shelley-第1节

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Shelley　：　AN　ESSAY


by　Francis　Thompson








The　Church；　which　was　once　the　mother　of　poets　no　less　than　of

saints；　during　the　last　two　centuries　has　relinquished　to　aliens　the

chief　glories　of　poetry；　if　the　chief　glories　of　holiness　she　has

preserved　for　her　own。　　The　palm　and　the　laurel；　Dominic　and　Dante；

sanctity　and　song；　grew　together　in　her　soil：　　she　has　retained　the

palm；　but　forgone　the　laurel。　　Poetry　in　its　widest　sense；　｛1｝　and

when　not　professedly　irreligious；　has　been　too　much　and　too　long

among　many　Catholics　either　misprised　or　distrusted；　too　much　and

too　generally　the　feeling　has　been　that　it　is　at　best　superfluous；

at　worst　pernicious；　most　often　dangerous。　　Once　poetry　was；　as　she

should　be；　the　lesser　sister　and　helpmate　of　the　Church；　the

minister　to　the　mind；　as　the　Church　to　the　soul。　　But　poetry　sinned；

poetry　fell；　and；　in　place　of　lovingly　reclaiming　her；　Catholicism

cast　her　from　the　door　to　follow　the　feet　of　her　pagan　seducer。　　The

separation　has　been　ill　for　poetry；　it　has　not　been　well　for

religion。



Fathers　of　the　Church　（we　would　say）；　pastors　of　the　Church；　pious

laics　of　the　Church：　　you　are　taking　from　its　walls　the　panoply　of

Aquinastake　also　from　its　walls　the　psaltery　of　Alighieri。　　Unroll

the　precedents　of　the　Church's　past；　recall　to　your　minds　that

Francis　of　Assisi　was　among　the　precursors　of　Dante；　that　sworn　to

Poverty　he　forswore　not　Beauty；　but　discerned　through　the　lamp

Beauty　the　Light　God；　that　he　was　even　more　a　poet　in　his　miracles

than　in　his　melody；　that　poetry　clung　round　the　cowls　of　his　Order。

Follow　his　footsteps；　you　who　have　blessings　for　men；　have　you　no

blessing　for　the　birds？　　Recall　to　your　memory　that；　in　their　minor

kind；　the　love　poems　of　Dante　shed　no　less　honour　on　Catholicism

than　did　the　great　religious　poem　which　is　itself　pivoted　on　love；

that　in　singing　of　heaven　he　sang　of　Beatricethis　supporting　angel

was　still　carven　on　his　harp　even　when　he　stirred　its　strings　in

Paradise。　　What　you　theoretically　know；　vividly　realise：　　that　with

many　the　religion　of　beauty　must　always　be　a　passion　and　a　power；

that　it　is　only　evil　when　divorced　from　the　worship　of　the　Primal

Beauty。　　Poetry　is　the　preacher　to　men　of　the　earthly　as　you　of　the

Heavenly　Fairness；　of　that　earthly　fairness　which　God　has　fashioned

to　His　own　image　and　likeness。　　You　proclaim　the　day　which　the　Lord

has　made；　and　Poetry　exults　and　rejoices　in　it。　　You　praise　the

Creator　for　His　works；　and　she　shows　you　that　they　are　very　good。

Beware　how　you　misprise　this　potent　ally；　for　hers　is　the　art　of

Giotto　and　Dante：　　beware　how　you　misprise　this　insidious　foe；　for

hers　is　the　art　of　modern　France　and　of　Byron。　　Her　value；　if　you

know　it　not；　God　knows；　and　know　the　enemies　of　God。　　If　you　have　no

room　for　her　beneath　the　wings　of　the　Holy　One；　there　is　place　for

her　beneath　the　webs　of　the　Evil　One：　　whom　you　discard；　he

embraces；　whom　you　cast　down　from　an　honourable　seat；　he　will

advance　to　a　haughty　throne；　the　brows　you　dislaurel　of　a　just

respect；　he　will　bind　with　baleful　splendours；　the　stone　which　you

builders　reject；　he　will　make　his　head　of　the　corner。　　May　she　not

prophesy　in　the　temple？　then　there　is　ready　for　her　the　tripod　of

Delphi。　　Eye　her　not　askance　if　she　seldom　sing　directly　of

religion：　　the　bird　gives　glory　to　God　though　it　sings　only　of　its

innocent　loves。　　Suspicion　creates　its　own　cause；　distrust　begets

reason　for　distrust。　　This　beautiful；　wild；　feline　Poetry；　wild

because　left　to　range　the　wilds；　restore　to　the　hearth　of　your

charity；　shelter　under　the　rafter　of　your　Faith；　discipline　her　to

the　sweet　restraints　of　your　household；　feed　her　with　the　meat　from

your　table；　soften　her　with　the　amity　of　your　children；　tame　her；

fondle　her；　cherish　heryou　will　no　longer　then　need　to　flee　her。

Suffer　her　to　wanton；　suffer　her　to　play；　so　she　play　round　the　foot

of　the　Cross！



There　is　a　change　of　late　years：　　the　Wanderer　is　being　called　to

her　Father's　house；　but　we　would　have　the　call　yet　louder；　we　would

have　the　proffered　welcome　more　unstinted。　　There　are　still　stray

remnants　of　the　old　intolerant　distrust。　　It　is　still　possible　for

even　a　French　historian　of　the　Church　to　enumerate　among　the

articles　cast　upon　Savonarola's　famous　pile；　poesies　erotiques；　tant

des　anciens　que　des　modernes；　livres　impies　ou　corrupteurs；　Ovide；

Tibulle；　Properce；　pour　ne　nommer　que　les　plus　connus；　Dante；

