'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale--
72.
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale--
72.
Shelley copy
' These words were written in 1818,
while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of
his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in
Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account
of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces,
where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast
the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley's
imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as
one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I
entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded
swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human
beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and
gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works
that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the
arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake
we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought
to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely
death, worked to its depths)--his richly gifted mind.
We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest
child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly
to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world,
anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his
presence and loss. (Such feelings haunted him when, in "The Cenci", he
makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Camillo of
'that fair blue-eyed child
Who was the lodestar of your life:'--and say--
All see, since his most swift and piteous death,
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,
And all the things hoped for or done therein
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief. ')
Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn,
and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the
town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa
was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they
worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and
in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation
went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges:
Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of
a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed.
At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often
such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only
roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a
wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near
sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most
picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark
lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became water-spouts that
churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and
scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and
heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in
both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In
this airy cell he wrote the principal part of "The Cenci". He was
making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies
with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from
Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon,
both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his
judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first
acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept
into the composition of "The Cenci"; and there is no trace of his new
studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as
suggested by one in "El Purgatorio de San Patricio".
Shelley wished "The Cenci" to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being
of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad
filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure
from England, however, he saw Miss O'Neil several times. She was then
in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her
impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the
intense pathos, the sublime vehemence of passion she displayed. She
was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he
became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the
advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the
heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in
London:
'The object of the present letter us to ask a favour of you. I have
written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my
conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my
play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge
favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and
opinions which characterize my other compositions; I have attended
simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is
probable the persons represented really were, together with the
greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a
development. I send you a translation of the Italian manuscript on
which my play is founded; the chief circumstance of which I have
touched very delicately; for my principal doubt as to whether it would
succeed as an acting play hangs entirely on the question as to whether
any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be
admitted on the stage. I think, however, it will form no objection;
considering, first, that the facts are matter of history, and,
secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it. (In
speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelley said that
it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he had never
mentioned expressly Cenci's worst crime. Every one knew what it must
be, but it was never imaged in words--the nearest allusion to it being
that portion of Cenci's curse beginning--
"That, if she have a child," etc. )
'I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt
of mine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative
at present; founding my hopes on this--that, as a composition, it is
certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been
acted, with the exception of "Remorse"; that the interest of the plot
is incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond
what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand,
either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a
complete incognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do,
you will at least favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential,
deeply essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and
successfully (could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I
pleased, and use the celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes.
'What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at Covent
Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for
Miss O'Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God
forbid that I should see her play it--it would tear my nerves to
pieces); and in all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The
chief male character I confess I should be very unwilling that any one
but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with
an inferior actor. '
The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject
to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss
O'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would
write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept.
Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness;
as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text
when distance prevented him from correcting the press.
Universal approbation soon stamped "The Cenci" as the best tragedy of
modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: 'I have been
cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition;
diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness,
generality, and, as Hamlet says, "words, words". ' There is nothing
that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice,
proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution,
and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to
passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so
beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of
the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate
girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever
wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary,
but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed
with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice
that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with
the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven
the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through
the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have
shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a
double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write
again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was not less
instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the
other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended
on character and incident, he would start off in another direction,
and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in
so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the
expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human
nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master
passion of his soul.
***
THE MASK OF ANARCHY.
WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER.
[Composed at the Villa Valsovano near Leghorn--or possibly later,
during Shelley's sojourn at Florence--in the autumn of 1819, shortly
after the Peterloo riot at Manchester, August 16; edited with Preface
by Leigh Hunt, and published under the poet's name by Edward Moxon,
1832 (Bradbury & Evans, printers). Two manuscripts are extant: a
transcript by Mrs. Shelley with Shelley's autograph corrections, known
as the 'Hunt manuscript'; and an earlier draft, not quite complete, in
the poet's handwriting, presented by Mrs. Shelley to (Sir) John
Bowring in 1826, and now in the possession of Mr. Thomas J. Wise (the
'Wise manuscript'). Mrs. Shelley's copy was sent to Leigh Hunt in 1819
with view to its publication in "The Examiner"; hence the name 'Hunt
manuscript. ' A facsimile of the Wise manuscript was published by the
Shelley Society in 1887. Sources of the text are (1) the Hunt
manuscript; (2) the Wise manuscript; (3) the editio princeps, editor
Leigh Hunt, 1832; (4) Mrs. Shelley's two editions ("Poetical Works")
of 1839. Of the two manuscripts Mrs. Shelley's transcript is the later
and more authoritative. ]
1.
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
2.
I met Murder on the way-- _5
He had a mask like Castlereagh--
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:
3.
All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight, _10
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
4.
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown; _15
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
5.
And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem, _20
Had their brains knocked out by them.
6.
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by. _25
7.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
8.
Last came Anarchy: he rode _30
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
9.
And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone; _35
On his brow this mark I saw--
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW! '
10.
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood _40
The adoring multitude.
11.
And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord. _45
12.
And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
13.
O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, _50
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.
14.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken _55
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
15.
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing _60
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.
16.
'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold. ' _65
17.
Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering--'Thou art Law and God. '--
18.
Then all cried with one accord, _70
'Thou art King, and God, and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now! '
19.
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one, _75
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
20.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe, _80
And the gold-inwoven robe.
21.
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament _85
22.
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:
23.
'My father Time is weak and gray _90
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
24.
'He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled _95
Over every one but me--
Misery, oh, Misery! '
25.
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye, _100
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
26.
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale: _105
27.
Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,
28.
It grew--a Shape arrayed in mail _110
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.
29.
On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning's, lay; _115
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.
30.
With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men--so fast
That they knew the presence there, _120
And looked,--but all was empty air.
31.
As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. _125
32.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked--and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:
33.
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, _130
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
34.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour, _135
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt--and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
35.
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth _140
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe
36.
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,-- _145
As if her heart had cried aloud:
37.
'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another; _150
38.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you--
Ye are many--they are few. _155
39.
'What is Freedom? --ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well--
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.
40.
''Tis to work and have such pay _160
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,
41.
'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade, _165
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.
42.
''Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,-- _170
They are dying whilst I speak.
43.
''Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye; _175
44.
''Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.
45.
'Paper coin--that forgery _180
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.
46.
''Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control _185
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.
47.
'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew _190
Ride over your wives and you
Blood is on the grass like dew.
48.
'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood--and wrong for wrong-- _195
Do not thus when ye are strong.
49.
'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their winged quest;
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air. _200
50.
'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one--
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!
51.
'This is Slavery--savage men, _205
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do--
But such ills they never knew.
