It was the custom in this district to place the portrait -of each minister, after his death, in the church. - -He made the minutest inquiries respecting his predecessor, and learned -that he was universally beloved, as a man of unexampled integrity and -benevolence; but that he was the prey of a secret and perpetual sorrow. -His grief was supposed to have arisen from an attachment to a young -lady, with whom his situation did not permit him to unite himself. -Others, however, asserted, that a connexion did subsist between them, -and that even she occasionally brought to his house two beautiful boys, -the offspring of their connexion.--Nothing further occurred until the -cold weather came, and the new minister desired a fire to be lighted in -the stove of the room where he slept. A hideous stench arose from the -stove as soon as it was lighted, and, on examining it, the bones of two -male children were found within. - - - II. - -Lord Lyttelton and a number of his friends were joined during the chase -by a stranger. He was excellently mounted, and displayed such courage, -or, rather so much desperate rashness, that no other person in the -hunt could follow him. The gentlemen, when the chase was concluded, -invited the stranger to dine with them. His conversation was something -of a wonderful kind. He astonished, he interested, he commanded the -attention of the most inert. As night came on, the company, being -weary, began to retire one by one, much later than the usual hour: the -most intellectual among them were retained latest by the stranger’s -fascination. As he perceived that they began to depart, he redoubled -his efforts to retain them. At last, when few remained, he entreated -them to stay with him; but all pleaded the fatigue of a hard day’s -chase, and all at last retired. They had been in bed about an hour, -when they were awakened by the most horrible screams, which issued -from the stranger’s room. Every one rushed towards it. The door was -locked. After a moment’s deliberation they burst it open, and found the -stranger stretched on the ground, writhing with agony, and weltering in -blood. On their entrance he arose, and collecting himself, apparently -with a strong effort, entreated them to leave him--not to disturb him, -that he would give every possible explanation in the morning. They -complied. In the morning, his chamber was found vacant, and he was seen -no more. - - - III. - -Miles Andrews, a friend of Lord Lyttelton, was sitting one night alone -when Lord Lyttelton came in, and informed him that he was dead, and -that this was his ghost which he saw before him. Andrews pettishly told -him not to play any ridiculous tricks upon him, for he was not in a -temper to bear them. The ghost then departed. In the morning Andrews -asked his servant at what hour Lord Lyttelton had arrived. The servant -said he did not know that he had arrived, but that he would inquire. -On inquiry it was found that Lord Lyttelton had not arrived, nor had -the door been opened to any one during the whole night. Andrews sent to -Lord Lyttelton, and discovered, that he had died precisely at the hour -of the apparition. - - - IV. - -A gentleman on a visit to a friend who lived on the skirts of an -extensive forest in the east of Germany, lost his way. He wandered -for some hours among the trees, when he saw a light at a distance. On -approaching it, he was surprised to observe, that it proceeded from the -interior of a ruined monastery. Before he knocked he thought it prudent -to look through the window. He saw a multitude of cats assembled round -a small grave, four of whom were letting down a coffin with a crown -upon it. The gentleman, startled at this unusual sight, and imagining -that he had arrived among the retreats of fiends or witches, mounted -his horse and rode away with the utmost precipitation. He arrived at -his friend’s house at a late hour, who had sat up for him. On his -arrival his friend questioned as to the cause of the traces of trouble -visible in his face. He began to recount his adventure, after much -difficulty, knowing that it was scarcely possible that his friends -should give faith to his relation. No sooner had he mentioned the -coffin with a crown upon it, than his friend’s cat, who seemed to have -been lying asleep before the fire, leaped up, saying--“Then I am the -King of the Cats!” and scrambled up the chimney, and was seen no more. - - * * * * * - -Thursday, 29th August.--We depart from Geneva, at nine in the morning. -The Swiss are very slow drivers; besides which we have Jura to -mount; we, therefore, go a very few posts to-day. The scenery is very -beautiful, and we see many magnificent views. We pass Les Rousses, -which, when we crossed in the spring, was deep in snow. We sleep at -Morrez. - - * * * * * - -Friday, 30th.--We leave Morrez, and arrive in the evening at Dole, -after a various day. - - * * * * * - -Saturday, 31st.--From Dole we go to Rouvray, where we sleep. We pass -through Dijon; and, after Dijon, take a different route than that which -we followed on the two other occasions. The scenery has some beauty -and singularity in the line of the mountains which surround the Val de -Suzon. Low, yet precipitous hills, covered with vines or woods, and -with streams, meadows, and poplars, at the bottom. - - * * * * * - -Sunday, September 1st.--Leave Rouvray, pass Auxerre, where we dine; a -pretty town, and arrive, at two o’clock, at Villeneuve le Guiard. - - * * * * * - -Monday, 2d.--From Villeneuve le Guiard, we arrive at Fontainebleau. -The scenery around this palace is wild and even savage. The soil is -full of rocks, apparently granite, which on every side break through -the ground. The hills are low, but precipitous and rough. The valleys, -equally wild, are shaded by forests. In the midst of this wilderness -stands the palace. Some of the apartments equal in magnificence -anything that I could conceive. The roofs are fretted with gold, and -the canopies of velvet. From Fontainebleau we proceed to Versailles, in -the route towards Rouen. We arrive at Versailles at nine. - - * * * * * - -Tuesday, 3d.--We saw the palace and gardens of Versailles and le Grand -et Petit Trianon. They surpass Fontainebleau. The gardens are full -of statues, vases, fountains, and colonnades. In all that essentially -belongs to a garden they are extraordinarily deficient. The orangery is -a stupid piece of expense. There was one orange-tree, not apparently -so old, sown in 1442. We saw only the gardens and the theatre at the -Petit Trianon. The gardens are in the English taste, and extremely -pretty. The Grand Trianon was open. It is a summer palace, light, -yet magnificent. We were unable to devote the time it deserved to -the gallery of paintings here. There was a portrait of Madame de la -Vallière, the repentant mistress of Louis XIV. She was melancholy, but -exceedingly beautiful, and was represented as holding a skull, and -sitting before a crucifix, pale, and with downcast eyes. - -We then went to the great palace. The apartments are unfurnished, -but even with this disadvantage, are more magnificent than those of -Fontainebleau. They are lined with marble of various colours, whose -pedestals and capitals are gilt, and the ceiling is richly gilt with -compartments of painting. The arrangement of these materials has in -them, it is true, something effeminate and royal. Could a Grecian -architect have commanded all the labour and money which was expended -on Versailles, he would have produced a fabric which the whole world -has never equalled. We saw the Hall of Hercules, the balcony where the -King and the Queen exhibited themselves to the Parisian mob. The people -who showed us through the palace, obstinately refused to say anything -about the Revolution. We could not even find out in which chamber the -rioters of the 10th August found the king. We saw the Salle d’Opera, -where are now preserved the portraits of the kings. There was the race -of the house of Orleans, with the exception of Egalité, all extremely -handsome. There was Madame de Maintenon, and beside her a beautiful -little girl, the daughter of La Vallière. The pictures had been hidden -during the Revolution. We saw the Library of Louis XVI. The librarian -had held some place in the ancient court near Marie Antoinette. He -returned with the Bourbons, and was waiting for some better situation. -He showed us a book which he had preserved during the Revolution. -It was a book of paintings, representing a Tournament at the Court -of Louis XIV.; and it seemed that the present desolation of France, -the fury of the injured people, and all the horrors to which they -abandoned themselves, stung by their long sufferings, flowed naturally -enough from expenditures so immense, as must have been demanded by the -magnificence of this tournament. The vacant rooms of this palace imaged -well the hollow show of monarchy. After seeing these things we departed -toward Havre, and slept at Auxerre. - - * * * * * - -Wednesday, 4th.--We passed through Rouen, and saw the cathedral, -an immense specimen of the most costly and magnificent gothic. The -interior of the church disappoints. We saw the burial-place of Richard -Cœur de Lion and his brother. The altar of the church is a fine piece -of marble. Sleep at Yvetot. - - * * * * * - -Thursday, 5th.--We arrive at Havre, and wait for the packet--wind -contrary. - - - FRAGMENT FROM JOURNAL. - - _Thursday, March 26, 1818._ - - In a brief journal I kept at that time, I find a few pages - in Shelley’s handwriting, descriptive of the passage over - the mountains of Les Eschelles.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - -March 26, Thursday.--We travel towards the mountains, and begin to -enter the valleys of the Alps. The country becomes covered again with -verdure and cultivation, and white chateaux and scattered cottages -among woods of old oak and walnut trees. The vines are here peculiarly -picturesque; they are trellised upon immense stakes, and the trunks -of them are moss-covered and hoary with age. Unlike the French vines, -which creep lowly on the ground, they form rows of interlaced bowers, -which, when the leaves are green and the red grapes are hanging among -those hoary branches, will afford a delightful shadow to those who sit -upon the moss underneath. The vines are sometimes planted in the open -fields, and sometimes among lofty orchards of apple and pear-trees, the -twigs of which were just becoming purple with the bursting blossoms. - -We dined at Les Eschelles, a village at the foot of the mountain of -the same name, the boundaries of France and Savoy. Before this we had -been stopped at Pont Bonvoisin, where the legal limits of the French -and Sardinian territories are placed. We here heard that a Milanese -had been sent back all the way to Lyons, because his passport was -unauthorised by the Sardinian Consul, a few days before, and that -we should be subjected to the same treatment. We, in respect to the -character of our nation I suppose, were suffered to pass. Our books, -however, were, after a long discussion, sent to Chambery, to be -submitted to the censor; a priest, who admits nothing of Rousseau, -Voltaire, &c., into the dominions of the King of Sardinia. All such -books are burned. - -After dinner we ascended Les Eschelles, winding along a road, cut -through perpendicular rocks, of immense elevation, by Charles Emanuel, -Duke of Savoy, in 1582. The rocks, which cannot be less than a thousand -feet in perpendicular height, sometimes overhang the road on each -side, and almost shut out the sky. The scene is like that described -in the Prometheus of Æschylus. Vast rifts and caverns in the granite -precipices, wintry mountains with ice and snow above; the loud sounds -of unseen waters within the caverns, and walls of toppling rocks, only -to be scaled as he describes, by the winged chariot of the ocean nymphs. - -Under the dominion of this tyranny, the inhabitants of the fertile -valleys, bounded by these mountains, are in a state of most frightful -poverty and disease. At the foot of this ascent, were cut into the -rocks at several places, stories of the misery of the inhabitants, to -move the compassion of the traveller. One old man, lame and blind, -crawled out of a hole in the rock, wet with the perpetual melting of -the snows of above, and dripping like a shower-bath. - -The country, as we descended to Chambéry, continued as beautiful; -though marked with somewhat of a softer character than before; we -arrived a little after night-fall. - - -[15] Matthew Gregory Lewis--so named in _English Bards and -Scotch Reviewers_. When Lewis first saw Lord Byron, he asked him -earnestly,--“Why did you call me Apollo’s sexton?” The noble poet found -it difficult to reply to this categorical species of reproof. The above -stories have, some of them, appeared in print; but, as a ghost story -depends entirely on the mode in which it is told, I think the reader -will be pleased to read these, written by Shelley, fresh from their -relation by Lewis.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - - -[Decoration] - - - - - LETTERS FROM ITALY. - - - - -[Decoration] - - LETTERS FROM ITALY. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Milan, April, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -Behold us arrived at length at the end of our journey--that is, within -a few miles of it--because we design to spend the summer on the -shore of the Lake of Como. Our journey was somewhat painful from the -cold--and in no other manner interesting until we passed the Alps: -of course I except the Alps themselves; but no sooner had we arrived -at Italy, than the loveliness of the earth and the serenity of the -sky made the greatest difference in my sensations. I depend on these -things for life; for in the smoke of cities, and the tumult of human -kind, and the chilling fogs and rain of our own country, I can hardly -be said to live. With what delight did I hear the woman, who conducted -us to see the triumphal arch of Augustus at Susa, speak the clear and -complete language of Italy, though half unintelligible to me, after -that nasal and abbreviated cacophony of the French! A ruined arch of -magnificent proportions, in the Greek taste, standing in a kind of road -of green lawn, overgrown with violets and primroses, and in the midst -of stupendous mountains, and a _blonde_ woman, of light and graceful -manners, something in the style of Fuseli’s Eve, were the first things -we met in Italy. - -This city is very agreeable. We went to the opera last night--which is -a most splendid exhibition. The opera itself was not a favourite, and -the singers very inferior to our own. But the ballet, or rather a kind -of melodrame or pantomimic drama, was the most splendid spectacle I -ever saw. We have no Miss Melanie here--in every other respect, Milan -is unquestionably superior. The manner in which language is translated -into gesture, the complete and full effect of the whole as illustrating -the history in question, the unaffected self-possession of each of the -actors, even to the children, made this choral drama more impressive -than I could have conceived possible. The story is _Othello_, and -strange to say, it left no disagreeable impression. - -I write, but I am not in the humour to write, and you must expect -longer, if not more entertaining, letters soon--that is, in a week or -so--when I am a little recovered from my journey. Pray tell us all -the news with regard to our own offspring, whom we left at nurse in -England; as well as those of our friends. Mention Cobbett and politics -too--and Hunt--to whom Mary is now writing--and particularly your own -plans and yourself. You shall hear more of me and my plans soon. My -health is improved already--and my spirits something--and I have many -literary schemes, and one in particular--which I thirst to be settled -that I may begin. I have ordered Ollier to send you some sheets &c. for -revision. - - Adieu. - --Always faithfully yours, P. B. S. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Milan, April 20, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I had no conception that the distance between us, measured by time in -respect of letters, was so great. I have but just received yours dated -the 2d--and when you will receive mine written from this city somewhat -later than the same date, I cannot know. I am sorry to hear that you -have been obliged to remain at Marlow; a certain degree of society -being almost a necessity of life, particularly as we are not to see you -this summer in Italy. But this, I suppose, must be as it is. I often -revisit Marlow in thought. The curse of this life is, that whatever is -once known, can never be unknown. You inhabit a spot, which before you -inhabit it, is as indifferent to you as any other spot upon earth, and -when, persuaded by some necessity, you think to leave it, you leave -it not; it clings to you--and with memories of things, which, in your -experience of them, gave no such promise, revenges your desertion. Time -flows on, places are changed; friends who were with us, are no longer -with us; yet what has been seems yet to be, but barren and stripped of -life. See, I have sent you a study for Nightmare Abbey. - -Since I last wrote to you we have been to Como, looking for a house. -This lake exceeds any thing I ever beheld in beauty, with the exception -of the arbutus islands of Killarney. It is long and narrow, and has -the appearance of a mighty river winding among the mountains and the -forests. We sailed from the town of Como to a tract of country called -the Tremezina, and saw the various aspects presented by that part -of the lake. The mountains between Como and that village, or rather -cluster of villages, are covered on high with chesnut forests (the -eating chesnuts, on which the inhabitants of the country subsist -in time of scarcity), which sometimes descend to the very verge of -the lake, overhanging it with their hoary branches. But usually the -immediate border of this shore is composed of laurel-trees, and bay, -and myrtle, and wild-fig trees, and olives, which grow in the crevices -of the rocks, and overhang the caverns, and shadow the deep glens, -which are filled with the flashing light of the waterfalls. Other -flowering shrubs, which I cannot name, grow there also. On high, the -towers of village churches are seen white among the dark forests. -Beyond, on the opposite shore, which faces the south, the mountains -descend less precipitously to the lake, and although they are much -higher, and some covered with perpetual snow, there intervenes between -them and the lake a range of lower hills, which have glens and rifts -opening to the other, such as I should fancy the _abysses_ of Ida or -Parnassus. Here are plantations of olive, and orange, and lemon-trees, -which are now so loaded with fruit, that there is more fruit than -leaves,--and vineyards. This shore of the lake is one continued -village, and the Milanese nobility have their villas here. The union -of culture and the untameable profusion and loveliness of nature is -here so close, that the line where they are divided can hardly be -discovered. But the finest scenery is that of the Villa Pliniana; -so called from a fountain which ebbs and flows every three hours, -described by the younger Pliny, which is in the court-yard. This house, -which was once a magnificent palace, and is now half in ruins, we -are endeavouring to procure. It is built upon terraces _raised from_ -the bottom of the lake, together with its garden, at the foot of a -semi-circular precipice, overshadowed by profound forests of chesnut. -The scene from the colonnade is the most extraordinary, at once, and -the most lovely that eye ever beheld. On one side is the mountain, and -immediately over you are clusters of cypress-trees of an astonishing -height, which seem to pierce the sky. Above you, from among the -clouds, as it were, descends a waterfall of immense size, broken by the -woody rocks into a thousand channels to the lake. On the other side -is seen the blue extent of the lake and the mountains, speckled with -sails and spires. The apartments of the Pliniana are immensely large, -but ill furnished and antique. The terraces, which overlook the lake, -and conduct under the shade of such immense laurel-trees as deserve the -epithet of Pythian, are most delightful. We stayed at Como two days, -and have now returned to Milan, waiting the issue of our negotiation -about a house. Como is only six leagues from Milan, and its mountains -are seen from the cathedral. - -This cathedral is a most astonishing work of art. It is built of white -marble, and cut into pinnacles of immense height, and the utmost -delicacy of workmanship, and loaded with sculpture. The effect of it, -piercing the solid blue with those groups of dazzling spires, relieved -by the serene depth of this Italian heaven, or by moonlight when the -stars seem gathered among those clustered shapes, is beyond any thing -I had imagined architecture capable of producing. The interior, though -very sublime, is of a more earthly character, and with its stained -glass and massy granite columns overloaded with antique figures, and -the silver lamps, that burn forever under the canopy of black cloth -beside the brazen altar and the marble fretwork of the dome, give it -the aspect of some gorgeous sepulchre. There is one solitary spot among -those aisles, behind the altar, where the light of day is dim and -yellow under the storied window, which I have chosen to visit, and read -Dante there. - -I have devoted this summer, and indeed the next year, to the -composition of a tragedy on the subject of Tasso’s madness, which I -find upon inspection is, if properly treated, admirably dramatic and -poetical. But, you will say, I have no dramatic talent; very true, -in a certain sense; but I have taken the resolution to see what kind -of a tragedy a person without dramatic talent could write. It shall -be better morality than _Fazio_, and better poetry than _Bertram_, -at least. You tell me nothing of _Rhododaphne_, a book from which, I -confess, I expected extraordinary success. - -Who lives in my house at Marlow now, or what is to be done with it? I -am seriously persuaded that the situation was injurious to my health, -or I should be tempted to feel a very absurd interest in who is to -be its next possessor. The expense of our journey here has been very -considerable--but we are now living at the hotel here, in a kind of -pension, which is very reasonable in respect of price, and when we -get into a ménage of our own, we have every reason to expect that we -shall experience something of the boasted cheapness of Italy. The -finest bread, made of a sifted flour, the whitest and the best I ever -tasted, is only _one English penny_ a pound. All the necessaries of -life bear a proportional relation to this. But then the luxuries, tea, -&c., are very dear,--and the English, as usual, are cheated in a way -that is quite ridiculous, if they have not their wits about them. We -do not know a single human being, and the opera, until last night, has -been always the same. Lord Byron, we hear, has taken a house for three -years, at Venice; whether we shall see him or not, I do not know. The -number of English who pass through this town is very great. They ought -to be in their own country in the present crisis. Their conduct is -wholly inexcusable. The people here, though inoffensive enough, seem -both in body and soul a miserable race. The men are hardly men; they -look like a tribe of stupid and shrivelled slaves, and I do not think -that I have seen a gleam of intelligence in the countenance of man -since I passed the Alps. The women in enslaved countries are always -better than the men; but they have tight-laced figures, and figures -and mien which express (O how unlike the French!) a mixture of the -coquette and prude, which reminds me of the worst characteristics of -the English. Everything but humanity is in much greater perfection here -than in France. The cleanliness and comfort of the inns is something -quite English. The country is beautifully cultivated; and altogether, -if you can, as one ought always to do, find your happiness in yourself, -it is a most delightful and commodious place to live in. - - Adieu.--Your affectionate friend, - P. B. S. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Milan, April 30th, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I write, simply to tell you, to direct your next letters, Poste -Restante, Pisa. We have engaged a vetturino for that city, and leave -Milan to-morrow morning. Our journey will occupy six or seven days. - -Pisa is not six miles from the Mediterranean, with which it -communicates by the river Arno. We shall pass by Piacenza, Parma, -Bologna, the Apennines, and Florence, and I will endeavour to tell you -something of these celebrated places in my next letter; but I cannot -promise much, for, though my health is much improved, my spirits are -unequal, and seem to desert me when I attempt to write. - -Pisa, they say, is uninhabitable in the midst of summer--we shall -do, therefore, what other people do, retire to Florence, or to the -mountains. But I will write to you our plans from Pisa, when I shall -understand them better myself. - -You may easily conjecture the motives which led us to forego the -divine solitude of Como. To me, whose chief pleasure in life is the -contemplation of nature, you may imagine how great is this loss. - -Let us hear from you _once a fortnight_. Do not forget those who do not -forget you. - - Adieu.--Ever most sincerely yours, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Livorno, June 5, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -We have not heard from you since the middle of April--that is, we -have received only _one_ letter from you since our departure from -England. It necessarily follows that some accident has intercepted -them. Address, in future, to the care of Mr. Gisborne, Livorno--and I -shall receive them, though sometimes somewhat circuitously, yet always -securely. - -We left Milan on the first of May, and travelled across the Apennines -to Pisa. This part of the Apennine is far less beautiful than the -Alps; the mountains are wide and wild, and the whole scenery broad and -undetermined--the imagination cannot find a home in it. The plain of -the Milanese, and that of Parma, is exquisitely beautiful--it is like -one garden, or rather cultivated wilderness; because the corn and the -meadow-grass grow under high and thick trees, festooned to one another -by regular festoons of vines. On the seventh day we arrived at Pisa, -where we remained three or four days. A large disagreeable city, almost -without inhabitants. We then proceeded to this great trading town, -where we have remained a month, and which, in a few days, we leave for -the Bagni di Lucca, a kind of watering-place situated in the depth of -the Apennines; the scenery surrounding this village is very fine. - -We have made some acquaintance with a very amiable and acccomplished -lady, Mrs. Gisborne, who is the sole attraction in this most -unattractive of cities. We had no idea of spending a month here, but -she has made it even agreeable. We shall see something of Italian -society at the Bagni di Lucca, where the most fashionable people resort. - -When you send my parcel--which, by-the-bye, I should request you to -direct to Mr. Gisborne--I wish you could contrive to enclose the two -last parts of Clarke’s Travels, relating to Greece, and belonging to -Hookham. You know I subscribe there still--and I have determined to -take the _Examiner_ here. You would, therefore, oblige me, by sending -it weekly, after having read it yourself, to the same direction, and so -clipped, as to make as little weight as possible. - -I write as if writing where perhaps my letter may never arrive. - -With every good wish from all of us, Believe me most sincerely yours, -P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE - - (LEGHORN). - - _Bagni di Lucca, July 10th, 1818._ - -You cannot know, as some friends in England do, to whom my silence is -still more inexcusable, that this silence is no proof of forgetfulness -or neglect. - -I have, in truth, nothing to say, but that I shall be happy to see you -again, and renew our delightful walks, until the desire or the duty of -seeing new things hurries us away. We have spent a month here in our -accustomed solitude, with the exception of one night at the Casino; and -the choice society of all ages, which I took care to pack up in a large -trunk before we left England, have revisited us here. I am employed -just now, having little better to do, in translating into my fainting -and inefficient periods, the divine eloquence of Plato’s Symposium; -only as an exercise, or, perhaps, to give Mary some idea of the manners -and feelings of the Athenians--so different on many subjects from that -of any other community that ever existed. - -We have almost finished Ariosto--who is entertaining and graceful, -and _sometimes_ a poet. Forgive me, worshippers of a more equal and -tolerant divinity in poetry, if Ariosto pleases me less than you. -Where is the gentle seriousness, the delicate sensibility, the calm -and sustained energy, without which true greatness cannot be? He is -so cruel, too, in his descriptions; his most prized virtues are vices -almost without disguise. He constantly vindicates and embellishes -revenge in its grossest form; the most deadly superstition that ever -infested the world. How different from the tender and solemn enthusiasm -of Petrarch--or even the delicate moral sensibility of Tasso, though -somewhat obscured by an assumed and artificial style. - -We read a good deal here--and we read little in Livorno. We have -ridden, Mary and I, once only, to a place called Prato Fiorito, on -the top of the mountains: the road, winding through forests, and -over torrents, and on the verge of green ravines, affords scenery -magnificently fine. I cannot describe it to you, but bid you, though -vainly, come and see. I take great delight in watching the changes of -the atmosphere here, and the growth of the thunder showers with which -the noon is often overshadowed, and which break and fade away towards -evening into flocks of delicate clouds. Our fire-flies are fading away -fast; but there is the planet Jupiter, who rises majestically over the -rift in the forest-covered mountains to the south, and the pale summer -lightning which is spread out every night, at intervals, over the -sky. No doubt Providence has contrived these things, that, when the -fire-flies go out, the low-flying owl may see her way home. - -Remember me kindly to the Machinista. - -With the sentiment of impatience until we see you again in the autumn, - - I am, yours most sincerely, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO WILLIAM GODWIN. - - _Bagni di Lucca, July 25th, 1818._ - - My dear Godwin, - -We have, as yet, seen nothing of Italy which marks it to us as the -habitation of departed greatness. The serene sky, the magnificent -scenery, the delightful productions of the climate, are known to us, -indeed, as the same with those which the ancients enjoyed. But Rome and -Naples--even Florence, are yet to see; and if we were to write you at -present a history of our impressions, it would give you no idea that we -lived in Italy. - -I am exceedingly delighted with the plan you propose of a book, -illustrating the character of our calumniated republicans. It is -precisely the subject for Mary, and I imagine, that, but for the -fear of being excited to refer to books not within her reach, she -would attempt to begin it here, and order the works you notice. I am -unfortunately little skilled in English history, and the interest which -it excites in me is so feeble, that I find it a duty to attain merely -to that general knowledge of it which is indispensable. - -Mary has just finished Ariosto with me, and, indeed, has attained a -very competent knowledge of Italian. She is now reading Livy. I have -been constantly occupied in literature, but have written little--except -some translations from Plato, in which I exercised myself, in the -despair of producing anything original. The Symposium of Plato seems -to me one of the most valuable pieces of all antiquity, whether we -consider the intrinsic merit of the composition, or the light which it -throws on the inmost state of manners and opinions among the ancient -Greeks. I have occupied myself in translating this, and it has excited -me to attempt an Essay upon the cause of some differences in sentiment -between the Ancients and Moderns, with respect to the subject of the -dialogue. - -Two things give us pleasure in your last letters,--the resumption of -Malthus, and the favourable turn of the general election. If Ministers -do not find some means, totally inconceivable to me, of plunging the -nation in war, do you imagine that they can subsist? Peace is all that -a country, in the present state of England, seems to require, to afford -it tranquillity and leisure for attempting some remedy not to the -universal evils of all constituted society, but to the peculiar system -of misrule under which those evils have been exasperated now. I wish -that I had health or spirits that would enable me to enter into public -affairs, or that I could find words to express all that I feel and know. - -The modern Italians seem a miserable people, without sensibility, -or imagination, or understanding. Their outside is polished, and an -intercourse with them seems to proceed with much facility, though it -ends in nothing, and produces nothing. The women are particularly -empty, and though possessed of the same kind of superficial grace, -are devoid of every cultivation and refinement. They have a ball at -the Casino here every Sunday, which we attend--but neither Mary nor -C---- dance. I do not know whether they refrain from philosophy or -protestantism. - -I hear that poor Mary’s book is attacked most violently in the -Quarterly Review. We have heard some praise of it, and among others, an -article of Walter Scott’s in Blackwood’s Magazine. - -If you should have anything to send us--and, I assure you, anything -relating to England is interesting to us--commit it to the care of -Ollier the bookseller, or P***--they send me a parcel every quarter. - -My health is, I think, better, and, I imagine, continues to improve; -but I still have busy thoughts and dispiriting cares, which I would -shake off--and it is now summer.----A thousand good wishes to yourself -and your undertakings. - - Ever most affectionately yours, - P. B. S. - - -TO MRS. SHELLEY - -(BAGNI DI LUCCA). - -_Florence, Thursday, 11 o’clock._ (_20th August, 1818._) - - Dearest Mary, - -We have been delayed in this city four hours, for the Austrian -minister’s passport, but are now on the point of setting out with a -vetturino, who engages to take us on the third day to Padua; that is, -we shall only sleep three nights on the road. * * * * * Yesterday’s -journey, performed in a one-horse cabriolet, almost without springs, -over a rough road, was excessively fatiguing. *** suffered most from -it; for, as to myself, there are occasions in which fatigue seems a -useful medicine, as I have felt no pain in my side--a most delightful -respite--since I left you. The country was various and exceedingly -beautiful. Sometimes there were those low cultivated lands, with their -vine festoons, and large bunches of grapes just becoming purple--at -others we passed between high mountains, crowned with some of the -most majestic Gothic ruins I ever saw, which frowned from the bare -precipices, or were half seen among the olive copses. As we approached -Florence, the country became cultivated to a very high degree, the -plain was filled with the most beautiful villas, and, as far as the eye -could reach, the mountains were covered with them; for the plains are -bounded on all sides by blue and misty mountains. The vines are here -trailed on low trellises of reeds interwoven into crosses to support -them, and the grapes, now almost ripe, are exceedingly abundant. You -everywhere meet those teams of beautiful white oxen, which are now -labouring the little vine-divided fields with their Virgilian ploughs -and carts. Florence itself, that is the Lung’ Arno (for I have seen -no more), I think is the most beautiful city I have yet seen. It is -surrounded with cultivated hills, and from the bridge which crosses the -broad channel of the Arno, the view is the most animated and elegant -I ever saw. You see three or four bridges, one apparently supported -by Corinthian pillars, and the white sails of the boats, relieved by -the deep green of the forest, which comes to the water’s edge, and -the sloping hills covered with bright villas on every side. Domes and -steeples rise on all sides, and the cleanliness is remarkably great. On -the other side there are the foldings of the Vale of Arno above; first -the hills of olive and vine, then the chesnut woods, and then the blue -and misty pine forests, which invest the aerial Apennines, that fade -in the distance. I have seldom seen a city so lovely at first sight as -Florence. - -We shall travel hence within a few hours, with the speed of the post, -since the distance is 190 miles, and we are to do it in three days, -besides the half day, which is somewhat more than sixty miles a day. -We have now got a comfortable carriage and two mules, and, thanks to -Paolo, have made a very decent bargain, comprising everything, to -Padua. I should say we had delightful fruit for breakfast,--figs, very -fine--and peaches, unfortunately gathered before they were ripe, whose -smell was like what one fancies of the wakening of Paradise flowers. - -Well, my dearest Mary, are you very lonely? Tell me truth, my sweetest, -do you ever cry? I shall hear from you once at Venice, and once on -my return here. If you love me you will keep up your spirits--and, -at all events, tell me truth about it; for, I assure you, I am not -of a disposition to be flattered by your sorrow, though I should be -by your cheerfulness; and, above all, by seeing such fruits of my -absence as were produced when we were at Geneva. What acquaintances -have you made? I might have travelled to Padua with a German, who had -just come from Rome, and had scarce recovered from a malaria fever, -caught in the Pontine Marshes, a week or two since; and I conceded -to ***’s entreaties--and to _your_ absent suggestions, and omitted -the opportunity, although I have no great faith in such species -of contagion. It is not very hot--not at all too much so for my -sensations, and the only thing that incommodes me are the gnats at -night, who roar like so many humming tops in one’s ear--and I do not -always find zanzariere. How is Willmouse and little Clara? They must -be kissed for me--and you must particularly remember to speak my name -to William, and see that he does not quite forget me before I return. -Adieu--my dearest girl, I think that we shall soon meet. I shall write -again from Venice. Adieu, dear Mary! - -I have been reading the “Noble Kinsmen,” in which, with the exception -of that lovely scene, to which you added so much grace in reading -to me, I have been disappointed. The Jailor’s Daughter is a poor -imitation, and deformed. The whole story wants moral discrimination and -modesty. I do not believe Shakespeare wrote a word of it. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (BAGNI DI LUCCA). - - - _Venice, Sunday morning._ - (_August 23rd, 1818._) - - My dearest Mary, - -We arrived here last night at twelve o’clock, and it is now before -breakfast the next morning. I can, of course, tell you nothing of the -future; and though I shall not close this letter till post time, yet -I do not know exactly when that is. Yet, if you are very impatient, -look along the letter and you will see another date, when I may have -something to relate. - -I came from Padua hither in a gondola, and the gondoliere, among other -things, without any hint on my part, began talking of Lord Byron. He -said he was a _giovinotto Inglese_, with a _nome stravagante_, who -lived very luxuriously, and spent great sums of money. This man, it -seems, was one of Lord Byron’s gondolieri. No sooner had we arrived -at the inn, than the waiter began talking about him--said, that he -frequented Mrs. H.’s _conversazioni_ very much. - -Our journey from Florence to Padua contained nothing which may not -be related another time. At Padua, as I said, we took a gondola--and -left it at three o’clock. These gondolas are the most beautiful and -convenient boats in the world. They are finely carpeted and furnished -with black, and painted black. The couches on which you lean are -extraordinarily soft, and are so disposed as to be the most comfortable -to those who lean or sit. The windows have at will either venetian -plate-glass flowered, or venetian blinds, or blinds of black cloth -to shut out the light. The weather here is extremely cold--indeed, -sometimes very painfully so, and yesterday it began to rain. We passed -the laguna in the middle of the night in a most violent storm of wind, -rain, and lightning. It was very curious to observe the elements above -in a state of such tremendous convulsion, and the surface of the water -almost calm; for these lagunas, though five miles broad, a space enough -in a storm to sink a gondola, are so shallow that the boatmen drive the -boat along with a pole. The sea-water, furiously agitated by the wind, -shone with sparkles like stars. Venice, now hidden and now disclosed by -the driving rain, shone dimly with its lights. We were all this while -safe and comfortable. Well, adieu, dearest: I shall, as Miss Byron -says,[16] resume the pen in the evening. - - * * * * * - - _Sunday Night, 5 o’clock in the Morning._ - -Well, I will try to relate everything in its order. - - * * * * * - -At three o’clock I called on Lord Byron: he was delighted to see me. - -He took me in his gondola across the laguna to a long sandy island, -which defends Venice from the Adriatic. When we disembarked, we -found his horses waiting for us, and we rode along the sands of the -sea, talking. Our conversation consisted in histories of his wounded -feelings, and questions as to my affairs, and great professions of -friendship and regard for me. He said, that if he had been in England -at the time of the Chancery affair, he would have moved heaven and -earth to have prevented such a decision. We talked of literary -matters, his Fourth Canto, which, he says, is very good, and indeed -repeated some stanzas of great energy to me. When we returned to his -palace--which, - - (_The letter is here torn._) - -The Hoppners are the most amiable people I ever knew. They are much -attached to each other, and have a nice little boy, seven months old. -Mr. H. paints beautifully, and this excursion, which he has just put -off, was an expedition to the Julian Alps, in this neighbourhood--for -the sake of sketching, to procure winter employment. He has only a -fortnight’s leisure, and he has sacrificed two days of it to strangers -whom he never saw before. Mrs. H. has hazel eyes and sweet looks. - - (_Paper torn._) - -Well, but the time presses, I am now going to the banker’s to send -you money for the journey, which I shall address to you at Florence, -Post-office. Pray come instantly to Este, where I shall be waiting in -the utmost anxiety for your arrival. You can pack up directly you get -this letter, and employ the next day on that. The day after, get up at -four o’clock, and go post to Lucca, where you will arrive at six. Then -take a vetturino for Florence to arrive the same evening. From Florence -to Este is three days’ vetturino journey--and you could not, I think, -do it quicker by the post. Make Paolo take you to good inns, as we -found very bad ones, and pray avoid the Tre Mori at Bologna, _perche -vi sono cose inespressibili nei letti_. I do not think you can, but -_try_ to get from Florence to Bologna in one day. Do not take the post, -for it is not much faster, and very expensive. I have been obliged to -decide on all these things without you: I have done for the best--and, -my own beloved Mary, you must soon come and scold me if I have done -wrong, and kiss me if I have done right--for, I am sure, I do not know -which--and it is only the event that can show. We shall at least be -saved the trouble of introduction, and have formed acquaintance with a -lady who is so good, so beautiful, so angelically mild, that were she -as wise too, she would be quite a ***. Her eyes are like a reflection -of yours. Her manners are like yours when you know and like a person. - -Do you know, dearest, how this letter was written? By scraps and -patches, and interrupted every minute. The gondola is now come to take -me to the banker’s. Este is a little place, and the house found without -difficulty. I shall count four days for this letter: one day for -packing, four for coming here--and on the ninth or tenth day we shall -meet. - -I am too late for the post--but I send an express to overtake it. -Enclosed is an order for fifty pounds. If you knew all that I had to -do!-- - -Dearest love, be well, be happy, come to me--confide in your own -constant and affectionate, - - P. B. S. - -Kiss the blue-eyed darlings for me, and do not let William forget me. -Clara cannot recollect me. - -[16] _i.e._, Harriet Byron, in Richardson’s novel of _Sir Charles -Grandison_.--Ed. - - -TO MRS. SHELLEY - -(_I Cappuccini--Este_). - - _Padua, mezzogiorno._ - (_Sept. 22, 1818._) - - My best Mary, - -I found at Mount Selice a favourable opportunity for going to Venice, -where I shall try to make some arrangement for you and little Ca.[17] -to come for some days, and shall meet you, if I do not write anything -in the mean time, at Padua, on Thursday morning. C. says she is obliged -to come to see the Medico, whom we missed this morning, and who has -appointed as the only hour at which he can be at leisure--half-past -eight in the morning. You must, therefore, arrange matters so that you -should come to the Stella d’Oro a little before that hour--a thing to -be accomplished only by setting out at half-past three in the morning. -You will by this means arrive at Venice very early in the day, and -avoid the heat, which might be bad for the babe, and take the time, -when she would at least sleep great part of the time. C. will return -with the return carriage, and I shall meet you, or send to you at Padua. - -Meanwhile remember Charles the First--and do you be prepared to bring -at least _some_ of Myrra translated; bring the book also with you, and -the sheets of “Prometheus Unbound,” which you will find numbered from -one to twenty-six on the table of the pavilion. My poor little Clara, -how is she to-day? Indeed I am somewhat uneasy about her, and though I -feel secure that there is no danger, it would be very comfortable to -have some reasonable person’s opinion about her. The Medico at Padua is -certainly a man in great practice, but I confess he does not satisfy me. - -Am I not like a wild swan to be gone so suddenly? But, in fact, to set -off alone to Venice required an exertion. I felt myself capable of -making it, and I knew that you desired it. What will not be--if so it -is destined--the lonely journey through that wide, cold France? But we -shall see. - -Adieu, my dearest love--remember Charles I. and Myrra. I have been -already imagining how you will conduct some scenes. The second volume -of “St Leon” begins with this proud and true sentiment--“There is -nothing which the human mind can conceive, which it may not execute.” -Shakespeare was only a human being. - -Adieu till Thursday. Your ever affectionate - - P. B. S. - -[17] Clara, born at Marlow, Sept. 3, 1817.--Ed. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Este, October 8, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I have not written to you, I think, for six weeks. But I have been -on the point of writing many times, and have often felt that I had -many things to say. But I have not been without events to disturb and -distract me, amongst which is the death of my little girl. She died of -a disorder peculiar to the climate. We have all had bad spirits enough, -and I, in addition, bad health. I _intend_ to be better soon: there is -no malady, bodily or mental, which does not either kill or is killed. - -We left the Baths of Lucca, I think, the day after I wrote to you--on -a visit to Venice--partly for the sake of seeing the city. We made a -very delightful acquaintance there with a Mr. and Mrs. Hoppner, the -gentleman an Englishman, and the lady a Swissesse, mild and beautiful, -and unprejudiced, in the best sense of the word. The kind attentions -of these people made our short stay at Venice very pleasant. I saw -Lord Byron, and really hardly knew him again; he is changed into the -liveliest and happiest-looking man I ever met. He read me the first -canto of his “Don Juan”--a thing in the style of Beppo, but infinitely -better, and dedicated to Southey, in ten or a dozen stanzas, more -like a mixture of wormwood and verdigris than satire. Venice is a -wonderfully fine city. The approach to it over the laguna, with its -domes and turrets glittering in a long line over the blue waves, is -one of the finest architectural delusions in the world. It seems to -have--and literally it has--its foundations in the sea. The silent -streets are paved with water, and you hear nothing but the dashing of -the oars, and the occasional cries of the gondolieri. I heard nothing -of Tasso. The gondolas themselves are things of a most romantic and -picturesque appearance; I can only compare them to moths of which a -coffin might have been the chrysalis. They are hung with black, and -painted black, and carpeted with grey; they curl at the prow and stern, -and at the former there is a nondescript beak of shining steel, which -glitters at the end of its long black mass. - -The Doge’s palace, with its library, is a fine monument of aristocratic -power. I saw the dungeons, where these scoundrels used to torment -their victims. They are of three kinds--one adjoining the place of -trial, where the prisoners destined to immediate execution were kept. -I could not descend into them, because the day on which I visited it, -was festa. Another under the leads of the palace, where the sufferers -were roasted to death or madness by the ardours of an Italian sun: and -others called the Pozzi--or wells, deep underneath, and communicating -with those on the roof by secret passages--where the prisoners were -confined sometimes half up to their middles in stinking water. When -the French came here, they found only one old man in the dungeons, and -he could not speak. But Venice, which was once a tyrant, is now the -next worse thing, a slave; for in fact it ceased to be free, or worth -our regret as a nation, from the moment that the oligarchy usurped -the rights of the people. Yet, I do not imagine that it was ever so -degraded as it has been since the French, and especially the Austrian -yoke. The Austrians take sixty per cent. in taxes, and impose free -quarters on the inhabitants. A horde of German soldiers, as vicious and -more disgusting than the Venetians themselves, insult these miserable -people. I had no conception of the excess to which avarice, cowardice, -superstition, ignorance, passionless lust, and all the inexpressible -brutalities which degrade human nature, could be carried, until I had -passed a few days at Venice. - -We have been living this last month near the little town from which -I date this letter, in a very pleasant villa which has been lent to -us, and we are now on the point of proceeding to Florence, Rome, and -Naples--at which last city we shall spend the winter, and return -northwards in the spring. Behind us here are the Euganean hills, not so -beautiful as those of the Bagni di Lucca, with Arquà, where Petrarch’s -house and tomb are religiously preserved and visited. At the end of our -garden is an extensive Gothic castle, now the habitation of owls and -bats, where the Medici family resided before they came to Florence. We -see before us the wide flat plains of Lombardy, in which we see the -sun and moon rise and set, and the evening star, and all the golden -magnificence of autumnal clouds. But I reserve wonder for Naples. - -I have been writing--and indeed have just finished the first act of a -lyric and classical drama, to be called “Prometheus Unbound.” Will you -tell me what there is in Cicero about a drama supposed to have been -written by Æschylus under this title? - -I ought to say that I have just read Malthus in a French translation. -Malthus is a very clever man, and the world would be a great gainer -if it would seriously take his lessons into consideration, if it were -capable of attending seriously to anything but mischief--but what on -earth does he mean by some of his inferences? - - Yours ever faithfully, - P. B. S. - -I will write again from Rome and Florence--in better spirits, and to -more agreeable purpose, I hope. You saw those beautiful stanzas in the -fourth canto[18] about the Nymph Egeria. Well, I did not whisper a word -about nympholepsy: I hope you acquit me--and I hope you will not carry -delicacy so far as to let this suppress anything nympholeptic. - -[18] Of _Childe Harold_.--Ed. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Ferrara, Nov. 8th, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -We left Este yesterday on our journey towards Naples. The roads were -particularly bad; we have, therefore, accomplished only two days’ -journey, of eighteen and twenty-four miles each, and you may imagine -that our horses must be tolerably good ones, to drag our carriage, with -five people and heavy luggage, through deep and clayey roads. The roads -are, however, good during the rest of the way. - -The country is flat, but intersected by lines of wood, trellised with -vines, whose broad leaves are now stamped with the redness of their -decay. Every here and there one sees people employed in agricultural -labours, and the plough, the harrow, or the cart, drawn by long teams -of milk-white or dove-coloured oxen of immense size and exquisite -beauty. This, indeed, might be the country of Pasiphaes. In one -farm-yard I was shown sixty-three of these lovely oxen, tied to their -stalls, in excellent condition. A farm-yard in this part of Italy -is somewhat different from one in England. First, the house, which -is large and high, with strange-looking unpainted window-shutters, -generally closed, and dreary beyond conception. The farm-yard and -out-buildings, however, are usually in the neatest order. The -threshing-floor is not under cover, but like that described in the -Georgics, usually flattened by a broken column, and neither the mole, -nor the toad, nor the ant, can find on its area a crevice for their -dwelling. Around it, at this season, are piled the stacks of the leaves -and stalks of Indian corn, which has lately been threshed and dried -upon its surface. At a little distance are vast heaps of many-coloured -zucchi or pumpkins, some of enormous size, piled as winter food for -the hogs. There are turkeys, too, and fowls wandering about, and two -or three dogs, who bark with a sharp hylactism. The people who are -occupied with the care of these things seem neither ill-clothed nor -ill-fed, and the blunt incivility of their manners has an English air -with it, very discouraging to those who are accustomed to the impudent -and polished lying of the inhabitants of the cities. I should judge the -agricultural resources of this country to be immense, since it can wear -so flourishing an appearance, in spite of the enormous discouragements -which the various tyranny of the governments inflicts on it. I ought to -say that one of the farms belongs to a Jew banker at Venice, another -Shylock.--We arrived late at the inn where I now write; it was once the -palace of a Venetian nobleman, and is now an excellent inn. To-morrow -we are going to see the sights of Ferrara. - - * * * * * - - _Nov. 9._ - -We have had heavy rain and thunder all night; and the former still -continuing, we went in the carriage about the town. We went first -to look at the cathedral, but the beggars very soon made us sound a -retreat; so, whether, as it is said, there is a copy of a picture of -Michael Angelo there or no, I cannot tell. At the public library we -were more successful. This is, indeed, a magnificent establishment, -containing, as they say, 160,000 volumes. We saw some illuminated -manuscripts of church music, with the verses of the psalms interlined -between the square notes, each of which consisted of the most -delicate tracery, in colours inconceivably vivid. They belonged to -the neighbouring convent of Certolda, and are three or four hundred -years old; but their hues are as fresh as if they had been executed -yesterday. The tomb of Ariosto occupies one end of the largest saloon -of which the library is composed; it is formed of various marbles, -surmounted by an expressive bust of the poet, and subscribed with a -few Latin verses, in a less miserable taste than those usually employed -for similar purposes. But the most interesting exhibitions here, are -the writings, &c., of Ariosto and Tasso, which are preserved, and -were concealed from the undistinguishing depredations of the French -with pious care. There is the arm-chair of Ariosto, an old plain -wooden piece of furniture, the hard seat of which was once occupied -by, but has now survived its cushion, as it has its master. I could -fancy Ariosto sitting in it; and the satires in his own handwriting -which they unfold beside it, and the old bronze inkstand, loaded with -figures, which belonged also to him, assists the willing delusion. -This inkstand has an antique, rather than an ancient appearance. Three -nymphs lean forth from the circumference, and on the top of the lid -stands a cupid, winged and looking up, with a torch in one hand, his -bow in the other, and his quiver beside him. A medal was bound round -the skeleton of Ariosto, with his likeness impressed upon it. I cannot -say I think it had much native expression, but, perhaps, the artist was -in fault. On the reverse is a hand, cutting with a pair of scissors the -tongue from a serpent, upraised from the grass, with this legend--_Pro -bono malum_. What this reverse of the boasted Christian maxim means, or -how it applies to Ariosto, either as a satirist or a serious writer, I -cannot exactly tell. The cicerone attempted to explain, and it is to -his commentary that my bewildering is probably due--if, indeed, the -meaning be very plain, as is possibly the case. - -There is here a manuscript of the entire Gerusalemme Liberata, written -by Tasso’s own hand; a manuscript of some poems, written in prison, -to the Duke Alfonso; and the satires of Ariosto, written also by his -own hand; and the Pastor Fido of Guarini. The Gerusalemme, though it -had evidently been copied and recopied, is interlined, particularly -towards the end, with numerous corrections. The handwriting of Ariosto -is a small, firm, and pointed character, expressing, as I should say, -a strong and keen, but circumscribed energy of mind; that of Tasso is -large, free, and flowing, except that there is a checked expression -in the midst of its flow, which brings the letters into a smaller -compass than one expected from the beginning of the word. It is the -symbol of an intense and earnest mind, exceeding at times its own -depth, and admonished to return by the chillness of the waters of -oblivion striking upon its adventurous feet. You know I always seek -in what I see the manifestation of something beyond the present and -tangible object; and as we do not agree in physiognomy, so we may not -agree now. But my business is to relate my own sensations, and not to -attempt to inspire others with them. Some of the MSS. of Tasso were -sonnets to his persecutor, which contain a great deal of what is called -flattery. If Alfonso’s ghost were asked how he felt those praises now, -I wonder what he would say. But to me there is much more to pity than -to condemn in these entreaties and praises of Tasso. It is as a bigot -prays to and praises his god, whom he knows to be the most remorseless, -capricious, and inflexible of tyrants, but whom he knows also to be -omnipotent. Tasso’s situation was widely different from that of any -persecuted being of the present day; for, from the depth of dungeons, -public opinion might now at length be awakened to an echo that would -startle the oppressor. But then there was no hope. There is something -irresistibly pathetic to me in the sight of Tasso’s own handwriting, -moulding expressions of adulation and entreaty to a deaf and stupid -tyrant, in an age when the most heroic virtue would have exposed its -possessor to hopeless persecution, and--such is the alliance between -virtue and genius--which unoffending genius could not escape. - -We went afterwards to see his prison in the hospital of Sant’ Anna, and -I enclose you a piece of the wood of the very door, which for seven -years and three months divided this glorious being from the air and -the light which had nourished in him those influences which he has -communicated, through his poetry, to thousands. The dungeon is low and -dark, and, when I say that it is really a very decent dungeon, I speak -as one who has seen the prisons in the Doge’s palace of Venice. But -it is a horrible abode for the coarsest and meanest thing that ever -wore the shape of man, much more for one of delicate susceptibilities -and elevated fancies. It is low, and has a grated window, and being -sunk some feet below the level of the earth, is full of unwholesome -damps. In the darkest corner is a mark in the wall where the chains -were rivetted, which bound him hand and foot. After some time, at the -instance of some Cardinal, his friend, the Duke allowed his victim a -fireplace; the mark where it was walled up yet remains. - -At the entrance of the Liceo, where the library is, we were met by a -penitent; his form was completely enveloped in a ghost-like drapery -of white flannel; his bare feet were sandalled; and there was a kind -of net-work visor drawn over his eyes, so as entirely to conceal his -face. I imagine that this man had been adjudged to suffer this penance -for some crime known only to himself and his confessor, and this kind -of exhibition is a striking instance of the power of the Catholic -superstition over the human mind. He passed, rattling his wooden box -for charity. - -Adieu.--You will hear from me again before I arrive at Naples. - - Yours, ever sincerely, - P. B. S. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Bologna, Monday, Nov. 9th, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I have seen a quantity of things here--churches, palaces, statues, -fountains, and pictures; and my brain is at this moment like a -portfolio of an architect, or a print-shop, or a common-place book. I -will try to recollect something of what I have seen; for, indeed, it -requires, if it will obey, an act of volition. First, we went to the -cathedral, which contains nothing remarkable, except a kind of shrine, -or rather a marble canopy, loaded with sculptures, and supported on -four marble columns. We went then to a palace--I am sure I forget the -name of it--where we saw a large gallery of pictures. Of course, in -a picture gallery you see three hundred pictures you forget, for one -you remember. I remember, however, an interesting picture by Guido, -of the Rape of Proserpine, in which Proserpine casts back her languid -and half-unwilling eyes, as it were, to the flowers she had left -ungathered in the fields of Enna. There was an exquisitely executed -piece of Correggio, about four saints, one of whom seemed to have a -pet dragon in a leash. I was told that it was the devil who was bound -in that style--but who can make anything of four saints? For what can -they be supposed to be about? There was one painting, indeed, by this -master, Christ beatified, inexpressibly fine. It is a half figure, -seated on a mass of clouds, tinged with an ethereal, rose-like lustre; -the arms are expanded; the whole frame seems dilated with expression; -the countenance is heavy, as it were, with the weight of the rapture -of the spirit; the lips parted, but scarcely parted, with the breath -of intense but regulated passion; the eyes are calm and benignant; -the whole features harmonised in majesty and sweetness. The hair is -parted on the forehead, and falls in heavy locks on each side. It -is motionless, but seems as if the faintest breath would move it. -The colouring, I suppose, must be very good, if I could remark and -understand it. The sky is of a pale aerial orange, like the tints of -latest sunset; it does not seem painted around and beyond the figure, -but everything seems to have absorbed, and to have been penetrated -by its hues. I do not think we saw any other of Correggio, but this -specimen gives me a very exalted idea of his powers. - -We went to see heaven knows how many more palaces--Ranuzzi, -Marriscalchi, Aldobrandi. If you want Italian names for any purpose, -here they are; I should be glad of them if I was writing a novel. I -saw many more of Guido. One, a Samson drinking water out of an ass’s -jaw-bone, in the midst of the slaughtered Philistines. Why he is -supposed to do this, God, who gave him this jaw-bone, alone knows--but -certain it is, that the painting is a very fine one. The figure of -Samson stands in strong relief in the foreground, coloured, as it were, -in the hues of human life, and full of strength and elegance. Round him -lie the Philistines in all the attitudes of death. One prone, with the -slight convulsion of pain just passing from his forehead, whilst on -his lips and chin death lies as heavy as sleep. Another leaning on his -arm, with his hand, white and motionless, hanging out beyond. In the -distance, more dead bodies; and, still further beyond, the blue sea and -the blue mountains, and one white and tranquil sail. - -There is a Murder of the Innocents, also, by Guido, finely coloured, -with much fine expression--but the subject is very horrible, and it -seemed deficient in strength--at least, you require the highest ideal -energy, the most poetical and exalted conception of the subject, -to reconcile you to such a contemplation. There was a Jesus Christ -crucified, by the same, very fine. One gets tired, indeed, whatever -may be the conception and execution of it, of seeing that monotonous -and agonised form for ever exhibited in one prescriptive attitude of -torture. But the Magdalen, clinging to the cross, with the look of -passive and gentle despair beaming from beneath her bright flaxen hair, -and the figure of St. John, with his looks uplifted in passionate -compassion; his hands clasped, and his fingers twisting themselves -together, as it were, with involuntary anguish; his feet almost -writhing up from the ground with the same sympathy; and the whole of -this arrayed in colours of a diviner nature, yet most like nature’s -self. Of the contemplation of this one would never weary. - -There was a “Fortune” too, of Guido; a piece of mere beauty. There was -the figure of Fortune on a globe, eagerly proceeding onwards, and Love -was trying to catch her back by the hair, and her face was half turned -towards him; her long chesnut hair was floating in the stream of the -wind, and threw its shadow over her fair forehead. Her hazel eyes were -fixed on her pursuer, with a meaning look of playfulness, and a light -smile was hovering on her lips. The colours which arrayed her delicate -limbs were ethereal and warm. - -But, perhaps, the most interesting of all the pictures of Guido which -I saw, was a Madonna Lattante. She is leaning over her child, and the -maternal feelings with which she is pervaded are shadowed forth on -her soft and gentle countenance, and in her simple and affectionate -gestures--there is what an unfeeling observer would call a dulness -in the expression of her face; her eyes are almost closed; her lip -depressed; there is a serious, and even a heavy relaxation, as it were, -of all the muscles which are called into action by ordinary emotions; -but it is only as if the spirit of love, almost insupportable from its -intensity, were brooding over and weighing down the soul, or whatever -it is, without which the material frame is inanimate and inexpressive. - -There is another painter here, called Franceschini, a Bolognese, who, -though certainly very inferior to Guido, is yet a person of excellent -powers. One entire church, that of Santa Catarina, is covered by his -works. I do not know whether any of his pictures have ever been seen in -England. His colouring is less warm than that of Guido, but nothing can -be more clear and delicate, it is as if he could have dipped his pencil -in the hues of some serenest and star-shining twilight. His forms have -the same delicacy and aerial loveliness; their eyes are all bright -with innocence and love; their lips scarce divided by some gentle and -sweet emotion. His winged children are the loveliest ideal beings ever -created by the human mind. These are generally, whether in the capacity -of Cherubim or Cupid, accessories to the rest of the picture; and -the underplot of their lovely and infantine play is something almost -pathetic, from the excess of its unpretending beauty. One of the best -of his pieces is an Annunciation of the Virgin; the Angel is beaming in -beauty; the Virgin, soft, retiring, and simple. - -We saw besides one picture of Raphael--St. Cecilia: this is in another -and higher style; you forget that it is a picture as you look at it; -and yet it is most unlike any of those things which we call reality. -It is of the inspired and ideal kind, and seems to have been conceived -and executed in a similar state of feeling to that which produced among -the ancients those perfect specimens of poetry and sculpture which are -the baffling models of succeeding generations. There is a unity and a -perfection in it of an incommunicable kind. The central figure, St. -Cecilia, seems rapt in such inspiration as produced her image in the -painter’s mind; her deep, dark, eloquent eyes lifted up; her chesnut -hair flung back from her forehead--she holds an organ in her hands--her -countenance, as it were, calmed by the depth of its passion and -rapture, and penetrated throughout with the warm and radiant light of -life. She is listening to the music of heaven, and, as I imagine, has -just ceased to sing, for the four figures that surround her evidently -point, by their attitudes, towards her; particularly St. John, who, -with a tender yet impassioned gesture, bends his countenance towards -her, languid with the depth of his emotion. At her feet lie various -instruments of music, broken and unstrung. Of the colouring I do not -speak; it eclipses nature, yet it has all her truth and softness. - -We saw some pictures of Domenichino, Carracci, Albano, Guercino, -Elisabetta Sirani. The two former, remember, I do not pretend to -taste--I cannot admire. Of the latter there are some beautiful -Madonnas. There are several of Guercino, which they said were very -fine. I dare say they were, for the strength and complication of his -figures made my head turn round. One, indeed, was certainly powerful. -It was the representation of the founder of the Carthusians exercising -his austerities in the desert, with a youth as his attendant, kneeling -beside him at an altar: on another altar stood a skull and a crucifix; -and around were the rocks and the trees of the wilderness. I never -saw such a figure as this fellow. His face was wrinkled like a dried -snake’s skin, and drawn in long hard lines: his very hands were -wrinkled. He looked like an animated mummy. He was clothed in a loose -dress of death-coloured flannel, such as you might fancy a shroud -might be, after it had wrapt a corpse a month or two. It had a yellow, -putrefied, ghastly hue, which it cast on all the objects around, so -that the hands and face of the Carthusian and his companion were -jaundiced by this sepulchral glimmer. Why write books against religion, -when we may hang up such pictures? But the world either will not or -cannot see. The gloomy effect of this was softened, and, at the same -time, its sublimity diminished, by the figure of the Virgin and Child -in the sky, looking down with admiration on the monk, and a beautiful -flying figure of an angel. - -Enough of pictures. I saw the place where Guido and his mistress, -Elisabetta Sirani, were buried. This lady was poisoned at the age of -twenty-six, by another lover, a rejected one, of course. Our guide said -she was very ugly, and that we might see her portrait to-morrow. - -Well, good-night, for the present. “To-morrow to fresh fields and -pastures new.” - - * * * * * - - _Nov. 10._ - -To-day we first went to see those divine pictures of Raffael and -Guido again, and then rode up the mountains, behind this city, to -visit a chapel dedicated to the Madonna. It made me melancholy to see -that they had been varnishing and restoring some of these pictures, -and that even some had been pierced by the French bayonets. These -are symptoms of the mortality of man; and, perhaps, few of his works -are more evanescent than paintings. Sculpture retains its freshness -for twenty centuries--the Apollo and the Venus are as they were. But -books are perhaps the only productions of man coeval with the human -race. Sophocles and Shakespeare can be produced and reproduced for -ever. But how evanescent are paintings, and must necessarily be. Those -of Zeuxis and Apelles are no more, and perhaps they bore the same -relation to Homer and Æschylus, that those of Guido and Raffael bear -to Dante and Petrarch. There is one refuge from the despondency of -this contemplation. The material part, indeed, of their works must -perish, but they survive in the mind of man, and the remembrances -connected with them are transmitted from generation to generation. -The poet embodies them in his creations; the systems of philosophers -are modelled to gentleness by their contemplation; opinion, that -legislator, is infected with their influence; men become better and -wiser; and the unseen seeds are perhaps thus sown, which shall produce -a plant more excellent even than that from which they fell. But all -this might as well be said or thought at Marlow as Bologna. - -The chapel of the Madonna is a very pretty Corinthian building--very -beautiful, indeed. It commands a fine view of these fertile plains, -the many-folded Apennines, and the city. I have just returned from a -moonlight walk through Bologna. It is a city of colonnades, and the -effect of moonlight is strikingly picturesque. There are two towers -here--one 400 feet high--ugly things, built of brick, which lean both -different ways; and with the delusion of moonlight shadows, you might -almost fancy that the city is rocked by an earthquake. They say they -were built so on purpose; but I observe in all the plain of Lombardy -the church towers lean. - -Adieu.--God grant you patience to read this long letter, and courage to -support the expectation of the next. Pray part them from the _Cobbetts_ -on your breakfast table--they may fight it out in your mind. - - Yours ever, most sincerely, - P. B. S. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Rome, November 20th, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock, - -Behold me in the capital of the vanished world. But I have seen nothing -except St. Peter’s and the Vatican, overlooking the city in the mist -of distance, and the Dogana, where they took us to have our luggage -examined, which is built between the ruins of a temple to Antoninus -Pius. The Corinthian columns rise over the dwindled palaces of the -modern town, and the wrought cornice is changed on one side, as it -were, to masses of wave-worn precipice, which overhang you, far, far -on high. - -I take advantage of this rainy evening, and before Rome has effaced -all other recollections, to endeavour to recall the vanished scenes -through which we have passed. We left Bologna, I forget on what day, -and passing by Rimini, Fano, and Foligno, along the Via Flaminia and -Terni, have arrived at Rome after ten days’ somewhat tedious, but most -interesting, journey. The most remarkable things we saw were the Roman -excavations in the rock, and the great waterfall of Terni. Of course -you have heard that there are a Roman bridge and a triumphal arch at -Rimini, and in what excellent taste they are built. The bridge is not -unlike the Strand bridge, but more bold in proportion, and of course -infinitely smaller. From Fano we left the coast of the Adriatic, and -entered the Apennines, following the course of the Metaurus, the banks -of which were the scene of the defeat of Asdrubal: and it is said (you -can refer to the book) that Livy has given a very exact and animated -description of it. I forget all about it, but shall look as soon as -our boxes are opened. Following the river, the vale contracts, the -banks of the river become steep and rocky, the forests of oak and ilex -which overhang its emerald-coloured stream, cling to their abrupt -precipices. About four miles from Fossombrone, the river forces for -itself a passage between the walls and toppling precipices of the -loftiest Apennines, which are here rifted to their base, and undermined -by the narrow and tumultuous torrent. It was a cloudy morning, and we -had no conception of the scene that awaited us. Suddenly the low clouds -were struck by the clear north wind, and like curtains of the finest -gauze, removed one by one, were drawn from before the mountain, whose -heaven-cleaving pinnacles and black crags overhanging one another, -stood at length defined in the light of day. The road runs parallel -to the river, at a considerable height, and is carried through -the mountain by a vaulted cavern. The marks of the chisel of the -legionaries of the Roman Consul are yet evident. - -We passed on day after day, until we came to Spoleto, I think the most -romantic city I ever saw. There is here an aqueduct of astonishing -elevation, which unites two rocky mountains,--there is the path of -a torrent below, whitening the green dell with its broad and barren -track of stones, and above there is a castle, apparently of great -strength and of tremendous magnitude, which overhangs the city, and -whose marble bastions are perpendicular with the precipice. I never saw -a more impressive picture; in which the shapes of nature are of the -grandest order, but over which the creations of man, sublime from their -antiquity and greatness, seem to predominate. The castle was built by -Belisarius or Narses, I forget which, but was of that epoch. - -From Spoleto we went to Terni, and saw the cataract of the Velino. The -glaciers of Montanvert and the source of the Arveiron is the grandest -spectacle I ever saw. This is the second. Imagine a river sixty feet -in breadth, with a vast volume of waters, the outlet of a great lake -among the higher mountains, falling 300 feet into a sightless gulf -of snow-white vapour, which bursts up for ever and for ever from a -circle of black crags, and thence leaping downwards, makes five or six -other cataracts, each fifty or a hundred feet high, which exhibit, -on a smaller scale, and with beautiful and sublime variety, the same -appearances. But words (and far less could painting) will not express -it. Stand upon the brink of the platform of cliff, which is directly -opposite. You see the ever-moving water stream down. It comes in thick -and tawny folds, flaking off like solid snow gliding down a mountain. -It does not seem hollow within, but without it is unequal, like the -folding of linen thrown carelessly down; your eye follows it, and it -is lost below; not in the black rocks which gird it around, but in its -own foam and spray, in the cloud-like vapours boiling up from below, -which is not like rain, nor mist, nor spray, nor foam, but water, in -a shape wholly unlike anything I ever saw before. It is as white as -snow, but thick and impenetrable to the eye. The very imagination is -bewildered in it. A thunder comes up from the abyss wonderful to hear; -for, though it ever sounds, it is never the same, but, modulated by -the changing motion, rises and falls intermittingly; we passed half -an hour in one spot looking at it, and thought but a few minutes had -gone by. The surrounding scenery is, in its kind, the loveliest and -most sublime that can be conceived. In our first walk we passed through -some olive groves, of large and ancient trees, whose hoary and twisted -trunks leaned in all directions. We then crossed a path of orange trees -by the river side, laden with their golden fruit, and came to a forest -of ilex of a large size, whose evergreen and acorn-bearing boughs were -intertwined over our winding path. Around, hemming in the narrow vale, -were pinnacles of lofty mountains of pyramidical rock clothed with -all evergreen plants and trees; the vast pine whose feathery foliage -trembled in the blue air, the ilex, that ancestral inhabitant of these -mountains, the arbutus with its crimson-coloured fruit and glittering -leaves. After an hour’s walk, we came beneath the cataract of Terni, -within the distance of half a mile; nearer you cannot approach, for -the Nar, which has here its confluence with the Velino, bars the -passage. We then crossed the river formed by this confluence, over a -narrow natural bridge of rock, and saw the cataract from the platform -I first mentioned. We think of spending some time next year near this -waterfall. The inn is very bad, or we should have stayed there longer. - -We came from Terni last night to a place called Nepi, and to-day -arrived at Rome across the much-belied Campagna di Roma, a place I -confess infinitely to my taste. It is a flattering picture of Bagshot -Heath. But then there are the Apennines on one side, and Rome and St. -Peter’s on the other, and it is intersected by perpetual dells clothed -with arbutus and ilex. - - Adieu--very faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Naples, December 22, 1818._ - - My dear Peacock - -I have received a letter from you here, dated November 1st; you see the -reciprocation of letters from the term of our travels is more slow. -I entirely agree with what you say about _Childe Harold_. The spirit -in which it is written is, if insane, the most wicked and mischievous -insanity that ever was given forth. It is a kind of obstinate and -self-willed folly, in which he hardens himself. I remonstrated with -him in vain on the tone of mind from which such a view of things alone -arises. For its real root is very different from its apparent one. -Nothing can be less sublime than the true source of these expressions -of contempt and desperation. The fact is, that first, the Italian women -with whom he associates, are perhaps the most contemptible of all who -exist under the moon--the most ignorant, the most disgusting, the most -bigoted; * * * * an ordinary Englishman cannot approach them. Well, -Lord Byron is familiar with the lowest sort of these women, the people -his gondolieri pick up in the streets. He associates with wretches who -seem almost to have lost the gait and physiognomy of man, and who do -not scruple to avow practices, which are not only not named, but I -believe seldom even conceived in England. He says he disapproves, but -he endures. He is heartily and deeply discontented with himself; and -contemplating in the distorted mirror of his own thoughts the nature -and the destiny of man, what can he behold but objects of contempt and -despair? But that he is a great poet, I think the address to Ocean -proves. And he has a certain degree of candour while you talk to him, -but unfortunately it does not outlast your departure. No, I do not -doubt, and, for his sake, I ought to hope, that his present career must -end soon in some violent circumstance. - -Since I last wrote to you, I have seen the ruins of Rome, the Vatican, -St. Peter’s, and all the miracles of ancient and modern art contained -in that