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wise to smile at them？
So beset； the child fled into the tower of his own soul； and raised
the drawbridge。 He threw out a reserve； encysted in which he grew
to maturity unaffected by the intercourses that modify the maturity
of others into the thing we call a man。 The encysted child
developed until it reached years of virility； until those later
Oxford days in which Hogg encountered it； then； bursting at once
from its cyst and the university； it swam into a world not
illegitimately perplexed by such a whim of the gods。 It was； of
course； only the completeness and duration of this seclusion
lasting from the gate of boyhood to the threshold of youthwhich
was peculiar to Shelley。 Most poets； probably； like most saints；
are prepared for their mission by an initial segregation； as the
seed is buried to germinate： before they can utter the oracle of
poetry； they must first be divided from the body of men。 It is the
severed head that makes the seraph。
Shelley's life frequently exhibits in him the magnified child。 It
is seen in his fondness for apparently futile amusements； such as
the sailing of paper boats。 This was； in the truest sense of the
word； child…like； not； as it is frequently called and considered；
childish。 That is to say； it was not a mindless triviality； but the
genuine child's power of investing little things with imaginative
interest； the same power； though differently devoted； which produced
much of his poetry。 Very possibly in the paper boat he saw the
magic bark of Laon and Cythna； or
That thinnest boat
In which the mother of the months is borne
By ebbing night into her western cave。
In fact； if you mark how favourite an idea； under varying forms； is
this in his verse； you will perceive that all the charmed boats
which glide down the stream of his poetry are but glorified
resurrections of the little paper argosies which trembled down the
Isis。
And the child appeared no less often in Shelley the philosopher than
in Shelley the idler。 It is seen in his repellent no less than in
his amiable weaknesses； in the unteachable folly of a love that made
its goal its starting…point； and firmly expected spiritual rest from
each new divinity； though it had found none from the divinities
antecedent。 For we are clear that this was no mere straying of
sensual appetite； but a straying； strange and deplorable； of the
spirit； that （contrary to what Mr。 Coventry Patmore has said） he
left a woman not because he was tired of her arms； but because he
was tired of her soul。 When he found Mary Shelley wanting； he seems
to have fallen into the mistake of Wordsworth； who complained in a
charming piece of unreasonableness that his wife's love； which had
been a fountain； was now only a well：
Such change； and at the very door
Of my fond heart； hath made me poor。
Wordsworth probably learned； what Shelley was incapable of learning；
that love can never permanently be a fountain。 A living poet； in an
article ｛6｝ which you almost fear to breathe upon lest you should
flutter some of the frail pastel…like bloom； has said the thing：
〃Love itself has tidal moments； lapses and flows due to the metrical
rule of the interior heart。〃 Elementary reason should proclaim this
true。 Love is an affection； its display an emotion： love is the
air； its display is the wind。 An affection may be constant； an
emotion can no more be constant than the wind can constantly blow。
All； therefore； that a man can reasonably ask of his wife is that
her love should be indeed a well。 A well； but a Bethesda…well； into
which from time to time the angel of tenderness descends to trouble
the waters for the healing of the beloved。 Such a love Shelley's
second wife appears unquestionably to have given him。 Nay； she was
content that he should veer while she remained true； she companioned
him intellectually； shared his views； entered into his aspirations；
and yetyet； even at the date of Epipsychidion the foolish child；
her husband； assigned her the part of moon to Emilia Viviani's sun；
and lamented that he was barred from final； certain； irreversible
happiness by a cold and callous society。 Yet few poets were so
mated before； and no poet was so mated afterwards； until Browning
stooped and picked up a fair…coined soul that lay rusting in a pool
of tears。
In truth； his very unhappiness and discontent with life； in so far
as it was not the inevitable penalty of the ethical anarch； can only
be ascribed to this same childlike irrationalitythough in such a
form it is irrationality hardly peculiar to Shelley。 Pity； if you
will； his spiritual ruins and the neglected early training which was
largely their cause； but the pity due to his outward circumstances
has been strangely exaggerated。 The obloquy from which he suffered
he deliberately and wantonly courted。 For the rest； his lot was one
that many a young poet might envy。 He had faithful friends； a
faithful wife； an income small but assured。 Poverty never dictated
to his pen； the designs on his bright imagination were never etched
by the sharp fumes of necessity。
If； as has chanced to othersas chanced； for example； to Mangan
outcast from home； health and hope； with a charred past and a
bleared future； an anchorite without detachment and self…cloistered
without self…sufficingness； deposed from a world which he had not
abdicated； pierced with thorns which formed no crown； a poet
hopeless of the bays and a martyr hopeless of the palm； a land
cursed against the dews of love； an exile banned and proscribed even
from the innocent arms of childhoodhe were burning helpless at the
stake of his unquenchable heart； then he might have been
inconsolable； then might he have cast the gorge at life； then have
cowered in the darkening chamber of his being； tapestried with
mouldering hopes； and hearkened to the winds that swept across the
illimitable wastes of death。 But no such hapless lot was Shelley's
as that of his own contemporariesKeats； half chewed in the jaws of
London and spit dying on to Italy； de Quincey； who； if he escaped；
escaped rent and maimed from those cruel jaws； Coleridge； whom they
dully mumbled for the major portion of his life。 Shelley had
competence； poetry； love； yet he wailed that he could lie down like
a tired child and weep away his life of care。 Is it ever so with
you； sad brother； is it ever so with me？ and is there no drinking of
pearls except they be dissolved in biting tears？ 〃Which of us has
his desire； or having it is satisfied？〃
It is true that he shared the fate of nearly all the great poets
contemporary with him； in being unappreciated。 Like them； he
suffered from critics who were for ever shearing the wild tresses of
poetry between rusty rules； who could never see a literary bough
project beyond the trim level of its day but they must lop it with a
crooked criticism； who kept indomitably planting in the defile of