52.
'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves _210
This demand--tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:
53.
'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name _215
Echoing from the cave of Fame.
54.
'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home. _220
55.
Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude--
No--in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see. _225
56.
'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
57.
Thou art Justice--ne'er for gold _230
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England--thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.
58.
'Thou art Wisdom--Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever _235
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.
59.
'Thou art Peace--never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all _240
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
60.
'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee. _245
61.
'Thou art Love--the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,
62.
'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make _250
War for thy beloved sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud--whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.
63.
'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot _255
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.
64.
'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou--let deeds, not words, express _260
Thine exceeding loveliness.
65.
'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around. _265
66.
'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.
67.
'From the corners uttermost _270
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan
For others' misery or their own,
68.
'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old _277
Groan for pain, and weep for cold--
69.
'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife _280
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares--
70.
'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound _285
Of a wind alive around
71.
'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale--
72.
'Ye who suffer woes untold, _291
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold--
73.
'Let a vast assembly be, _295
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free--
74.
'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords, _300
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.
75.
'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea, _305
Troops of armed emblazonry.
76.
'Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels. _310
77.
'Let the fixed bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.
78.
Let the horsemen's scimitars _315
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.
79.
'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute, _320
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,
80.
'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armed steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade _325
Through your phalanx undismayed.
81.
'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute, _330
82.
'The old laws of England--they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo--Liberty! _335
83.
'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.
84.
'And if then the tyrants dare _340
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,--
What they like, that let them do.
85.
'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise, _345
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.
86.
Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak _350
In hot blushes on their cheek.
87.
'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand--
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street. _355
88.
'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.
89.
'And that slaughter to the Nation _360
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.
90.
'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom _365
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again--again--again--
91.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number--
Shake your chains to earth like dew _370
Which in sleep had fallen on you--
Ye are many--they are few. '
NOTES:
_15. Like Eldon Hunt manuscript; Like Lord Eldon Wise manuscript.
_15. ermined Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript edition 1832;
ermine editions 1839.
_23 shadows]shadow editions 1839 only.
_29 or]and Wise manuscript only.
_35 And in his grasp Hunt manuscript, edition 1882;
In his hand Wise manuscript,
Hunt manuscript cancelled, edition 1839.
_36 On his]And on his edition 1832 only.
_51 the Hunt manuscript, edition 1832; that Wise manuscript.
_56 tempestuous]tremendous editions 1839 only.
_58 For with pomp]For from. . . Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript.
_71 God]Law editions 1839 only.
_79 rightly Wise manuscript; nightly Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_93 Fumbling] Trembling editions 1839 only.
_105 a vale Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript; the vale editions 1832, 1839.
_113 as]like editions 1839 only.
_116 its Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; it editions 1832, 1839.
_121 but Wise MS; and Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_122 May's footstep Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
the footstep edition 1832; May's footsteps editions 1839.
_132-4 omit Wise manuscript.
_146 had cried Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839;
cried out Wise manuscript.
_155 omit edition 1832 only.
_182 of]from Wise manuscript only.
_186 wills Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; will Wise manuscript.
_198 their Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
the edition 1832.
_216 cave Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
caves edition 1832, Hunt manuscript cancelled.
_220 In Wise manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; To Hunt manuscript.
(Note at stanza 49: The following stanza is found in the Wise
manuscript and in editions 1839, but is wanting in the Hunt manuscript
and in edition 1832:--
'Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come;
Household dogs, when the wind roars,
Find a home within warm doors. ')
_233 the Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; both Wise manuscript.
_234 Freemen Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
Freedom edition 1832.
_235 Dream Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
Dreams edition 1832. damn]doom editions 1839 only.
_248 Give Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
Given Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript cancelled, editions 1839.
_249 follow]followed editions 1839 only.
_250 Or Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; Oh editions 1832, 1839.
_254 Science, Poetry, Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
Science, and Poetry editions 1832, 1839.
_257 So Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
Such they curse their Maker not Wise manuscript, editions 1839.
_263 and]of edition 1832 only.
_274 or]and edition 1832 only.
(Note to end of stanza 67: The following stanza is found (cancelled)
at this place in the Wise manuscript:--
'From the cities where from caves,
Like the dead from putrid graves,
Troops of starvelings gliding come,
Living Tenants of a tomb. '
_282 sows Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
sow editions 1832, 1839.
_297 measured Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
ne'er-said editions 1839.
_322 of unvanquished Wise manuscript;
of an unvanquished Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_346 slay Wise manuscript; Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
stay edition 1832.
_357 in wars Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
in the wars editions 1839.
NOTE ON THE MASK OF ANARCHY, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
Though Shelley's first eager desire to excite his countrymen to resist
openly the oppressions existent during 'the good old times' had faded
with early youth, still his warmest sympathies were for the people. He
was a republican, and loved a democracy. He looked on all human beings
as inheriting an equal right to possess the dearest privileges of our
nature; the necessaries of life when fairly earned by labour, and
intellectual instruction. His hatred of any despotism that looked upon
the people as not to be consulted, or protected from want and
ignorance, was intense. He was residing near Leghorn, at Villa
Valsovano, writing "The Cenci", when the news of the Manchester
Massacre reached us; it roused in him violent emotions of indignation
and compassion. The great truth that the many, if accordant and
resolute, could control the few, as was shown some years after, made
him long to teach his injured countrymen how to resist. Inspired by
these feelings, he wrote the "Mask of Anarchy", which he sent to his
friend Leigh Hunt, to be inserted in the Examiner, of which he was
then the Editor.
'I did not insert it,' Leigh Hunt writes in his valuable and
interesting preface to this poem, when he printed it in 1832, 'because
I thought that the public at large had not become sufficiently
discerning to do justice to the sincerity and kind-heartedness of the
spirit that walked in this flaming robe of verse. ' Days of outrage
have passed away, and with them the exasperation that would cause such
an appeal to the many to be injurious. Without being aware of them,
they at one time acted on his suggestions, and gained the day. But
they rose when human life was respected by the Minister in power; such
was not the case during the Administration which excited Shelley's
abhorrence.
The poem was written for the people, and is therefore in a more
popular tone than usual: portions strike as abrupt and unpolished, but
many stanzas are all his own. I heard him repeat, and admired, those
beginning
'My Father Time is old and gray,'
before I knew to what poem they were to belong. But the most touching
passage is that which describes the blessed effects of liberty; it
might make a patriot of any man whose heart was not wholly closed
against his humbler fellow-creatures.
***
PETER BELL THE THIRD.
BY MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ.
Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch--some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all--damned!
"Peter Bell", by W. WORDSWORTH.
OPHELIA. --What means this, my lord?
HAMLET. --Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
SHAKESPEARE.