Petrarque；　Boccace；　tous　ces　auteurs　Italiens　qui　deje　souillaient

les　ames　et　ruinaient　les　moeurs；　en　creant　ou　perfectionnant　la

langue。　｛2｝　　Blameworthy　carelessness　at　the　least；　which　can　class

the　Vita　Nuova　with　the　Ars　Amandi　and　the　Decameron！　　And　among

many　English　Catholics　the　spirit　of　poetry　is　still　often　received

with　a　restricted　Puritanical　greeting；　rather　than　with　the

traditionally　Catholic　joyous　openness。



We　ask；　therefore；　for　a　larger　interest；　not　in　purely　Catholic

poetry；　but　in　poetry　generally；　poetry　in　its　widest　sense。　　With

few　exceptions；　whatsoever　in　our　best　poets　is　great　and　good　to

the　non…Catholic；　is　great　and　good　also　to　the　Catholic；　and　though

Faber　threw　his　edition　of　Shelley　into　the　fire　and　never　regretted

the　act；　though；　moreover；　Shelley　is　so　little　read　among　us　that

we　can　still　tolerate　in　our　Churches　the　religious　parody　which

Faber　should　have　thrown　after　his　three…volumed　Shelley；　｛3｝in

spite　of　this；　we　are　not　disposed　to　number　among　such　exceptions

that　straying　spirit　of　light。



We　have　among　us　at　the　present　day　no　lineal　descendant；　in　the

poetical　order；　of　Shelley；　and　any　such　offspring　of　the

aboundingly　spontaneous　Shelley　is　hardly　possible；　still　less

likely；　on　account　of　the　defect　by　which　（we　think）　contemporary

poetry　in　general；　as　compared　with　the　poetry　of　the　early

nineteenth　century；　is　mildewed。　　That　defect　is　the　predominance　of

art　over　inspiration；　of　body　over　soul。　　We　do　not　say　the　DEFECT

of　inspiration。　　The　warrior　is　there；　but　he　is　hampered　by　his

armour。　　Writers　of　high　aim　in　all　branches　of　literature；　even

when　they　are　notas　Mr。　Swinburne；　for　instance；　islavish　in

expression；　are　generally　over…deliberate　in　expression。　　Mr。　Henry

James；　delineating　a　fictitious　writer　clearly　intended　to　be　the

ideal　of　an　artist；　makes　him　regret　that　he　has　sometimes　allowed

himself　to　take　the　second…best　word　instead　of　searching　for　the

best。　　Theoretically；　of　course；　one　ought　always　to　try　for　the

best　word。　　But　practically；　the　habit　of　excessive　care　in　word…

selection　frequently　results　in　loss　of　spontaneity；　and；　still

worse；　the　habit　of　always　taking　the　best　word　too　easily　becomes

the　habit　of　always　taking　the　most　ornate　word；　the　word　most

removed　from　ordinary　speech。　　In　consequence　of　this；　poetic

diction　has　become　latterly　a　kaleidoscope；　and　one's　chief

curiosity　is　as　to　the　precise　combinations　into　which　the　pieces

will　be　shifted。　　There　is；　in　fact；　a　certain　band　of　words；　the

Praetorian　cohorts　of　poetry；　whose　prescriptive　aid　is　invoked　by

every　aspirant　to　the　poetical　purple；　and　without　whose

prescriptive　aid　none　dares　aspire　to　the　poetical　purple；　against

these　it　is　time　some　banner　should　be　raised。　　Perhaps　it　is　almost

impossible　for　a　contemporary　writer　quite　to　evade　the　services　of

the　free…lances　whom　one　encounters　under　so　many　standards。　｛4｝

But　it　is　at　any　rate　curious　to　note　that　the　literary　revolution

against　the　despotic　diction　of　Pope　seems　issuing；　like　political

revolutions；　in　a　despotism　of　its　own　making。



This；　then；　we　cannot　but　think；　distinguishes　the　literary　period

of　Shelley　from　our　own。　　It　distinguishes　even　the　unquestionable

treasures　and　masterpieces　of　to…day　from　similar　treasures　and

masterpieces　of　the　precedent　day；　even　the　Lotus…Eaters　from　Kubla…

Khan；　even　Rossetti's　ballads　from　Christabel。　　It　is　present　in　the

restraint　of　Matthew　Arnold　no　less　than　in　the　exuberance　of

Swinburne；　and　affects　our　writers　who　aim　at　simplicity　no　less

than　those　who　seek　richness。　　Indeed；　nothing　is　so　artificial　as

our　simplicity。　　It　is　the　simplicity　of　the　French　stage　ingenue。

We　are　self…conscious　to　the　finger…tips；　and　this　inherent　quality；

entailing　on　our　poetry　the　inevitable　loss　of　spontaneity；　ensures

that　whatever　poets；　of　whatever　excellence；　may　be　born　to　us　from

the　Shelleian　stock；　its　founder's　spirit　can　take　among　us　no

reincarnation。　　An　age　that　is　ceasing　to　produce　child…like

children　cannot　produce　a　Shelley。　　For　both　as　poet　and　man　he　was

essentially　a　child。



Yet；　just　as　in　the　effete　French　society　before　the　Revolution　the

Queen　played　at　Arcadia；　the　King　played　at　being　a　mechanic；

everyone　played　at　simplicity　and　universal　philanthropy；　leaving

for　most　durable　outcome　of　their　philanthropy　the　guillotine；　as

the　most　durable　outcome　of　ours　ma