Shelley | Page 3

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Shelley By Sydney Waterlow

Contents
I. SHELLEY AND HIS AGE II. PRINCIPAL WRITINGS III. THE
POET OF REBELLION, OF NATURE, AND OF LOVE
BIBLIOGRAPHICAL NOTE
Chapter I
Shelley and His Age
In the case of most great writers our interest in them as persons is
derived from out interest in them as writers; we are not very curious
about them except for reasons that have something to do with their art.
With Shelley it is different. During his life he aroused fears and hatreds,
loves and adorations, that were quite irrelevant to literature; and even
now, when he has become a classic, he still causes excitement as a man.
His lovers are as vehement as ever. For them he is the "banner of

freedom," which,
"Torn but flying, Streams like a thunder-cloud against the wind."
He has suffered that worst indignity of canonisation as a being saintly
and superhuman, not subject to the morality of ordinary mortals. He
has been bedaubed with pathos. Nevertheless it is possible still to
recognise in him one of the most engaging personalities that ever lived.
What is the secret of this charm? He had many characteristics that
belong to the most tiresome natures; he even had the qualities of the
man as to whom one wonders whether partial insanity may not be his
best excuse--inconstancy expressing itself in hysterical revulsions of
feeling, complete lack of balance, proneness to act recklessly to the hurt
of others. Yet he was loved and respected by contemporaries of tastes
very different from his own, who were good judges and intolerant of
bores--by Byron, who was apt to care little for any one, least of all for
poets, except himself; by Peacock, who poured laughter on all
enthusiasms; and by Hogg, who, though slightly eccentric, was a Tory
eccentric. The fact is that, with all his defects, he had two qualities
which, combined, are so attractive that there is scarcely anything they
will not redeem-- perfect sincerity without a thought of self, and vivid
emotional force. All his faults as well as his virtues were, moreover,
derived from a certain strong feeling, coloured in a peculiar way which
will be explained in what follows--a sort of ardour of universal
benevolence. One of his letters ends with these words: "Affectionate
love to and from all. This ought to be not only the vale of a letter, but a
superscription over the gate of life"--words which, expressing not
merely Shelley's opinion of what ought to be, but what he actually felt,
reveal the ultimate reason why he is still loved, and the reason, too,
why he has so often been idealised. For this universal benevolence is a
thing which appeals to men almost with the force of divinity, still
carrying, even when mutilated and obscured by frailties, some
suggestion of St. Francis or of Christ.
The object of these pages is not to idealise either his life, his characte,
or his works. The three are inseparably connected, and to understand
one we must understand all. The reason is that Shelley is one of the
most subjective of writers. It would be hard to name a poet who has
kept his art more free from all taint of representation of the real,
making it nor an instrument for creating something life-like, but a more

and more intimate echo or emanation of his own spirit. In studying his
writings we shall see how they flow from his dominating emotion of
love for his fellow-men; and the drama of his life, displayed against the
background of the time, will in turn throw light on that emotion. His
benevolence took many forms--none perfect, some admirable, some
ridiculous. It was too universal. He never had a clear enough perception
of the real qualities of real men and women; hence his loves for
individuals,