[Composed at Florence, October, 1819, and forwarded to Hunt (November
2) to be published by C. & J. Ollier without the author's name;
ultimately printed by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of the
"Poetical Works", 1839. A skit by John Hamilton Reynolds, "Peter Bell,
a Lyrical Ballad", had already appeared (April, 1819), a few days
before the publication of Wordsworth's "Peter Bell, a Tale". These
productions were reviewed in Leigh Hunt's "Examiner" (April 26, May 3,
1819); and to the entertainment derived from his perusal of Hunt's
criticisms the composition of Shelley's "Peter Bell the Third" is
chiefly owing. ]
DEDICATION.
TO THOMAS BROWN, ESQ. , THE YOUNGER, H. F.
Dear Tom,
Allow me to request you to introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable
family of the Fudges. Although he may fall short of those very
considerable personages in the more active properties which
characterize the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect that even you, their
historian, will confess that he surpasses them in the more peculiarly
legitimate qualification of intolerable dulness.
You know Mr. Examiner Hunt; well--it was he who presented me to two of
the Mr. Bells. My intimacy with the younger Mr. Bell naturally sprung
from this introduction to his brothers. And in presenting him to you,
I have the satisfaction of being able to assure you that he is
considerably the dullest of the three.
There is this particular advantage in an acquaintance with any one of
the Peter Bells, that if you know one Peter Bell, you know three Peter
Bells; they are not one, but three; not three, but one. An awful
mystery, which, after having caused torrents of blood, and having been
hymned by groans enough to deafen the music of the spheres, is at
length illustrated to the satisfaction of all parties in the
theological world, by the nature of Mr. Peter Bell.
Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with many sides. He changes
colours like a chameleon, and his coat like a snake. He is a Proteus
of a Peter. He was at first sublime, pathetic, impressive, profound;
then dull; then prosy and dull; and now dull--oh so very dull! it is
an ultra-legitimate dulness.
You will perceive that it is not necessary to consider Hell and the
Devil as supernatural machinery. The whole scene of my epic is in
'this world which is'--so Peter informed us before his conversion to
"White Obi"--
'The world of all of us, AND WHERE
WE FIND OUR HAPPINESS, OR NOT AT ALL. '
Let me observe that I have spent six or seven days in composing this
sublime piece; the orb of my moonlike genius has made the fourth part
of its revolution round the dull earth which you inhabit, driving you
mad, while it has retained its calmness and its splendour, and I have
been fitting this its last phase 'to occupy a permanent station in the
literature of my country. '
Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better; but mine are far superior.
The public is no judge; posterity sets all to rights.
Allow me to observe that so much has been written of Peter Bell, that
the present history can be considered only, like the Iliad, as a
continuation of that series of cyclic poems, which have already been
candidates for bestowing immortality upon, at the same time that they
receive it from, his character and adventures. In this point of view I
have violated no rule of syntax in beginning my composition with a
conjunction; the full stop which closes the poem continued by me
being, like the full stops at the end of the Iliad and Odyssey, a full
stop of a very qualified import.
Hoping that the immortality which you have given to the Fudges, you
will receive from them; and in the firm expectation, that when London
shall be an habitation of bitterns; when St. Paul's and Westminster
Abbey shall stand, shapeless and nameless ruins, in the midst of an
unpeopled marsh; when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the
nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of
their broken arches on the solitary stream, some transatlantic
commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now
unimagined system of criticism, the respective merits of the Bells and
the Fudges, and their historians. I remain, dear Tom, yours sincerely,
MICHING MALLECHO.
December 1, 1819.
P. S. --Pray excuse the date of place; so soon as the profits of the
publication come in, I mean to hire lodgings in a more respectable
street.
PROLOGUE.
Peter Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be. --
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment _5
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes--
(This was learned from Aldric's themes) _10
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter--he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe, _15
His substantial antitype. --
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole _20
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream. --
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-- _25
Go and try else,--just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from THAT world into THIS. _30
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,--
For he was an evil Cotter, _35
And a polygamic Potter.
And the last is Peter Bell,
Damned since our first parents fell,
Damned eternally to Hell--
Surely he deserves it well! _40
NOTES:
_10 Aldric's] i. e. Aldrich's--a spelling adopted here by Woodberry.
(_36 The oldest scholiasts read--
A dodecagamic Potter.
This is at once more descriptive and more megalophonous,--but the
alliteration of the text had captivated the vulgar ear of the herd of
later commentators. --[SHELLEY'S NOTE. ])
PART 1.
DEATH.
1.
And Peter Bell, when he had been
With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed,
Grew serious--from his dress and mien
'Twas very plainly to be seen
Peter was quite reformed. _5
2.
His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down;
His accent caught a nasal twang;
He oiled his hair; there might be heard
The grace of God in every word
Which Peter said or sang. _10
3.
But Peter now grew old, and had
An ill no doctor could unravel:
His torments almost drove him mad;--
Some said it was a fever bad--
Some swore it was the gravel. _15
4.
His holy friends then came about,
And with long preaching and persuasion
Convinced the patient that, without
The smallest shadow of a doubt,
He was predestined to damnation. _20
5.
They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell;
Thy skin is of a brimstone hue;
Alive or dead--ay, sick or well--
The one God made to rhyme with hell;
The other, I think, rhymes with you. _25
6.
Then Peter set up such a yell! --
The nurse, who with some water gruel
Was climbing up the stairs, as well
As her old legs could climb them--fell,
And broke them both--the fall was cruel. _30
7.
The Parson from the casement lept
Into the lake of Windermere--
And many an eel--though no adept
In God's right reason for it--kept
Gnawing his kidneys half a year. _35
8.
And all the rest rushed through the door
And tumbled over one another,
And broke their skulls. --Upon the floor
Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore,
And cursed his father and his mother; _40
9.
And raved of God, and sin, and death,
Blaspheming like an infidel;
And said, that with his clenched teeth
He'd seize the earth from underneath,
And drag it with him down to hell. _45
10.
As he was speaking came a spasm,
And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder;
Like one who sees a strange phantasm
He lay,--there was a silent chasm
Between his upper jaw and under. _50
11.
And yellow death lay on his face;
And a fixed smile that was not human
Told, as I understand the case,
That he was gone to the wrong place:--
I heard all this from the old woman. _55
12.
Then there came down from Langdale Pike
A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail;
It swept over the mountains like
An ocean,--and I heard it strike
The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. _60
13.
And I saw the black storm come
Nearer, minute after minute;
Its thunder made the cataracts dumb;
With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum,
It neared as if the Devil was in it. _65
14.
