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the most durable outcome of ours may be execution by electricity；
so in our own society the talk of benevolence and the cult of
childhood are the very fashion of the hour。 We； of this self…
conscious； incredulous generation； sentimentalise our children；
analyse our children； think we are endowed with a special capacity
to sympathise and identify ourselves with children； we play at being
children。 And the result is that we are not more child…like； but
our children are less child…like。 It is so tiring to stoop to the
child； so much easier to lift the child up to you。 Know you what it
is to be a child？ It is to be something very different from the man
of to…day。 It is to have a spirit yet streaming from the waters of
baptism； it is to believe in love； to believe in loveliness； to
believe in belief； it is to be so little that the elves can reach to
whisper in your ear； it is to turn pumpkins into coaches； and mice
into horses； lowness into loftiness； and nothing into everything；
for each child has its fairy godmother in its own soul； it is to
live in a nutshell and to count yourself the king of infinite space；
it is
To see a world in a grain of sand；
And a heaven in a wild flower；
Hold infinity in the palm of your hand；
And eternity in an hour；
it is to know not as yet that you are under sentence of life； nor
petition that it be commuted into death。 When we become conscious
in dreaming that we dream； the dream is on the point of breaking；
when we become conscious in living that we live； the ill dream is
but just beginning。 Now if Shelley was but too conscious of the
dream； in other respects Dryden's false and famous line might have
been applied to him with very much less than it's usual untruth。 ｛5｝
To the last； in a degree uncommon even among poets； he retained the
idiosyncrasy of childhood； expanded and matured without
differentiation。 To the last he was the enchanted child。
This was； as is well known； patent in his life。 It is as really；
though perhaps less obviously； manifest in his poetry； the sincere
effluence of his life。 And it may not； therefore； be amiss to
consider whether it was conditioned by anything beyond his
congenital nature。 For our part； we believe it to have been equally
largely the outcome of his early and long isolation。 Men given to
retirement and abstract study are notoriously liable to contract a
certain degree of childlikeness： and if this be the case when we
segregate a man； how much more when we segregate a child！ It is
when they are taken into the solution of school…life that children；
by the reciprocal interchange of influence with their fellows；
undergo the series of reactions which converts them from children
into boys and from boys into men。 The intermediate stage must be
traversed to reach the final one。
Now Shelley never could have been a man； for he never was a boy。
And the reason lay in the persecution which overclouded his school…
days。 Of that persecution's effect upon him； he has left us； in The
Revolt of Islam； a picture which to many or most people very
probably seems a poetical exaggeration； partly because Shelley
appears to have escaped physical brutality； partly because adults
are inclined to smile tenderly at childish sorrows which are not
caused by physical suffering。 That he escaped for the most part
bodily violence is nothing to the purpose。 It is the petty
malignant annoyance recurring hour by hour； day by day； month by
month； until its accumulation becomes an agony； it is this which is
the most terrible weapon that boys have against their fellow boy；
who is powerless to shun it because； unlike the man； he has
virtually no privacy。 His is the torture which the ancients used；
when they anointed their victim with honey and exposed him naked to
the restless fever of the flies。 He is a little St。 Sebastian；
sinking under the incessant flight of shafts which skilfully avoid
the vital parts。
We do not； therefore； suspect Shelley of exaggeration： he was； no
doubt； in terrible misery。 Those who think otherwise must forget
their own past。 Most people； we suppose； MUST forget what they were
like when they were children： otherwise they would know that the
griefs of their childhood were passionate abandonment； DECHIRANTS
（to use a characteristically favourite phrase of modern French
literature） as the griefs of their maturity。 Children's griefs are
little； certainly； but so is the child； so is its endurance； so is
its field of vision； while its nervous impressionability is keener
than ours。 Grief is a matter of relativity； the sorrow should be
estimated by its proportion to the sorrower； a gash is as painful to
one as an amputation to another。 Pour a puddle into a thimble； or
an Atlantic into Etna； both thimble and mountain overflow。 Adult
fools； would not the angels smile at our griefs； were not angels too
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；
h