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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