The Devil WAS in it:--he had bought
Peter for half-a-crown; and when
The storm which bore him vanished, nought
That in the house that storm had caught
Was ever seen again. _70
15.
The gaping neighbours came next day--
They found all vanished from the shore:
The Bible, whence he used to pray,
Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;
Smashed glass--and nothing more! _75
PART 2.
THE DEVIL.
1.
The Devil, I safely can aver,
Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;
Nor is he, as some sages swear,
A spirit, neither here nor there,
In nothing--yet in everything.
while we were in Lombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of
his own would prove a proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in
Rome, in 1819, a friend put into our hands the old manuscript account
of the story of the Cenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces,
where the portraits of Beatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast
the reflection of its own grace over her appalling story. Shelley's
imagination became strongly excited, and he urged the subject to me as
one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I
entreated him to write it instead; and he began, and proceeded
swiftly, urged on by intense sympathy with the sufferings of the human
beings whose passions, so long cold in the tomb, he revived, and
gifted with poetic language. This tragedy is the only one of his works
that he communicated to me during its progress. We talked over the
arrangement of the scenes together. I speedily saw the great mistake
we had made, and triumphed in the discovery of the new talent brought
to light from that mine of wealth (never, alas, through his untimely
death, worked to its depths)--his richly gifted mind.
We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest
child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly
to be the idol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world,
anxious for a time to escape a spot associated too intimately with his
presence and loss. (Such feelings haunted him when, in "The Cenci", he
makes Beatrice speak to Cardinal Camillo of
'that fair blue-eyed child
Who was the lodestar of your life:'--and say--
All see, since his most swift and piteous death,
That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time,
And all the things hoped for or done therein
Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief. ')
Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn,
and we took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the
town and Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa
was situated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they
worked beneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and
in the evening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation
went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges:
Nature was bright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of
a majestic terror, such as we had never before witnessed.
At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often
such in Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only
roofed but glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a
wide prospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near
sea. The storms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves most
picturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the dark
lurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became water-spouts that
churned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and
scattered by the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and
heat made it almost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in
both, and his health and spirits revived under their influence. In
this airy cell he wrote the principal part of "The Cenci". He was
making a study of Calderon at the time, reading his best tragedies
with an accomplished lady living near us, to whom his letter from
Leghorn was addressed during the following year. He admired Calderon,
both for his poetry and his dramatic genius; but it shows his
judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first
acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept
into the composition of "The Cenci"; and there is no trace of his new
studies, except in that passage to which he himself alludes as
suggested by one in "El Purgatorio de San Patricio".
Shelley wished "The Cenci" to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being
of such fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad
filling-up of the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure
from England, however, he saw Miss O'Neil several times. She was then
in the zenith of her glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her
impersonation of several parts, and by the graceful sweetness, the
intense pathos, the sublime vehemence of passion she displayed. She
was often in his thoughts as he wrote: and, when he had finished, he
became anxious that his tragedy should be acted, and receive the
advantage of having this accomplished actress to fill the part of the
heroine. With this view he wrote the following letter to a friend in
London:
'The object of the present letter us to ask a favour of you. I have
written a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my
conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my
play fit for representation, and those who have already seen it judge
favourably. It is written without any of the peculiar feelings and
opinions which characterize my other compositions; I have attended
simply to the impartial development of such characters as it is
probable the persons represented really were, together with the
greatest degree of popular effect to be produced by such a
development. I send you a translation of the Italian manuscript on
which my play is founded; the chief circumstance of which I have
touched very delicately; for my principal doubt as to whether it would
succeed as an acting play hangs entirely on the question as to whether
any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be
admitted on the stage. I think, however, it will form no objection;
considering, first, that the facts are matter of history, and,
secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treated it. (In
speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelley said that
it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he had never
mentioned expressly Cenci's worst crime. Every one knew what it must
be, but it was never imaged in words--the nearest allusion to it being
that portion of Cenci's curse beginning--
"That, if she have a child," etc. )
'I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt
of mine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative
at present; founding my hopes on this--that, as a composition, it is
certainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been
acted, with the exception of "Remorse"; that the interest of the plot
is incredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond
what the multitude are contented to believe that they can understand,
either in imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a
complete incognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do,
you will at least favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential,
deeply essential, to its success. After it had been acted, and
successfully (could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I
pleased, and use the celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes.
'What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at Covent
Garden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for
Miss O'Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God
forbid that I should see her play it--it would tear my nerves to
pieces); and in all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The
chief male character I confess I should be very unwilling that any one
but Kean should play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with
an inferior actor. '
The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subject
to be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to Miss
O'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would
write a tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept.
Shelley printed a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness;
as he was much annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text
when distance prevented him from correcting the press.
Universal approbation soon stamped "The Cenci" as the best tragedy of
modern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: 'I have been
cautious to avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition;
diffuseness, a profusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness,
generality, and, as Hamlet says, "words, words". ' There is nothing
that is not purely dramatic throughout; and the character of Beatrice,
proceeding, from vehement struggle, to horror, to deadly resolution,
and lastly to the elevated dignity of calm suffering, joined to
passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so
beautiful that the poet seems to have read intimately the secrets of
the noble heart imaged in the lovely countenance of the unfortunate
girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. It is the finest thing he ever
wrote, and may claim proud comparison not only with any contemporary,
but preceding, poet. The varying feelings of Beatrice are expressed
with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Every character has a voice
that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, to one acquainted with
the written story, to mark the success with which the poet has inwoven
the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through
the power of poetry, has obliterated all that would otherwise have
shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. His success was a
double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreated to write
again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it was not less
instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind went the
other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interest depended
on character and incident, he would start off in another direction,
and leave the delineations of human passion, which he could depict in
so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or the
expression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human
nature and its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master
passion of his soul.
***
THE MASK OF ANARCHY.
WRITTEN ON THE OCCASION OF THE MASSACRE AT MANCHESTER.
[Composed at the Villa Valsovano near Leghorn--or possibly later,
during Shelley's sojourn at Florence--in the autumn of 1819, shortly
after the Peterloo riot at Manchester, August 16; edited with Preface
by Leigh Hunt, and published under the poet's name by Edward Moxon,
1832 (Bradbury & Evans, printers). Two manuscripts are extant: a
transcript by Mrs. Shelley with Shelley's autograph corrections, known
as the 'Hunt manuscript'; and an earlier draft, not quite complete, in
the poet's handwriting, presented by Mrs. Shelley to (Sir) John
Bowring in 1826, and now in the possession of Mr. Thomas J. Wise (the
'Wise manuscript'). Mrs. Shelley's copy was sent to Leigh Hunt in 1819
with view to its publication in "The Examiner"; hence the name 'Hunt
manuscript. ' A facsimile of the Wise manuscript was published by the
Shelley Society in 1887. Sources of the text are (1) the Hunt
manuscript; (2) the Wise manuscript; (3) the editio princeps, editor
Leigh Hunt, 1832; (4) Mrs. Shelley's two editions ("Poetical Works")
of 1839. Of the two manuscripts Mrs. Shelley's transcript is the later
and more authoritative. ]
1.