majestic city. The impression of it exceeds anything I have -ever experienced in my travels. We stayed there only a week, intending -to return at the end of February, and devote two or three months to -its mines of inexhaustible contemplation, to which period I refer you -for a minute account of it. We visited the Forum and the ruins of the -Coliseum every day. The Coliseum is unlike any work of human hands I -ever saw before. It is of enormous height and circuit, and the arches -built of massy stones are piled on one another, and jut into the blue -air, shattered into the forms of overhanging rocks. It has been changed -by time into the image of an amphitheatre of rocky hills overgrown by -the wild olive, the myrtle, and the fig-tree, and threaded by little -paths, which wind among its ruined stairs and immeasurable galleries: -the copse-wood overshadows you as you wander through its labyrinths, -and the wild weeds of this climate of flowers bloom under your feet. -The arena is covered with grass, and pierces, like the skirts of a -natural plain, the chasms of the broken arches around. But a small -part of the exterior circumference remains--it is exquisitely light -and beautiful; and the effect of the perfection of its architecture, -adorned with ranges of Corinthian pilasters, supporting a bold cornice, -is such, as to diminish the effect of its greatness. The interior -is all ruin. I can scarcely believe that when encrusted with Dorian -marble and ornamented by columns of Egyptian granite its effect could -have been so sublime and so impressive as in its present state. It is -open to the sky, and it was the clear and sunny weather of the end of -November in this climate when we visited it, day after day. - -Near it is the arch of Constantine, or rather the arch of Trajan; for -the servile and avaricious senate of degraded Rome ordered that the -monument of his predecessor should be demolished in order to dedicate -one to the Christian reptile, who had crept among the blood of his -murdered family to the supreme power. It is exquisitely beautiful and -perfect. The Forum is a plain in the midst of Rome, a kind of desert -full of heaps of stones and pits, and though so near the habitations -of men, is the most desolate place you can conceive. The ruins of -temples stand in and around it, shattered columns and ranges of others -complete, supporting cornices of exquisite workmanship, and vast -vaults of shattered domes distinct with regular compartments, once -filled with sculptures of ivory or brass. The temples of Jupiter, and -Concord, and Peace, and the Sun, and the Moon, and Vesta, are all -within a short distance of this spot. Behold the wrecks of what a -great nation once dedicated to the abstractions of the mind! Rome is a -city, as it were, of the dead, or rather of those who cannot die, and -who survive the puny generations which inhabit and pass over the spot -which they have made sacred to eternity. In Rome, at least in the first -enthusiasm of your recognition of ancient time, you see nothing of the -Italians. The nature of the city assists the delusion, for its vast -and antique walls describe a circumference of sixteen miles, and thus -the population is thinly scattered over this space, nearly as great as -London. Wide wild fields are enclosed within it, and there are grassy -lanes and copses winding among the ruins, and a great green hill, -lonely and bare, which overhangs the Tiber. The gardens of the modern -palaces are like wild woods of cedar, and cypress, and pine, and the -neglected walks are overgrown with weeds. The English burying-place is -a green slope near the walls, under the pyramidal tomb of Cestius, and -is, I think, the most beautiful and solemn cemetery I ever beheld. To -see the sun shining on its bright grass, fresh, when we first visited -it, with the autumnal dews, and hear the whispering of the wind among -the leaves of the trees which have overgrown the tomb of Cestius, and -the soil which is stirring in the sun-warm earth, and to mark the -tombs, mostly of women and young people who were buried there, one -might, if one were to die, desire the sleep they seem to sleep. Such is -the human mind, and so it peoples with its wishes vacancy and oblivion. - -I have told you little about Rome; but I reserve the Pantheon, and St. -Peter’s, and the Vatican, and Raphael, for my return. About a fortnight -ago I left Rome, and Mary and C---- followed in three days, for it was -necessary to procure lodgings here without alighting at an inn. From my -peculiar mode of travelling I saw little of the country, but could just -observe that the wild beauty of the scenery and the barbarous ferocity -of the inhabitants progressively increased. On entering Naples, the -first circumstance that engaged my attention was an assassination. A -youth ran out of a shop, pursued by a woman with a bludgeon, and a man -armed with a knife. The man overtook him, and with one blow in the neck -laid him dead in the road. On my expressing the emotions of horror and -indignation which I felt, a Calabrian priest, who travelled with me, -laughed heartily, and attempted to quiz me, as what the English call a -flat. I never felt such an inclination to beat any one. Heaven knows I -have little power, but he saw that I looked extremely displeased, and -was silent. This same man, a fellow of gigantic strength and stature, -had expressed the most frantic terror of robbers on the road; he cried -at the sight of my pistol, and it had been with great difficulty -that the joint exertions of myself and the vetturino had quieted his -hysterics. - -But external nature in these delightful regions contrasts with and -compensates for the deformity and degradation of humanity. We have a -lodging divided from the sea by the royal gardens, and from our windows -we see perpetually the blue waters of the bay, forever changing, yet -forever the same, and encompassed by the mountainous island of Capreæ, -the lofty peaks which overhang Salerno, and the woody hill of Posilipo, -whose promontories hide from us Misenum and the lofty isle Inarime,[19] -which, with its divided summit, forms the opposite horn of the bay. -From the pleasant walks of the garden we see Vesuvius; a smoke by day -and a fire by night is seen upon its summit, and the glassy sea often -reflects its light or shadow. The climate is delicious. We sit without -a fire, with the windows open, and have almost all the productions of -an English summer. The weather is usually like what Wordsworth calls -“the first fine day of March;” sometimes very much warmer, though -perhaps it wants that “each minute sweeter than before,” which gives an -intoxicating sweetness to the awakening of the earth from its winter’s -sleep in England. We have made two excursions, one to Baiæ and one to -Vesuvius, and we propose to visit, successively, the islands, Pæstum, -Pompeii, and Beneventum. - -We set off an hour after sunrise one radiant morning in a little boat; -there was not a cloud in the sky, nor a wave upon the sea, which was -so translucent that you could see the hollow caverns clothed with the -glaucous sea-moss, and the leaves and branches of those delicate weeds -that pave the unequal bottom of the water. As noon approached, the -heat, and especially the light, became intense. We passed Posilipo, and -came first to the eastern point of the bay of Puzzoli, which is within -the great bay of Naples, and which again encloses that of Baiæ. Here -are lofty rocks and craggy islets, with arches and portals of precipice -standing in the sea, and enormous caverns, which echoed faintly with -the murmur of the languid tide. This is called La Scuola di Virgilio. -We then went directly across to the promontory of Misenum, leaving the -precipitous island of Nisida on the right. Here we were conducted to -see the Mare Morto, and the Elysian fields; the spot on which Virgil -places the scenery of the Sixth Æneid, Though extremely beautiful, as -a lake, and woody hills, and this divine sky must make it, I confess -my disappointment. The guide showed us an antique cemetery, where the -niches used for placing the cinerary urns of the dead yet remain. -We then coasted the bay of Baiæ to the left, in which we saw many -picturesque and interesting ruins; but I have to remark that we never -disembarked but we were disappointed--while from the boat the effect -of the scenery was inexpressibly delightful. The colours of the water -and the air breathe over all things here the radiance of their own -beauty. After passing the bay of Baiæ, and observing the ruins of its -antique grandeur standing like rocks in the transparent sea under our -boat, we landed to visit lake Avernus. We passed through the cavern of -the Sibyl (not Virgil’s Sibyl), which pierces one of the hills which -circumscribe the lake, and came to a calm and lovely basin of water, -surrounded by dark woody hills, and profoundly solitary. Some vast -ruins of the temple of Pluto stand on a lawny hill on one side of it, -and are reflected in its windless mirror. It is far more beautiful -than the Elysian fields--but there are all the materials for beauty in -the latter, and the Avernus was once a chasm of deadly and pestilential -vapours. About half a mile from Avernus, a high hill, called Monte -Novo, was thrown up by volcanic fire. - -Passing onward we came to Pozzoli, the ancient Dicæarchea, where there -are the columns remaining of a temple to Serapis, and the wreck of -an enormous amphitheatre, changed, like the Coliseum, into a natural -hill of the overteeming vegetation. Here also is the Solfatara, of -which there is a poetical description in the Civil War of Petronius, -beginning--“Est locus,”[20] and in which the verses of the poet are -infinitely finer than what he describes, for it is not a very curious -place. After seeing these things we returned by moonlight to Naples -in our boat. What colours there were in the sky, what radiance in the -evening star, and how the moon was encompassed by a light unknown to -our regions! - -Our next excursion was to Vesuvius. We went to Resina in a carriage, -where Mary and I mounted mules, and C---- was carried in a chair on -the shoulders of four men, much like a member of parliament after -he has gained his election, and looking, with less reason, quite as -frightened. So we arrived at the hermitage of San Salvador, where an -old hermit, belted with rope, set forth the plates for our refreshment. - -Vesuvius is, after the glaciers, the most impressive exhibition -of the energies of nature I ever saw. It has not the immeasurable -greatness, the overpowering magnificence, nor, above all, the radiant -beauty of the glaciers; but it has all their character of tremendous -and irresistible strength. From Resina to the hermitage you wind up -the mountain, and cross a vast stream of hardened lava, which is an -actual image of the waves of the sea, changed into hard black stone by -enchantment. The lines of the boiling flood seem to hang in the air; -and it is difficult to believe that the billows which seem hurrying -down upon you are not actually in motion. This plain was once a sea of -liquid fire. From the hermitage we crossed another vast stream of lava, -and then went on foot up the cone--this is the only part of the ascent -in which there is any difficulty, and that difficulty has been much -exaggerated. It is composed of rocks of lava, and declivities of ashes; -by ascending the former and descending the latter, there is very little -fatigue. On the summit is a kind of irregular plain, the most horrible -chaos that can be imagined; riven into ghastly chasms, and heaped up -with tumuli of great stones and cinders, and enormous rocks blackened -and calcined, which had been thrown from the volcano upon one another -in terrible confusion. In the midst stands the conical hill from which -volumes of smoke, and the fountains of liquid fire, are rolled forth -forever. The mountain is at present in a slight state of eruption; and -a thick heavy white smoke is perpetually rolled out, interrupted by -enormous columns of an impenetrable black bituminous vapour, which is -hurled up, fold after fold, into the sky with a deep hollow sound, and -fiery stones are rained down from its darkness, and a black shower of -ashes fell even where we sat. The lava, like the glacier, creeps on -perpetually, with a crackling sound as of suppressed fire. There are -several springs of lava; and in one place it gushes precipitously over -a high crag, rolling down the half-molten rocks and its own overhanging -waves; a cataract of quivering fire. We approached the extremity of one -of the rivers of lava; it is about twenty feet in breadth and ten in -height; and as the inclined plane was not rapid, its motion was very -slow. We saw the masses of its dark exterior surface detach themselves -as it moved, and betray the depth of the liquid flame. In the day the -fire is but slightly seen; you only observe a tremulous motion in the -air, and streams and fountains of white sulphurous smoke. - -At length we saw the sun sink between Capreæ and Inarime, and, as the -darkness increased, the effect of the fire became more beautiful. We -were, as it were, surrounded by streams and cataracts of the red and -radiant fire; and in the midst, from the column of bituminous smoke -shot up into the air, fell the vast masses of rock, white with the -light of their intense heat, leaving behind them through the dark -vapour trains of splendour. We descended by torch-light, and I should -have enjoyed the scenery on my return, but they conducted me, I know -not how, to the hermitage in a state of intense bodily suffering, the -worst effect of which was spoiling the pleasure of Mary and C----. -Our guides on the occasion were complete savages. You have no idea of -the horrible cries which they suddenly utter, no one knows why, the -clamour, the vociferation, the tumult. C---- in her palanquin suffered -most from it; and when I had gone on before, they threatened to leave -her in the middle of the road, which they would have done had not -my Italian servant promised them a beating, after which they became -quiet. Nothing, however, can be more picturesque than the gestures and -the physiognomies of these savage people. And when, in the darkness -of night, they unexpectedly begin to sing in chorus some fragments of -their wild but sweet national music, the effect is exceedingly fine. - -Since I wrote this I have seen the museum of this city. Such statues! -There is a Venus; an ideal shape of the most winning loveliness. A -Bacchus, more sublime than any living being. A Satyr, making love -to a youth, in which the expressed life of the sculpture, and -the inconceivable beauty of the form of the youth, overcome one’s -repugnance to the subject. There are multitudes of wonderfully fine -statues found in Herculaneum and Pompeii. We are going to see Pompeii -the first day that the sea is waveless. Herculaneum is almost filled -up; no more excavations are made; the king bought the ground and built -a palace upon it. - -You don’t see much of Hunt. I wish you could contrive to see him when -you go to town, and ask him what he means to answer to Lord Byron’s -invitation. He has now an opportunity, if he likes, of seeing Italy. -What do you think of joining his party, and paying us a visit next -year; I mean as soon as the reign of winter is dissolved? Write to me -your thoughts upon this. I cannot express to you the pleasure it would -give me to welcome such a party. - -I have depression enough of spirits and not good health, though I -believe the warm air of Naples does me good. We see absolutely no one -here. - - Adieu, my dear Peacock, - affectionately your friend, - P. B. S. - - FOOTNOTES: - -[19] The ancient name of Ischia.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - -[20] - -Est locus exciso penitus demersus hiatu, Parthenopem inter, magnæque -Dicarchidos arva, Cocytia perfusus aqua, nam spiritus, extra Qui furit, -effusus funesto spargitur æstu, &c. Petronii Arbitri _Satyricon_. - - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Naples, Jan. 26th, 1819._ - - My dear Peacock, - -Your two letters arrived within a few days of each other, one being -directed to Naples, and the other to Livorno. They are more welcome -visitors to me than mine can be to you. I writing as from sepulchres, -you from the habitations of men yet unburied; though the sexton, -Castlereagh, after having dug their grave, stands with his spade in -his hand, evidently doubting whether he will not be forced to occupy -it himself. Your news about the bank-note trials is excellent good. -Do I not recognise in it the influence of Cobbett? You don’t tell me -what occupies Parliament. I know you will laugh at my demand, and -assure me that it is indifferent. Your pamphlet I want exceedingly to -see. Your calculations in the letter are clear, but require much oral -explanation. You know I am an infernal arithmetician. If none but me -had contemplated “lucentemque globum lunæ, Titaniaque astra,” the world -would yet have doubted whether they were many hundred feet higher than -the mountain tops. - -In my accounts of pictures and things, I am more pleased to interest -you than the many; and this is fortunate, because, in the first place, -I have no idea of attempting the latter, and if I did attempt it, I -should assuredly fail. A perception of the beautiful characterizes -those who differ from ordinary men, and those who can perceive it would -not buy enough to pay the printer. Besides, I keep no journal, and the -only records of my voyage will be the letters I send you. The bodily -fatigue of standing for hours in galleries exhausts me; I believe -that I don’t see half that I ought, on that account. And, then, we -know nobody, and the common Italians are so sullen and stupid, it’s -impossible to get information from them. At Rome, where the people seem -superior to any in Italy, I cannot fail to stumble on something more. -O, if I had health, and strength, and equal spirits, what boundless -intellectual improvement might I not gather in this wonderful country! -At present I write little else but poetry, and little of that. My -first act of Prometheus is complete, and I think you would like it. I -consider poetry very subordinate to moral and political science, and if -I were well, certainly I would aspire to the latter, for I can conceive -a great work, embodying the discoveries of all ages, and harmonizing -the contending creeds by which mankind have been ruled. Far from me -is such an attempt, and I shall be content, by exercising my fancy, to -amuse myself, and perhaps some others, and cast what weight I can into -the scale of that balance, which the Giant of Arthegall holds. - -Since you last heard from me, we have been to see Pompeii, and are -waiting now for the return of spring weather, to visit, first, -Pæstum, and then the islands; after which we shall return to Rome. -I was astonished at the remains of this city; I had no conception -of anything so perfect yet remaining. My idea of the mode of its -destruction was this:--First, an earthquake shattered it, and unroofed -almost all its temples, and split its columns; then a rain of light, -small pumice-stones fell; then torrents of boiling water, mixed with -ashes, filled up all its crevices. A wide, flat hill, from which the -city was excavated, is now covered by thick woods, and you see the -tombs and the theatres, the temples and the houses, surrounded by the -uninhabited wilderness. We entered the town from the side towards the -sea, and first saw two theatres; one more magnificent than the other, -strewn with the ruins of the white marble which formed their seats and -cornices, wrought with deep, bold sculpture. In the front, between -the stage and the seats, is the circular space, occasionally occupied -by the chorus. The stage is very narrow, but long, and divided from -this space by a narrow enclosure parallel to it, I suppose for the -orchestra. On each side are the consuls’ boxes, and below, in the -theatre at Herculaneum, were found two equestrian statues of admirable -workmanship, occupying the same place as the great bronze lamps did at -Drury Lane. The smallest of the theatres is said to have been comic, -though I should doubt. From both you see, as you sit on the seats, a -prospect of the most wonderful beauty. - -You then pass through the ancient streets; they are very narrow, and -the houses rather small, but all constructed on an admirable plan, -especially for this climate. The rooms are built round a court, or -sometimes two, according to the extent of the house. In the midst is -a fountain, sometimes surrounded with a portico, supported on fluted -columns of white stucco; the floor is paved with mosaic, sometimes -wrought in imitation of vine leaves, sometimes in quaint figures, -and more or less beautiful, according to the rank of the inhabitant. -There were paintings on all, but most of them have been removed to -decorate the royal museums. Little winged figures, and small ornaments -of exquisite elegance, yet remain. There is an ideal life in the -forms of these paintings of an incomparable loveliness, though most -are evidently the work of very inferior artists. It seems as if, from -the atmosphere of mental beauty which surrounded them, every human -being caught a splendour not his own. In one house you see how the -bed-rooms were managed;--a small sofa was built up, where the cushions -were placed; two pictures, one representing Diana and Endymion, the -other Venus and Mars, decorate the chamber; and a little niche, which -contains the statue of a domestic god. The floor is composed of a rich -mosaic of the rarest marbles, agate, jasper, and porphyry; it looks -to the marble fountain and the snow-white columns, whose entablatures -strew the floor of the portico they supported. The houses have only one -story, and the apartments, though not large, are very lofty. A great -advantage results from this, wholly unknown in our cities. The public -buildings, whose ruins are now forests as it were of white fluted -columns, and which then supported entablatures, loaded with sculptures, -were seen on all sides over the roofs of the houses. This was the -excellence of the ancients. Their private expenses were comparatively -moderate; the dwelling of one of the chief senators of Pompeii is -elegant indeed, and adorned with most beautiful specimens of art, but -small. But their public buildings are everywhere marked by the bold -and grand designs of an unsparing magnificence. In the little town -of Pompeii, (it contained about twenty thousand inhabitants,) it is -wonderful to see the number and the grandeur of their public buildings. -Another advantage, too, is that, in the present case, the glorious -scenery around is not shut out, and that, unlike the inhabitants of -the Cimmerian ravines of modern cities, the ancient Pompeians could -contemplate the clouds and the lamps of heaven; could see the moon rise -high behind Vesuvius, and the sun set in the sea, tremulous with an -atmosphere of golden vapour, between Inarime and Misenum. - -We next saw the temples. Of the temple of Æsculapius little remains but -an altar of black stone, adorned with a cornice imitating the scales -of a serpent. His statue, in terra-cotta, was found in the cell. The -temple of Isis is more perfect. It is surrounded by a portico of fluted -columns, and in the area around it are two altars, and many ceppi for -statues; and a little chapel of white stucco, as hard as stone, of the -most exquisite proportion; its panels are adorned with figures in bas -relief, slightly indicated, but of a workmanship the most delicate and -perfect that can be conceived. They are Egyptian subjects, executed -by a Greek artist, who has harmonized all the unnatural extravagances -of the original conception into the supernatural loveliness of his -country’s genius. They scarcely touch the ground with their feet, and -their wind-uplifted robes seem in the place of wings. The temple in -the midst, raised on a high platform, and approached by steps, was -decorated with exquisite paintings, some of which we saw in the museum -at Portici. It is small, of the same materials as the chapel, with a -pavement of mosaic, and fluted Ionic columns of white stucco, so white -that it dazzles you to look at it. - -Thence through other porticos and labyrinths of walls and columns, (for -I cannot hope to detail everything to you,) we came to the Forum. This -is a large square, surrounded by lofty porticos of fluted columns, -some broken, some entire, their entablatures strewed under them. The -temple of Jupiter, of Venus, and another temple, the Tribunal, and the -Hall of Public Justice, with their forests of lofty columns, surround -the Forum. Two pedestals or altars of an enormous size, (for, whether -they supported equestrian statues, or were the altars of the temple -of Venus, before which they stand, the guide could not tell,) occupy -the lower end of the Forum. At the upper end, supported on an elevated -platform, stands the temple of Jupiter. Under the colonnade of its -portico we sat, and pulled out our oranges, and figs, and bread, and -medlars, (sorry fare, you will say,) and rested to eat. Here was a -magnificent spectacle. Above and between the multitudinous shafts of -the sunshining columns was seen the sea, reflecting the purple heaven -of noon above it, and supporting, as it were, on its line the dark -lofty mountains of Sorrento, of a blue inexpressibly deep, and tinged -towards their summits with streaks of new-fallen snow. Between was -one small green island. To the right was Capreæ, Inarime, Prochyta, -and Misenum. Behind was the single summit of Vesuvius, rolling forth -volumes of thick white smoke, whose foam-like column was sometimes -darted into the clear dark sky, and fell in little streaks along the -wind. Between Vesuvius and the nearer mountains, as through a chasm, -was seen the main line of the loftiest Apennines, to the east. The day -was radiant and warm. Every now and then we heard the subterranean -thunder of Vesuvius; its distant deep peals seemed to shake the very -air and light of day, which interpenetrated our frames, with the sullen -and tremendous sound. This scene was what the Greeks beheld (Pompeii, -you know, was a Greek city). They lived in harmony with nature; and the -interstices of their incomparable columns were portals, as it were, to -admit the spirit of beauty which animates this glorious universe to -visit those whom it inspired. If such is Pompeii, what was Athens? What -scene was exhibited from the Acropolis, the Parthenon, and the temples -of Hercules, and Theseus, and the Winds? The islands and the Ægean sea, -the mountains of Argolis, and the peaks of Pindus and Olympus, and the -darkness of the Bœotian forests interspersed? - -From the Forum we went to another public place; a triangular portico, -half inclosing the ruins of an enormous temple. It is built on the edge -of the hill overlooking the sea. Δ That black point is the temple. In -the apex of the triangle stands an altar and a fountain, and before the -altar once stood the statue of the builder of the portico. Returning -hence, and following the consular road, we came to the eastern gate of -the city. The walls are of enormous strength, and inclose a space of -three miles. On each side of the road beyond the gate are built the -tombs. How unlike ours! They seem not so much hiding-places for that -which must decay, as voluptuous chambers for immortal spirits. They -are of marble, radiantly white; and two, especially beautiful, are -loaded with exquisite bas reliefs. On the stucco-wall that incloses -them are little emblematic figures of a relief exceedingly low, of dead -and dying animals, and little winged genii, and female forms bending -in groups in some funeral office. The higher reliefs represent, one a -nautical subject, and the other a Bacchanalian one. Within the cell -stand the cinerary urns, sometimes one, sometimes more. It is said that -paintings were found within; which are now, as has been everything -moveable in Pompeii, removed, and scattered about in royal museums. -These tombs were the most impressive things of all. The wild woods -surround them on either side; and along the broad stones of the paved -road which divides them, you hear the late leaves of autumn shiver -and rustle in the stream of the inconstant wind, as it were, like the -step of ghosts. The radiance and magnificence of these dwellings -of the dead, the white freshness of the scarcely finished marble, -the impassioned or imaginative life of the figures which adorn them, -contrast strangely with the simplicity of the houses of those who were -living when Vesuvius overwhelmed them. - -I have forgotten the amphitheatre, which is of great magnitude, though -much inferior to the Coliseum. I now understand why the Greeks were -such great poets; and, above all, I can account, it seems to me, for -the harmony, the unity, the perfection, the uniform excellence, of all -their works of art. They lived in a perpetual commerce with external -nature, and nourished themselves upon the spirit of its forms. Their -theatres were all open to the mountains and the sky. Their columns, the -ideal types of a sacred forest, with its roof of interwoven tracery, -admitted the light and wind; the odour and the freshness of the country -penetrated the cities. Their temples were mostly upaithric; and the -flying clouds, the stars, or the deep sky, were seen above. O, but for -that series of wretched wars which terminated in the Roman conquest -of the world; but for the Christian religion, which put the finishing -stroke on the ancient system; but for those changes that conducted -Athens to its ruin,--to what an eminence might not humanity have -arrived! - -In a short time I hope to tell you something of the museum of this city. - -You see how ill I follow the maxim of Horace, at least in its literal -sense: “nil admirari”--which I should say, “prope res est una”--to -prevent there ever being anything admirable in the world. Fortunately -Plato is of my opinion; and I had rather err with Plato than be right -with Horace. - -At this moment I have received your letter indicating that you are -removing to London. I am very much interested in the subject of this -change, and beg you would write me all the particulars of it. You -will be able now to give me perhaps a closer insight into the politics -of the times than was permitted you at Marlow. Of H---- I have a very -slight opinion. There are rumours here of a revolution in Spain. A ship -came in twelve days from Catalonia, and brought a report that the king -was massacred; that eighteen thousand insurgents surrounded Madrid; -but that before the popular party gained head enough seven thousand -were murdered by the inquisition. Perhaps you know all by this time. -The old king of Spain is dead here. Cobbett is a fine ὑμενοποιος--does -his influence increase or diminish? What a pity that so powerful a -genius should be combined with the most odious moral qualities. - -We have reports here of a change in the English ministry--to what does -it amount? for, besides my national interest in it, I am on the watch -to vindicate my most sacred rights, invaded by the chancery court. - -I suppose now we shall not see you in Italy this spring, whether Hunt -comes or not. It’s probable I shall hear nothing from him for some -months, particularly if he does not come. Give me _ses nouvelles_. - -I am under an English surgeon here, who says I have a disease of the -liver, which he will cure. We keep horses, as this kind of exercise -is absolutely essential to my health. Elise[21] has just married our -Italian servant, and has quitted us; the man was a great rascal, and -cheated enormously: this event was very much against our advice. - -I have scarcely been out since I wrote last. - - Adieu! yours most faithfully, - P. B. S. - -[21] A Swiss girl whom we had engaged as nursery-maid two years before, -at Geneva.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Rome, March 23d, 1819._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I wrote to you the day before our departure from Naples. We came by -slow journeys, with our own horses, to Rome, resting one day at Mola -di Gaeta, at the inn called Villa di Cicerone, from being built on -the ruins of his Villa, whose immense substructions overhang the sea, -and are scattered among the orange-groves. Nothing can be lovelier -than the scene from the terraces of the inn. On one side precipitous -mountains, whose bases slope into an inclined plane of olive and -orange-copses--the latter forming, as it were, an emerald sky of -leaves, starred with innumerable globes of their ripening fruit, whose -rich splendour contrasted with the deep green foliage; on the other -the sea--bounded on one side by the antique town of Gaeta, and the -other by what appears to be an island, the promontory of Circe. From -Gaeta to Terracina the whole scenery is of the most sublime character. -At Terracina precipitous conical crags of immense height shoot into -the sky and overhang the sea. At Albano we arrived again in sight of -Rome. Arches after arches in unending lines stretching across the -uninhabited wilderness, the blue defined line of the mountains seen -between them; masses of nameless ruin standing like rocks out of the -plain; and the plain itself, with its billowy and unequal surface, -announced the neighbourhood of Rome. And what shall I say to you of -Rome? If I speak of the inanimate ruins, the rude stones piled upon -stones, which are the sepulchres of the fame of those who once arrayed -them with the beauty which has faded, will you believe me insensible to -the vital, the almost breathing creations of genius yet subsisting in -their perfection? What has become, you will ask, of the Apollo, the -Gladiator, the Venus of the Capitol? What of the Apollo di Belvedere, -the Laocoon? What of Raffaelle and Guido? These things are best -spoken of when the mind has drunk in the spirit of their forms; and -little indeed can I, who must devote no more than a few months to the -contemplation of them, hope to know or feel of their profound beauty. - -I think I told you of the Coliseum, and its impressions on me on -my first visit to this city. The next most considerable relic of -antiquity, considered as a ruin, is the Thermæ of Caracalla. These -consist of six enormous chambers, above 200 feet in height, and each -inclosing a vast space like that of a field. There are, in addition, a -number of towers and labyrinthine recesses, hidden and woven over by -the wild growth of weeds and ivy. Never was any desolation more sublime -and lovely. The perpendicular wall of ruin is cloven into steep ravines -filled up with flowering shrubs, whose thick twisted roots are knotted -in the rifts of the stones. At every step the aerial pinnacles of -shattered stone group into new combinations of effect, and tower above -the lofty yet level walls, as the distant mountains change their aspect -to one travelling rapidly along the plain. The perpendicular walls -resemble nothing more than that cliff of Bisham wood, that is overgrown -with wood, and yet is stony and precipitous--you know the one I mean; -not the chalk-pit, but the spot that has the pretty copse of fir-trees -and privet-bushes at its base, and where H * * and I scrambled up, and -you, to my infinite discontent, would go home. These walls surround -green and level spaces of lawn, on which some elms have grown, and -which are interspersed towards their skirts by masses of the fallen -ruin, overtwined with the broad leaves of the creeping weeds. The blue -sky canopies it, and is as the everlasting roof of these enormous halls. - -But the most interesting effect remains. In one of the buttresses, -that supports an immense and lofty arch, which “bridges the very winds -of heaven,” are the crumbling remains of an antique winding staircase, -whose sides are open in many places to the precipice. This you ascend, -and arrive on the summit of these piles. There grow on every side thick -entangled wildernesses of myrtle, and the myrletus, and bay, and the -flowering laurustinus, whose white blossoms are just developed, the -wild fig, and a thousand nameless plants sown by the wandering winds. -These woods are intersected on every side by paths, like sheep tracks -through the copse-wood of steep mountains, which wind to every part of -the immense labyrinth. From the midst rise those pinnacles and masses, -themselves like mountains, which have been seen from below. In one -place you wind along a narrow strip of weed-grown ruin, on one side -is the immensity of earth and sky, on the other a narrow chasm, which -is bounded by an arch of enormous size, fringed by the many-coloured -foliage and blossoms, and supporting a lofty and irregular pyramid, -overgrown like itself with the all-prevailing vegetation. Around -rise other crags and other peaks, all arrayed, and the deformity of -their vast desolation softened down, by the undecaying investiture of -nature. Come to Rome. It is a scene by which expression is overpowered; -which words cannot convey. Still further, winding up one-half of the -shattered pyramids, by the path through the blooming copse-wood, you -come to a little mossy lawn, surrounded by the wild shrubs; it is -overgrown with anemones, wall-flowers, and violets, whose stalks pierce -the starry moss, and with radiant blue flowers, whose names I know not, -and which scatter through the air the divinest odour, which, as you -recline under the shade of the ruin, produces sensations of voluptuous -faintness, like the combinations of sweet music. The paths still wind -on, threading the perplexed windings, other labyrinths, other lawns, -and deep dells of wood, and lofty rocks, and terrific chasms. When I -tell you that these ruins cover several acres, and that the paths above -penetrate at least half their extent, your imagination will fill up all -that I am unable to express of this astonishing scene. - -I speak of these things not in the order in which I visited them, but -in that of the impression which they made on me, or perhaps chance -directs. The ruins of the ancient Forum are so far fortunate that -they have not been walled up in the modern city. They stand in an -open, lonesome place, bounded on one side by the modern city, and the -other by the Palatine Mount, covered with shapeless masses of ruin. -The tourists tell you all about these things, and I am afraid of -stumbling on their language when I enumerate what is so well known. -There remain eight granite columns of the Ionic order, with their -entablature, of the temple of Concord, founded by Camillus. I fear that -the immense expense demanded by these columns forbids us to hope that -they are the remains of any edifice dedicated by that most perfect -and virtuous of men. It is supposed to have been repaired under the -Eastern Emperors; alas, what a contrast of recollections! Near them -stand those Corinthian fluted columns, which supported the angle of -a temple; the architrave and entablature are worked with delicate -sculpture. Beyond, to the south, is another solitary column; and still -more distant, three more, supporting the wreck of an entablature. -Descending from the Capitol to the Forum, is the triumphal arch of -Septimius Severus, less perfect than that of Constantine, though from -its proportions and magnitude, a most impressive monument. That of -Constantine, or rather of Titus, (for the relief and sculpture, and -even the colossal images of Dacian captives, were torn by a decree of -the senate from an arch dedicated to the latter, to adorn that of this -stupid and wicked monster, Constantine, one of whose chief merits -consists in establishing a religion, the destroyer of those arts which -would have rendered so base a spoliation unnecessary) is the most -perfect. It is an admirable work of art. It is built of the finest -marble, and the outline of the reliefs is in many parts as perfect as -if just finished. Four Corinthian fluted columns support, on each side, -a bold entablature, whose bases are loaded with reliefs of captives -in every attitude of humiliation and slavery. The compartments above -express in bolder relief the enjoyment of success; the conqueror on -his throne, or in his chariot, or nodding over the crushed multitudes, -who writhe under his horses’ hoofs, as those below express the torture -and abjectness of defeat. There are three arches, whose roofs are -panelled with fretwork, and their sides adorned with similar reliefs. -The keystone of these arches is supported each by two winged figures of -Victory, whose hair floats on the wind of their own speed, and whose -arms are outstretched, bearing trophies, as if impatient to meet. They -look, as it were, borne from the subject extremities of the earth, on -the breath which is the exhalation of that battle and desolation, which -it is their mission to commemorate. Never were monuments so completely -fitted to the purpose for which they were designed, of expressing that -mixture of energy and error which is called a triumph. - -I walk forth in the purple and golden light of an Italian evening, and -return by star or moonlight, through this scene. The elms are just -budding, and the warm spring winds bring unknown odours, all sweet, -from the country. I see the radiant Orion through the mighty columns -of the temple of Concord, and the mellow fading light softens down the -modern buildings of the Capitol, the only ones that interfere with the -sublime desolation of the scene. On the steps of the Capitol itself, -stand two colossal statues of Castor and Pollux, each with his horse, -finely executed, though far inferior to those of Monte Cavallo, the -cast of one of which you know we saw together in London. This walk is -close to our lodging, and this is my evening walk. - -What shall I say of the modern city? Rome is yet the capital of the -world. It is a city of palaces and temples, more glorious than those -which any other city contains, and of ruins more glorious than they. -Seen from