SHELLEY'S PROSE WRITINGS. T is impossible to turn to Shelley's prose with the untroubled interest and judgment that we summon in the case of most authors, especially those who are only, or mainly, prose-writers. Shelley's mark as a poet, in the narrower sense, that is, of a writer of verse, is so well-known, that almost everyone who turns to his prose will bring to it a set opinion, implying more or less of enthusiasm or uninterest, or even perhaps antagonism, based upon the already familiar grounds of his verse and the story of his life. The first interest of the book will therefore be a relative one, to be referred to previous ideas of its author's genius and personality; and knowing what warmth of discussion these have constantly called forth, it will be well for us to approach any new signs of their quality, such as are offered here, in the urbanest and most reasonable temper we can bring to bear. Fortunately, judged for themselves alone, these prose-writings of Shelley are not hard to judge. Their literary setting is so perfect and delightful, that, if they had no other interest, they could not fail to be sought at last simply for artistic quality, and placed high among masterpieces of style accordingly. But the interest they bear is higher still, and having regard to it we should be mistaken in not profiting by the zest already created in us by the poet's grace for anything further coming from him and helping to interpret the fine and deep secrets of his nature. These secrets, as we think them over, easily resolve themselves into one, the secret of Shelley's personal fascination for so many of us, in especial at a certain period of our growth. It would be useless to try and account very exactly for so subtle an influence. The ideal atmosphere that fills the poems, that seems to linger in the very collocation of their syllables, affects us, we hardly know how or why, and creates the feeling which is more than any reasoned theory of appreciation. Against this feeling, once created, with its chivalrous faith and boundless enthusiasm, scientific analysis, equally with matter-of-fact detraction, is powerless. It is a feeling akin to all that is ideal and heroic in us when the hopes of youth most irradiate the surroundings and direction of life. "The world's great age begins anew, The golden years return, The earth doth like a snake renew Her winter weeds outworn. Heaven smiles, and faiths and empires gleam Like wrecks of a dissolving dream." In this music we have its very tone and echo. Vague it may be, but most magical and strong nevertheless, and of the ideal enterprise it inspires, Shelley is the spirit incarnate. He inhabits with a princely if somewhat translunar splendour a tower of his own on the mount of vision which is peculiarly dedicated to his century. There we have known how to picture him, gazing out upon what ideal vistas of the land of promise, imagined after the half-realised accounts of the Italy he loved. There, with him in spirit, looking out with his eyes, we have seen the mystic vision of the future, as in a sunset whose cloud-veil unclosing a moment has permitted a glimpse of perfect radiance within. That glimpse, once caught, leaves for ever afterwards a restless longing to fully see what was so nearly revealed; for within, we felt, were it but throughly penetrated, lay the secret of the great progression through space and time, in which the stars move so serenely, and men with such tragic endeavour and disruption. It is the old story |