As I lay asleep in Italy
There came a voice from over the Sea,
And with great power it forth led me
To walk in the visions of Poesy.
2.
I met Murder on the way-- _5
He had a mask like Castlereagh--
Very smooth he looked, yet grim;
Seven blood-hounds followed him:
3.
All were fat; and well they might
Be in admirable plight, _10
For one by one, and two by two,
He tossed them human hearts to chew
Which from his wide cloak he drew.
4.
Next came Fraud, and he had on,
Like Eldon, an ermined gown; _15
His big tears, for he wept well,
Turned to mill-stones as they fell.
5.
And the little children, who
Round his feet played to and fro,
Thinking every tear a gem, _20
Had their brains knocked out by them.
6.
Clothed with the Bible, as with light,
And the shadows of the night,
Like Sidmouth, next, Hypocrisy
On a crocodile rode by. _25
7.
And many more Destructions played
In this ghastly masquerade,
All disguised, even to the eyes,
Like Bishops, lawyers, peers, or spies.
8.
Last came Anarchy: he rode _30
On a white horse, splashed with blood;
He was pale even to the lips,
Like Death in the Apocalypse.
9.
And he wore a kingly crown;
And in his grasp a sceptre shone; _35
On his brow this mark I saw--
'I AM GOD, AND KING, AND LAW! '
10.
With a pace stately and fast,
Over English land he passed,
Trampling to a mire of blood _40
The adoring multitude.
11.
And a mighty troop around,
With their trampling shook the ground,
Waving each a bloody sword,
For the service of their Lord. _45
12.
And with glorious triumph, they
Rode through England proud and gay,
Drunk as with intoxication
Of the wine of desolation.
13.
O'er fields and towns, from sea to sea, _50
Passed the Pageant swift and free,
Tearing up, and trampling down;
Till they came to London town.
14.
And each dweller, panic-stricken,
Felt his heart with terror sicken _55
Hearing the tempestuous cry
Of the triumph of Anarchy.
15.
For with pomp to meet him came,
Clothed in arms like blood and flame,
The hired murderers, who did sing _60
'Thou art God, and Law, and King.
16.
'We have waited, weak and lone
For thy coming, Mighty One!
Our purses are empty, our swords are cold,
Give us glory, and blood, and gold. ' _65
17.
Lawyers and priests, a motley crowd,
To the earth their pale brows bowed;
Like a bad prayer not over loud,
Whispering--'Thou art Law and God. '--
18.
Then all cried with one accord, _70
'Thou art King, and God, and Lord;
Anarchy, to thee we bow,
Be thy name made holy now! '
19.
And Anarchy, the Skeleton,
Bowed and grinned to every one, _75
As well as if his education
Had cost ten millions to the nation.
20.
For he knew the Palaces
Of our Kings were rightly his;
His the sceptre, crown, and globe, _80
And the gold-inwoven robe.
21.
So he sent his slaves before
To seize upon the Bank and Tower,
And was proceeding with intent
To meet his pensioned Parliament _85
22.
When one fled past, a maniac maid,
And her name was Hope, she said:
But she looked more like Despair,
And she cried out in the air:
23.
'My father Time is weak and gray _90
With waiting for a better day;
See how idiot-like he stands,
Fumbling with his palsied hands!
24.
'He has had child after child,
And the dust of death is piled _95
Over every one but me--
Misery, oh, Misery! '
25.
Then she lay down in the street,
Right before the horses' feet,
Expecting, with a patient eye, _100
Murder, Fraud, and Anarchy.
26.
When between her and her foes
A mist, a light, an image rose,
Small at first, and weak, and frail
Like the vapour of a vale: _105
27.
Till as clouds grow on the blast,
Like tower-crowned giants striding fast,
And glare with lightnings as they fly,
And speak in thunder to the sky,
28.
It grew--a Shape arrayed in mail _110
Brighter than the viper's scale,
And upborne on wings whose grain
Was as the light of sunny rain.
29.
On its helm, seen far away,
A planet, like the Morning's, lay; _115
And those plumes its light rained through
Like a shower of crimson dew.
30.
With step as soft as wind it passed
O'er the heads of men--so fast
That they knew the presence there, _120
And looked,--but all was empty air.
31.
As flowers beneath May's footstep waken,
As stars from Night's loose hair are shaken,
As waves arise when loud winds call,
Thoughts sprung where'er that step did fall. _125
32.
And the prostrate multitude
Looked--and ankle-deep in blood,
Hope, that maiden most serene,
Was walking with a quiet mien:
33.
And Anarchy, the ghastly birth, _130
Lay dead earth upon the earth;
The Horse of Death tameless as wind
Fled, and with his hoofs did grind
To dust the murderers thronged behind.
34.
A rushing light of clouds and splendour, _135
A sense awakening and yet tender
Was heard and felt--and at its close
These words of joy and fear arose
35.
As if their own indignant Earth
Which gave the sons of England birth _140
Had felt their blood upon her brow,
And shuddering with a mother's throe
36.
Had turned every drop of blood
By which her face had been bedewed
To an accent unwithstood,-- _145
As if her heart had cried aloud:
37.
'Men of England, heirs of Glory,
Heroes of unwritten story,
Nurslings of one mighty Mother,
Hopes of her, and one another; _150
38.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number,
Shake your chains to earth like dew
Which in sleep had fallen on you--
Ye are many--they are few. _155
39.
'What is Freedom? --ye can tell
That which slavery is, too well--
For its very name has grown
To an echo of your own.
40.
''Tis to work and have such pay _160
As just keeps life from day to day
In your limbs, as in a cell
For the tyrants' use to dwell,
41.
'So that ye for them are made
Loom, and plough, and sword, and spade, _165
With or without your own will bent
To their defence and nourishment.
42.
''Tis to see your children weak
With their mothers pine and peak,
When the winter winds are bleak,-- _170
They are dying whilst I speak.
43.
''Tis to hunger for such diet
As the rich man in his riot
Casts to the fat dogs that lie
Surfeiting beneath his eye; _175
44.
''Tis to let the Ghost of Gold
Take from Toil a thousandfold
More than e'er its substance could
In the tyrannies of old.
45.
'Paper coin--that forgery _180
Of the title-deeds, which ye
Hold to something of the worth
Of the inheritance of Earth.