any of the eminences that surround it, it exhibits domes -beyond domes, and palaces, and colonnades interminably, even to the -horizon; interspersed with patches of desert, and mighty ruins which -stand girt by their own desolation, in the midst of the fanes of living -religions and the habitations of living men, in sublime loneliness. -St. Peter’s is, as you have heard, the loftiest building in Europe. -Externally it is inferior in architectural beauty to St. Paul’s, though -not wholly devoid of it; internally it exhibits littleness on a large -scale, and is in every respect opposed to antique taste. You know -my propensity to admire; and I tried to persuade myself out of this -opinion--in vain; the more I see of the interior of St. Peter’s, the -less impression as a whole does it produce on me. I cannot even think -it lofty, though its dome is considerably higher than any hill within -fifty miles of London; and when one reflects, it is an astonishing -monument of the daring energy of man. Its colonnade is wonderfully -fine, and there are two fountains, which rise in spire-like columns -of water to an immense height in the sky, and falling on the porphyry -vases from which they spring, fill the whole air with a radiant mist, -which at noon is thronged with innumerable rainbows. In the midst -stands an obelisk. In front is the palace-like façade of St Peter’s, -certainly magnificent; and there is produced, on the whole, an -architectural combination unequalled in the world. But the dome of the -temple is concealed, except at a very great distance, by the façade -and the inferior part of the building, and that diabolical contrivance -they call an attic. - -The effect of the Pantheon is totally the reverse of that of St. -Peter’s. Though not a fourth part of the size, it is, as it were, the -visible image of the universe; in the perfection of its proportions, as -when you regard the unmeasured dome of heaven, the idea of magnitude -is swallowed up and lost. It is open to the sky, and its wide dome -is lighted by the ever-changing illumination of the air. The clouds -of noon fly over it, and at night the keen stars are seen through -the azure darkness, hanging immoveably, or driving after the driving -moon among the clouds. We visited it by moonlight; it is supported by -sixteen columns, fluted and Corinthian, of a certain rare and beautiful -yellow marble, exquisitely polished, called here _giallo antico_. -Above these are the niches for the statues of the twelve gods. This -is the only defect of this sublime temple; there ought to have been -no interval between the commencement of the dome and the cornice, -supported by the columns. Thus there would have been no diversion from -the magnificent simplicity of its form. This improvement is alone -wanting to have completed the unity of the idea. - -The fountains of Rome are, in themselves, magnificent combinations of -art, such as alone it were worth coming to see. That in the Piazza -Navona, a large square, is composed of enormous fragments of rock, -piled on each other, and penetrated, as by caverns. This mass supports -an Egyptian obelisk of immense height. On the four corners of the rock -recline, in different attitudes, colossal figures representing the four -divisions of the globe. The water bursts from the crevices beneath -them. They are sculptured with great spirit; one impatiently tearing -a veil from his eyes; another with his hands stretched upwards. The -Fontana di Trevi is the most celebrated, and is rather a waterfall -than a fountain; gushing out from masses of rock, with a gigantic -figure of Neptune; and below are two river gods, checking two winged -horses, struggling up from among the rocks and waters. The whole is -not ill-conceived nor executed; but you know not how delicate the -imagination becomes by dieting with antiquity day after day. The only -things that sustain the comparison are Raphael, Guido, and Salvator -Rosa. - -The fountain on the Quirinal, or rather the group formed by the -statues, obelisk and the fountain, is, however, the most admirable -of all. From the Piazza Quirinale, or rather Monte Cavallo, you see -the boundless ocean of domes, spires, and columns, which is the City, -Rome. On a pedestal of white marble rises an obelisk of red granite, -piercing the blue sky. Before it is a vast basin of porphyry, in the -midst of which rises a column of the purest water, which collects into -itself all the overhanging colours of the sky, and breaks them into a -thousand prismatic hues and graduated shadows--they fall together with -its dashing water-drops into the outer basin. The elevated situation of -this fountain produces, I imagine, this effect of colour. On each side, -on an elevated pedestal, stand the statues of Castor and Pollux, each -in the act of taming his horse, which are said, but I believe wholly -without authority, to be the work of Phidias and Praxiteles. These -figures combine the irresistible energy with the sublime and perfect -loveliness supposed to have belonged to their divine nature. The reins -no longer exist, but the position of their hands and the sustained and -calm command of their regard, seem to require no mechanical aid to -enforce obedience. The countenances at so great a height are scarcely -visible, and I have a better idea of that of which we saw a cast -together in London, than of the other. But the sublime and living -majesty of their limbs and mien, the nervous and fiery animation of the -horses they restrain, seen in the blue sky of Italy, and overlooking -the city of Rome, surrounded by the light and the music of that -crystalline fountain, no cast can communicate. - -These figures were found at the Baths of Constantine, but, of course, -are of remote antiquity. I do not acquiesce, however, in the practice -of attributing to Phidias, or Praxiteles, or Scopas, or some great -master, any admirable work that may be found. We find little of what -remained, and perhaps the works of these were such as greatly surpassed -all that we conceive of most perfect and admirable in what little has -escaped the _deluge_. If I am too jealous of the honour of the Greeks, -our masters, and creators, the gods whom we should worship,--pardon me. - -I have said what I feel without entering into any critical discussions -of the _ruins_ of Rome, and the mere outside of this inexhaustible -mine of thought and feeling. Hobhouse, Eustace, and Forsyth, will tell -all the shew-knowledge about it--“the common stuff of the earth.” -By-the-bye, Forsyth is worth reading, as I judge from a chapter or two -I have seen. I cannot get the book here. - -I ought to have observed that the central arch of the triumphal arch -of Titus yet subsists, more perfect in its proportions, they say, than -any of a later date. This I did not remark. The figures of Victory, -with unfolded wings, and each spurning back a globe with outstretched -feet, are, perhaps, more beautiful than those on either of the others. -Their lips are parted: a delicate mode of indicating the fervour of -their desire to arrive at the destined resting-place, and to express -the eager respiration of their speed. Indeed, so essential to beauty -were the forms expressive of the exercise of the imagination and the -affections considered by _Greek_ artists, that no ideal figure of -antiquity, not destined to some representation directly exclusive of -such a character, is to be found with closed lips. Within this arch are -two panelled alto relievos, one representing a train of people bearing -in procession the instruments of Jewish worship, among which is the -holy candlestick with seven branches; on the other, Titus standing in -a quadriga, with a winged Victory. The grouping of the horses, and the -beauty, correctness and energy of their delineation, is remarkable, -though they are much destroyed. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Rome, April 6th, 1819._ - - My dear Peacock, - -I sent you yesterday a long letter, all about antique Rome, which -you had better keep for some leisure day. I received yours, and one -of Hunt’s, yesterday.--So, you know the B----s? I could not help -considering Mrs. B., when I knew her, as the most admirable specimen -of a human being I had ever seen. Nothing earthly ever appeared to me -more perfect than her character and manners. It is improbable that I -shall ever meet again the person whom I so much esteemed, and still -admire. I wish, however, that when you see her, you would tell her that -I have not forgotten her, nor any of the amiable circle once assembled -round her; and that I desire such remembrances to her, as an exile and -a _Pariah_ may be permitted to address to an acknowledged member of -the community of mankind. I hear they dined at your lodgings. But no -mention of A * * * and his wife--where were they? C * * *, though so -young when I saw her, gave indications of her mother’s excellences; -and, certainly less fascinating, is, I doubt not, equally amiable, -and more sincere. It was hardly possible for a person of the extreme -subtlety and delicacy of Mrs. B----’s understanding and affections, to -be quite sincere and constant. - -I am all anxiety about your I. H. affair. There are few who will -feel more hearty satisfaction at your success, in this or any other -enterprise, than I shall. Pray let me have the earliest intelligence. - -When shall I return to England? The Pythia has ascended the tripod, but -she replies not. Our present plans--and I know not what can induce us -to alter them--lead us back to Naples in a month or six weeks, where it -is almost decided that we should remain until the commencement of 1820. -You may imagine when we receive such letters as yours and Hunt’s, what -this resolution costs us--but these are not our only communications -from England. My health is materially better. My spirits not the -most brilliant in the world; but that we attribute to our solitary -situation, and, though happy, how should I be lively? We see something -of Italian society indeed. The Romans please me much, especially the -women; who, though totally devoid of every kind of information, or -culture of the imagination, or affections, or understanding--and, in -this respect, a kind of gentle savages--yet contrive to be interesting. -Their extreme innocence and _naïveté_, the freedom and gentleness of -their manners; the total absence of affectation, makes an intercourse -with them very like an intercourse with uncorrupted children, whom they -resemble in loveliness as well as simplicity. I have seen two women -in society here of the highest beauty; their brows and lips, and the -moulding of the face modelled with sculptural exactness, and the dark -luxuriance of their hair floating over their fine complexions--and the -lips--you must hear the common-places which escape from them before -they cease to be dangerous. The only inferior part are the eyes, which, -though good and gentle, want the mazy depth of colour behind colour, -with which the intellectual women of England and Germany entangle the -heart in soul-inwoven labyrinths. - -This is holy week, and Rome is quite full. The Emperor of Austria is -here, and Maria Louisa is coming. On their journey through the other -cities of Italy, she was greeted with loud acclamations, and vivas of -Napoleon. Idiots and slaves! Like the frogs in the fable, because they -are discontented with the log, they call upon the stork, who devours -them. Great festas, and magnificent funzioni here--we cannot get -tickets to all. There are five thousand strangers in Rome, and only -room for five hundred, at the celebration of the famous Miserere, in -the Sistine chapel, the only thing I regret we shall not be present -at. After all, Rome is eternal, and were all that _is_ extinguished, -that which _has been_, the ruins and the sculptures, would remain, and -Raffaelle and Guido be alone regretted. - -In the square of St. Peter’s there are about three hundred fettered -criminals at work, hoeing out the weeds that grow between the stones -of the pavement. Their legs are heavily ironed, and some are chained -two by two. They sit in long rows, hoeing out the weeds, dressed in -parti-coloured clothes. Near them sit or saunter, groups of soldiers, -armed with loaded muskets. The iron discord of those innumerable -chains clanks up into the sonorous air, and produces, contrasted with -the musical dashing of the fountains, and the deep azure beauty of -the sky, and the magnificence of the architecture around, a conflict -of sensations allied to madness. It is the emblem of Italy--moral -degradation contrasted with the glory of nature and the arts. - -We see no English society here; it is not probable that we could if we -desired it, and I am certain that we should find it insupportable. The -manners of the rich English are wholly insupportable, and they assume -pretences which they would not venture upon in their own country.--I -am yet ignorant of the event of Hobhouse’s election. I saw the last -numbers were--Lamb, 4200; and Hobhouse, 3900--14th day. There is little -hope. That mischievous Cobbett has divided and weakened the interest -of the popular party, so that the factions that prey upon our country -have been able to coalesce to its exclusion. The N----s you have not -seen. I am curious to know what kind of a girl Octavia becomes; she -promised well. Tell H---- his Melpomene is in the Vatican, and that -her attitude and drapery surpass, if possible, the graces of her -countenance. - -My “Prometheus Unbound” is just finished, and in a month or two I -shall send it. It is a drama, with characters and mechanism of a kind -yet unattempted; and I think the execution is better than any of my -former attempts. By-the-bye, have you seen Ollier? I never hear from -him, and am ignorant whether some verses I sent him from Naples, -entitled, I think, “Lines on the Euganean hills,” have reached him -in safety or not. As to the Reviews, I suppose there is nothing but -abuse; and this is not hearty or sincere enough to amuse me. As to the -poem now printing,[22] I lay no stress on it one way or the other. The -concluding lines are natural. - -I believe, my dear Peacock, that you wish us to come back to England. -How is it possible? Health, competence, tranquillity--all these Italy -permits, and England takes away. I am regarded by all who know or hear -of me, except, I think, on the whole, five individuals, as a rare -prodigy of crime and pollution, whose look even might infect. This is a -large computation, and I don’t think I could mention more than three. -Such is the spirit of the English abroad as well as at home. - -Few compensate, indeed, for all the rest, and if I were _alone_ I -should laugh; or if I were rich enough to do all things, which I shall -never be. Pity me for my absence from those social enjoyments which -England might afford me, and which I know so well how to appreciate. -Still, I shall return some fine morning, out of pure weakness of heart. - - My dear Peacock, most faithfully yours, - P. B. Shelley. - -[22] Rosalind and Helen. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE - - (LEGHORN). - - _Rome, April 6th, 1819._ - - My dear Friends, - -A combination of circumstances, which Mary will explain to you, leads -us back to Naples in June, or rather the end of May, where we shall -remain until the ensuing winter. We shall take a house at Portici, or -Castel a Mare, until late in the autumn. - -The object of this letter is to ask you to spend this period with us. -There is no society which we have regretted or desired so much as -yours, and in our solitude the benefit of your concession would be -greater than I can express. What is a sail to Naples? It is the season -of tranquil weather and prosperous winds. If I knew the magic that lay -in any given form of words, I would employ them to persuade; but I fear -that all I can say is, as you know with truth, we desire that you would -come--we wish to see you. You came to see Mary at Lucca, directly I had -departed to Venice. It is not our custom, when we can help it, any more -than it is yours, to divide our pleasures. - -What shall I say to entice you? We shall have a piano, and some books, -and--little else, beside ourselves. But what will be most inviting to -you, you will give much, though you may receive but little pleasure. - -But whilst I write this with more desire than hope, yet some of that, -perhaps the project may fall into your designs. It is intolerable -to think of your being buried at Livorno. The success assured by Mr. -Reveley’s talents requires another scene. You may have decided to take -this summer to consider--and why not with us at Naples, rather than at -Livorno? - -I could address, with respect to Naples, the words of Polypheme in -Theocritus, to all the friends I wish to see, and you especially: - - Ἐξένθοις, Γαλάτεια, καὶ ἐξενθοῖσα λάθοιο, - Ὥσπερ ἐγὼ νῦν ᾧδε καθήμενος, οἴκαδ’ ἀπενθεῖν. - - Most sincerely yours, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO THOMAS LOVE PEACOCK. - - _Livorno, July, 1819._ - - My dear Peacock, - -We still remain, and shall remain nearly two months longer, at Livorno. -Our house is a melancholy one,[23] and only cheered by letters from -England. I got your note, in which you speak of three letters having -been sent to Naples, which I have written for. I have heard also from -H----, who confirms the news of your success, an intelligence most -grateful to me. - -The object of the present letter is to ask a favour of you. I have -written a tragedy, on the subject of a story well known in Italy, and, -in my conception, eminently dramatic.[24] I have taken some pains to -make my play fit for representation, and those who have already seen -it judge favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings -and opinions which characterise my other compositions; I having -attended simply to the impartial development of such characters, as -it is probable the persons represented really were, together with the -greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a development. -I send you a translation of the Italian manuscript on which my play is -founded, the chief subject of which I have touched very delicately; for -my principal doubt, as to whether it would succeed as an acting play, -hangs entirely on the question, as to whether such a thing as incest in -this shape, however treated, would be admitted on the stage. I think, -however, it will form no objection; considering, first, that the facts -are matter of history; and, secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which -I have treated it. - -I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt -of mine will succeed or no. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative -at present, founding my hopes on this, that, as a composition, it is -certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been acted, -with the exception of “Remorse;”[25] that the interest of its plot is -incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond -what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand, -either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a complete -incognito, and can trust to you, that whatever else you do, you will, -at least, favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential, deeply -essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and successfully, -(could I hope such a thing,) I would own it if I pleased, and use the -celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes. - -What I want you to do is, to procure for me its presentation at Covent -Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for -Miss O’Neil, and it might even seem written for her, (God forbid that -I should ever see her play it--it would tear my nerves to pieces,) -and, in all respects, it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The chief -male character, I confess, I should be very unwilling that any one but -Kean should play--that is impossible, and I must be contented with an -inferior actor. I think you know some of the people of that theatre, -or, at least, some one who knows them, and when you have read the play, -you may say enough perhaps to induce them not to reject it without -consideration--but of this, perhaps, if I may judge from the tragedies -which they have accepted, there is no danger at any rate. - -Write to me as soon as you can on this subject, because it is necessary -that I should present it, or, if rejected by the theatre, print it this -coming season; lest somebody else should get hold of it, as the story, -which now exists only in manuscript, begins to be generally known -among the English. The translation which I send you, is to be prefixed -to the play, together with a print of Beatrice. I have a copy of her -picture by Guido, now in the Colonna palace at Rome--the most beautiful -creature you can conceive. - -Of course, you will not show the manuscript to any one--and write to me -by return of post, at which time the play will be ready to be sent. - - * * * * * - -I expect soon to write again, and it shall be a less selfish letter. As -to Ollier, I don’t know what has been published, or what has arrived at -his hands.--My “Prometheus,” though ready, I do not send till I know -more. - - Ever yours, most faithfully, - P. B. S. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[23] We had lost our eldest, and, at that time, only child, the -preceding month at Rome.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - -[24] This refers of course (as the sequel shows still more fully) to -_The Cenci_.--Ed. - -[25] Coleridge’s tragedy of _Remorse_, performed at Drury Lane in -1813.--Ed. - - - TO LEIGH HUNT.[26] - - _Livorno, Sept. 27th, 1819._ - - My dear Friend, - -We are now on the point of leaving this place for Florence, where we -have taken pleasant apartments for six months, which brings us to the -first of April, the season at which new flowers and new thoughts spring -forth upon the earth and in the mind. What is then our destination -is yet undecided. I have not yet seen Florence, except as one sees -the outside of the streets; but its _physiognomy_ indicates it to be -a city, which, though the ghost of a republic, yet possesses most -amiable qualities. I wish you could meet us there in the spring, and -we would try to muster up a “lièta brigata,” which, leaving behind -them the pestilence of remembered misfortunes, might act over again -the pleasures of the Interlocutors in Boccaccio. I have been lately -reading this most divine writer. He is, in a high sense of the word, -a poet, and his language has the rhythm and harmony of verse. I think -him not equal certainly to Dante or Petrarch, but far superior to Tasso -and Ariosto, the children of a later and of a colder day. I consider -the three first as the productions of the vigour of the infancy of a -new nation--as rivulets from the same spring as that which fed the -greatness of the republics of Florence and Pisa, and which checked the -influence of the German emperors; and from which, through obscurer -channels, Raffaelle and Michael Angelo drew the light and the harmony -of their inspiration. When the second-rate poets of Italy wrote, the -corrupting blight of tyranny was already hanging on every bud of -genius. Energy, and simplicity, and unity of idea, were no more. In -vain do we seek, in the finest passages of Ariosto and Tasso, any -expression which at all approaches in this respect to those of Dante -and Petrarch. How much do I admire Boccaccio! What descriptions of -nature are those in his little introductions to every new day! It is -the morning of life stripped of that mist of familiarity which makes -it obscure to us. Boccaccio seems to me to have possessed a deep sense -of the fair ideal of human life, considered in its social relations. -His more serious theories of love agree especially with mine. He often -expresses things lightly too, which have serious meanings of a very -beautiful kind. He is a moral casuist, the opposite of the Christian, -stoical, ready-made, and worldly system of morals. Do you remember one -little remark, or rather maxim of his, which might do some good to the -common narrow-minded conceptions of love,--“Bocca bacciata non perde -ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna”? - -We expect Mary to be confined towards the end of October. The birth -of a child will probably retrieve her from some part of her present -melancholy depression. - -It would give me much pleasure to know Mr. Lloyd. Do you know, when I -was in Cumberland, I got Southey to borrow a copy of Berkeley from him, -and I remember observing some pencil notes in it, probably written by -Lloyd, which I thought particularly acute. One, especially, struck me -as being the assertion of a doctrine, of which even then I had long -been persuaded, and on which I had founded much of my persuasions, as -regarded the imagined cause of the universe--“Mind cannot create, it -can only perceive.” Ask him if he remembers having written it. Of Lamb -you know my opinion, and you can bear witness to the regret which I -felt, when I learned that the calumny of an enemy had deprived me of -his society whilst in England.--Ollier told me that the Quarterly are -going to review me. I suppose it will be a pretty ----,[27] -and as I am acquiring a taste for humour and drollery, I confess I am -curious to see it. I have sent my “Prometheus Unbound” to P.; if you -ask him for it he will show it you. I think it will please you. - -Whilst I went to Florence, Mary wrote, but I did not see her -letter.--Well, good b’ye. Next Monday I shall write to you from -Florence. Love to all. - -Most affectionately your friend, P. B. S. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[26] Only a mutilated fragment of this letter was published by Leigh -Hunt: it is accordingly given here as printed for the first time in its -entirety by Mrs. Shelley.--Ed. - -[27] The word here left blank was either illegible in the manuscript; -or, what is more probable, Mrs. Shelley, for whatever reason, -designedly withheld it.--Ed. - - - TO MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Florence_, [_October 13th or 14th, 1819_.] - - My dear Friend, - -The regret we feel at our absence from you persuades me that it is a -state which cannot last, and which, so long as it must last, will be -interrupted by some intervals, one of which is destined to be, your -all coming to visit us here. Poor Oscar! I feel a kind of remorse to -think of the unequal love with which two animated beings regard each -other, when I experience no such sensations for him, as those which he -manifested for us. His importunate regret is, however, a type of ours, -as regards you. Our memory--if you will accept so humble a metaphor--is -for ever scratching at the door of your absence. - -About Henry and the steam-engine[28] I am in torture until this -money comes from London, though I am sure that it will and must come; -unless, indeed, my banker has broke, and then it will be my loss, -not Henry’s--a little delay will mend the matter. I would then write -instantly to London an effectual letter, and by return of post all -would be set right--it would then be a thing easily set straight--but -if it were not, you know me too well not to know that there is no -personal suffering or degradation, or toil, or anything that can be -named, with which I do not feel myself bound to support this enterprise -of Henry. But all this rhodomontade only shows how correct Mr. Bielby’s -advice was about the discipline necessary for my imagination. No doubt -that all will go on with mercantile and common-place exactness, and -that you will be spared the suffering, and I the virtue, incident to -some untoward event. - -I am anxious to hear of Mr. Gisborne’s return, and I anticipate the -surprise and pleasure with which he will learn that a resolution has -been taken which leaves you nothing to regret in that event. It is -with unspeakable satisfaction that I reflect that my entreaties and -persuasions overcame your scruples on this point, and that whatever -advantage shall accrue from it will belong to you, whilst any reproach -due to the imprudence of such an enterprise, must rest on me. I shall -thus share the pleasure of success, and bear the blame and loss, (if -such a thing were possible,) of a reverse; and what more can a man, who -is a friend to another, desire for himself? Let us believe in a kind of -optimism, in which we are our own gods. It is best that Mr. Gisborne -should have returned; it is best that I should have over-persuaded -you and Henry; it is best that you should all live together, without -any more solitary attempts; it is best that this one attempt should -have been made, otherwise, perhaps, one thing which is best might -not have occurred; and it is best that we should think all this for -the best, even though it is not; because Hope, as Coleridge says, is -a solemn duty, which we owe alike to ourselves and to the world--a -worship to the spirit of good within, which requires, before it sends -that inspiration forth, which impresses its likeness upon all that it -creates, devoted and disinterested homage. - -A different scene is this from that in which you made the chief -character of our changing drama. We see no one, as usual. Madame M---- -is quiet, and we only meet her now and then, by chance. Her daughter, -not so fair, but I fear as cold, as the snowy Florimel in Spenser, is -in and out of love with C---- as the winds happen to blow; and C----, -who, at the moment I happen to write, is in a high state of transitory -contentment, is setting off to Vienna in a day or two. - -My £100, from what mistake remains to be explained, has not yet -arrived, and the banker here is going to advance me £50, on my bill at -three months--all additional facilitation, should any such be needed, -for the steam-boat. I have yet seen little of Florence. The gallery I -have a design of studying piece-meal; one of my chief objects in Italy -being the observing in statuary and painting, the degree in which, and -the rules according to which, that ideal beauty, of which we have so -intense yet so obscure an apprehension, is realised in external forms. - -Adieu--I am anxious for Henry’s first letter. Give to him, and take to -yourself those sentiments, whatever they may be, with which you know -that I cannot cease to regard you. - -Most faithfully and affectionately yours, P. B. S. - -I had forgotten to say that I should be very much obliged to you, if -you would contrive to send the Cencis, which are at the printer’s, to -England, by the next ship. I forgot it in the hurry of departure.--I -have just heard from Peacock, saying, that he don’t think that my -tragedy will do, and that he don’t much like it. But I ought to say, to -blunt the edge of his criticism, that he is a nursling of the exact and -superficial school in poetry. - -If Mr. G. is returned, send the “Prometheus” with them. - -[28] Shelley set on foot the building of a steam-boat, to ply between -Marseilles, Genoa, and Leghorn. Such an enterprise promised fortune -to his friend who undertook to build it, and the anticipation filled -him with delight. An unforeseen complication of circumstances caused -the design to be abandoned, when already far advanced towards -completion.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - -An extract from a letter of Mrs. Gisborne to Mrs. Shelley is perhaps -necessary to explain further some portion of Shelley’s letter:-- - -“Now, I will tell you the news of the steam-boat. The contract was -drawn and signed the day after your departure; the vessel to be -complete, and launched, fit in every respect for the sea, excepting -the finishing of the cabin, for 260 sequins. We have every reason -to believe that the work will be well executed, and that it is an -excellent bargain. Henry and Frankfort go on not only with vigour, but -with fury; the lower part of the house is filled with models prepared -for casting, forging, &c. We have procured the wood for the frame from -the shipbuilder on credit, so that Frankfort can go on with his work; -but I am sorry to say, that from this time the general progress of -the work will be retarded for want of cash. The boilers might now be -going on contemporaneously with the casting, but I know that at present -there is no remedy for this evil. Every person concerned is making -exertions, and is in a state of anxiety to see the quick result of this -undertaking. I have advanced about 140 crowns, but prudence prohibits -me from going any farther. - -“Henry will write to Mr. Shelley when the works are in a greater state -of forwardness: in the mean time, he sends his best love to his good -friends, patron and patroness.” - - - TO HENRY REVELEY. - - _Florence, Oct. 28, 1819._ - - My dear Henry, - -So it seems _I_ am to begin the correspondence, though I have more to -ask than to tell. - -You know our bargain; you are to write me _uncorrected_ letters, -just as the words come, so let me have them--I like coin from the -mint--though it may be a little rough at the edges;--clipping is penal -according to our statute. - -In the first place listen to a reproach; you ought to have sent me an -acknowledgment of my last billet. I am very happy to hear from Mr. -Gisborne, and he knows well enough how to interest me himself, not to -need to rob me of an occasion of hearing from you. Let you and I try if -we cannot be as punctual and business-like as the best of them. But no -clipping and coining, if you please. - -Now take this that I say in a light just so serious as not to give -you pain. In fact, my dear fellow, my motive in soliciting your -correspondence, and that flowing from your own mind, and clothed in -your own words, is, that you may begin to accustom to discipline -yourself in the only practice of life in which you appear deficient. -You know that you are writing to a person persuaded of all the -confidence and respect due to your powers in those branches of science -to which you have addicted yourself; and you will not permit a false -shame with regard to the mere mechanical arrangement of words to -over-balance the advantage arising from the free communication of -ideas. Thus you will become day by day more skilful in the management -of that instrument of their communication, on which the attainment of a -person’s just rank in society depends. Do not think me arrogant. There -are subjects of the highest importance in which you are far better -qualified to instruct me, than I am qualified to instruct you on this -subject. - -Well, how goes on all? The boilers, the keel of the boat, and the -cylinder, and all the other elements of that soul which is to guide -our “monstruo de fuego y agua” over the sea? Let me hear news of their -birth, and how they thrive after they are born. And is the money -arrived at Mr. Webb’s? Send me an account of the number of crowns you -realise; as I think we had better, since it is a transaction in this -country, keep our accounts in money of this country. - -We have rains enough to set the mills going, which are essential to -your great iron bar. I suppose it is at present either made or making. - -My health is better so long as the scirocco blows, and, but for my -daily expectation of Mary’s confinement, I should have been half -tempted to have come to see you. As it is, I shall wait till the boat -is finished. On the subject of your actual and your expected progress, -you will certainly allow me to hear from you. - -Give my kindest regards to your mother and Mr. Gisborne--tell the -latter, whose billet I have neglected to answer, that I did so, under -the idea of addressing him in a post or two on a subject which gives -me considerable anxiety about you all. I mean the continuance of your -property in the British funds at this crisis of approaching revolution. -It is the business of a friend to say what he thinks without fear of -giving offence; and, if I were not a friend, argument is worth its -market-price anywhere. - - Believe me, my dear Henry, - Your very faithful friend, - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Oct. 28, 1819._ - - My dear Friends, - -I receive this morning the strange and unexpected news, that my bill of -£200 has been returned to Mr. Webb protested. Ultimately this can be -nothing but delay, as I have only drawn from my banker’s hands so much -as to leave them still in possession of £80, and this I positively -know, and can prove by documents. By return of post, for I have not -only written to my banker, but to private friends, no doubt Henry will -be enabled to proceed. Let him meanwhile do all that can be done. - -Meanwhile, to save time, could not money be obtained temporarily, at -Livorno, from Mr. W----, or Mr. G----, or any of your acquaintance, on -my bills at three or six months, indorsed by Mr. Gisborne and Henry, so -that he may go on with his work? If a month is of consequence, think of -this. - -Be of good cheer, Madonna mia, all will go well. The inclosed is for -Henry, and was written before this news, as he will see; but it does -not, strange as it is, abate one atom of my cheer. - -Accept, dear Mr. G., my best regards. - - Yours faithfully, - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Nov. 6, 1819._ - - My dear Friends, - -I have just finished a letter of five sheets on Carlile’s affair,[29] -and am in hourly expectation of Mary’s confinement, you will imagine an -excuse for my silence. - -I forbear to address you, as I had designed, on the subject of your -income as a public creditor of the English government, as it seems -you have not the exclusive management of your funds; and the peculiar -circumstances of the delusion are such that none but a very few persons -will ever be brought to see its instability but by the experience of -loss. If I were to convince you, Henry would probably be unable to -convince his uncle. In vindication, however, of what I have already -said, allow me to turn your attention to England at this _hour_. - -In order to meet the national expenses, or rather that some approach -towards meeting them might seem to be made, a tax of £3,000,000 was -imposed. The first consequence of this has been a _defalcation_ in -the revenue at the rate of £3,600,000 a-year. Were the country in the -most tranquil and prosperous state, the minister, in such a condition -of affairs, must reduce the interest of the national debt, or add to -it; a process which would only insure the greater ultimate reduction -of the interest. But the people are nearly in a state of insurrection, -and the least unpopular noblemen perceive the necessity of conducting -a spirit, which it is no longer possible to oppose. For submitting to -this necessity--which, be assured, the haughty aristocrats unwillingly -did--Lord Fitzwilliam has been degraded from his situation of Lord -Lieutenant. An additional army of 11,500 men has received orders to be -organised. Everything is preparing for a bloody struggle, in which, if -the ministers succeed, they will assuredly diminish the interest of the -national debt, for no combination of the heaviest tyranny can raise the -taxes for its payment. If the people conquer, the public creditor will -equally suffer; for it is monstrous to imagine that they will submit to -the perpetual inheritance of a double aristocracy. They will perhaps -find some crown and church lands, and appropriate the tithes to make a -kind of compensation to the public creditor. They will confiscate the -estates of their political enemies. But all this will not pay a tenth -part of their debt. The existing government, atrocious as it is, is -the surest party to which a public creditor may attach himself. He may -reason that _it may last my time_, though in the event the ruin is more -complete than in the case of a popular revolution. I know you too well -to believe you capable of arguing in this manner; I only reason on how -things stand. - -Your income may be reduced from £210 to £150, and then £100, and then -by the issue of immense quantities of paper to save the immediate cause -of one of the conflicting parties, to any value however small; or the -source of it may be cut off at once. The ministers had, I doubt not, -long since determined to establish an arbitrary government; and if -they had not determined so, they have now entangled themselves in that -consequence of their instinct as rulers, and if they recede they must -perish. They are, however, not receding, and we are on the eve of great -actions. - -Kindest regards to Henry. I hope he is not stopped for want of money, -as I shall assuredly send him what he wants in a month from the date of -my last letter. I received his letter from Pistoia, and have no other -criticism to make on it, except the severest--that it is too short. How -goes on Portuguese--and Theocritus? I have deserted the odorous gardens -of literature, to journey across the great sandy desert of politics; -not, as you may imagine, without the hope of finding some enchanted -paradise. In all probability, I shall be overwhelmed by one of the -tempestuous columns which are forever traversing, with the speed of -a storm, and the confusion of a chaos, that pathless wilderness. You -meanwhile will be lamenting in some happy oasis that I do not return. -This is out-Calderonizing Muley. We have had lightning and rain here -in plenty. I like the Cascini very much, where I often walk alone, -watching the leaves, and the rising and falling of the Arno. I am full -of all kinds of literary plans. - - Meanwhile, all yours most faithfully, - P. B. S. - -[29] A letter (to Leigh Hunt) on the Trial of Richard Carlile for -publishing Paine’s _Age of Reason_, intended for insertion in the -_Examiner_.--Ed. - - - TO MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Nov. 16, 1819._ - - Madonna, - -I have been lately voyaging in a sea without my pilot, and although -my sail has often been torn, my boat become leaky, and the log lost, -I have yet sailed in a kind of way from island to island; some of -craggy and mountainous magnificence, some clothed with moss and -flowers, and radiant with fountains, some barren deserts. _I have been -reading Calderon without you._ I have read the “Cisma de Ingalaterra,” -the “Cabellos de Absolom,” and three or four others. These pieces, -inferior to those we read, at least to the “Principe Constante,” -in the splendour of particular passages, are perhaps superior in -their satisfying completeness. The “Cabellos de Absolom” is full of -the deepest and tenderest touches of nature. Nothing can be more -pathetically conceived than the character of old David, and the tender -and impartial love, overcoming all insults and all crimes, with which -he regards his conflicting and disobedient sons. The incest scene of -Amon and Tamar is perfectly tremendous. Well may Calderon say in the -person of the former-- - - Si sangre sin fuego hiere, - que fara sangre con fuego? - -Incest is, like many other incorrect things, a very poetical -circumstance. It may be the excess of love or hate. It may be the -defiance of everything for the sake of another, which clothes itself in -the glory of the highest heroism, or it may be that cynical rage which, -confounding the good and the bad in existing opinions, breaks through -them for the purpose of rioting in selfishness and antipathy. Calderon, -following the Jewish historians, has represented Amon’s action in -the basest point of view--he is a prejudiced savage, acting what he -abhors, and abhorring that which is the unwilling party to his crime. - -Adieu, Madonna, yours truly, P. B. S. - -I transcribe you a passage from the Cisma de Ingalaterra--spoken by -“Carlos, Embaxador de Francia, enamorado de Ana Bolena.” Is there -anything in Petrarch finer than the second stanza? - - Porque apenas el Sol se coronaba - de nueva luz en la estacion primeva, - quando yo en sus umbrales adoraba - segundo Sol en abreviada esfera; - la noche apenas tremula baxaba, - à solos mis deseos lisonjera, - quando un jardin, republica de flores, - era tercero fiel de mis amores. - - Alli, el silencio de la noche fria, - el jazmin, que en las redes se enlazava. - el cristal de la fuente que corria, - el arroyo que à solas murmurava, - El viento que en las hojas se movia, - el Aura que en las flores respirava; - todo era amor’; què mucho, si en tal calma - aves, fuentes, y flores tienen alma! - - No has visto providente y oficiosa, - mover el ayre iluminada aveja, - que hasta beber la purpura a la rosa - ya se acerca cobarde, y ya se alexa? - No has visto enamorada mariposa, - dar cercos a la luz, hasta que dexa, - en monumento facil abrasadas - las alas de color tornasoladas? - - Assi mi amor, cobarde muchos dias, - tornos hizo a la rosa y a la llama; - temor che ha sido entre cenizas frias, - tantas vezes llorado de quien ama; - pero el amor, que vence con porfias, - y la ocasion, que con disculpas llama, - me animaron, y aveja y mariposa - quemè las alas, y lleguè a la rosa. - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Nov. 16, 1819._ - - My dear Sir, - -I envy you the first reading of Theocritus. Were not the Greeks a -glorious people? What is there, as Job says of the Leviathan, like -unto them? If the army of Nicias had not been defeated under the walls -of Syracuse; if the Athenians had, acquiring Sicily, held the balance -between Rome and Carthage, sent garrisons to the Greek colonies in -the south of Italy, Rome might have been all that its intellectual -condition entitled it to be, a tributary, not the conqueror of Greece; -the Macedonian power would never have attained to the dictatorship of -the civilized states of the world. Who knows whether, under the steady -progress which philosophy and social institutions would have made, -(for, in the age to which I refer, their progress was both rapid and -secure,) among a people of the most perfect physical organization, -whether the Christian religion would have arisen, or the barbarians -have overwhelmed the wrecks of civilization which had survived the -conquest and tyranny of the Romans? What, then, should we have been? -As it is, all of us who are worth anything, spend our manhood in -unlearning the follies, or expiating the mistakes of our youth. We are -stuffed full of prejudices; and our natural passions are so managed, -that if we restrain them we grow intolerant and precise, because we -restrain them not according to reason, but according to error; and if -we do not restrain them, we do all sorts of mischief to ourselves and -others. Our imagination and understanding are alike subjected to rules -the most absurd;--so much for Theocritus and the Greeks.[30] - -In spite of all your arguments, I wish your money were out of the -funds. This middle course which you speak of, and which may probably -have place, will amount to your losing not all your income, nor -retaining all, but have the half taken away. I feel intimately -persuaded, whatever political forms may have place in England, that -no party can continue many years, perhaps not many months, in the -administration, without diminishing the interest of the national -debt.--And once having commenced--and having done so safely--where will -it end? - -Give Henry my kindest thanks for his most interesting letter, and bid -him expect one from me by the next post. - -Mary and the babe continue well.--Last night we had a magnificent -thunder-storm, with claps that shook the house like an earthquake. Both -Mary and C---- unite with me in kindest remembrances to all. - - Most faithfully yours obliged, - P. B. S. - -[30] “I subjoin here,” says Mrs. Shelley, “a fragment of a letter, I -know not to whom addressed:-- - -“It is probable that you will be earnest to employ the sacred -talisman of language. To acquire these you are now necessitated to -sacrifice many hours of the time, when, instead of being conversant -with particles and verbs, your nature incites you to contemplation -and inquiry concerning the objects which they conceal. You desire -to enjoy the beauties of eloquence and poetry--to sympathise in the -original language with the institutors and martyrs of ancient freedom. -The generous and inspiriting examples of philosophy and virtue you -desire intimately to know and feel; not as mere facts detailing names, -and dates, and motions of the human body, but clothed in the very -language of the actors,--that language dictated by and expressive of -the passions and principles that governed their conduct. Facts are not -what we want to know in poetry, in history, in the lives of individual -men, in satire, or in panegyric. They are the mere divisions, the -arbitrary points on which we hang, and to which we refer those delicate -and evanescent hues of mind, which language delights and instructs us -in precise proportion as it expresses. What is a translation of Homer -into English? A person who is ignorant of Greek need only look at -Paradise Lost or the tragedy of Lear translated into French, to obtain -an analogical conception of its worthless and miserable inadequacy. -Tacitus, or Livius, or Herodotus, are equally undelightful and -uninstructive in translation. You require to know and to be intimate -with those persons who have acted a distinguished part to benefit, -to enlighten, or even to pervert and injure humankind. Before you -can do this, four years are yet to be consumed in the discipline of -the ancient languages, and those of modern Europe, which you only -imperfectly know, and which conceal from your intimacy such names -as Ariosto, Tasso, Petrarch, and Macchiavelli; or Goethe, Schiller, -Wieland, &c. The French language you, like every other respectable -woman, already know; and if the great name of Rousseau did not redeem -it, it would have been perhaps as well that you had remained entirely -ignorant of it.” - - - TO HENRY REVELEY. - - _Florence, Nov. 17th, 1819._ - - My dear Henry, - -I was exceedingly interested by your letter, and I cannot but thank -you for overcoming the inaptitude of a long disuse at my request, for -my pleasure. It is a great thing done, the successful casting of the -cylinder--may it be a happy auspice for what is to follow! I hope, in a -few posts, to remit the necessary money for the completion. Meanwhile, -are not those portions of the work which can be done without expense, -saving time in their progress? Do you think you lose much money or time -by this delay? - -All that you say of the alteration in the form of the boat strikes me, -though one of the multitude in this respect, as improvement. I long -to get aboard her, and be an unworthy partaker in the glory of the -astonishment of the Livornese, when she returns from her cruise round -Melloria. When do you think she will be fit for sea? - -Your volcanic description of the birth of the cylinder is very -characteristic of you, and of it.[31] One might imagine God, when he -made the earth, and saw the granite mountains and flinty promontories -flow into their craggy forms, and the splendour of their fusion filling -millions of miles of the void space, like the tail of a comet, so -looking, so delighting in his work. God sees his machine spinning round -the sun, and delights in its success, and has taken out patents to -supply all the suns in space with the same manufacture. Your boat will -be to the ocean of water, what this earth is to the ocean of ether--a -prosperous and swift voyager. - -When shall we see you all? _You_ not, I suppose, till your boat is -ready to sail--and then, if not before, I must, of course, come to -Livorno. Our plans for the winter are yet scarcely defined; they -tend towards our spending February and March at Pisa, where our -communications will not be so distant, nor so epistolary. C---- left -us a week ago, not without many lamentations, as all true lovers -pay on such occasions. He is to write me an account of the Trieste -steam-boat, which I will transmit to you. - -Mrs. Shelley and Miss C---- return you their kindest salutations, with -interest. - - Most affectionately yours, - P. B. S. - -[31] The passage in Mr. Reveley’s letter referred to by Shelley was as -follows:-- - -“_Friday, 12th Nov._ - -“The event is now past--both the steam cylinder and air-pump were cast -at three o’clock this afternoon. At two o’clock this morning I repaired -to the mill to see that the preliminary operations, upon which the -ultimate success of a _fount_ greatly depends, were conducted with -proper attention. The moulds are buried in a pit, made close, before -the mouth of the furnace, so that the melted metal, when the plug is -driven in, may run easily into them, and fill up the vacant space left -between the core and the shell, in order to form the desired cylinders. -The fire was lighted in the furnace at nine, and in three hours the -metal was fused. At three o’clock it was ready to cast, the fusion -being remarkably rapid, owing to the perfection of the furnace. The -metal was also heated to an extreme degree, boiling with fury, and -seeming to dance with the pleasure of running into its proper form. -The plug was struck, and a massy stream of a bluish dazzling whiteness -filled the moulds in the twinkling of a shooting star. The castings -will not be cool enough to be drawn up till to-morrow afternoon; but, -to judge from all appearances, I expect them to be perfect. - -“_Saturday, 13th Nov._ - -“They have been excavated and drawn up. I have examined them and found -them really perfect; they are massive and strong to bear any usage and -sea-water, in _sæcula sæculorum_ I am now going on gently with the -brass-work, which does not require any immediate expenses, and which I -attend to entirely myself. I have no workmen about me at present.” - - - TO HENRY REVELEY. - - _Florence, 18th Dec., 1819._ - - My dear Henry, - -You see, as I said, it only amounts to delay, all this abominable -entanglement. I send you 484 dollars, or ordinary francesconi, I -suppose, but you will tell me what you receive in Tuscan money, if they -are not--the produce of £100. So my heart is a little lightened, which, -I assure you, was heavy enough until this moment, on your account. I -write to Messrs. Ward to pay you. - -I have received no satisfactory letter from my bankers, but I must -expect it every week--or, at least, in a month from this date, when I -will not fail to transmit you the remainder of what may be necessary. - -Every body here is talking of a steam-ship which is building at -Leghorn; one person said, as if he knew the whole affair, that he was -waiting in Tuscany to take his departure to Naples in it. Your name -has not, to my knowledge, been mentioned. I think you would do well to -encourage this publicity. - -I have better health than I have known for a long time--ready for -any stormy cruise. When will the ship be ready to sail? We have been -feeding ourselves with the hope that Mr. Gisborne and your mother would -have paid us their promised visit. I did not even hope, perhaps not -even wish, that you should, until the engine is finished. My regret -at this failure has several times impelled me to go to Leghorn--but -I have always resisted the temptation. Ask them, entreat them, from -me, to appoint some early day. We have a bed and room, and every thing -prepared. - -I write in great haste, as you may see. Ever believe me, my dear Henry, -your attached friend, - - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Dec. 23d, 1819._ - - My dear Friends, - -I suffered more pain than it would be manly to confess, or than you -can easily conceive, from that wretched uncertainty about the money. -At last, however, it is certain that you will encounter no further -check in the receiving supplies, and a weight is taken from my spirits, -which, in spite of many other causes of discomfort, makes itself known -to have been a heavy load, by the lightness which I now feel in writing -to you. - -So the steam-boat will take three months to finish? The vernal equinox -will be over by that time, and the early wakening of the year have -paved the Mediterranean with calm. Among other circumstances to regret -in this delay, it is so far well that our first cruise will be made in -serene weather. - -I send you enclosed a mandate for 396 francesconi, which is what M. -Torlonia incorrectly designates a hundred pounds--but as we count in -the money of the country, that need make no difference to us. - -I have just finished an additional act to “Prometheus,” which Mary -is now transcribing, and which will be enclosed for your inspection -before it is transmitted to the bookseller. I am engaged in a political -work--I am busy enough, and if the faculties of my mind were not -imprisoned within a mind, whose bars are daily cares and vulgar -difficulties, I might yet do something--but as it is-- - -Mary is well--but for this affair in London I think her spirits would -be good. What shall I--what can I--what ought I to do? You cannot -picture to yourself my perplexity. - -Adieu, my dear friends. - - Ever yours, faithfully attached, - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE. - - _Florence, Jan. 25th, 1820._ - - My dear Sir, - -We have suddenly taken the determination to avail ourselves of this -lovely weather to approach you as far as Pisa. I need not assure -you--unless my malady should violently return--you will see me at -Leghorn. - -We _embark_; and I promise myself the delight of the sky, the water, -and the mountains. I must suffer at any rate, but I expect to suffer -less in a boat than in a carriage. I have many things to say, which let -me reserve till we meet. - -I sympathise in all your good news, as I have done in your ill. Let -Henry take care of himself, and not, desiring to combine too many -advantages, check the progress of his recovery, the greatest of all. - -Remember me affectionately to him and to Mrs. Gisborne, and accept for -yourself my unalterable sentiments of regard. Meanwhile, _consider well -your plans_, which I only half understand. - - Ever most faithfully yours, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Pisa, Feb. 9th, 1820._ - -Pray let us see you soon, or our threat may cost both us and you -something--a visit to Livorno. The stage direction on the present -occasion is, “exit Moonshine and enter Wall;” or rather four walls, who -surround and take prisoners the Galan and Dama. - -Seriously, pray do not disappoint us. We shall watch the sky, and the -death of the Scirocco must be the birth of your arrival. - -Mary and I are going to study mathematics. We design to take the most -compendious, yet certain methods of arriving at the great results. We -believe that your right-angled Triangle will contain the solution of -the problem of how to proceed. - -Do not write but _come_. Mary is too idle to write, but all that she -has to say is _come_. She joins with me in condemning the moonlight -plan. Indeed we ought not to be so selfish as to allow you to come at -all, if it is to cost you all the fatigue and annoyance of returning -the same night. But it will not be--so adieu. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Pisa, April 23, 1820._ - - My dear Friends, - -We were much pained to hear of the illness you all seem to have been -suffering, and still more at the apparent dejection of your last -letter. We are in daily expectation this lovely weather of seeing -you, and I think the change of air and scene might be good for your -health and spirits, even if _we_ cannot enliven you. I shall have some -business at Livorno soon; and I thought of coming to fetch you, but -I have changed my plan, and mean to return with you, that I may save -myself two journeys. - -I have been thinking, and talking, and reading Agriculture this last -week. But I am very anxious to see you, especially now as instead of -six hours, you give us thirty-six, or perhaps more. I shall hear of the -steam-engine, and you will hear of _our_ plans, when we meet, which -will be in so short a time that I neither inquire nor communicate. - - Ever affectionately yours, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - (LONDON). - - _Pisa, May 26th, 1820._ - - My dear Friends, - -I write to you thus early, because I have determined to accept of your -kind offer about the correction of “Prometheus.” The bookseller makes -difficulties about sending the proofs to me, and to whom else can I -so well entrust what I am so much interested in having done well; -and to whom would I prefer to owe the recollection of an additional -kindness done to me? I enclose you two little papers of corrections -and additions;--I do not think you will find any difficulty in -interpolating them into their proper places. - -Well, how do you like London, and your journey; the Alps in their -beauty and their eternity; Paris in its slight and transitory colours; -and the wearisome plains of France--and the _moral_ people with -whom you drank tea last night? Above all, _how_ are you? And of the -last question, believe me, we are now most anxiously waiting for a -reply--until which I will say nothing, nor ask anything. I rely on the -journal with as much security as if it were already written. - -I am just returned from a visit to Leghorn, Casciano, and your old -fortress at Sant’ Elmo. I bought the vases you saw for about twenty -sequins less than Micale asked, and had them packed up, and, by the -polite assistance of your friend, Mr. Guebhard, sent them on board. I -found your Giuseppe very useful in all this business. He got me tea -and breakfast, and I slept in your house, and departed early the next -morning for Casciano. Everything seems in excellent order at Casa -Ricci--garden, pigeons, tables, chairs, and beds. As I did not find -my bed sealed up, I left it as I found it. What a glorious prospect -you had from the windows of Sant’ Elmo! The enormous chain of the -Apennines, with its many-folded ridges, islanded in the misty distance -of the air; the sea, so immensely distant, appearing as at your feet; -and the prodigious expanse of the plain of Pisa, and the dark green -marshes lessened almost to a strip by the height of the blue mountains -overhanging them. Then the wild and unreclaimed fertility of the -foreground, and the chesnut trees, whose vivid foliage made a sort -of resting-place to the sense before it darted itself to the jagged -horizon of this prospect. I was altogether delighted. I had a respite -from my nervous symptoms, which was compensated to me by a violent cold -in the head. There was a tradition about you at Sant’ Elmo--_An English -family that had lived here in the time of the French_. The doctor, too, -at the Bagni, knew you. The house is in a most dilapidated condition, -but I suppose all that is curable. - -We go to the Bagni next month--but still direct to Pisa as safest. I -shall write to you the _ultimates_ of my commission in my next letter. -I am undergoing a course of the Pisan baths, on which I lay no singular -stress--but they soothe. I ought to have peace of mind, leisure, -tranquillity; this I expect soon. Our anxiety about Godwin is very -great, and any information that you could give a day or two earlier -than he might, respecting any decisive event in his law-suit, would be -a great relief. Your impressions about Godwin (I speak especially to -Madonna mia, who had known him before,) will especially interest me. -You know that added years only add to my admiration of his intellectual -powers, and even the moral resources of his character. Of my other -friends I say nothing. To see Hunt is to like him; and there is one -other recommendation which he has to you, he is my friend. To know -H----, if any one can know him, is to know something very unlike, and -inexpressibly superior, to the great mass of men. - -Will Henry write me an adamantine letter, flowing, not like the words -of Sophocles, with honey, but molten brass and iron, and bristling with -wheels and teeth? I saw his steam-boat asleep under the walls. I was -afraid to waken it, and ask it whether it was dreaming of him, for the -same reason that I would have refrained from awakening Ariadne, after -Theseus had left her--unless I had been Bacchus. - - Affectionately and anxiously yours, - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE - - (LONDON). - - My dear Friends, - -I am to a certain degree indifferent as to the reply to our last -proposal, and, therefore, will not allude to it. Permit me only on -subjects of this nature to express one sentiment, which you would have -given me credit for, even if not expressed. Let no considerations of -_my_ interest, or any retrospect to the source from which the funds -were supplied, modify your decision as to returning and pursuing or -abandoning the adventure of the steam-engine. My object was solely -your true advantage, and it is when I am baffled of this, by any -attention to a mere form, that I shall be ill requited. Nay, more, -I think it for your interest, should you obtain almost whatever -situation for Henry, to accept Clementi’s proposal, and remain in -England;--not without accepting it, for it does no more than balance -the difference of expense between Italy and London; and if you have -any trust in the justice of my moral sense, and believe that in what -concerns true honour and virtuous conduct in life, I am an experienced -counsellor, you will not hesitate--these things being equal--to accept -this proposal. The opposition I made, while you were in Italy, to the -abandonment of the steam-boat project, was founded, you well know, on -the motives which have influenced everything that ever has guided, -or ever will guide, anything that I can do or say respecting you. -I thought it against Henry’s interest. I think it now against his -interest that he and you should abandon your prospects in England. As -to us--we are uncertain people, who are chased by the spirits of our -destiny from purpose to purpose, like clouds by the wind. - -There is one thing more to be said. If you decide to remain in England, -assuredly it would be foolish to return. Your journey would cost you -between £100 and £200, a sum far greater than you could expect to save -by the increased price by which you would sell your things. Remit the -matter to me, and I will cast off my habitual character, and attend to -the minutest points. With Mr. G----’s, devil take his name, I can’t -write it--you know who’s, assistance, all this might be accomplished in -such a manner as to save a very considerable sum. Though I shall suffer -from your decision in the proportion as your society is delightful -to me, I cannot forbear expressing my persuasion, that the time, the -expense, and the trouble of returning to Italy, if your ultimate -decision be to settle in London, ought all to be spared. A year, a -month, a week, at Henry’s age, and with his purposes, ought not to -be unemployed. It was the depth with which I felt this truth, which -impelled me to incite him to this adventure of the steam-boat. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (LEGHORN). - - _Casa Silva, Sunday morning, July, 1820._ - - My dear Love, - -I believe I shall have taken a very pleasant and spacious apartment at -the Bagni for three months. It is as all the others are--dear. I shall -give forty or forty-five sequins for the three months, but as yet I do -not know which. I could get others something cheaper, and a great deal -worse; but if we would write, it is requisite to have space. - -To-morrow evening, or the following morning, you will probably see -me. T---- is planning a journey to England to secure his property in -the event of a revolution, which, he is persuaded, is on the eve of -exploding. I neither believe that, nor do I fear that the consequences -will be so immediately destructive to the existing forms of social -order. Money will be delayed, and the exchange reduced very low, -and my annuity and ****, on account of these being _money_, will be -in some danger; but land is quite safe. Besides, it will not be so -rapid. Let us hope we shall have a reform. T---- will be lulled into -security, while the slow progress of things is still flowing on, after -this affair of the Queen may appear to be blown over. There are bad -news from Palermo: the soldiers resisted the people, and a terrible -slaughter, amounting, it is said, to four thousand men, ensued. The -event, however, was as it should be. Sicily, like Naples, is free. By -the brief and partial accounts of the Florence paper, it appears that -the enthusiasm of the people was prodigious, and that the women fought -from the houses, raining down boiling oil on the assailants. - -I am promised a bill on Vienna on the 5th, the day on which my note -will be paid, and the day on which I purpose to leave Leghorn. *** is -very unhappy at the idea of T.’s going to England, though she seems to -feel the necessity of it. Some time or other he must go to settle his -affairs, and they seem to agree that this is the best opportunity. _I_ -have no thought of leaving Italy. The best thing we can do is to save -money, and, if things take a decided turn, (which I am convinced they -will at last, but not perhaps for two or three years,) it will be time -for me to assert my rights, and preserve my annuity. Meanwhile, another -event may decide us. - -Kiss sweet babe, and kiss yourself for me--I love you affectionately. - - P. B. S. - - _Sunday evening._ - -I have taken the house for forty sequins for three months--a good -bargain, and a very good house as things go--this is about thirteen -sequins a month. To-morrow I go to look over the inventory; expect me -therefore on Tuesday morning. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (BAGNI DI SAN GIULIANO). - - _Casa Ricci_ [_Leghorn_], - _Sept. 1st, 1820_. - -I am afraid, my dearest, that I shall not be able to be with you so -soon as to-morrow evening, though I shall use every exertion. Del Rosso -I have not seen, nor shall until this evening. Jackson I have, and he -is to drink tea with us this evening, and bring the _Constitutionnel_. - -You will have seen the papers, but I doubt that they will not contain -the latest and most important news. It is certain, by private letters -from merchants, that a serious insurrection has broken out at Paris, -and the _reports_ last night are, that an attack made by the populace -on the Tuileries still continued when the last accounts came away. At -Naples the constitutional party have declared to the Austrian minister, -that if the Emperor should make war on them, their first action would -be to put to death _all_ the members of the royal family--a necessary -and most just measure, when the forces of the combatants, as well as -the merits of their respective causes, are so unequal. That kings -should be everywhere the hostages for liberty were admirable. - -What will become of the Gisbornes, or of the English, at Paris? How -soon will England itself, and perhaps Italy, be caught by the sacred -fire? And what, to come from the solar system to a grain of sand, -_shall we do_? - -Kiss babe for me, and your own self. I am somewhat better, but my side -still vexes me--a little. - - Your affectionate S. - - - TO THE EDITOR OF THE “QUARTERLY REVIEW.”[32] - - Sir, - -Should you cast your eye on the signature of this letter before -you read the contents, you might imagine that they related to a -slanderous paper which appeared in your Review some time since. I -never notice anonymous attacks. The wretch who wrote it has doubtless -the additional reward of a consciousness of his motives, besides the -thirty guineas a sheet, or whatever it is that you pay him. Of course -you cannot be answerable for all the writings which you edit, and _I_ -certainly bear you no ill-will for having edited the abuse to which I -allude--indeed, I was too much amused by being compared to Pharaoh, not -readily to forgive editor, printer, publisher, stitcher, or any one, -except the despicable writer, connected with something so exquisitely -entertaining. Seriously speaking, I am not in the habit of permitting -myself to be disturbed by what is said or written of me, though, I dare -say, I may be condemned sometimes justly enough. But I feel, in respect -to the writer in question, that “I am there sitting, where he durst not -soar.” - -The case is different with the unfortunate subject of this letter, -the author of Endymion, to whose feelings and situation I entreat you -to allow me to call your attention. I write considerably in the dark; -but if it is Mr. Gifford that I am addressing, I am persuaded that in -an appeal to his humanity and justice, he will acknowledge the _fas -ab hoste doceri_. I am aware that the first duty of a Reviewer is -towards the public, and I am willing to confess that Endymion is a poem -considerably defective, and that, perhaps, it deserved as much censure -as the pages of your Review record against it; but, not to mention -that there is a certain contemptuousness of phraseology from which it -is difficult for a critic to abstain, in the review of Endymion, I -do not think that the writer has given it its due praise. Surely the -poem, with all its faults, is a very remarkable production for a man -of Keats’s age, and the promise of ultimate excellence is such as has -rarely been afforded even by such as have afterwards attained high -literary eminence. Look at book ii. line 833, &c., and book iii. line -113 to 120--read down that page, and then again from line 193. I could -cite many other passages, to convince you that it deserved milder -usage. Why it should have been reviewed at all, excepting for the -purpose of bringing its excellences into notice, I cannot conceive, for -it was very little read, and there was no danger that it should become -a model to the age of that false taste, with which I confess that it is -replenished. - -Poor Keats was thrown into a dreadful state of mind by this review, -which, I am persuaded, was not written with any intention of producing -the effect, to which it has, at least, greatly contributed, of -embittering his existence, and inducing a disease from which there are -now but faint hopes of his recovery. The first effects are described to -me to have resembled insanity, and it was by assiduous watching that -he was restrained from effecting purposes of suicide. The agony of his -sufferings at length produced the rupture of a blood-vessel in the -lungs, and the usual process of consumption appears to have begun. He -is coming to pay me a visit in Italy; but I fear that unless his mind -can be kept tranquil, little is to be hoped from the mere influence of -climate. - -But let me not extort anything from your pity. I have just seen a -second volume, published by him evidently in careless despair. I have -desired my bookseller to send you a copy, and allow me to solicit your -especial attention to the fragment of a poem entitled “Hyperion,” -the composition of which was checked by the Review in question. The -great proportion of this piece is surely in the very highest style of -poetry. I speak impartially, for the canons of taste to which Keats has -conformed in his other compositions are the very reverse of my own. -I leave you to judge for yourself: it would be an insult to you to -suppose that from motives, however honourable, you would lend yourself -to a deception of the public. - - * * * * * - -[32] This letter was never sent.--[_Note by Mrs. Shelley._] - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE - - (AT LEGHORN). - - _Pisa, oggi [November, 1820]._ - - My dear Sir, - -I send you the Phædon and Tacitus. I congratulate you on your conquest -of the Iliad. You must have been astonished at the perpetually -increasing magnificence of the last seven books. Homer there truly -begins to be himself. The battle of the Scamander, the funeral of -Patroclus, and the high and solemn close of the whole bloody tale in -tenderness and inexpiable sorrow, are wrought in a manner incomparable -with any thing of the same kind. The Odyssey is sweet, but there is -nothing like this. - -_I_ am bathing myself in the light and odour of the flowery and -starry Autos. I have read them all more than once. Henry will tell -you how much I am in love with Pacchiani. I suffer from my disease -considerably. Henry will also tell you how much, and how whimsically, -he alarmed me last night. - -My kindest remembrances to Mrs. Gisborne, and best wishes for your -health and happiness. - - Faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - -I have a new Calderon coming from Paris. - - - TO HENRY REVELEY. - - _Pisa, Tuesday, 1 o’clock, - April 17th, 1821._ - - My dear Henry, - -Our ducking last night has added fire, instead of quenching the -nautical ardour which produced it; and I consider it a good omen in -any enterprise, that it begins in evil: as being more probable that it -will end in good. I hope _you_ have not suffered from it. I am rather -feverish, but very well as to the side, whence I expected the worst -consequences. I send you directions for the complete equipment of our -boat, since you have so kindly promised to undertake it. In putting -into execution, a little more or less expense in so trifling an affair, -is to be disregarded. I need not say that the approaching season -invites expedition. You can put her in hand immediately, and write the -day on which we may come for her. - -We expect with impatience the arrival of our false friends, who have so -long cheated us with delay; and Mary unites with me in desiring, that, -as _you_ participated equally in the crime, you should not be omitted -in the expiation. - - All good be with you.--Adieu. - Yours faithfully, - S. - -Williams desires to be kindly remembered to you, and begs to present -his compliments to Mr. and Mrs. G., and--heaven knows what. - - - TO HENRY REVELEY. - - - _Pisa, April 19th [1821]._ - - My dear Henry, - -The rullock, or place for the oar, ought not to be placed where the -oar-pins are now, but ought to be nearer to the mast; as near as -possible, indeed, so that the rower has room to sit. In addition let -a false keel be made in this shape, so as to be four inches deep at -the stern, and to decrease towards the prow. It may be as thin as you -please. - -Tell Mr. and Mrs. G---- that I have read the Numancia, and after wading -through the singular stupidity of the first act, began to be greatly -delighted, and, at length, interested in a very high degree, by the -power of the writer in awakening pity and admiration, in which I hardly -know by whom he is excelled. There is little, I allow, in a strict -sense, to be called _poetry_ in this play; but the command of language, -and the harmony of versification, is so great as to deceive one into an -idea that it is poetry. - - Adieu.--We shall see you soon. - Yours ever truly, - S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Bagni, Tuesday Evening, - (June 5th, 1821.)_ - - My dear Friends, - -We anxiously expect your arrival at the Baths; but as I am persuaded -that you will spend as much time with us as you can save from your -necessary occupations before your departure, I will forbear to vex you -with importunity. My health does not permit me to spend many hours -from home. I have been engaged these last days in composing a poem on -the death of Keats, which will shortly be finished; and I anticipate -the pleasure of reading it to you, as some of the very few persons who -will be interested in it and understand it. It is a highly-wrought -_piece of art_, and perhaps better, in point of composition, than -anything I have written. - -I have obtained a purchaser for some of the articles of your three -lists, a catalogue of which I subjoin. I shall do my utmost to get -more; could you not send me a complete list of your _furniture_, as I -have had inquiries made about chests of drawers, &c. - - * * * * * - -My unfortunate box! it contained a chaos of the elements of Charles I. -If the idea of the _creator_ had been packed up with them, it would -have shared the same fate; and that, I am afraid, has undergone another -sort of shipwreck. - - * * * * * - - Very faithfully and affectionately yours, - S. - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE. - - _Pisa, Saturday, - (June 16, 1821.)_ - - My dear Friend, - -I have received the heart-rending account of the closing scene of the -great genius whom envy and ingratitude scourged out of the world.[33] -I do not think that if I had seen it before, I could have composed my -poem. The enthusiasm of the imagination would have overpowered the -sentiment. - -As it is, I have finished my Elegy;[34] and this day I send it to the -press at Pisa. You shall have a copy the moment it is completed. I -think it will please you. I have dipped my pen in consuming fire for -his destroyers; otherwise the style is calm and solemn. - -Pray, when shall we see you? Or are the streams of Helicon less -salutary than sea-bathing for the nerves? Give us as much as you can -before you go to England, and rather divide the term than not come soon. - -Mrs. * * * wishes that none of the books, desk, &c., should be packed -up with the piano; but that they should be sent, one by one, by -Pepi. Address them to _me_ at her house. She desired me to have them -addressed to _me_, why I know not. - -A droll circumstance has occurred. Queen Mab, a poem written by me -when very young, in the most furious style, with long notes against -Jesus Christ, and God the Father, and the king, and bishops, and -marriage, and the devil knows what, is just published by one of the low -booksellers in the Strand, against my wish and consent, and all the -people are at loggerheads about it. H. S.[35] gives me this account. -You may imagine how much I am amused. For the sake of a dignified -appearance, however, and really because I wish to protest against all -the bad poetry in it, I have given orders to say that it is all done -against my desire, and have directed my attorney to apply to Chancery -for an injunction, which he will not get. - -I am pretty ill, I thank you, just now; but I hope you are better. - - Most affectionately yours, - P. B. S. - -FOOTNOTES: - -[33] John Keats. - -[34] Adonais. - -[35] Horace Smith. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Bagni, Friday Night_, - (_July 13th, 1821._) - - My dear Friends, - -I have been expecting every day a writ to attend at your court at -Guebhard’s, whence you know it is settled that I should conduct you -hither to spend your last days in Italy. A thousand thanks for your -maps; in return for which I send you the only copy of Adonais the -printer has yet delivered. I wish I could say, as Glaucus could, in the -exchange for the arms of Diomed,--ἑκατόμβιοι ἐννεαβοίων. - - * * * * * - -I will only remind you of Faust; my desire for the conclusion of which -is only exceeded by my desire to welcome you. Do you observe any traces -of him in the poem I send you? Poets--the best of them, are a very -cameleonic race; they take the colour not only of what they feed on, -but of the very leaves under which they pass. - -Mary is just on the verge of finishing her novel; but it cannot be in -time for you to take to England.