46.
''Tis to be a slave in soul
And to hold no strong control _185
Over your own wills, but be
All that others make of ye.
47.
'And at length when ye complain
With a murmur weak and vain
'Tis to see the Tyrant's crew _190
Ride over your wives and you
Blood is on the grass like dew.
48.
'Then it is to feel revenge
Fiercely thirsting to exchange
Blood for blood--and wrong for wrong-- _195
Do not thus when ye are strong.
49.
'Birds find rest, in narrow nest
When weary of their winged quest;
Beasts find fare, in woody lair
When storm and snow are in the air. _200
50.
'Asses, swine, have litter spread
And with fitting food are fed;
All things have a home but one--
Thou, Oh, Englishman, hast none!
51.
'This is Slavery--savage men, _205
Or wild beasts within a den
Would endure not as ye do--
But such ills they never knew.
52.
'What art thou Freedom? O! could slaves
Answer from their living graves _210
This demand--tyrants would flee
Like a dream's dim imagery:
53.
'Thou art not, as impostors say,
A shadow soon to pass away,
A superstition, and a name _215
Echoing from the cave of Fame.
54.
'For the labourer thou art bread,
And a comely table spread
From his daily labour come
In a neat and happy home. _220
55.
Thou art clothes, and fire, and food
For the trampled multitude--
No--in countries that are free
Such starvation cannot be
As in England now we see. _225
56.
'To the rich thou art a check,
When his foot is on the neck
Of his victim, thou dost make
That he treads upon a snake.
57.
Thou art Justice--ne'er for gold _230
May thy righteous laws be sold
As laws are in England--thou
Shield'st alike the high and low.
58.
'Thou art Wisdom--Freemen never
Dream that God will damn for ever _235
All who think those things untrue
Of which Priests make such ado.
59.
'Thou art Peace--never by thee
Would blood and treasure wasted be
As tyrants wasted them, when all _240
Leagued to quench thy flame in Gaul.
60.
'What if English toil and blood
Was poured forth, even as a flood?
It availed, Oh, Liberty,
To dim, but not extinguish thee. _245
61.
'Thou art Love--the rich have kissed
Thy feet, and like him following Christ,
Give their substance to the free
And through the rough world follow thee,
62.
'Or turn their wealth to arms, and make _250
War for thy beloved sake
On wealth, and war, and fraud--whence they
Drew the power which is their prey.
63.
'Science, Poetry, and Thought
Are thy lamps; they make the lot _255
Of the dwellers in a cot
So serene, they curse it not.
64.
'Spirit, Patience, Gentleness,
All that can adorn and bless
Art thou--let deeds, not words, express _260
Thine exceeding loveliness.
65.
'Let a great Assembly be
Of the fearless and the free
On some spot of English ground
Where the plains stretch wide around. _265
66.
'Let the blue sky overhead,
The green earth on which ye tread,
All that must eternal be
Witness the solemnity.
67.
'From the corners uttermost _270
Of the bounds of English coast;
From every hut, village, and town
Where those who live and suffer moan
For others' misery or their own,
68.
'From the workhouse and the prison
Where pale as corpses newly risen,
Women, children, young and old _277
Groan for pain, and weep for cold--
69.
'From the haunts of daily life
Where is waged the daily strife _280
With common wants and common cares
Which sows the human heart with tares--
70.
'Lastly from the palaces
Where the murmur of distress
Echoes, like the distant sound _285
Of a wind alive around
71.
'Those prison halls of wealth and fashion,
Where some few feel such compassion
For those who groan, and toil, and wail
As must make their brethren pale--
72.
'Ye who suffer woes untold, _291
Or to feel, or to behold
Your lost country bought and sold
With a price of blood and gold--
73.
'Let a vast assembly be, _295
And with great solemnity
Declare with measured words that ye
Are, as God has made ye, free--
74.
'Be your strong and simple words
Keen to wound as sharpened swords, _300
And wide as targes let them be,
With their shade to cover ye.
75.
'Let the tyrants pour around
With a quick and startling sound,
Like the loosening of a sea, _305
Troops of armed emblazonry.
76.
'Let the charged artillery drive
Till the dead air seems alive
With the clash of clanging wheels,
And the tramp of horses' heels. _310
77.
'Let the fixed bayonet
Gleam with sharp desire to wet
Its bright point in English blood
Looking keen as one for food.
78.
Let the horsemen's scimitars _315
Wheel and flash, like sphereless stars
Thirsting to eclipse their burning
In a sea of death and mourning.
79.
'Stand ye calm and resolute,
Like a forest close and mute, _320
With folded arms and looks which are
Weapons of unvanquished war,
80.
'And let Panic, who outspeeds
The career of armed steeds
Pass, a disregarded shade _325
Through your phalanx undismayed.
81.
'Let the laws of your own land,
Good or ill, between ye stand
Hand to hand, and foot to foot,
Arbiters of the dispute, _330
82.
'The old laws of England--they
Whose reverend heads with age are gray,
Children of a wiser day;
And whose solemn voice must be
Thine own echo--Liberty! _335
83.
'On those who first should violate
Such sacred heralds in their state
Rest the blood that must ensue,
And it will not rest on you.
84.
'And if then the tyrants dare _340
Let them ride among you there,
Slash, and stab, and maim, and hew,--
What they like, that let them do.
85.
'With folded arms and steady eyes,
And little fear, and less surprise, _345
Look upon them as they slay
Till their rage has died away.
86.
Then they will return with shame
To the place from which they came,
And the blood thus shed will speak _350
In hot blushes on their cheek.
87.
'Every woman in the land
Will point at them as they stand--
They will hardly dare to greet
Their acquaintance in the street. _355
88.
'And the bold, true warriors
Who have hugged Danger in wars
Will turn to those who would be free,
Ashamed of such base company.
89.
'And that slaughter to the Nation _360
Shall steam up like inspiration,
Eloquent, oracular;
A volcano heard afar.
90.
'And these words shall then become
Like Oppression's thundered doom _365
Ringing through each heart and brain,
Heard again--again--again--
91.
'Rise like Lions after slumber
In unvanquishable number--
Shake your chains to earth like dew _370
Which in sleep had fallen on you--
Ye are many--they are few. '
NOTES:
_15. Like Eldon Hunt manuscript; Like Lord Eldon Wise manuscript.
_15. ermined Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript edition 1832;
ermine editions 1839.
_23 shadows]shadow editions 1839 only.
_29 or]and Wise manuscript only.
_35 And in his grasp Hunt manuscript, edition 1882;
In his hand Wise manuscript,
Hunt manuscript cancelled, edition 1839.
_36 On his]And on his edition 1832 only.