--Farewell. - - Most faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - - - TO MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. - - _Bagni, July 19th_ [_1821_]. - - My dearest Friends, - -I am fully repaid for the painful emotions from which some verses of -my poem sprung, by your sympathy and approbation--which is all the -reward I expect--and as much as I desire. It is not for me to judge -whether, in the high praise your feelings assign me, you are right -or wrong. The poet and the man are two different natures; though they -exist together, they may be unconscious of each other, and incapable -of deciding on each other’s powers and efforts by any reflex act. The -decision of the cause, whether or no _I_ am a poet, is removed from -the present time to the hour when our posterity shall assemble; but -the court is a very severe one, and I fear that the verdict will be, -“Guilty--death!” - -I shall be with you on the first summons. I hope that the time you have -reserved for us, “this bank and shoal of time,” is not so short as you -once talked of. - - In haste, most affectionately yours, - P. B. S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (BAGNI DI PISA). - - _Lione Bianco, Florence_, - (_Tuesday, August 1st, 1821_.) - - My dearest Love, - -I shall not return this evening; nor, unless I have better success, -to-morrow. I have seen many houses, but very few within the compass -of our powers; and, even in those which seem to suit, nothing is more -difficult than to bring the proprietors to terms. I congratulate myself -on having taken the season in time, as there is great expectation -of Florence being full next winter. I shall do my utmost to return -to-morrow evening. You may expect me about ten or eleven o’clock, as I -shall purposely be late, to spare myself the excessive heat. - -The Gisbornes (four o’clock, Tuesday,) are just set out in a -diligence-and-four, for Bologna. They have promised to write -from Paris. I spent three hours this morning principally in the -contemplation of the Niobe, and of a favourite Apollo; all worldly -thoughts and cares seem to vanish from before the sublime emotions such -spectacles create; and I am deeply impressed with the great difference -of happiness enjoyed by those who live at a distance from these -incarnations of all that the finest minds have conceived of beauty, and -those who can resort to their company at pleasure. What should we think -if we were forbidden to read the great writers who have left us their -works? And yet to be forbidden to live at Florence or Rome, is an evil -of the same kind, of scarcely less magnitude. - -I am delighted to hear that the W.’s are with you. I am convinced -that Williams must persevere in the use of the doccia. Give my most -affectionate remembrances to them. I shall know all the houses in -Florence, and can give W. a good account of them all. You have not -sent my passport, and I must get home as I can. I suppose you did not -receive my note. - -I grudge my sequins for a carriage; but I have suffered from the sun -and the fatigue, and dare not expose myself to that which is necessary -for house-hunting. - -Kiss little babe, and how is he? but I hope to see him fast asleep -to-morrow night. And pray, dearest Mary, have some of your novel -prepared for my return. - - Your ever affectionate, - S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (BAGNI DI PISA). - - _Bologna, Agosto 6_ [_1821_]. - - Dearest mine, - -I am at Bologna, and the caravella is ordered for Ravenna. I have been -detained, by having made an embarrassing and inexplicable arrangement, -more than twelve hours; or I should have arrived at Bologna last night -instead of this morning. - -Though I have travelled all night at the rate of two miles and a half -an hour, in a little open calesso, I am perfectly well in health. One -would think that I were the spaniel of Destiny, for the more she knocks -me about, the more I fawn on her. I had an overturn about daybreak; the -old horse stumbled, and threw me and the fat vetturino into a slope of -meadow, over the hedge. My angular figure stuck where it was pitched; -but my vetturino’s spherical form rolled fairly to the bottom of the -hill, and that with so few symptoms of reluctance in the life that -animated it, that my ridicule (for it was the drollest sight in the -world) was suppressed by my fear that the poor devil had been hurt. But -he was very well, and we continued our journey with great success. - - * * * * * - -My love to the Williams’s. Kiss my pretty one, and accept an -affectionate one for yourself from me. The chaise waits. I will write -the first night from Ravenna at length. - - Yours ever, - S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY. - - _Ravenna, August 7, 1821._ - - My dearest Mary, - -I arrived last night at ten o’clock, and sat up talking with Lord Byron -until five this morning. I then went to sleep, and now awake at eleven, -and having despatched my breakfast as quick as possible, mean to devote -the interval until twelve, when the post departs, to you. - -Lord Byron is very well, and was delighted to see me. He has in fact -completely recovered his health, and lives a life totally the reverse -of that which he led at Venice. He has a permanent sort of liaison with -Contessa Giuccioli, who is now at Florence, and seems from her letters -to be a very amiable woman. She is waiting there until something -shall be decided as to their emigration to Switzerland or stay in -Italy; which is yet undetermined on either side. She was compelled -to escape from the Papal territory in great haste, as measures had -already been taken to place her in a convent, where she would have -been unrelentingly confined for life. The oppression of the marriage -contract, as existing in the laws and opinions of Italy, though less -frequently exercised, is far severer than that of England. I tremble to -think of what poor Emilia is destined to. - -Lord Byron had almost destroyed himself in Venice: his state of -debility was such that he was unable to digest any food, he was -consumed by hectic fever, and would speedily have perished, but for -this attachment, which has reclaimed him from the excesses into which -he threw himself from carelessness and pride, rather than taste. Poor -fellow! he is now quite well, and immersed in politics and literature. -He has given me a number of the most interesting details on the former -subject, but we will not speak of them in a letter. Fletcher is here, -and as if like a shadow, he waxed and waned with the substance of his -master: Fletcher also has recovered his good looks, and from amidst the -unseasonable grey hairs, a fresh harvest of flaxen locks put forth. - -We talked a great deal of poetry, and such matters last night; and as -usual differed, and I think more than ever. He affects to patronize a -system of criticism fit for the production of mediocrity, and although -all his fine poems and passages have been produced in defiance of this -system, yet I recognise the pernicious effects of it in the Doge of -Venice; and it will cramp and limit his future efforts however great -they may be, unless he gets rid of it. I have read only parts of it, -or rather he himself read them to me, and gave me the plan of the whole. - - * * * * * - -Lord Byron has also told me of a circumstance that shocks me -exceedingly; because it exhibits a degree of desperate and wicked -malice for which I am at a loss to account. When I hear such things my -patience and my philosophy are put to a severe proof, whilst I refrain -from seeking out some obscure hiding-place, where the countenance of -man may never meet me more. - - * * * * * - -Imagine my despair of good, imagine how it is possible that one of -so weak and sensitive a nature as mine can run further the gauntlet -through this hellish society of men. _You_ should write to the Hoppners -a letter refuting the charge, in case you believe, and know, and can -prove that it is false; stating the grounds and proofs of your belief. -I need not dictate what you should say; nor, I hope, inspire you with -warmth to rebut a charge, which you only can effectually rebut. If you -will send the letter to me here, I will forward it to the Hoppners. -Lord Byron is not up, I do not know the Hoppners’ address, and I am -anxious not to lose a post. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY. - - _8th August_ [_1821_]. - - My dearest Mary, - -I wrote to you yesterday, and I begin another letter to-day, without -knowing exactly when I can send it, as I am told the post only goes -once a week. I dare say the subject of the latter half my letter gave -you pain, but it was necessary to look the affair in the face, and the -only satisfactory answer to the calumny must be given by you, and could -be given by you alone. This is evidently the source of the violent -denunciations of the _Literary Gazette_, in themselves contemptible -enough, and only to be regarded as effects, which show us their cause, -which until we put off our mortal nature, we never despise--that is the -belief of persons who have known and seen you, that you are guilty of -crimes. - - * * * * * - -After having sent my letter to the post yesterday, I went to see some -of the antiquities of this place, which appear to be remarkable. This -city was once of vast extent, and the traces of its remains are to -be found more than four miles from the gate of the modern town. The -sea, which once came close to it, has now retired to the distance of -four miles, leaving a melancholy extent of marshes, interspersed with -patches of cultivation, and towards the sea shore with pine forests, -which have followed the retrocession of the Adriatic, and the roots of -which are actually washed by its waves. The level of the sea and of -this tract of country correspond so nearly, that a ditch dug to a few -feet in depth is immediately filled up with sea water. All the ancient -buildings have been choked up to the height of from five to twenty feet -by the deposit of the sea, and of the inundations, which are frequent -in the winter. I went in Lord Byron’s carriage, first to the Chiesa -San Vitale, which is certainly one of the most ancient churches in -Italy. It is a rotunda supported upon buttresses and pilasters of white -marble; the ill effect of which is somewhat relieved by an interior -row of columns. The dome is very high and narrow. The whole church, in -spite of the elevation of the soil, is very high for its breadth, and -is of a very peculiar and striking construction. In the section of one -of the large tables of marble with which the church is lined, they -showed me the _perfect figure_, as perfect as if it had been painted, -of a capuchin friar, which resulted merely from the shadings and the -position of the stains in the marble. This is what may be called a pure -anticipated cognition of a Capuchin. - -I then went to the tomb of Theodosius, which has now been dedicated -to the Virgin, without however any change in its original appearance. -It is about a mile from the present city. This building is more than -half overwhelmed by the elevated soil, although a portion of the lower -story has been excavated, and is filled with brackish and stinking -waters, and a sort of vaporous darkness, and troops of prodigious -frogs. It is a remarkable piece of architecture, and without belonging -to a period when the ancient taste yet survived, bears nevertheless a -certain impression of that taste. It consists of two stories; the lower -supported on Doric arches, and pilasters, and a simple entablature. -The other circular within, and polygonal outside, and roofed with one -single mass of ponderous stone, for it is evidently one, and Heaven -alone knows how they contrived to lift it to that height. It is a sort -of flattish dome, rough-wrought within by the chisel, from which the -Northern conquerors tore the plates of silver that adorned it, and -polished without, with things like handles appended to it, which were -also wrought out of the solid stone, and to which I suppose the ropes -were applied to draw it up. You ascend externally into the second story -by a flight of stone-steps, which are modern. - -The next place I went to was a church called _la Chiesa di Sant’ -Appollinare_, which is a Basilica, and built by one, I forget whom, -of the Christian Emperors; it is a long church, with a roof like a -barn, and supported by twenty-four columns of the finest marble, with -an altar of jasper, and four columns of jasper and giallo antico, -supporting the roof of the tabernacle, which are said to be of immense -value. It is something like that church (I forget the name of it) we -saw at Rome, _fuore delle mure_. I suppose the emperor stole these -columns, which seem not at all to belong to the place they occupy. -Within the city, near the church of San Vitale, there is to be seen the -tomb of the Empress Galla Placidia, daughter of Theodosius the Great, -together with those of her husband Constantius, her brother Honorius, -and her son Valentinian--all Emperors. The tombs are massy cases of -marble, adorned with rude and tasteless sculpture of lambs, and other -Christian emblems, with scarcely a trace of the antique. It seems -to have been one of the first effects of the Christian religion, to -destroy the power of producing beauty in art. These tombs are placed in -a sort of vaulted chamber, wrought over with rude mosaic, which is said -to have been built in 1300. I have yet seen no more of Ravenna. - - _Friday._ - -We ride out in the evening, through the pine forests which divide this -city from the sea. Our way of life is this, and I have accommodated -myself to it without much difficulty:--Lord Byron gets up at two, -breakfasts; we talk, read, &c., until six; then we ride, and dine at -eight; and after dinner sit talking till four or five in the morning. -I get up at twelve, and am now devoting the interval between my rising -and his, to you. - -Lord Byron is greatly improved in every respect. In genius, in -temper, in moral views, in health, in happiness. The connexion with -la Guiccioli has been an inestimable benefit to him. He lives in -considerable splendour, but within his income, which is now about -£4000 a year, £100 of which he devotes to purposes of charity. He -has had mischievous passions, but these he seems to have subdued, -and he is becoming, what he should be, a virtuous man. The interest -which he took in the politics of Italy, and the actions he performed -in consequence of it, are subjects not fit to be _written_, but are -such as will delight and surprise you. He is not yet decided to go to -Switzerland--a place, indeed, little fitted for him: the gossip and -the cabals of those anglicised coteries would torment him, as they did -before, and might exasperate him into a relapse of libertinism, which -he says he plunged into not from taste, but despair. La Guiccioli and -her brother (who is Lord Byron’s friend and confidant, and acquiesces -perfectly in her connexion with him) wish to go to Switzerland; as Lord -Byron says, merely from the novelty of the pleasure of travelling. Lord -Byron prefers Tuscany or Lucca, and is trying to persuade them to adopt -his views. He has made _me_ write a long letter to her to engage her to -remain--an odd thing enough for an utter stranger to write on subjects -of the utmost delicacy to his friend’s mistress. But it seems destined -that I am always to have some active part in everybody’s affairs whom -I approach. I have set down in lame Italian the strongest reasons I -can think of against the Swiss emigration--to tell you the truth, I -should be very glad to accept, as my fee, his establishment in Tuscany. -Ravenna is a miserable place; the people are barbarous and wild, and -their language the most infernal patois that you can imagine. He would -be, in every respect, better among the Tuscans. I am afraid he would -not like Florence, on account of the English there. - - * * * * * - -There is Lucca, Florence, Pisa, Siena, and I think nothing more. What -think you of Prato, or Pistoia, for him?--no Englishman approaches -those towns; but I am afraid no house could be found good enough for -him in that region. - -He has read to me one of the unpublished cantos of Don Juan, which is -astonishingly fine. It sets him not only above, but far above, all the -poets of the day--every word is stamped with immortality. I despair of -rivalling Lord Byron, as well I may, and there is no other with whom -it is worth contending. This canto is in the style, but totally, and -sustained with incredible ease and power, like the end of the second -canto. There is not a word which the most rigid assertor of the dignity -of human nature would desire to be cancelled. It fulfils, in a certain -degree, what I have long preached of producing--something wholly new -and relative to the age, and yet surpassingly beautiful. It may be -vanity, but I think I see the trace of my earnest exhortations to him -to create something wholly new. He has finished his _life_ up to the -present time, and given it to Moore, with liberty for Moore to sell -it for the best price he can get, with condition that the bookseller -should publish it after his death. Moore has sold it to Murray for -_two thousand pounds_. I have spoken to him of Hunt, but not with a -direct view of demanding a contribution; and, though I am sure that -if asked it would not be refused--yet, there is something in me that -makes it impossible. Lord Byron and I are excellent friends, and were -I reduced to poverty, or were I a writer who had no claims to a higher -station than I possess--or did I possess a higher than I deserve, we -should appear in all things as such, and I would freely ask him any -favour. Such is not the case. The demon of mistrust and pride lurks -between two persons in our situation, poisoning the freedom of our -intercourse. This is a tax and a heavy one, which we must pay for being -human. I think the fault is not on my side, nor is it likely, I being -the weaker. I hope that in the next world these things will be better -managed. What is passing in the heart of another rarely escapes the -observation of one who is a strict anatomist of his own. - -Write to me at Florence, where I shall remain a day at least, and -send me letters, or news of letters. How is my little darling? And -how are you, and how do you get on with your book? Be severe in your -corrections, and expect severity from me, your sincere admirer. I -flatter myself you have composed something unequalled in its kind, and -that, not content with the honours of your birth and your hereditary -aristocracy, you will add still higher renown to your name. Expect me -at the end of my appointed time. I do not think I shall be detained. -Is C. with you, or is she coming? Have you heard anything of my poor -Emilia, from whom I got a letter the day of my departure, saying, that -her marriage was deferred for a _very short_ time, on account of the -illness of her sposo. How are the Williamses, and Williams especially? -Give my very kindest love to them. - -Lord Byron has here splendid apartments in the house of his mistress’s -husband, who is one of the richest men in Italy. _She_ is divorced, -with an allowance of 1200 crowns a-year, a miserable pittance from a -man who has 120,000 a-year.--Here are two monkeys, five cats, eight -dogs, and ten horses, all of whom (except the horses) walk about the -house like the masters of it. _Tita_ the Venetian is here, and operates -as my valet; a fine fellow, with a prodigious black beard, and who -has stabbed two or three people, and is one of the most good-natured -looking fellows I ever saw. - -We have good rumours of the Greeks here, and a Russian war. I -hardly wish the Russians to take any part in it. My maxim is with -Æschylus:--τὸ δυσσεβὲς--μετὰ μὲν πλείονα τίκτει, σφετέρᾳ -δ’ ἐίκοτα γεννᾷ. There is a Greek exercise for you. How should slaves -produce anything but tyranny--even as the seed produces the plant? - - Adieu, dear Mary, - Yours affectionately, - S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY. - - _Saturday--Ravenna [Aug. 11, 1821]._ - - My dear Mary, - -You will be surprised to hear that Lord Byron has decided upon coming -to _Pisa_, in case he shall be able, with my assistance, to prevail -upon his mistress to remain in Italy, of which I think there is -little doubt. He wishes for a large and magnificent house, but he has -furniture of his own, which he would send from Ravenna. Inquire if any -of the large palaces are to be let. We discussed Prato, Pistoia, Lucca, -&c., but they would not suit him so well as Pisa, to which, indeed, he -shows a decided preference. So let it be! Florence he objects to, on -account of the prodigious influx of English. - -I don’t think this circumstance ought to make any difference in our own -plans with respect to this winter in Florence, because we could easily -reassume our station, with the spring, at Pugnano or the baths, in -order to enjoy the society of the noble lord. But do you consider this -point, and write to me your full opinion, at the Florence post-office. - -I suffer much to-day from the pain in my side, brought on, I believe, -by this accursed water. In other respects, I am pretty well, and my -spirits are much improved; they had been improving, indeed, before I -left the baths, after the deep dejection of the early part of the year. - -I am reading Anastasius.[36] One would think that Lord Byron had taken -his idea of the three last cantos of Don Juan from this book. That, of -course, has nothing to do with the merit of this latter, poetry having -nothing to do with the invention of facts. It is a very powerful and -very entertaining novel, and a faithful picture, they say, of modern -Greek manners. I have read Lord Byron’s letter to Bowles--some good -things--but he ought not to write prose criticism. - -You will receive a long letter, sent with some of Lord Byron’s, express -to Florence. - -I write this in haste.--Yours most affectionately, - - S. - -[36] _Memoirs of a Greek_ [by Thomas Hope], 3 vols. Murray, 1819.--Ed. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY. - - _Ravenna, Tuesday, August 14th, 1821._ - - My dearest Love, - -I accept your kind present of your picture, and wish you would get it -prettily framed for me. I will wear, for your sake, upon my heart this -image which is ever present to my mind. - -I have only two minutes to write, the post is just setting off. I shall -leave this place on Thursday or Friday morning. You would forgive me -for my longer stay, if you knew the fighting I have had to make it so -short. I need not say where my own feelings impel me. - -It still remains fixed that Lord Byron should come to Tuscany, and, if -possible, Pisa; but more of that to-morrow. - - Your faithful and affectionate, - S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY. - - _Ravenna, Wednesday [Aug. 15, 1821]._ - - My dearest Love, - -I write, though I doubt whether I shall not arrive before this letter; -as the post only leaves Ravenna once a week, on Saturdays, and as -I hope to set out to-morrow evening by the courier. But as I must -necessarily stay a day at Florence, and as the natural incidents of -travelling may prevent me from taking my intended advantage of the -couriers, it is probable that this letter will arrive first. Besides, -as I will explain, I am not _yet_ quite my own master. But that by and -bye. I do not think it necessary to tell you of my impatience to return -to you and my little darling, or the disappointment with which I have -prolonged my absence from you. I am happy to think that you are not -quite alone. - -Lord Byron is still decided upon Tuscany; and such is his impatience, -that he has desired me--as if I should not arrive in time--to write to -you to inquire for the best unfurnished palace in Pisa, and to enter -upon a treaty for it. It is better not to be on the Lung’ Arno; but, in -fact, there is no such hurry, and as I shall see you so soon, it is not -worth while to trouble yourself about it. - -I told you I had written by Lord Byron’s desire to la Guiccioli, to -dissuade her and her family from Switzerland. Her answer is this moment -arrived, and my representation seems to have reconciled them to the -unfitness of that step. At the conclusion of a letter, full of all the -fine things she says she has heard of me, is this request, which I -transcribe;--“_Signore--la vostra bontà mi fa ardita di chiedervi un -favore--me lo accorderete voi? Non partite da Ravenna senza Milord._” -Of course, being now, by all the laws of knighthood, captive to a -lady’s request, I shall only be at liberty on _my parole_, until Lord -Byron is settled at Pisa. I shall reply, of course, that the _boon_ is -granted, and that if her lover is reluctant to quit Ravenna, after I -have made arrangements for receiving him at Pisa, I am bound to place -myself in the same situation as now, to assail him with importunities -to rejoin her. Of this there is, fortunately, no need; and I need not -tell you there is no fear that this chivalric submission of mine to -the great general laws of antique courtesy, against which I never -rebel, and which is my religion, should interfere with my quick -returning, and long remaining with you, dear girl. - -I have seen Dante’s tomb, and worshipped the sacred spot. The building -and its accessories are comparatively modern, but, the urn itself, -and the tablet of marble, with his portrait in relief, are evidently -of equal antiquity with his death. The countenance has all the marks -of being taken from his own; the lines are strongly marked, far more -than the portraits, which, however, it resembles; except, indeed, -the eye, which is half closed, and reminded me of Pacchiani. It was -probably taken after death. I saw the library, and some specimens of -the earliest illuminated printing from the press of Fust. They are on -vellum, and of an execution little inferior to that of the present day. - -We ride out every evening as usual, and practise pistol-shooting at a -pumpkin; and I am not sorry to observe that I approach towards my noble -friend’s exactness of aim. The water here is villainous, and I have -suffered tortures; but I now drink nothing but alcalescent water, and -am much relieved. I have the greatest trouble to get away; and Lord -Byron, as a reason for my stay, has urged, that without either me or -the Guiccioli, he will certainly fall into his old habits. I then talk, -and he listens to reason; and I earnestly hope that he is too well -aware of the terrible and degrading consequences of his former mode of -life, to be in danger from the short interval of temptation that will -be left him. Lord Byron speaks with great kindness and interest of you, -and seems to wish to see you. - - _Ravenna, Thursday._ - -I have received your letter with that to Mrs. Hoppner. I do not -wonder, my dearest friend, that you should have been moved. I was at -first, but speedily regained the indifference which the opinion of -anything, or anybody, except our own consciousness, amply merits; -and day by day shall more receive from me. I have not recopied your -letter; such a measure would destroy its authenticity, but have given -it to Lord Byron, who has engaged to send it with his own comments to -the Hoppners. People do not hesitate, it seems, to make themselves -panders and accomplices to slander, for the Hoppners had exacted from -Lord Byron that these accusations should be concealed from _me_. -Lord Byron is not a man to keep a secret, good or bad; but in openly -confessing that he has not done so, he must observe a certain delicacy, -and therefore he wished to send the letter himself, and indeed this -adds weight to your representations. Have you seen the article in -the Literary Gazette on me? They evidently allude to some story of -this kind--however cautious the Hoppners have been in preventing the -calumniated person from asserting his justification, you know too much -of the world not to be certain that this was the utmost limit of their -caution. So much for nothing. - -Lord Byron is immediately coming to Pisa. He will set off the moment I -can get him a house. Who would have imagined this? Our first thought -ought to be ----, our second our own plans. The hesitation in your -letter about Florence has communicated itself to me; although I hardly -see what we can do about Horace Smith, to whom our attentions are -so due, and would be so useful. If I do not arrive before this long -scrawl, write something to Florence to decide me. I shall certainly -not, without strong reasons, at present _sign_ the agreement for the -old codger’s house; although the extreme beauty and fitness of the -place, should we decide on Florence, might well overbalance the -objection of your deaf visitor. One thing--with Lord Byron and the -people we know at Pisa, we should have a security and protection, which -seems to be more questionable at Florence. But I do not think that this -consideration ought to weigh. What think you of remaining at Pisa? The -Williamses would probably be induced to stay there if we did; Hunt -would certainly stay, at least this winter, near us, should he emigrate -at all; Lord Byron and his Italian friends would remain quietly there; -and Lord Byron has certainly a great regard for us--the regard of such -a man is worth--_some_ of the tribute we must pay to the base passions -of humanity in any intercourse with those within their circle; he is -better worth it than those on whom we bestow it from mere custom. The ----- are there, and as far as solid affairs are concerned, are my -friends. * * * At Pisa I need not distil my water--if I _can_ distil it -anywhere. Last winter I suffered less from my painful disorder than the -winter I spent at Florence. The arguments for Florence you know, and -they are very weighty; judge (_I know you like the job_) which scale is -overbalanced. - -My greatest content would be utterly to desert all human society. I -would retire with you and our child to a solitary island in the sea, -would build a boat, and shut upon my retreat the flood-gates of the -world. I would read no reviews, and talk with no authors. If I dared -trust my imagination, it would tell me that there are one or two -chosen companions beside yourself whom I should desire. But to this I -would not listen--where two or three are gathered together, the devil -is among them. And good, far more than evil impulses, love, far more -than hatred, has been to me, except as you have been its object, the -source of all sorts of mischief. So on this plan, I would be _alone_, -and would devote either to oblivion or to future generations, the -overflowings of a mind which, timely withdrawn from the contagion, -should be kept fit for no baser object. But this it does not appear -that we shall do. - -The other side of the alternative (for a medium ought not to be -adopted) is to form for ourselves a society of our own class, as much -as possible in intellect, or in feelings; and to connect ourselves -with the interests of that society. Our roots never struck so deeply -as at Pisa, and the transplanted tree flourishes not. People who lead -the lives which we led until last winter, are like a family of Wahabee -Arabs, pitching their tent in the midst of London. We must do one thing -or the other--for yourself, for our child, for our existence. The -calumnies, the sources of which are probably deeper than we perceive, -have ultimately, for object, the depriving us of the means of security -and subsistence. You will easily perceive the gradations by which -calumny proceeds to pretext, pretext to persecution, and persecution -to the ban of fire and water. It is for this, and not because this or -that fool, or the whole court of fools, curse and rail, that calumny is -worth refuting or chastising. - - - TO HORATIO SMITH. - - _Pisa, Sept. 14th, 1821._ - - My dear Smith, - -I cannot express the pain and disappointment with which I learn the -change in your plans, no less than the afflicting cause of it. Florence -will no longer have any attractions for me this winter, and I shall -contentedly sit down in this humdrum Pisa, and refer to hope and to -chance the pleasure I had expected from your society this winter. What -shall I do with your packages, which have now, I believe, all arrived -at Guebhard’s at Leghorn? Is it not possible that a favourable change -in Mrs. Smith’s health might produce a corresponding change in your -determinations, and would it, or would it not, be premature to forward -the packages to your present residence, or to London? I will pay every -possible attention to your instructions in this regard. - -I had marked down several houses in Florence, and one especially on the -Arno, a most lovely place, though they asked rather more than perhaps -you would have chosen to pay--yet nothing approaching to an English -price.--I do not yet entirely give you up.--Indeed, I should be sorry -not to hope that Mrs. Smith’s state of health would not soon become -such, as to remove your principal objection to this delightful climate. -I have not, with the exception of three or four days, suffered in the -least from the heat this year. Though, it is but fair to confess, that -my temperament approaches to that of the salamander. - -We expect Lord Byron here in about a fortnight. I have just taken the -finest palace in Pisa for him, and his luggage, and his horses, and -all his train, are, I believe, already on their way hither. I dare -say you have heard of the life he led at Venice, rivalling the wise -Solomon almost, in the number of his concubines. Well, he is now quite -reformed, and is leading a most sober and decent life, as _cavaliere -servente_ to a very pretty Italian woman, who has already arrived -at Pisa, with her father and her brother (such are the manners of -Italy), as the jackals of the lion. He is occupied in forming a new -drama, and, with views which I doubt not will expand as he proceeds, -is determined to write a series of plays, in which he will follow the -French tragedians and Alfieri, rather than those of England and Spain, -and produce something new, at least, to England. This seems to me the -wrong road; but genius like his is destined to lead and not to follow. -He will shake off his shackles as he finds they cramp him. I believe -he will produce something very great; and that familiarity with the -dramatic power of human nature will soon enable him to soften down the -severe and unharmonising traits of his “Marino Faliero.” I think you -know Lord Byron personally, or is it your brother? If the latter, I -know that he wished particularly to be introduced to you, and that he -will sympathise, in some degree, in this great disappointment which I -feel in the change, or, as I yet hope, in the prorogation of your plans. - -I am glad you like “Adonais,” and, particularly, that you do not think -it metaphysical, which I was afraid it was. I was resolved to pay some -tribute of sympathy to the unhonoured dead, but I wrote, as usual, with -a total ignorance of the effect that I should produce.--I have not -yet seen your pastoral drama; if you have a copy, could you favour me -with it? It will be six months before I shall receive it from England. -I have heard it spoken of with high praise, and I have the greatest -curiosity to see it. - -The Gisbornes promised to buy me some books in Paris, and I had asked -you to be kind enough to advance them what they might want to pay for -them. I cannot conceive why they did not execute this little commission -for me, as they knew how very much I wished to receive these books by -the same conveyance as the filtering-stone. Dare I ask you to do me -the favour to buy them? _A complete edition of the works of Calderon_, -and the French translation of Kant, a German Faust, and to add the -Nympholept?[37]--I am indifferent as to a little more or less expense, -so that I may have them immediately. I will send you an order on Paris -for the amount, together with the thirty-two francs you were kind -enough to pay for me. - -All public attention is now centred on the wonderful revolution in -Greece. I dare not, after the events of last winter hope that slaves -can become freemen so cheaply; yet I know one Greek of the highest -qualities, both of courage and conduct, the Prince Mavrocordato, and -if the rest be like him, all will go well.--The news of this moment is, -that the Russian army has orders to advance. - -Mrs. S. unites with me in the most heartfelt regret, - - And I remain, my dear Smith, - Most faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - -If you happen to have brought a copy of Clarke’s edition of Queen Mab -for me, I should like very well to see it.--I really hardly know what -this poem is about. I am afraid it is rather rough. - -[37] _Amarynthus the Nympholept_, by Horace Smith.--Ed. - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE. - - _Pisa, October 22, 1821._ - - My dear Gisborne, - -At length the post brings a welcome letter from you, and I am pleased -to be assured of your health and safe arrival. I expect with interest -and anxiety the intelligence of your progress in England, and how far -the advantages there compensate the loss of Italy. I hear from Hunt -that he is determined on emigration, and if I thought the letter would -arrive in time, I should beg you to suggest some advice to him. But you -ought to be incapable of forgiving me the fact of depriving England of -what it must lose when Hunt departs. - -Did I tell you that Lord Byron comes to settle at Pisa, and that he -has a plan of writing a periodical work in conjunction with Hunt? His -house, Madame Felichi’s, is already taken and fitted up for him, and he -has been expected every day these six weeks. La Guiccioli, who awaits -him impatiently, is a very pretty, sentimental, innocent Italian, who -has sacrificed an immense fortune for the sake of Lord Byron, and -who, if I know any thing of my friend, of her and of human nature, -will hereafter have plenty of leisure and opportunity to repent her -rashness. Lord Byron is, however, quite cured of his gross habits, as -far as habits; the perverse ideas on which they were formed are not yet -eradicated. - -We have furnished a house at Pisa, and mean to make it our -head-quarters. I shall get all my books out, and entrench myself like a -spider in a web. If you can assist P. in sending them to Leghorn, you -would do me an especial favour; but do not buy me Calderon, Faust, or -Kant, as H. S.[38] promises to send them me from Paris, where I suppose -you had not time to procure them. Any other books you or Henry think -would accord with my design, Ollier will furnish you with. - -I should like very much to hear what is said of my Adonais, and -you would oblige me by cutting out, or making Ollier cut out, any -respectable criticism on it, and sending it me; you know I do not -mind a crown or two in postage. The Epipsychidion is a mystery; as to -real flesh and blood, you know that I do not deal in those articles; -you might as well go to a gin-shop for a leg of mutton, as expect -anything human or earthly from me. I desired Ollier not to circulate -this piece except to the συνετοί, and even they, it seems, -are inclined to approximate me to the circle of a servant girl and her -sweetheart. But I intend to write a Symposium of my own to set all this -right. - -I am just finishing a dramatic poem, called Hellas, upon the contest -now raging in Greece--a sort of imitation of the Persæ of Æschylus, -full of lyrical poetry. I try to be what I might have been, but am not -successful. I find that (I dare say I shall quote wrong,) - - “Den herrlichsten, den sich der Geist empfängt - Drängt immer fremd und fremder Stoff sich an.” - -The Edinburgh Review lies. Godwin’s answer to Malthus is victorious -and decisive; and that it should not be generally acknowledged as such, -is full evidence of the influence of successful evil and tyranny. What -Godwin is, compared to Plato and Bacon, we well know; but compared with -these miserable sciolists, he is a vulture to a worm. - -I read the Greek dramatists and Plato for ever. You are right about -Antigone; how sublime a picture of a woman! and what think you of -the choruses, and especially the lyrical complaints of the godlike -victim? and the menaces of Tiresias, and their rapid fulfilment? Some -of us have, in a prior existence, been in love with an Antigone, and -that makes us find no full content in any mortal tie. As to books, I -advise you to live near the British Museum, and read there. I have -read, since I saw you, the “Jungfrau von Orleans” of Schiller,--a fine -play, if the fifth act did not fall off. Some Greeks, escaped from the -defeat in Wallachia, have passed through Pisa, to re-embark at Leghorn -for the Morea; and the Tuscan Government allowed them, during their -stay and passage, three lire each per day and their lodging; that is -good. Remember me and Mary most kindly to Mrs. Gisborne and Henry, and -believe me, - - Yours most affectionately, - P. B. S. - -[38] Horace Smith (see previous letter, _supra_, p. 349).