_51 the Hunt manuscript, edition 1832; that Wise manuscript.
_56 tempestuous]tremendous editions 1839 only.
_58 For with pomp]For from. . . Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript.
_71 God]Law editions 1839 only.
_79 rightly Wise manuscript; nightly Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_93 Fumbling] Trembling editions 1839 only.
_105 a vale Hunt manuscript, Wise manuscript; the vale editions 1832, 1839.
_113 as]like editions 1839 only.
_116 its Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; it editions 1832, 1839.
_121 but Wise MS; and Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_122 May's footstep Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
the footstep edition 1832; May's footsteps editions 1839.
_132-4 omit Wise manuscript.
_146 had cried Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839;
cried out Wise manuscript.
_155 omit edition 1832 only.
_182 of]from Wise manuscript only.
_186 wills Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; will Wise manuscript.
_198 their Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
the edition 1832.
_216 cave Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
caves edition 1832, Hunt manuscript cancelled.
_220 In Wise manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; To Hunt manuscript.
(Note at stanza 49: The following stanza is found in the Wise
manuscript and in editions 1839, but is wanting in the Hunt manuscript
and in edition 1832:--
'Horses, oxen, have a home,
When from daily toil they come;
Household dogs, when the wind roars,
Find a home within warm doors. ')
_233 the Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839; both Wise manuscript.
_234 Freemen Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
Freedom edition 1832.
_235 Dream Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
Dreams edition 1832. damn]doom editions 1839 only.
_248 Give Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
Given Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript cancelled, editions 1839.
_249 follow]followed editions 1839 only.
_250 Or Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript; Oh editions 1832, 1839.
_254 Science, Poetry, Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
Science, and Poetry editions 1832, 1839.
_257 So Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
Such they curse their Maker not Wise manuscript, editions 1839.
_263 and]of edition 1832 only.
_274 or]and edition 1832 only.
(Note to end of stanza 67: The following stanza is found (cancelled)
at this place in the Wise manuscript:--
'From the cities where from caves,
Like the dead from putrid graves,
Troops of starvelings gliding come,
Living Tenants of a tomb. '
_282 sows Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript;
sow editions 1832, 1839.
_297 measured Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
ne'er-said editions 1839.
_322 of unvanquished Wise manuscript;
of an unvanquished Hunt manuscript, editions 1832, 1839.
_346 slay Wise manuscript; Hunt manuscript, editions 1839;
stay edition 1832.
_357 in wars Wise manuscript, Hunt manuscript, edition 1832;
in the wars editions 1839.
NOTE ON THE MASK OF ANARCHY, BY MRS. SHELLEY.
Though Shelley's first eager desire to excite his countrymen to resist
openly the oppressions existent during 'the good old times' had faded
with early youth, still his warmest sympathies were for the people. He
was a republican, and loved a democracy. He looked on all human beings
as inheriting an equal right to possess the dearest privileges of our
nature; the necessaries of life when fairly earned by labour, and
intellectual instruction. His hatred of any despotism that looked upon
the people as not to be consulted, or protected from want and
ignorance, was intense. He was residing near Leghorn, at Villa
Valsovano, writing "The Cenci", when the news of the Manchester
Massacre reached us; it roused in him violent emotions of indignation
and compassion. The great truth that the many, if accordant and
resolute, could control the few, as was shown some years after, made
him long to teach his injured countrymen how to resist. Inspired by
these feelings, he wrote the "Mask of Anarchy", which he sent to his
friend Leigh Hunt, to be inserted in the Examiner, of which he was
then the Editor.
'I did not insert it,' Leigh Hunt writes in his valuable and
interesting preface to this poem, when he printed it in 1832, 'because
I thought that the public at large had not become sufficiently
discerning to do justice to the sincerity and kind-heartedness of the
spirit that walked in this flaming robe of verse. ' Days of outrage
have passed away, and with them the exasperation that would cause such
an appeal to the many to be injurious. Without being aware of them,
they at one time acted on his suggestions, and gained the day. But
they rose when human life was respected by the Minister in power; such
was not the case during the Administration which excited Shelley's
abhorrence.
The poem was written for the people, and is therefore in a more
popular tone than usual: portions strike as abrupt and unpolished, but
many stanzas are all his own. I heard him repeat, and admired, those
beginning
'My Father Time is old and gray,'
before I knew to what poem they were to belong. But the most touching
passage is that which describes the blessed effects of liberty; it
might make a patriot of any man whose heart was not wholly closed
against his humbler fellow-creatures.
***
PETER BELL THE THIRD.
BY MICHING MALLECHO, ESQ.
Is it a party in a parlour,
Crammed just as they on earth were crammed,
Some sipping punch--some sipping tea;
But, as you by their faces see,
All silent, and all--damned!
"Peter Bell", by W. WORDSWORTH.
OPHELIA. --What means this, my lord?
HAMLET. --Marry, this is Miching Mallecho; it means mischief.
SHAKESPEARE.
[Composed at Florence, October, 1819, and forwarded to Hunt (November
2) to be published by C. & J. Ollier without the author's name;
ultimately printed by Mrs. Shelley in the second edition of the
"Poetical Works", 1839. A skit by John Hamilton Reynolds, "Peter Bell,
a Lyrical Ballad", had already appeared (April, 1819), a few days
before the publication of Wordsworth's "Peter Bell, a Tale". These
productions were reviewed in Leigh Hunt's "Examiner" (April 26, May 3,
1819); and to the entertainment derived from his perusal of Hunt's
criticisms the composition of Shelley's "Peter Bell the Third" is
chiefly owing. ]
DEDICATION.
TO THOMAS BROWN, ESQ. , THE YOUNGER, H. F.
Dear Tom,
Allow me to request you to introduce Mr. Peter Bell to the respectable
family of the Fudges. Although he may fall short of those very
considerable personages in the more active properties which
characterize the Rat and the Apostate, I suspect that even you, their
historian, will confess that he surpasses them in the more peculiarly
legitimate qualification of intolerable dulness.
You know Mr. Examiner Hunt; well--it was he who presented me to two of
the Mr. Bells. My intimacy with the younger Mr. Bell naturally sprung
from this introduction to his brothers. And in presenting him to you,
I have the satisfaction of being able to assure you that he is
considerably the dullest of the three.
There is this particular advantage in an acquaintance with any one of
the Peter Bells, that if you know one Peter Bell, you know three Peter
Bells; they are not one, but three; not three, but one. An awful
mystery, which, after having caused torrents of blood, and having been
hymned by groans enough to deafen the music of the spheres, is at
length illustrated to the satisfaction of all parties in the
theological world, by the nature of Mr. Peter Bell.