--Ed. - - - TO MR. JOHN GISBORNE. - - _Pisa, April 10, 1822._ - - My dear Gisborne, - -I have received Hellas, which is prettily printed, and with fewer -mistakes than any poem I ever published. Am I to thank you for the -revision of the press? or who acted as midwife to this last of my -orphans, introducing it to oblivion, and me to my accustomed failure? -May the cause it celebrates be more fortunate than either! Tell me -how you like _Hellas_, and give me your opinion freely. It was written -without much care, and in one of those few moments of enthusiasm which -now seldom visit me, and which make me pay dear for their visits. -I know what to think of _Adonais_, but what to think of those who -confound it with the many bad poems of the day, I know not. - -I have been reading over and over again Faust, and always with -sensations which no other composition excites. It deepens the gloom -and augments the rapidity of ideas, and would therefore seem to me an -unfit study for any person who is a prey to the reproaches of memory, -and the delusions of an imagination not to be restrained. And yet the -pleasure of sympathising with emotions known only to few, although they -derive their sole charm from despair, and the scorn of the narrow good -we can attain in our present state, seems more than to ease the pain -which belongs to them. Perhaps all discontent with the _less_ (to use a -Platonic sophism) supposes the sense of a just claim to the _greater_, -and that we admirers of Faust are on the right road to Paradise. Such a -supposition is not more absurd, and is certainly less demoniacal than -that of Wordsworth, where he says-- - - “This earth, - Which is the world of all of us, and where - _We find our happiness, or not at all_.” - -As if, after sixty years’ suffering here, we were to be roasted -alive for sixty million more in hell, or charitably annihilated by a -_coup-de-grâce_ of the bungler who brought us into existence at first! - -Have you read Calderon’s _Magico Prodigioso_? I find a striking -similarity between Faust and this drama, and if I were to acknowledge -Coleridge’s distinction, should say Goethe was the _greatest_ -philosopher, and Calderon the _greatest_ poet. _Cyprian_ evidently -furnished the _germ_ of Faust, as Faust may furnish the germ of other -poems; although it is as different from it in structure and plan as the -acorn from the oak. I have--imagine my presumption--translated several -scenes from both, as the basis of a paper for our journal. I am well -content with those from Calderon, which in fact gave me very little -trouble; but those from Faust--I feel how imperfect a representation, -even with all the licence I assume to figure to myself how Goethe would -have written in English, my words convey. No one but Coleridge is -capable of this work. - -We have seen here a translation of some scenes, and indeed the most -remarkable ones, accompanying those astonishing etchings which have -been published in England from a German master. It is not bad--and -faithful enough--but how weak! how incompetent to represent Faust! I -have only attempted the scenes omitted in this translation, and would -send you that of the _Walpurgisnacht_, if I thought Ollier would place -the postage to my account. What etchings those are! I am never satiated -with looking at them; and, I fear, it is the only sort of translation -of which Faust is susceptible. I never perfectly understood the Hartz -Mountain scene, until I saw the etching; and then, Margaret in the -summer-house with Faust! The artist makes one envy his happiness that -he can sketch such things with calmness, which I only dared look upon -once, and which made my brain swim round only to touch the leaf on the -opposite side of which I knew that it was figured. Whether it is that -the artist has surpassed Faust, or that the pencil surpasses language -in some subjects, I know not, or that I am more affected by a visible -image, but the etching certainly excited me far more than the poem it -illustrated. Do you remember the fifty-fourth letter of the first part -of the “Nouvelle Héloïse”? Goethe, in a subsequent scene, evidently -had that letter in his mind, and this etching is an idealism of it. So -much for the world of shadows! - -What think you of Lord Byron’s last volume? In my opinion it contains -finer poetry than has appeared in England since the publication of -“Paradise Regained.” _Cain_ is apocalyptic--it is a revelation not -before communicated to man. I write nothing but by fits. I have done -some of “Charles the First,” but although the poetry succeeded very -well, I cannot seize on the conception of the subject as a whole, and -seldom now touch the canvas. You know I don’t think much about Reviews, -nor of the fame they give, nor that they take away. It is absurd in -any Review to criticise _Adonais_, and still more to pretend that the -verses are bad. “Prometheus” was never intended for more than five or -six persons. - -And how are you getting on? Do your plans still want success? Do you -regret Italy? or anything that Italy contains? And in case of an entire -failure in your expectations, do you think of returning here? You see -the first blow has been made at funded-property:--do you intend to -confide and invite a second? You would already have saved something -per cent., if you had invested your property in Tuscan land. The next -best thing would be to invest it in English, and reside upon it. I -tremble for the consequences, to you personally, from a prolonged -confidence in the funds. Justice, policy, the hopes of the nation and -renewed institutions, demand your ruin, and I, for one, cannot bring -myself to desire what is in itself desirable, till you are free. You -see how liberal I am of advice; but you know the motives that suggest -it. What is Henry about, and how are his prospects? Tell him that some -adventurers are engaged upon a steam-boat at Leghorn, to make the -_trajet_ we projected. I hope he is charitable enough to pray that they -may succeed better than we did. - -Remember me most affectionately to Mrs. Gisborne, to whom, as well as -to yourself, I consider that this letter is written. How is she, and -how are you all in health? And pray tell me, what are your plans of -life, and how Henry succeeds, and whether he is married or not? How -can I send you such small sums as you may want for postages, &c., for -I do not mean to tax with my unreasonable letters both your purse and -your patience? We go this summer to Spezzia; but direct as ever to -Pisa,--Mrs. ---- will forward our letters. If you see anything which -you think would particularly interest me, pray make Ollier pay for -sending it out by post. Give my best and affectionate regards to H----, -to whom I do not write at present, imagining that you will give him a -piece of this letter. - - Ever most faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - - - TO ----[39] - - _Pisa, April 11th, 1822._ - - My dear ----, - -I have, as yet, received neither the * * *, nor his metaphysical -companions--_Time, my Lord, has a wallet on his back_, and I suppose he -has bagged them by the way. As he has had a good deal of “_alms_ for -oblivion” out of me, I think he might as well have favoured me this -once; I have, indeed, just dropped another mite into his treasury, -called _Hellas_, which I know not how to send to you; but I dare say, -some fury of the Hades of authors will bring one to Paris. It is a poem -written on the Greek cause last summer--a sort of lyrical, dramatic, -nondescript piece of business. - -You will have heard of a _row_ we have had here, which, I dare say, -will grow to a serious size before it arrives at Paris. It was, in -fact, a trifling piece of business enough, arising from an insult of a -drunken dragoon, offered to one of our party, and only serious, because -one of Lord Byron’s servants wounded the fellow dangerously with a -pitchfork. He is now, however, recovering, and the echo of the affair -will be heard long after the original report has ceased. - -Lord Byron has read me one or two letters of Moore to him, in which -Moore speaks with great kindness of me; and, of course, I cannot but -feel flattered by the approbation of a man, my inferiority to whom I -am proud to acknowledge.--Amongst other things, however, Moore, after -giving Lord Byron much good advice about public opinion, &c., seems -to deprecate _my_ influence on his mind, on the subject of religion, -and to attribute the tone assumed in “Cain” to my suggestions. Moore -cautions him against my influence on this particular, with the most -friendly zeal; and it is plain that his motive springs from a desire -of benefitting Lord Byron, without degrading me. I think you know -Moore. Pray assure him that I have not the smallest influence over Lord -Byron, in this particular, and if I had, I certainly should employ -it to eradicate from his great mind the delusions of Christianity, -which, in spite of his reason, seem perpetually to recur, and to lay in -ambush for the hours of sickness and distress. “Cain” was _conceived_ -many years ago, and begun before I saw him last year at Ravenna. How -happy should I not be to attribute to myself, however indirectly, any -participation in that immortal work!--I differ with Moore in thinking -Christianity useful to the world; no man of sense can think it true; -and the alliance of the monstrous superstitions of the popular worship -with the pure doctrines of the Theism of such a man as Moore, turns -to the profit of the former, and makes the latter the fountain of its -own pollution. I agree with him that the doctrines of the French, and -Material Philosophy, are as false as they are pernicious; but, still, -they are better than Christianity, inasmuch as anarchy is better than -despotism; for this reason, that the former is for a season, and that -the latter is eternal. My admiration of the character, no less than of -the genius of Moore, makes me rather wish that he should not have an -ill opinion of me. - -Where are you? We settle this summer near Spezzia; Lord Byron at -Leghorn. May not I hope to see you even for a trip in Italy? I hope -your wife and little ones are well. Mine grows a fine boy, and is quite -well. - -I have contrived to get my musical coals at Newcastle itself.--My dear -----, believe me, - - Faithfully yours, - P. B. S. - -[39] For reasons which will appear in the sequel, Mrs. Shelley -concealed the name of Shelley’s correspondent in this letter and the -following one of June 29, 1822, under the initials “To C. T.;” but it -appears from the original autographs, which have been preserved, that -these two letters were addressed to Horatio Smith.--Ed. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (AT SPEZZIA). - - [_Lerici, Sunday, April 28th, 1822._] - - Dearest Mary, - -I am this moment arrived at Lerici, where I am necessarily detained, -waiting the furniture, which left Pisa last night at midnight; and -as the sea has been calm, and the wind fair, I may expect them every -moment. It would not do to leave affairs here in an _impiccio_, great -as is my anxiety to see you.--How are you, my best love? How have you -sustained the trials of the journey? Answer me this question, and how -my little babe and C * * * are. - -Now to business:--Is the Magni House taken? if not, pray occupy -yourself instantly in finishing the affair, even if you are obliged to -go to Sarzana, and send a messenger to me to tell me of your success. -I, of course, cannot leave Lerici, to which place the boats, (for we -were obliged to take two,) are directed. But _you_ can come over in the -same boat that brings this letter, and return in the evening. - -I ought to say that I do not think that there is accommodation for you -all at this inn; and that, even if there were, you would be better off -at Spezzia; but if the Magni House is taken, then there is no possible -reason why you should not take a row over in the boat that will bring -this--but don’t keep the men long. I am anxious to hear from you on -every account. - - Ever yours, - S. - - - TO HORATIO SMITH - - (VERSAILLES). - - _Lerici, May, 1822._ - - My dear Smith, - -It is some time since I have heard from you; are you still at -Versailles? Do you still cling to France, and prefer the arts and -conveniences of that over-civilised country to the beautiful nature and -mighty remains of Italy? As to me, like Anacreon’s swallow, I have left -my Nile, and have taken up my summer quarters here, in a lonely house -close by the sea-side, surrounded by the soft and sublime scenery of -the gulf of Spezzia. I do not write; I have lived too long near Lord -Byron, and the sun has extinguished the glow-worm; for I cannot hope, -with St. John, that “_the light came into the world, and the world knew -it not_.” - -The object of my present letter is, however, a request, and as it -concerns that most odious of all subjects, money, I will put it in the -shortest shape. Godwin’s law-suit, he tells us, is decided against him; -and he is adjudged to pay 900_l._ He writes, of course, to his daughter -in the greatest distress: but we have no money except our income, -nor any means of procuring it. My wife has sent him her novel, which -is now finished, the copyright of which will probably bring him 3 or -400_l._--as Ollier offered the former sum for it, but as he required -a considerable delay for the payment, she rejected his offer. Now, -what I wish to know is, whether you could with convenience lend me the -400_l._ which you once dedicated to this service, and allow Godwin -to have it, under the precautions and stipulations which I formerly -annexed to its employment. You could not obviously allow this money to -lie idle waiting for this event, without interest. I forgot this part -of the business till this instant, and now I reflect that I ought to -have assured you of the regular payment of interest, which I omitted to -mention, considering it a matter of course. - -I can easily imagine that circumstances may have arisen to make this -loan inconvenient or impossible--in any case, believe me, - - My dear Smith, - Yours very gratefully and faithfully, - P. B. Shelley. - - - TO ----[40] - - _Lerici, June 29th, 1822._ - - My dear ----, - - * * * * * - - * * * * * - -Pray thank Moore for his obliging message. I wish I could as easily -convey my sense of his genius and character. I should have written -to him on the subject of my late letter, but that I doubted how far -I was justified in doing so; although, indeed, Lord Byron made no -secret of his communication to me. It seems to me that things have now -arrived at such a crisis as requires every man plainly to utter his -sentiments on the inefficacy of the existing religion, no less than -political systems, for restraining and guiding mankind. Let us see the -truth, whatever that may be. The destiny of man can scarcely be so -degraded, that he was born only to die; and if such should be the case, -delusions, especially the gross and preposterous ones of the existing -religion, can scarcely be supposed to exalt it. If every man said what -he thought, it could not subsist a day. But all, more or less, subdue -themselves to the element that surrounds them, and contribute to the -evils they lament by the hypocrisy that springs from them. - -England appears to be in a desperate condition, Ireland still -worse; and no class of those who subsist on the public labour will -be persuaded that _their_ claims on it must be diminished. But the -government must content itself with less in taxes, the landholder -must submit to receive less rent, and the fundholder a diminished -interest, or they will all get nothing. I once thought to study these -affairs, and write or act in them. I am glad that my good genius said, -_refrain_. I see little public virtue, and I foresee that the contest -will be one of blood and gold, two elements which, however much to my -taste in my pockets and my veins, I have an objection to out of them. - -Lord Byron continues at Leghorn, and has just received from Genoa a -most beautiful little yacht, which he caused to be built there. He -has written two new cantos of “Don Juan,” but I have not seen them. I -have just received a letter from Hunt, who has arrived at Genoa. As -soon as I hear that he has sailed, I shall weigh anchor in my little -schooner, and give him chase to Leghorn, when I must occupy myself in -some arrangements for him with Lord Byron. Between ourselves, I greatly -fear that this alliance will not succeed; for I, who could never have -been regarded as more than the link of the two thunderbolts, cannot now -consent to be even that; and how long the alliance may continue, I will -not prophesy. Pray do not hint my doubts on the subject to any one, or -they might do harm to Hunt; and they _may_ be groundless. - -I still inhabit this divine bay, reading Spanish dramas, and sailing, -and listening to the most enchanting music. We have some friends on a -visit to us, and my only regret is that the summer must ever pass, or -that Mary has not the same predilection for this place that I have, -which would induce me never to shift my quarters. - - Farewell.--Believe me ever your - Affectionate friend, - P. B. Shelley. - -[40] To Horatio Smith. The opening paragraph, omitted by Mrs. Shelley, -has been found, on reference to the original autograph, to refer to the -pecuniary embarrassments of her father, William Godwin, alluded to in -the previous letter.--Ed. - - - TO MRS. WILLIAMS - - (CASA MAGNI). - - _Pisa, July 4, 1822._ - -You will probably see Williams before I can disentangle myself from the -affairs with which I am now surrounded. I return to Leghorn to-night, -and shall urge him to sail with the first fair wind, without expecting -me. I have thus the pleasure of contributing to your happiness when -deprived of every other, and of leaving you no other subject of regret, -but the absence of one scarcely worth regretting. I fear you are -solitary and melancholy at Villa Magni, and, in the intervals of the -greater and more serious distress in which I am compelled to sympathise -here, I figure to myself the countenance which had been the source of -such consolation to me, shadowed by a veil of sorrow. - -How soon those hours passed, and how slowly they return, to pass so -soon again, perhaps for ever, in which we have lived together so -intimately, so happily! Adieu, my dearest friend! I only write these -lines for the pleasure of tracing what will meet your eyes. Mary will -tell you all the news. - - S. - - - TO MRS. SHELLEY - - (CASA MAGNI). - - _Pisa, July 4, 1822._ - - My dearest Mary, - -I have received both your letters, and shall attend to the instructions -they convey. I did not think of buying the Bolivar; Lord Byron wishes -to sell her, but I imagine would prefer ready money. I have as yet -made no inquiries about houses near Pugnano--I have no moment of time -to spare from Hunt’s affairs; I am detained unwillingly here, and you -will probably see Williams in the boat before me,--but that will be -decided to-morrow. - -Things are in the worst possible situation with respect to poor Hunt. -I find Marianne in a desperate state of health, and on our arrival -at Pisa sent for Vaccà. He decides that her case is hopeless, and -that although it will be lingering, must inevitably end fatally. -This decision he thought proper to communicate to Hunt, indicating -at the same time, with great judgment and precision, the treatment -necessary to be observed for availing himself of the chance of his -being deceived. This intelligence has extinguished the last spark of -poor Hunt’s spirits, low enough before. The children are well and much -improved. - -Lord Byron is at this moment on the point of leaving Tuscany. The -Gambas have been exiled, and he declares his intention of following -their fortunes. His first idea was to sail to America, which was -changed to Switzerland, then to Genoa, and last to Lucca. Everybody is -in despair, and everything in confusion. Trelawny was on the point of -sailing to Genoa for the purpose of transporting the Bolivar overland -to the lake of Geneva, and had already whispered in my ear his desire -that I should not influence Lord Byron against this terrestrial -navigation. He next received _orders_ to weigh anchor and set sail for -Lerici. He is now without instructions, moody and disappointed. But it -is the worst for poor Hunt, unless the present storm should blow over. -He places his whole dependence upon the scheme of a journal, for which -every arrangement has been made. Lord Byron must of course furnish -the requisite funds at present, as I cannot; but he seems inclined to -depart without the necessary explanations and arrangements due to such -a situation as Hunt’s. These, in spite of delicacy, I must procure; -he offers him the copyright of the Vision of Judgment for the first -number. This offer, if sincere, is _more_ than enough to set up the -journal, and, if sincere, will set everything right. - -How are you, my best Mary? Write especially how is your health, and how -your spirits are, and whether you are not more reconciled to staying at -Lerici, at least during the summer. - -You have no idea how I am hurried and occupied; I have not a moment’s -leisure, but will write by next post. - -Ever, dearest Mary, Yours affectionately, S. - -I have found the translation of the Symposium. - - - - -[Decoration] - - - - - MISCELLANEOUS - ESSAYS AND LETTERS. - - - - - A LETTER TO LORD ELLENBOROUGH, - - Occasioned by the Sentence which he passed on - Mr. D. I. EATON, - As Publisher of - The Third part of Paine’s age of reason. - - - Deorum offensa, Diis curæ. - - - --It is contrary to the mild spirit of the Christian - Religion, for no sanction can be found under that - dispensation which will warrant a Government to impose - disabilities and penalties upon any man, on account of his - religious opinions. [_Hear, Hear._] - - Marquis Wellesley’s Speech. Globe, July 2. - - -ADVERTISEMENT. - -_I have waited impatiently for these last four months, in the hopes -that some pen, fitter for the important task, would have spared me the -perilous pleasure of becoming the champion of an innocent man.--This -may serve as an excuse for delay, to those who think that I have let -pass the aptest opportunity, but it is not to be supposed that in four -short months the public indignation, raised by Mr. Eaton’s unmerited -suffering, can have subsided._ - - - - - LETTER. - - My Lord, - -As the station to which you have been called by your country is -important, so much the more awful is your responsibility, so much the -more does it become you to watch lest you inadvertently punish the -virtuous and reward the vicious. - -You preside over a court which is instituted for the suppression of -crime, and to whose authority the people submit on no other conditions -than that its decrees should be conformable to justice. - -If it should be demonstrated that a judge had condemned an innocent -man, the bare existence of laws in conformity to which the accused -is punished, would but little extenuate his offence. The inquisitor -when he burns an obstinate heretic may set up a similar plea, yet few -are sufficiently blinded by intolerance to acknowledge its validity. -It will less avail such a judge to assert the policy of punishing -one who has committed no crime. Policy and morality ought to be -deemed synonymous in a court of justice, and he whose conduct has -been regulated by the latter principle, is not justly amenable to any -penal law for a supposed violation of the former. It is true, my Lord, -laws exist which suffice to screen you from the animadversions of any -constituted power, in consequence of the unmerited sentence which you -have passed upon Mr. Eaton; but there are no laws which screen you -from the reproof of a nation’s disgust, none which ward off the just -judgment of posterity, if that posterity will deign to recollect you. - -By what right do you punish Mr. Eaton? What but antiquated precedents, -gathered from times of priestly and tyrannical domination, can be -adduced in palliation of an outrage so insulting to humanity and -justice? Whom has he injured? What crime has he committed? Wherefore -may he not walk abroad like other men and follow his accustomed -pursuits? What end is proposed in confining this man, charged with the -commission of no dishonourable action? Wherefore did his aggressor -avail himself of popular prejudice, and return no answer but one of -common place contempt to a defence of plain and simple sincerity? -Lastly, when the prejudices of the jury, as Christians, were strongly -and unfairly inflamed[41] against this injured man as a Deist, -wherefore did not you, my Lord, check such unconstitutional pleading, -and desire the jury to pronounce the accused innocent or criminal[42] -without reference to the particular faith which he professed? - -In the name of justice, what answer is there to these questions? The -answer which Heathen Athens made to Socrates, is the same with which -Christian England must attempt to silence the advocates of this injured -man--“He has questioned established opinions.”--Alas! the crime of -enquiry is one which religion never has forgiven. Implicit faith -and fearless enquiry have in all ages been irreconcileable enemies. -Unrestrained philosophy has in every age opposed itself to the reveries -of credulity and fanaticism.--The truths of astronomy demonstrated -by Newton have superseded astrology; since the modern discoveries in -chemistry the philosopher’s stone has no longer been deemed attainable. -Miracles of every kind have become rare, in proportion to the hidden -principles which those who study nature have developed. That which -is false will ultimately be controverted by its own falsehood. That -which is true needs but publicity to be acknowledged. It is ever a -proof that the falsehood of a proposition is felt by those who use -power and coercion, not reasoning and persuasion, to procure its -admission.--Falsehood skulks in holes and corners, “it lets I dare -not wait upon I would, like the poor cat in the adage,”[43] except -when it has power, and then, as it was a coward, it is a tyrant; but -the eagle-eye of truth darts through the undazzling sunbeam of the -immutable and just, gathering thence wherewith to vivify and illuminate -a universe! - -Wherefore, I repeat, is Mr. Eaton punished?--Because he is a -Deist?--And what are you, my Lord?--A Christian. Ha then! the mask is -fallen off; you persecute him because his faith differs from yours. -You copy the persecutors of Christianity in your actions, and are -an additional proof that your religion is as bloody, barbarous, and -intolerant as theirs.--If some deistical Bigot in power (supposing such -a character for the sake of illustration) should in dark and barbarous -ages have enacted a statute making the profession of christianity -criminal, if you my Lord were a christian bookseller, and Mr. Eaton a -judge, those arguments which you consider adequate to justify yourself -for the sentence which you have passed must likewise suffice, in this -suppositionary case to justify Mr. Eaton, in sentencing you to Newgate -and the pillory for being a christian. Whence is any right derived but -that which power confers for persecution? Do you think to convert Mr. -Eaton to your religion by embittering his existence? You might force -him by torture to profess your tenets, but he could not believe them, -except you should make them credible, which perhaps exceeds your power. -Do you think to please the God you worship by this exhibition of your -zeal? If so, the Demon to whom some nations offer human hecatombs is -less barbarous than the Deity of civilized society. - -You consider man as an accountable being--but he can only be -accountable for those actions which are influenced by his will. - -Belief and disbelief are utterly distinct from and unconnected with -volition. They are the apprehension of the agreement or disagreement -of the ideas which compose any proposition. Belief is an involuntary -operation of the mind, and, like other passions, its intensity is -precisely proportionate to the degrees of excitement. Volition is -essential to merit or demerit. How then can merit or demerit be -attached to what is distinct from that faculty of the mind whose -presence is essential to their being? I am aware that religion is -founded on the voluntariness of belief, as it makes it a subject of -reward and punishment; but before we extinguish the steady ray of -reason and common sense, it is fit that we should discover, which we -cannot do without their assistance, whether or no there be any other -which may suffice to guide us through the labyrinth of life. - -If the law ‘de heretico comburendo’ has not been formally repealed, -I conceive that, from the promise held out by your Lordship’s zeal, -we need not despair of beholding the flames of persecution rekindled -in Smithfield. Even now the lash that drove Descartes and Voltaire -from their native country, the chains which bound Galileo, the -flames which burned Vanini, again resound:--And where? in a nation -that presumptuously calls itself the sanctuary of freedom. Under a -government which, whilst it infringes the very right of thought and -speech, boasts of permitting the liberty of the press; in a civilized -and enlightened country, a man is pilloried and imprisoned because he -is a Deist, and no one raises his voice in the indignation of outraged -humanity. Does the Christian God, whom his followers eulogize as the -Deity of humility and peace; he, the regenerator of the world, the -meek reformer, authorize one man to rise against another, and because -lictors are at his beck, to chain and torture him as an Infidel? - -When the Apostles went abroad to convert the nations, were they -enjoined to stab and poison all who disbelieved the divinity of -Christ’s mission; assuredly, they would have been no more justifiable -in this case than he is at present who puts into execution the law -which inflicts pillory and imprisonment on the Deist. - -Has not Mr. Eaton an equal right to call your Lordship an Infidel, as -you have to imprison him for promulgating a different doctrine from -that which you profess?--What do I say!--Has he not even a stronger -plea?--The word _Infidel_ can only mean any thing when applied to a -person who professes that which he disbelieves. The test of truth is -an undivided reliance on its inclusive powers;--the test of conscious -falsehood is the variety of the forms under which it presents itself, -and its tendency towards employing whatever coercive means may be -within its command, in order to procure the admission of what is -unsusceptible of support from reason or persuasion. A dispassionate -observer would feel himself more powerfully interested in favor of -a man, who depending on the truth of his opinions, simply stated -his reasons for entertaining them, than in that of his aggressor, -who daringly avowing his unwillingness to answer them by argument, -proceeded to repress the activity and break the spirit of their -promulgator, by that torture and imprisonment whose infliction he could -command. - -I hesitate not to affirm that the opinions which Mr. Eaton -sustained, when undergoing that mockery of a trial at which your -Lordship presided, appear to me more true and good than those of his -accuser;--but were they false as the visions of a Calvinist, it still -would be the duty of those who love liberty and virtue, to raise their -voice indignantly against a reviving system of persecution, against -the coercively repressing any opinion, which, if false, needs but the -opposition of truth; which, if true, in spite of force, must ultimately -prevail. - -Mr. Eaton asserted that the scriptures were, from beginning to end, a -fable and imposture,[44] that the Apostles were liars and deceivers. He -denied the miracles, resurrection, and ascension of Jesus Christ.--He -did so, and the Attorney General denied the propositions which he -asserted, and asserted those which he denied. What singular conclusion -is deducible from this fact? None, but that the Attorney General and -Mr. Eaton sustained two opposite opinions. The Attorney General puts -some obsolete and tyrannical laws in force against Mr. Eaton, because -he publishes a book tending to prove that certain supernatural events, -which are supposed to have taken place eighteen centuries ago, in a -remote corner of the world, did not actually take place. But how are -the truth or falsehood of the facts in dispute relevant to the merit -or demerit attachable to the advocates of the two opinions? No man is -accountable for his belief, because no man is capable of directing it. -Mr. Eaton is therefore totally blameless. What are we to think of the -justice of a sentence, which punishes an individual against whom it is -not even attempted to attach the slightest stain of criminality? - -It is asserted that Mr. Eaton’s opinions are calculated to subvert -morality--How? What moral truth is spoken of with irreverence or -ridicule in the book which he published? Morality, or the duty of a -man and a citizen, is founded on the relations which arise from the -association of human beings, and which vary with the circumstances -produced by the different states of this association.--This duty -in similar situations must be precisely the same in all ages and -nations.--The opinion contrary to this has arisen from a supposition -that the will of God is the source or criterion of morality: it is -plain that the utmost exertion of Omnipotence could not cause that to -be virtuous which actually is vicious. An all-powerful Demon might, -indubitably, annex punishments to virtue and rewards to vice, but -could not by these means effect the slightest change in their abstract -and immutable natures.--Omnipotence could vary, by a providential -interposition, the relations of human society;--in this latter case, -what before was virtuous would become vicious, according to the -necessary and natural result of the alteration; but the abstract -natures of the opposite principles would have sustained not the -slightest change; for instance, the punishment with which society -restrains the robber, the assassin, and the ravisher is just, laudable, -and requisite. We admire and respect the institutions which curb those -who would defeat the ends for which society was established;--but, -should a precisely similar coercion be exercised against one who merely -expressed his disbelief of a system admitted by those entrusted with -the executive power, using at the same time no methods of promulgation -but those afforded by reason, certainly this coercion would be -eminently inhuman and immoral; and the supposition that any revelation -from an unknown power avails to palliate a persecution so senseless, -unprovoked, and indefensible, is at once to destroy the barrier which -reason places between vice and virtue, and leave to unprincipled -fanaticism a plea whereby it may excuse every act of frenzy, which its -own wild passions, not the inspirations of the Deity, have engendered. - -Moral qualities are such as only a human being can possess. To -attribute them to the Spirit of the Universe, or to suppose that it is -capable of altering them, is to degrade God into man, and to annex to -this incomprehensible being qualities incompatible with any _possible_ -definition of his nature. It may here be objected--Ought not the -Creator to possess the perfections of the creature? No. To attribute -to God the moral qualities of man, is to suppose him susceptible of -passions which, arising out of corporeal organisation, it is plain -that a pure spirit cannot possess. A bear is not perfect except he -is rough, a tyger is not perfect if he be not voracious, an elephant -is not perfect if otherwise than docile. How _deep_ an argument must -that not be which proves that the Deity is as rough as a bear, as -voracious as a tyger, and as docile as an elephant! But even suppose -with the vulgar, that God is a venerable old man, seated on a throne -of clouds, his breast the theatre of various passions, analogous -to those of humanity, his will changeable and uncertain as that of -an earthly king,--still goodness and justice are qualities seldom -nominally denied him, and it will be admitted that he disapproves of -any action incompatible with these qualities. Persecution for opinion -is unjust. With what consistency, then, can the worshippers of a Deity -whose benevolence they boast, embitter the existence of their fellow -being, because his ideas of that Deity are different from those which -they entertain.--Alas! there is no consistency in those persecutors who -worship a benevolent Deity; those who worship a Demon would alone act -consonantly to these principles, by imprisoning and torturing in his -name. - -Persecution is the only name applicable to punishment inflicted on an -individual in consequence of his opinions.--What end is persecution -designed to answer? Can it convince him whom it injures? Can it prove -to the people the falsehood of his opinions? It may make _him_ a -hypocrite, and them cowards, but bad means can promote no good end. The -unprejudiced mind looks with suspicion on a doctrine that needs the -sustaining hand of power. - -Socrates was poisoned because he dared to combat the degrading -superstitions in which his countrymen were educated. Not long after his -death, Athens recognized the injustice of his sentence; his accuser -Melitus was condemned, and Socrates became a demigod. - -Jesus Christ was crucified because he attempted to supersede the ritual -of Moses with regulations more moral and humane--his very judge made -public acknowledgment of his innocence, but a bigotted and ignorant mob -demanded the deed of horror.--Barabbas the murderer and traitor was -released. The meek reformer Jesus was immolated to the sanguinary Deity -of the Jews. Time rolled on, time changed the situations, and with -them, the opinions of men. - -The vulgar, ever in extremes, became persuaded that the crucifixion -of Jesus was a supernatural event, and testimonies of miracles, so -frequent in unenlightened ages, were not wanting to prove that he was -something divine. This belief, rolling through the lapse of ages, -acquired force and extent, until the divinity of Jesus became a dogma, -which to dispute was death, which to doubt was infamy. - -_Christianity_ is now the established religion; he who attempts to -disprove it, must behold murderers and traitors take precedence of him -in public opinion, though, if his genius be equal to his courage, and -assisted by a peculiar coalition of circumstances, future ages may -exalt him to a divinity, and persecute others in his name, as he was -persecuted in the name of his predecessor, in the homage of the world. - -The same means that have supported every other popular belief, have -supported Christianity. War, imprisonment, murder, and falsehood; deeds -of unexampled and incomparable atrocity have made it what it is. We -derive from our ancestors a belief thus fostered and supported.--We -quarrel, persecute, and hate for its maintenance.--Does not analogy -favour the opinion that, as like other systems it has arisen and -augmented, so like them it will decay and perish; that, as violence and -falsehood, not reasoning and persuasion, have procured its admission -among mankind; so, when enthusiasm has subsided, and time, that -infallible controverter of false opinions, has involved its pretended -evidences in the darkness of antiquity, it will become obsolete, and -that men will then laugh as heartily at grace, faith, redemption, -and original sin, as they now do at the metamorphoses of Jupiter, -the miracles of Romish saints, the efficacy of witchcraft, and the -appearance of departed spirits. - -Had the christian religion commenced and continued by the mere force of -reasoning and persuasion, by its self-evident excellence and fitness, -the preceding analogy would be inadmissible. We should never speculate -upon the future obsoleteness of a system perfectly conformable to -nature and reason. It would endure so long as they endured, it would -be a truth as indisputable as the light of the sun, the criminality -of murder, and other facts, physical and moral, which, depending on -our organization, and relative situations, must remain acknowledged so -long as man is man.--It is an incontrovertible fact, the consideration -of which ought to repress the hasty conclusions of credulity, or -moderate its obstinacy in maintaining them, that, had the Jews not -been a barbarous and fanatical race of men, had even the resolution -of Pontius Pilate been equal to his candour, the christian religion -never could have prevailed, it could not even have existed. Man! -the very existence of whose most cherished opinions depends from a -thread so feeble, arises out of a source so equivocal, learn at least -humility; own at least that it is possible for thyself also to have -been seduced by education and circumstance into the admission of tenets -destitute of rational proof, and the truth of which has not yet been -satisfactorily demonstrated. Acknowledge at least that the falsehood -of thy brother’s opinions is no sufficient reason for his meriting -thy hatred.--What! because a fellow being disputes the reasonableness -of thy faith, wilt thou punish him with torture and imprisonment? If -persecution for religious opinions were admitted by the moralist, how -wide a door would not be opened by which convulsionists of every kind -might make inroads on the peace of society! How many deeds of barbarism -and blood would not receive a sanction!--But I will demand, if that -man is not rather entitled to the respect than the discountenance of -society, who, by disputing a received doctrine, either proves its -falsehood and inutility, thereby aiming at the abolition of what -is false and useless, or giving to its adherents an opportunity of -establishing its excellence and truth.--Surely this can be no crime. -Surely the individual who devotes his time to fearless and unrestricted -inquiry into the grand questions arising out of our moral nature, -ought rather to receive the patronage, than encounter the vengeance, -of an enlightened legislature. I would have you to know, my Lord, -that fetters of iron cannot bind or subdue the soul of virtue. From -the damps and solitude of its dungeon it ascends free and undaunted, -whither thine, from the pompous seat of judgment, dare not soar. I do -not warn you to beware lest your profession as a Christian, should make -you forget that you are a man;--but I warn you against festinating -that period, which, under the present coercive system, is too rapidly -maturing, when the seats of justice shall be the seats of venality and -slavishness, and the cells of Newgate become the abode of all that is -honorable and true. - -I mean not to compare Mr. Eaton with Socrates or Jesus; he is a man -of blameless and respectable character, he is a citizen unimpeached -with crime; if, therefore, his rights as a citizen and a man have been -infringed, they have been infringed by illegal and immoral violence. -But I will assert that, should a second Jesus arise among men; -should such a one as Socrates again enlighten the earth, lengthened -imprisonment and infamous punishment (according to the regimen of -persecution revived by your Lordship) would effect, what hemlock and -the cross have heretofore effected, and the stain on the national -character, like that on Athens and Judea, would remain indelible, -but by the destruction of the history in which it is recorded. When -the Christian Religion shall have faded from the earth, when its -memory like that of Polytheism now shall remain, but remain only as -the subject of ridicule and wonder, indignant posterity would attach -immortal infamy to such an outrage; like the murder of Socrates, it -would secure the execration of every age. - -The horrible and wide-wasting enormities which gleam like comets -through the darkness of gothic and superstitious ages, are regarded by -the moralist as no more than the necessary effects of known causes; -but, when an enlightened age and nation signalizes itself by a deed, -becoming none but barbarians and fanatics, Philosophy itself is even -induced to doubt whether human nature will ever emerge from the -pettishness and imbecility of its childhood. The system of persecution -at whose new birth, you, my Lord, are one of the presiding midwives, -is not more impotent and wicked than inconsistent. The press is loaded -with what are called (ironically, I should conceive) _proofs_ of the -Christian Religion: these books are replete with invective and calumny -against Infidels, they presuppose that he who rejects Christianity -must be utterly divested of reason and feeling. They advance the most -unsupported assertions, and take as first principles the most revolting -dogmas. The inferences drawn from these assumed premises are imposingly -logical and correct; but if a foundation is weak, no architect is -needed to foretell the instability of the superstructure.