Peter is a polyhedric Peter, or a Peter with many sides. He changes
colours like a chameleon, and his coat like a snake. He is a Proteus
of a Peter. He was at first sublime, pathetic, impressive, profound;
then dull; then prosy and dull; and now dull--oh so very dull! it is
an ultra-legitimate dulness.
You will perceive that it is not necessary to consider Hell and the
Devil as supernatural machinery. The whole scene of my epic is in
'this world which is'--so Peter informed us before his conversion to
"White Obi"--
'The world of all of us, AND WHERE
WE FIND OUR HAPPINESS, OR NOT AT ALL. '
Let me observe that I have spent six or seven days in composing this
sublime piece; the orb of my moonlike genius has made the fourth part
of its revolution round the dull earth which you inhabit, driving you
mad, while it has retained its calmness and its splendour, and I have
been fitting this its last phase 'to occupy a permanent station in the
literature of my country. '
Your works, indeed, dear Tom, sell better; but mine are far superior.
The public is no judge; posterity sets all to rights.
Allow me to observe that so much has been written of Peter Bell, that
the present history can be considered only, like the Iliad, as a
continuation of that series of cyclic poems, which have already been
candidates for bestowing immortality upon, at the same time that they
receive it from, his character and adventures. In this point of view I
have violated no rule of syntax in beginning my composition with a
conjunction; the full stop which closes the poem continued by me
being, like the full stops at the end of the Iliad and Odyssey, a full
stop of a very qualified import.
Hoping that the immortality which you have given to the Fudges, you
will receive from them; and in the firm expectation, that when London
shall be an habitation of bitterns; when St. Paul's and Westminster
Abbey shall stand, shapeless and nameless ruins, in the midst of an
unpeopled marsh; when the piers of Waterloo Bridge shall become the
nuclei of islets of reeds and osiers, and cast the jagged shadows of
their broken arches on the solitary stream, some transatlantic
commentator will be weighing in the scales of some new and now
unimagined system of criticism, the respective merits of the Bells and
the Fudges, and their historians. I remain, dear Tom, yours sincerely,
MICHING MALLECHO.
December 1, 1819.
P. S. --Pray excuse the date of place; so soon as the profits of the
publication come in, I mean to hire lodgings in a more respectable
street.
PROLOGUE.
Peter Bells, one, two and three,
O'er the wide world wandering be. --
First, the antenatal Peter,
Wrapped in weeds of the same metre,
The so-long-predestined raiment _5
Clothed in which to walk his way meant
The second Peter; whose ambition
Is to link the proposition,
As the mean of two extremes--
(This was learned from Aldric's themes) _10
Shielding from the guilt of schism
The orthodoxal syllogism;
The First Peter--he who was
Like the shadow in the glass
Of the second, yet unripe, _15
His substantial antitype. --
Then came Peter Bell the Second,
Who henceforward must be reckoned
The body of a double soul,
And that portion of the whole _20
Without which the rest would seem
Ends of a disjointed dream. --
And the Third is he who has
O'er the grave been forced to pass
To the other side, which is,-- _25
Go and try else,--just like this.
Peter Bell the First was Peter
Smugger, milder, softer, neater,
Like the soul before it is
Born from THAT world into THIS. _30
The next Peter Bell was he,
Predevote, like you and me,
To good or evil as may come;
His was the severer doom,--
For he was an evil Cotter, _35
And a polygamic Potter.
And the last is Peter Bell,
Damned since our first parents fell,
Damned eternally to Hell--
Surely he deserves it well! _40
NOTES:
_10 Aldric's] i. e. Aldrich's--a spelling adopted here by Woodberry.
(_36 The oldest scholiasts read--
A dodecagamic Potter.
This is at once more descriptive and more megalophonous,--but the
alliteration of the text had captivated the vulgar ear of the herd of
later commentators. --[SHELLEY'S NOTE. ])
PART 1.
DEATH.
1.
And Peter Bell, when he had been
With fresh-imported Hell-fire warmed,
Grew serious--from his dress and mien
'Twas very plainly to be seen
Peter was quite reformed. _5
2.
His eyes turned up, his mouth turned down;
His accent caught a nasal twang;
He oiled his hair; there might be heard
The grace of God in every word
Which Peter said or sang. _10
3.
But Peter now grew old, and had
An ill no doctor could unravel:
His torments almost drove him mad;--
Some said it was a fever bad--
Some swore it was the gravel. _15
4.
His holy friends then came about,
And with long preaching and persuasion
Convinced the patient that, without
The smallest shadow of a doubt,
He was predestined to damnation. _20
5.
They said--'Thy name is Peter Bell;
Thy skin is of a brimstone hue;
Alive or dead--ay, sick or well--
The one God made to rhyme with hell;
The other, I think, rhymes with you. _25
6.
Then Peter set up such a yell! --
The nurse, who with some water gruel
Was climbing up the stairs, as well
As her old legs could climb them--fell,
And broke them both--the fall was cruel. _30
7.
The Parson from the casement lept
Into the lake of Windermere--
And many an eel--though no adept
In God's right reason for it--kept
Gnawing his kidneys half a year. _35
8.
And all the rest rushed through the door
And tumbled over one another,
And broke their skulls. --Upon the floor
Meanwhile sat Peter Bell, and swore,
And cursed his father and his mother; _40
9.
And raved of God, and sin, and death,
Blaspheming like an infidel;
And said, that with his clenched teeth
He'd seize the earth from underneath,
And drag it with him down to hell. _45
10.
As he was speaking came a spasm,
And wrenched his gnashing teeth asunder;
Like one who sees a strange phantasm
He lay,--there was a silent chasm
Between his upper jaw and under. _50
11.
And yellow death lay on his face;
And a fixed smile that was not human
Told, as I understand the case,
That he was gone to the wrong place:--
I heard all this from the old woman. _55
12.
Then there came down from Langdale Pike
A cloud, with lightning, wind and hail;
It swept over the mountains like
An ocean,--and I heard it strike
The woods and crags of Grasmere vale. _60
13.
And I saw the black storm come
Nearer, minute after minute;
Its thunder made the cataracts dumb;
With hiss, and clash, and hollow hum,
It neared as if the Devil was in it. _65
14.
The Devil WAS in it:--he had bought
Peter for half-a-crown; and when
The storm which bore him vanished, nought
That in the house that storm had caught
Was ever seen again. _70
15.
The gaping neighbours came next day--
They found all vanished from the shore:
The Bible, whence he used to pray,
Half scorched under a hen-coop lay;
Smashed glass--and nothing more! _75
PART 2.
THE DEVIL.
1.
The Devil, I safely can aver,
Has neither hoof, nor tail, nor sting;
Nor is he, as some sages swear,
A spirit, neither here nor there,
In nothing--yet in everything.