--If the -truth of Christianity is not disputable, for what purpose are these -books written? If they are sufficient to prove it, what further -need of controversy? _If God has spoken, why is not the universe -convinced?_ If the Christian Religion needs deeper learning, more -painful investigation, to establish its genuineness, wherefore attempt -to accomplish that by force, which the human mind can alone effect with -satisfaction to itself? If, lastly, its truth _cannot_ be demonstrated, -wherefore impotently attempt to snatch from God the government of his -creation, and impiously assert that the Spirit of Benevolence has left -that knowledge most essential to the well being of man, the only one -which, since its promulgation, has been the subject of unceasing cavil, -the cause of irreconcileable hatred?--Either the Christian Religion is -true, or it is not. If true, it comes from God, and its authenticity -can admit of doubt and dispute no further than its Omnipotent Author is -willing to allow;--if true, it admits of rational proof, and is capable -of being placed equally beyond controversy, as the principles which -have been established concerning matter and mind, by Locke and Newton; -and in proportion to the usefulness of the fact in dispute, so must it -be supposed that a benevolent being is anxious to procure the diffusion -of its knowledge on the earth.--If false, surely no enlightened -legislature would punish the reasoner, who opposes a system so much the -more fatal and pernicious as it is extensively admitted; so much the -more productive of absurd and ruinous consequences, as it is entwined -by education, with the prejudices and affections of the human heart, in -the shape of a popular belief. - -Let us suppose that some half-witted philosopher should assert that the -earth was the centre of the universe, or that ideas could enter the -human mind independently of sensation or reflection. This man would -assert what is demonstrably incorrect;--he would promulgate a false -opinion. Yet, would he therefore deserve pillory and imprisonment? -By no means; probably few would discharge more correctly the duties -of a citizen and a man. I admit that the case above stated is not -precisely in point. The thinking part of the community has not received -as indisputable the truth of Christianity, as they have that of the -Newtonian system. A very large portion of society, and that powerfully -and extensively connected, derives its sole emolument from the belief -of Christianity, as a popular faith. - -To torture and imprison the asserter of a dogma, however ridiculous -and false, is highly barbarous and impolitic:--How, then, does not the -cruelty of persecution become aggravated when it is directed against -the opposer of an opinion _yet under dispute_, and which men of -unrivalled acquirements, penetrating genius, and stainless virtue, have -spent, and at last sacrificed, their lives in combating. - -The time is rapidly approaching, I hope, that you, my Lord, may live -to behold its arrival, when the Mahometan, the Jew, the Christian, the -Deist, and the Atheist, will live together in one community, equally -sharing the benefits which arise from its association, and united in -the bonds of charity and brotherly love.--My Lord, you have condemned -an innocent man--no crime was imputed to him--and you sentenced him -to torture and imprisonment. I have not addressed this letter to you -with the hopes of convincing you that you have acted wrong. The most -unprincipled and barbarous of men are not unprepared with sophisms, -to prove that they would have acted in no other manner, and to show -that vice is virtue. But I raise my solitary voice, to express my -disapprobation, so far as it goes, of the cruel and unjust sentence -you passed upon Mr. Eaton; to assert, so far as I am capable of -influencing, those rights of humanity, which you have wantonly and -unlawfully infringed. - - My Lord, - Yours, &c. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[41] See the Attorney General’s speech. - -[42] By Mr. Fox’s bill (1791) Juries are, in cases of libel, judges -both of the law and the fact. - -[43] Shakespeare. - -[44] See the Attorney General’s Speech. - - - - -[Decoration] - - PRINCE ALEXY HAIMATOFF.[45] - - [_Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff._ Translated from the - original Latin MSS. under the immediate inspection of - the Prince. By John Brown, Esq. Pp. 236, 12mo. Hookham, - 1814.][46] - - -Is the suffrage of mankind the legitimate criterion of intellectual -energy? Are complaints of the aspirants to literary fame to be -considered as the honourable disappointment of neglected genius, -or the sickly impatience of a dreamer miserably self deceived? the -most illustrious ornaments of the annals of the human race have been -stigmatised by the contempt and abhorrence of entire communities of -man; but this injustice arose out of some temporary superstition, some -partial interest, some national doctrine: a glorious redemption awaited -their remembrance. There is indeed, nothing so remarkable in the -contempt of the ignorant for the enlightened: the vulgar pride of folly -delights to triumph upon mind. This is an intelligible process: the -infamy or ingloriousness that can be thus explained detracts nothing -from the beauty of virtue or the sublimity of genius. But what does -utter obscurity express? If the public do not advert even in censure to -a performance, has that performance already received its condemnation? - -The result of this controversy is important to the ingenuous critic. -His labours are indeed miserably worthless if their objects may -invariably be attained before their application. He should know the -limits of his prerogative. He should not be ignorant, whether it is his -duty to promulgate the decisions of others, or to cultivate his taste -and judgment, that he may be enabled to render a reason for his own. - -Circumstances the least connected with intellectual nature have -contributed, for a certain period, to retain in obscurity the most -memorable specimens of human genius. The author refrains perhaps from -introducing his production to the world with all the pomp of empirical -bibliopolism. A sudden tide in the affairs of men may make the neglect -or contradiction of some insignificant doctrine a badge of obscurity -and discredit: those even who are exempt from the action of these -absurd predilections are necessarily in an indirect manner affected by -their influence. It is perhaps the product of an imagination daring -and undisciplined: the majority of readers ignorant and disdaining -toleration refuse to pardon a neglect of common rules; their canons of -criticism are carelessly infringed, it is less religious than a charity -sermon, less methodical and cold than a French tragedy, where all the -unities are preserved: no excellencies, where prudish cant and dull -regularity are absent, can preserve it from the contempt and abhorrence -of the multitude. It is evidently not difficult to imagine an instance -in which the most elevated genius shall be recompensed with neglect. -Mediocrity alone seems unvaryingly to escape rebuke and obloquy, it -accommodates its attempts to the spirit of the age which has produced -it, and adopts with mimic effrontery the cant of the day and hour for -which alone it lives. - -We think that “the Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff” deserves to be -regarded as an example of the fact by the frequency of which criticism -is vindicated from the imputation of futility and impertinence. We do -not hesitate to consider this fiction as the product of a bold and -original mind. We hardly remember ever to have seen surpassed the -subtle delicacy of imagination, by which the manifest distinctions of -character and form are seized and pictured in colours that almost make -nature more beautiful than herself. The vulgar observe no resemblances -or discrepancies, but such as are gross and glaring. The science of -mind to which history, poetry, biography serve as the materials, -consists in the discernment of shades and distinctions where the -unenlightened discover nothing but a shapeless and unmeaning mass. -The faculty for this discernment distinguishes genius from dulness. -There are passages in the production before us which afford instances -of just and rapid intuition belonging only to intelligences that -possess this faculty in no ordinary degree. As a composition the book -is far from faultless. Its abruptness and angularities do not appear -to have received the slightest polish or correction. The author has -written with fervour, but has disdained to revise at leisure. These -errors are the errors of youth and genius and the fervid impatience -of sensibilities impetuously disburthening their fulness. The author -is proudly negligent of connecting the incidents of his tale. It -appears more like the recorded day dream of a poet, not unvisited by -the sublimest and most lovely visions, than the tissue of a romance -skilfully interwoven for the purpose of maintaining the interest of -the reader, and conducting his sympathies by dramatic gradations to -the denoûment. It is, what it professes to be, a memoir, not a novel. -Yet its claims to the former appellation are established, only by -the impatience and inexperience of the author, who, possessing in -an eminent degree, the higher qualifications of a novelist, we had -almost said a poet, has neglected the number by which that success -would probably have been secured, which, in this instance, merits of -a far nobler stamp have unfortunately failed to acquire. Prince Alexy -is by no means an unnatural, although no common character. We think -we can discern his counterpart in Alfieri’s delineation of himself. -The same propensities, the same ardent devotion to his purposes, the -same chivalric and unproductive attachment to unbounded liberty, -characterises both. We are inclined to doubt whether the author has -not attributed to his hero the doctrines of universal philanthropy -in a spirit of profound and almost unsearchable irony: at least he -appears biassed by no peculiar principles, and it were perhaps an -insoluble inquiry whether any, and if any, what moral truth he designed -to illustrate by his tale. Bruhle, the tutor of Alexy, is a character -delineated with consummate skill; the power of intelligence and virtue -over external deficiencies is forcibly exemplified. The calmness, -patience and magnanimity of this singular man, are truly rare and -admirable: his disinterestedness, his equanimity, his irresistible -gentleness, form a finished and delightful portrait. But we cannot -regard his commendation to his pupil to indulge in promiscuous -concubinage without horror and detestation. The author appears to deem -the loveless intercourse of brutal appetite a venial offence against -delicacy and virtue! he asserts that a transient connexion with a -cultivated female may contribute to form the heart without essentially -vitiating the sensibilities. It is our duty to protest against so -pernicious and disgusting an opinion. No man can rise pure from the -poisonous embraces of a prostitute, or sinless from the desolated -hopes of a confiding heart. Whatever may be the claims of chastity, -whatever the advantages of simple and pure affections, these ties, -these benefits, are of equal obligation to either sex. Domestic -relations depend for their integrity upon a complete reciprocity of -duties. But the author himself has in the adventure of the Sultana, -Debesh-Sheptuti, afforded a most impressive and tremendous allegory of -the cold-blooded and malignant selfishness of sensuality. - -We are incapacitated by the unconnected and vague narrative from -forming an analysis of the incidents: they would consist indeed, simply -of a catalogue of events, and which, divested of the aërial tinge of -genius, might appear trivial and common. We shall content ourselves, -therefore, with selecting some passages calculated to exemplify the -peculiar powers of the author. The following description of the simple -and interesting Rosalie is in the highest style of delineation:-- - - “Her hair was unusually black, she truly had raven locks, - the same glossiness, the same varying shade, the same - mixture of purple and sable for which the plumage of the - raven is remarkable, were found in the long elastic tresses - depending from her head and covering her shoulders. Her - complexion was dark and clear: the colours which composed - the brown that dyed her smooth skin, were so well mixed, - that not one blot, not one varied tinge, injured its - brightness, and when the blush of animation or of modesty - flushed her cheek, the tint was so rare, that could a - painter have dipped his pencil in it, that single shade - would have rendered him immortal. The bone above her eye - was sharp, and beautifully curved; much as I have admired - the wonderful properties of curves, I am convinced that - their most stupendous properties collected would fall far - short of that magic line. The eyebrow was pencilled with - extreme nicety; in the centre it consisted of the deepest - shade of black, at the edges it was hardly perceptible, - and no man could have been hardy enough to have attempted - to define the precise spot at which it ceased: in short - the velvet drapery of the eyebrow was only to be rivalled - by the purple of the long black eyelashes that terminated - the ample curtain. Rosalie’s eyes were large and full; - they appeared at a distance uniformly dark, but upon close - inspection the innumerable strokes of various hues of - infinite fineness and endless variety, drawn in concentric - circles behind the pellucid crystal, filled the mind with - wonder and admiration, and could only be the work of - infinite power directed by infinite wisdom.” - -Alexy’s union with Aür-Ahebeh the Circassian slave is marked by -circumstances of deep pathos, and the sweetest tenderness of sentiment. -The description of his misery and madness at her death deserves to be -remarked as affording evidence of an imagination vast, profound and -full of energy. - - “Alexy, who gained the friendship, perhaps the love of the - native Rosalie: the handsome Haimatoff, the philosophic - Haimatoff, the haughty Haimatoff, Haimatoff the gay, the - witty, the accomplished, the bold hunter, the friend of - liberty, the chivalric lover of all that is feminine, the - hero, the enthusiast: see him now, that is he, mark him! he - appears in the shades of evening, he stalks as a spectre, - he has just risen from the damps of the charnel-house; see, - the dews still hang on his forehead. He will vanish at - cock-crowing, he never heard the song of the lark, nor the - busy hum of men; the sun’s rays never warmed him, the pale - moonbeam alone shows his unearthly figure, which is fanned - by the wing of the owl, which scarce obstructs the slow - flight of the droning beetle, or of the drowsy bat. Mark - him! he stops, his lean arms are crossed on his bosom; he - is bowed to the earth, his sunken eye gazes from its deep - cavity on vacuity, as the toad skulking in the corner of a - sepulchre, peeps with malignity through the circumambient - gloom. His cheek is hollow; the glowing tints of his - complexion, which once resembled the autumnal sunbeam on - the autumnal beech, are gone, the cadaverous yellow, the - livid hue, have usurped their place, the sable honours of - his head have perished, they once waved in the wind like - the jetty pinions of the raven, the skull is only covered - by the shrivelled skin, which the rook views wistfully, and - calls to her young ones. His gaunt bones start from his - wrinkled garments, his voice is deep, hollow, sepulchral; - it is the voice which wakes the dead, he has long held - converse with the departed. He attempts to walk he knows - not whither, his legs totter under him, he falls, the boys - hoot him, the dogs bark at him, he hears them not, he sees - them not.--Rest there, Alexy, it beseemeth thee, thy bed is - the grave, thy bride is the worm, yet once thou stoodest - erect, thy cheek was flushed with joyful ardour, thy eye - blazing told what thy head conceived, what thy heart felt, - thy limbs were vigour and activity, thy bosom expanded with - pride, ambition, and desire, every nerve thrilled to feel, - every muscle swelled to execute. - - “Haimatoff, the blight has tainted thee, thou ample roomy - web of life, whereon were traced the gaudy characters, - the gay embroidery of pleasure, how has the moth battened - on thee; Haimatoff, how has the devouring flame scorched - the plains, once yellow with the harvest! the simoon, the - parching breath of the desert, has swept over the laughing - plains, the carpet of verdure rolled away at its approach, - and has bared amid desolation. Thou stricken deer, thy - leather coat, thy dappled hide hangs loose upon thee, it - was a deadly arrow, how has it wasted thee, thou scathed - oak, how has the red lightning drank thy sap: Haimatoff, - Haimatoff, eat thy soul with vexation. Let the immeasurable - ocean roll between thee and pride: you must not dwell - together,” p. 129 - -The episode of Viola is affecting, natural, and beautiful. We do not -ever remember to have seen the unforgiving fastidiousness of family -honour more awfully illustrated. After the death of her lover, Viola -still expects that he will esteem, still cherishes the delusion that he -is not lost to her for ever. - - “She used frequently to go to the window to look for him, - or walk in the Park to meet him, but without the least - impatience, at his delay. She learnt a new tune, or a new - song to amuse him, she stood behind the door to startle him - as he entered, or disguised herself to surprise him.” - -The character of Mary, deserves, we think, to be considered as the -only complete failure in the book. Every other female whom the author -has attempted to describe is designated by an individuality peculiarly -marked and true. They constitute finished portraits of whatever is -eminently simple, graceful, gentle, or disgustingly atrocious and vile. -Mary alone is the miserable parasite of fashion, the tame slave of -drivelling and drunken folly, the cold-hearted coquette, the lying and -meretricious prude. The means employed to gain this worthless prize -corresponds exactly with its worthlessness. Sir Fulke Hildebrand is -a strenuous Tory, Alexy, on his arrival in England professes himself -inclined to the principles of the Whig party, finding that the Baronet -had sworn that his daughter should never marry a Whig, he sacrifices -his principles and with inconceivable effrontery thus palliates his -apostasy and falsehood. - - “The prejudices of the Baronet were strong in proportion - as they were irrational. I resolved rather to humour - than to thwart them. I contrived to be invited to dine - in company with him; I always proposed the health of the - minister, I introduced politics and defended the Tory party - in long speeches, I attended clubs and public dinners - of that interest. I do not know whether this conduct - was justifiable; it may certainly be excused when the - circumstances of my case are duly considered. I would tear - myself in pieces if I suspected that I could be guilty - of the slightest falsehood or prevarication; (see Lord - Chesterfield’s Letters for the courtier-like distinction - between simulation and dissimulation,) but there was - nothing of that sort here. I was of no party, consequently, - I could not be accused of deserting any one. I did not - defend the injustice of any body of men, I did not detract - from the merits of any virtuous character. I praised - what was laudable in the Tory party, and blamed what was - reprehensible in the Whigs: I was silent with regard to - whatever was culpable in the former or praiseworthy in - the latter. The stratagem was innocent which injured no - one, and which promoted the happiness of two individuals, - especially of the most amiable woman the world ever knew.” - -An instance of more deplorable perversity of the human understanding -we do not recollect ever to have witnessed. It almost persuades us -to believe that scepticism or indifference concerning certain sacred -truths may occasionally produce a subtlety of sophism, by which the -conscience of the criminal may be bribed to overlook his crime. - -Towards the conclusion of this strange and powerful performance it -must be confessed that _aliquando bonus dormitat Homerus_. The -adventure of the Eleutheri,[47] although the sketch of a profounder -project, is introduced and concluded with unintelligible abruptness. -Bruhle dies, purposely as it should seem that his pupil may renounce -the romantic sublimity of his nature, and that his inauspicious union -and prostituted character might be exempt from the censure of violated -friendship. Numerous indications of profound and vigorous thought are -scattered over even the most negligently compacted portions of the -narrative. It is an unweeded garden where nightshade is interwoven with -sweet jessamine, and the most delicate spices of the east peep over -struggling stalks of rank and poisonous hemlock. - -In the delineation of the more evanescent feelings and uncommon -instances of strong and delicate passion we conceive the author to -have exhibited new and unparalleled powers. He has noticed some -peculiarities of female character with a delicacy and truth singularly -exquisite. We think that the interesting subject of sexual relations -requires for its successful development the application of a mind thus -organised and endowed. Yet even here how great the deficiencies; this -mind must be pure from the fashionable superstitions of gallantry, must -be exempt from the sordid feelings which with blind idolatry worship -the image and blaspheme the deity, reverence the type, and degrade the -reality of which it is an emblem. - -We do not hesitate to assert that the author of this volume is a man of -ability. His great though indisciplinable energies and fervid rapidity -of conception embody scenes and situations, and passions affording -inexhaustible food for wonder and delight. The interest is deep and -irresistible. A moral enchanter seems to have conjured up the shapes -of all that is beautiful and strange to suspend the faculties in -fascination and astonishment. - - -FOOTNOTES: - -[45] From _The Critical Review_, December 1814, vol. vi. pp. 566-574. - -[46] This pseudonymous romance, as wild in its conception and execution -as Shelley’s own romances of _Zastrozzi_ and _St. Irvyne_, was the work -of Shelley’s college-friend and biographer, Thomas Jefferson Hogg. -To Professor Dowden of Dublin, Shelley’s latest biographer, is due -the credit of disinterring and drawing public attention to Shelley’s -curious critical notice of it.--Ed. - -[47] From Edinburgh, Nov. 26, 1813. Shelley had written to Hogg:--“Your -novel is now printed. Write more like this. Delight us again with a -character so natural and energetic as Alexy: but do not persevere in -writing after you grow weary of your toil. _Aliquando bonus dormitat -Homerus_; and the swans and the Eleutherarchs are proofs that you were -a little sleepy.” (See Hogg’s Life of Shelley, vol. ii. p. 481.)--Ed. - - - - - BIBLIOGRAPHY - ARRANGED IN CHRONOLOGICAL ORDER - OF THE PUBLISHED WRITINGS IN VERSE AND PROSE - OF - PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. - - - - - THE BIBLIOGRAPHY OF SHELLEY. - - - 1810. - -Zastrozzi. A Romance. By P. B. S. London: Printed for G. Wilkie and J. -Robinson, 57 Paternoster Row. 1810. 12mo, pp. 252. - - ----That their God - May prove their foe, and with repenting hand - Abolish his own works--This would surpass - Common revenge.--_Paradise Lost._ - - -Posthumous Fragments of Margaret Nicholson. Being Poems found amongst -the Papers of that noted Female, who attempted the Life of the King in -1786. Edited by John Fitzvictor. Oxford: Printed and sold by J. Munday. -1810. 4to, pp. 29. - - - 1811. - -St. Irvyne; or, The Rosicrucian. A Romance. By a Gentleman of the -University of Oxford. London: Printed for J. J. Stockdale, 41 Pall -Mall. 1811. 12mo, pp. 236. - - -A Poetical Essay on the Existing State of Things. By a Gentleman of the -University of Oxford. For assisting to maintain in prison Mr. Peter -Finnerty, imprisoned for a libel. London: Sold by B. Crosby & Co., and -all other Booksellers. 1811. - - And Famine at her bidding wasted wide - The Wretched Land, till in the Public way, - Promiscuous where the dead and dying lay, - Dogs fed on human bones in the open light of day. - --_Curse of Kehama._ - - -The Necessity of Atheism. Worthing: Printed by E. & W. Phillips. Sold -in London and Oxford. [1811.] 8vo, pp. 13. - - Quod clarâ et perspicuâ demonstratione careat - pro vero habere mens omnino nequis humana. - --_Bacon de Augment. Scient._ - - -Original Poetry. By Victor and Cazire. London: J. J. Stockdale, 41 Pall -Mall. 1811. Royal 8vo, pp. 64. - - - 1812. - -A Letter to Lord Ellenborough. Occasioned by the Sentence which he -passed on Mr. D. I. Eaton, as Publisher of the Third Part of Paine’s -Age of Reason. [1812.] Small 8vo, pp. 23.] - - Deorum offensa, Diis curæ. - - --It is contrary to the mild spirit of the Christian - Religion, for no sanction can be found under that - dispensation which will warrant a Government to impose - disabilities and penalties upon any man, on account of his - religious opinions. [_Hear, Hear._]--_Marquis Wellesley’s - Speech. Globe, July 2._ - - -An Address to the Irish People. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Dublin. 1812. -Price 5d. 8vo, pp. 22. - - Advertisement.--The lowest possible price is set on this - publication, because it is the intention of the author - to awaken in the minds of the Irish poor, a knowledge of - their real state, summarily pointing out the evils of that - state, and suggesting rational means of remedy.--Catholic - Emancipation, and a Repeal of the Union Act, (the latter, - the most successful engine that England ever wielded - over the misery of fallen Ireland,) being treated of in - the following address, as grievances which unanimity and - resolution may remove and associations conducted with - peaceable firmness, being earnestly recommended, as means - for embodying that unanimity and firmness, which must - finally be successful. - - -Proposals for an Association of those Philanthropists, who convinced of -the inadequacy of the moral and political state of Ireland to produce -benefits which are nevertheless attainable are willing to unite to -accomplish its regeneration. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Dublin: Printed -by I. Eton, Winetavern Street. [1812.] 8vo, pp. 18. - - - 1813. - -Queen Mab. A Philosophical Poem. With Notes. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. -London: Printed by P. B. Shelley, 23 Chapel Street, Grosvenor Square. -1813. Crown 8vo, pp. 240. - - Ecrasez L’Infame! - _Correspondance de Voltaire._ - - Avia Pieridum peragro loca, nullius ante - Trita solo; juvat integros accedere fonteis; - Atque haurire: juratque novos decerpere flores. - - * * * * * - - Unde prius nulli velarint tempora musæ. - Primum quod magnis doceo de rebus; et arctis - Religionum animos nodio exsolvere pergo.--_Lucret._ lib. iv. - - Δος που στῶ, καὶ κοσμος κινησω.--_Archimedes._ - - -A Vindication of Natural Diet. Being one in a Series of Notes to Queen -Mab, a Philosophical Poem. London: Printed for J. Callow, Medical -Bookseller, Crown Court, Princes Street, Soho, by Smith & Davy, Queen -Street, Seven Dials. 1813. Price 1s. 6d. 12mo, pp. 43. - - Ιαπετιονιδη, παντων περι μηδεα ειδωσ, - Χαρεισ μεν πυρ κλεψασ, και εμασ φρενασ ηπεροπευσασ; - Σοι τ’ αυτω μεγα πημα και ανδρασιν εσσομενοισι. - Τοισ δ’ εγω αντι πυροσ δωσω κακον, ω κεν απαντεσ - Τερπωνται κατα θυμον, εον κακον αμφαγαπωντεσ. - --ΗΣΙΩΔ. _Op. et Dies._ i. 54. - - -1814. - -A Refutation of Deism. In a Dialogue. London: Printed by Schulze & -Dean, 13 Poland Street. 1814. 8vo, pp. v. 101. - - ΣΥΝΕΤΟΙΣΙΝ. - - -1816. - -Alastor; or, The Spirit of Solitude, and other Poems. By Percy Bysshe -Shelley. London: Printed for Baldwin, Cradock, & Joy, Paternoster -Row, and Carpenter & Son, Old Bond Street, by S. Hamilton, Weybridge, -Surrey. 1816. Fcp. 8vo, pp. 101. - - -1817. - -A Proposal for putting Reform to the Vote throughout the Kingdom. By -the Hermit of Marlow. London: Printed for C. & J. Ollier, 3 Welbeck -Street, Cavendish Square, by C. H. Reynell, 21 Piccadilly. 1817. 8vo, -pp. 13. - -An Address to the People on the Death of the Princess Charlotte. By the -Hermit of Marlow. [1817.] - - “We Pity the Plumage, but forget the Dying Bird.” - - No copy of the original edition, apparently limited to - twenty copies, is known to exist. A facsimile reprint, - reprinted for Thomas Rodd, 2 Great Newport Street, 8vo, pp. - 16, was issued not later than 1843, and is still procurable. - - -History of a Six Weeks’ Tour through a Part of France, Switzerland, -Germany, and Holland. With Letters descriptive of a Sail round the Lake -of Geneva, and of the Glaciers of Chamouni. London: Published by T. -Hookham, Jun., Old Bond Street, and C. & J. Ollier, Welbeck Street. -1817. Fcp. 8vo, pp. vi. 183. - - -1818. - -Laon and Cythna; or, The Revolution of the Golden City. A Vision of -the Nineteenth Century. In the Stanza of Spenser. By Percy B. Shelley. -London: Printed for Sherwood, Neely, & Jones, Paternoster Row, and C. & -J. Ollier, Welbeck Street, by B. M’Millan, Bow Street, Covent Garden. -1818. 8vo, pp. xxxii. 270. - - ΔΟΣ ΠΟΥ ΣΤΩ ΚΑΙ ΚΟΣΜΟΝ ΚΙΝΗΣΩ.--Archimedes. - - -The Revolt of Islam. A Poem, in Twelve Cantos. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. -London: Printed for C. & J. Ollier, Welbeck Street, by B. M’Millan, Bow -Street, Covent Garden. 1818. 8vo, pp. xxxii. 270. - - - 1819. - -Rosalind and Helen. A Modern Eclogue; with other Poems. By Percy Bysshe -Shelley. London: Printed for C. & J. Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street -1819. 8vo, pp. 92. - -The Cenci. A Tragedy, in Five Acts. By Percy B. Shelley. Italy: Printed -for C. & J. Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street, London. 1819. 8vo, pp. -xiv. 104. - -The Cenci. A Tragedy in Five Acts. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Second -edition. London: C. & J. Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street. 1821. 8vo, -pp. xviii. 104. - - - 1820. - -Prometheus Unbound. A Lyrical Drama in Four Acts, with other Poems. By -Percy Bysshe Shelley. London: C. & J. Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street. -1820. 8vo, pp. 222. - - Audisne hæc, amphiaræ, sub terram abdite? - - -Œdipus Tyrannus; or, Swellfoot the Tyrant. A Tragedy in Two Acts. -Translated from the Original Doric. London: Published for the Author, -by J. Johnston, 98 Cheapside, and sold by all Booksellers. 1820. 8vo, -pp. 39. - - ----Choose Reform or civil-war, - When thro thy streets, instead of hare with dogs, - A Consort-Queen shall hunt a King with hogs, - Riding on the IONIAN MINOTAUR. - - -1821. - -Adonais. An Elegy on the Death of John Keats, Author of Endymion, -Hyperion, &c. By Percy B. Shelley. Pisa: With the types of Didot. 1821. -4to, pp. 25. - - Αστήρ τρὶν μὲν ἐλαμπες ενι ζῶοισιν εῶος. - Νυν δε θανῶν, λαμπεις ἔσπερος εν φθίμενοις.--_Plato._ - -Epipsychidion. Verses addressed to the Noble and Unfortunate Lady -Emilia V----, now imprisoned in the Convent of ----. London: C. & J. -Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street. 1821. 8vo, pp. 31. - - L’anima amante si slancia fuori del creato, e si crea nel - infinite un Mondo tuito per essa, diverso assai da questo - oscuro e pauroso baratro. - Her own words. - - - 1822. - -Hellas. A Lyrical Drama. By Percy B. Shelley. London: Charles and James -Ollier, Vere Street, Bond Street. 1822. 8vo, pp. xii. 60. - - ΜΑΝΤΙΣ ΕΙΜ’ ΕΣΘΛΩΝ ἈΓΩΝΩΝ.--_Odip. Colon._ - - The last work published by Shelley himself. The remainder - are posthumous publications. - - - POSTHUMOUS PUBLICATIONS. - -Posthumous Poems of Percy Bysshe Shelley. London: Printed for John and -Henry L. Hunt, Tavistock Street, Covent Garden. 1824. 8vo, pp. xii. 415. - - In nobil sangue vita umile e queta, - Ed in alto intelletto un puro core; - Frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore, - E in aspetto pensoso anima lieta.--_Petrarca._ - -The Masque of Anarchy. A Poem. By Percy Bysshe Shelley. Now first -published, with a Preface by Leigh Hunt. London: Edward Moxon, 64 New -Bond Street. 1832. Fcp. 8vo, pp. xxx. 47. - - Hope is strong: - Justice and Truth their winged child have found.--_Revolt of Islam._ - -The Shelley Papers. Memoir of Percy Bysshe Shelley, by T. Medwin, Esq., -and Original Poems and Papers, by Percy Bysshe Shelley. Now first -collected. London: Whittaker, Treacher, & Co. 1833. 18mo, pp. viii. 180. - -Essays, Letters from Abroad, Translations and Fragments. By Percy -Bysshe Shelley. Edited by Mrs. Shelley. In two volumes. London: Edward -Moxon, Dover Street. 1840. Crown 8vo, pp. xxxii. 320, viii. 360. - -Relics of Shelley. Edited by Richard Garnett. London: Edward Moxon & -Co., Dover Street. 1862. Fcp. 8vo, pp. xvi. 191. - - “Sing again, with your dear voice revealing - A tone - Of some world far from ours, - Where music and moonlight and feeling - Are one.” - - - Contents.--(Preface)--Prologue to Hellas (with note)--The - Magic Plant (with note)--Orpheus (with note)--Scene - from Tasso (with note)--Fiordispina (with note)--To - his Genius--Love, Hope, Desire, and Fear--Lines (“We - meet not as we parted”)--Lines written in the Bay of - Lerici--Fragments of the Adonais (with notes)--Translation - of the First Canzone of Dante’s Convito. - - - - - INDEX. - - - Addison, his _Cato_, ii. 16 - - Æschylus, quoted, ii. 340 - - Alfieri, ii. 390 - - Alps, the, i. 119, 120, 348 - - Anacreon’s swallow, ii. 359 - - _Anastasius_, ii. 341 - - Annual Parliaments, i. 364, 365 - - Apollodorus, a pupil of Socrates, ii. 49 - - Apollonius Rhodius, i. 410 - - Ariosto, tomb of, ii. 245; - his arm-chair, 246; - handwriting of, 247 - - Aristotle, ii. 49 - - Aspasia, ii. 134, 135 - - - Bacon, quoted, ii. 4; - a poet, 8, 49 - - Barthélemi, ii. 44 - - Bisham wood, ii. 278 - - Blackstone, quoted, i. 254 - - Boccaccio, ii. 294, 295 - - Buffon, his sublime but gloomy theory respecting the future of this - globe, i. 352 - - Byron, Lord, his _Hours of Idleness_, quotations or plagiarisms from? - i. 132, 174; - visit to, at Ravenna, 390, 391; - his meeting with “Monk” Lewis, ii. 208; - at Venice, 226; - a gondoliere’s opinion of, 236; - Shelley’s visit to, at Venice, 237; - his _Don Juan_, 241; - his _Childe Harold_, 259; - his low debauchery, _ib._; - a great poet, 260; - visit to, at Ravenna, 332-345; - his Letter to Bowles, 342; - his _Cain_, 355; - at Leghorn, 362, 364 - - - Calderon, i. 388, ii. 14, 305, 306; - his _Magico Prodigioso_, 353, 354 - - Calvin and Servetus, i. 229 - - Castlereagh, ii. 268 - - Catholic emancipation, i. 242 _sqq._ - - Charlotte, Princess, death of, i. 369 - - Chaucer, ii. 27 - - Chesterfield, Lord, his distinction between simulation and - dissimulation, ii. 394 - - Chillon, castle of, i. 340 - - Cicero, ii. 8, 49 - - Clarens, i. 341 - - Cobbett, William, on Annual Parliaments, i. 365; ii. 276, 289 - - Coleridge, S. T., his tragedy of _Remorse_, ii. 292, 353, 354 - - Coliseum, the, i. 394; ii. 260 - - Como, ii. 223-225 - - Comyns, Lord Chief Baron, his definition of libel, i. 254 - - Constantine, the first Christian Emperor, atrocities of, i. 306; - arch of, ii. 261, 280, 281 - - Correggio, two pictures of, ii. 249, 250 - - Dante, i. 385; ii. 24; - the first religious reformer, 27, 40; - tomb of, 344 - - Danube, the, i. 15, 32 - - Democritus, i. 400 - - Diotima, the prophetess, ii. 88, 89 - - Dowden, Professor, ii. 387 - - Drummond, Sir William, his _Academical Questions_, i. 327; ii. 176 - - - Eaton, Daniel Isaac, sentence on, for publishing Paine’s _Age of - Reason_, ii. 369-386 - - Ellenborough, Lord, Shelley’s letter to, ii. 369-386 - - Epicurus, i. 421 - - Evian, town of, i. 335, 336 - - - Finnerty, Mr. Peter, i. 255; ii. 399 - - Fitzwilliam, Lord, recall of, ii. 303 - - Fletcher, John, his _Two Noble Kinsmen_, ii. 255 - - Forsyth’s Travels in Italy, ii. 285 - - Fox, Charles James, i. 238 - - Franceschini, pictures of, ii. 251, 252 - - Fust, specimens of his press, ii. 344 - - - Genoa, i. 153 - - George III., i. 237 - - George IV., i. 238 - - Gibbon, his house at Lausanne, i. 343 - - Gisborne, Mr. and Mrs., letters to, ii. 229-231, 290-291, 296-299, - 301-309, 312-319, 326-330, 350-356 - - Gisborne, Mrs., ii. 228, 229 - - Godwin, William, his novels, i. 412-416; - letter to, ii. 231-233, 317; - his answer to Malthus, 352; - his law-suit and pecuniary embarrassments, 360, 361 - - Goethe, his _Faust_, ii. 353 - - Guercino, pictures by, ii. 253 - - Guiccioli, Contessa, Byron’s liaison with, ii. 333, 337, 340; - her letter to Shelley, 343, 350, 351 - - Guido, his picture of the Rape of Proserpine, ii. 249; - his Samson, 250; - his Murder of the Innocents, 250, 251; - his “Fortune,” 251; - his “Madonna Lattante,” _ib._; - his picture of Beatrice Cenci, 293 - - - Heraclitus, i. 400 - - Hermance, village of, described, i. 333 - - Hesiod, quoted, ii. 61 - - Heyne, on the opinions entertained of the Jews by ancient poets and - philosophers, i. 301 - - Hogg, Thomas Jefferson, his _Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff_, ii. - 387-396 - - Homer, quoted, ii. 56, 62; - on Calamity, 80, 81; - the most admirable of all poets, 115; - quoted, 124, 126, 127 - - Horace, quoted, i. 105; ii. 275 - - Hume, on causation, i. 327 - - Hunt, Leigh, letters to, i. 381-391; - invited by Lord Byron to Italy, ii. 268; - letter to, 294-296, 317, 362, 364 - - - Kean, Edmund, ii. 293 - - Keats, John, his _Endymion_, ii. 322-324; - his sufferings, 323; - death of, 327 - - - Lafayette, words of, i. 262 - - Lamb, Charles, i. 384; ii. 295 - - Laplace, demonstration of, i. 319 - - Lausanne, i. 343 - - Lear, King, ii. 14 - - Lewis, M. G., his ghost stories, ii. 208-212 - - Livy, ii. 9; - description by, 256 - - Lloyd, Charles, ii. 295 - - Locke, on sensation, i. 327 - - Lucretius, quoted, i. 296 - - Luther, ii. 27 - - Lyttelton, Lord, ii. 210, 211, 212 - - - _Macbeth_, quoted, i. 47, 93, 273; ii. 21, 31, 375 - - Macchiavelli, on political institutions, ii. 17 - - Malthus, i. 280, 281; - Godwin’s answer to, ii. 232, 352; - a very clever man, 243 - - Marlow, ii. 223; - Shelley’s house at, 226 - - Marsyas, ii. 106, 107 - - Mellerie, i. 336, 337 - - Michael Angelo, i. 384, 385; - his Bacchus, 409 - - Milan Cathedral, ii. 225 - - Milton, death of, i. 370 - - Milton, his _Paradise Lost_ quoted, i. 146, 415; - stood alone, ii. 16; - his _Paradise Lost_, 25, 33; - quoted, 35 - - Mirabaud’s _Système de la Nature_, i. 326 - - Mont Blanc, i. 348 - - Moore, Thomas, ii. 339, 357, 358, 361 - - Music, ii. 70, 71 - - - Nerni, village of, described, i. 334 - - Newton, Sir Isaac, ii. 374 - - - Obscenity, blasphemy against the divine beauty in life, ii. 17 - - O’Neill, Miss, part of Beatrice Cenci fitted for, ii. 293 - - Oxford, reminiscence of, ii. 193 - - - Paine, Thomas, i. 278 - - Peacock, Thomas Love, letters to, ii. 221-229, 241-290, 291-293 - - Petrarch, ii. 40 - - Petronius, poetical description of, ii. 265 - - Plato, i. 421; - essentially a poet, ii. 7, 22, 24; - the greatest among the Greek philosophers, 48; - his Symposium, 232 - - Pliny quoted, i. 294 - - Pompeii, ii. 270-275 - - - _Queen Mab_, piratical republication of, ii. 328, 350 - - - Raphael, i. 384; - his St. Cecilia, ii. 252, 253 - - Ravenna, ii. 338 - - Reveley, Henry, letters to, ii. 299-301, 309-312, 325, 326 - - Richardson, Samuel, his _Grandison_ quoted, ii. 237 - - Rome, a city of the dead, ii. 261; - English burying-place at, 262 - - Rousseau, his _Julie_, i. 333, 337, 339-341, 343; - essentially a poet, ii. 30 - - - Schiller, his _Jungfrau von Orleans_, ii. 352 - - Scott’s _Lay of the Last Minstrel_ quoted, i. 47, 212; - _Marmion_ quoted, 100 - - Shakespeare, quoted, i. 384; - the greatest individual mind, ii. 40; - attribution to him of part of _The Two Noble Kinsmen_, 255 - - Shelley, Mrs., her _Frankenstein_, i. 417-419 - - Socrates, ii. 53-135, 381 - - Sophocles, ii. 317 - - Southey, Robert, Shelley’s visit to, at Keswick, ii. 295 - - Spinosa, quoted, i. 328 - - St. Gingoux, village of, i. 338 - - St. Peter’s, Rome, ii. 282, 283 - - Suetonius, quoted, i. 294 - - - Tasso, bold and true words of, ii. 35, 175; - manuscripts of, 246, 247 - - Terence, i. 409 - - Theocritus, ii. 19; - quoted, 291 - - Thomson, quoted, i. 77 - - Translation, vanity of, ii. 7 - - Tuberose, odour of the, ii. 17 - - - Vallière, Madame de la, ii. 214 - - Velino, cataract of the, ii. 257 - - Venice, i. 87, 88; ii. 241 - - Vesuvius, ii. 263, 265-267 - - Vevai, i. 343 - - Virgil, quoted, ii. 25; - his Sixth Æneid, 264 - - - Wellesley, Marquis, quotation from a speech of, ii. 369 - - Wieland, his novels, ii. 44 - - Wollstonecraft, Mary, her writings, i. 413 - - Wordsworth, i. 413; - quoted, ii. 206, 263, 353 - - - Yvoire, village of, i. 335 - - - - -THE END. - - - _Printed by_ Ballantyne, Hanson & Co. - _Edinburgh and London_ - - - - -Transcriber’s Notes - - -A number of typographical errors were corrected silently. - -Cover image is in the public domain. - -*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK THE PROSE WORKS OF PERCY BYSSHE -SHELLEY [VOL. 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