Chapter 48

A HALL OF THE PRISON. ENTER CAMILLO AND BERNARDO.

CAMILLO: The Pope is stern; not to be moved or bent. He looked as calm and keen as is the engine Which tortures and which kills, exempt itself From aught that it inflicts; a marble form, A rite, a law, a custom: not a man. _5 He frowned, as if to frown had been the trick Of his machinery, on the advocates Presenting the defences, which he tore And threw behind, muttering with hoarse, harsh voice: 'Which among ye defended their old father _10 Killed in his sleep?' Then to another: 'Thou Dost this in virtue of thy place; 'tis well.' He turned to me then, looking deprecation, And said these three words, coldly: 'They must die.'

BERNARDO: And yet you left him not?

CAMILLO: I urged him still; _15 Pleading, as I could guess, the devilish wrong Which prompted your unnatural parent's death. And he replied: 'Paolo Santa Croce Murdered his mother yester evening, And he is fled. Parricide grows so rife _20 That soon, for some just cause no doubt, the young Will strangle us all, dozing in our chairs. Authority, and power, and hoary hair Are grown crimes capital. You are my nephew, You come to ask their pardon; stay a moment; _25 Here is their sentence; never see me more Till, to the letter, it be all fulfilled.'

BERNARDO: O God, not so! I did believe indeed That all you said was but sad preparation For happy news. Oh, there are words and looks _30 To bend the sternest purpose! Once I knew them, Now I forget them at my dearest need. What think you if I seek him out, and bathe His feet and robe with hot and bitter tears? Importune him with prayers, vexing his brain _35 With my perpetual cries, until in rage He strike me with his pastoral cross, and trample Upon my prostrate head, so that my blood May stain the senseless dust on which he treads, And remorse waken mercy? I will do it! _40 Oh, wait till I return!

[RUSHES OUT.]

CAMILLO: Alas, poor boy! A wreck-devoted seaman thus might pray To the deaf sea.

[ENTER LUCRETIA, BEATRICE, AND GIACOMO, GUARDED.]

BEATRICE: I hardly dare to fear That thou bring'st other news than a just pardon.

CAMILLO: May God in heaven be less inexorable _45 To the Pope's prayers than he has been to mine. Here is the sentence and the warrant.

BEATRICE [WILDLY]: O My God! Can it be possible I have To die so suddenly? So young to go Under the obscure, cold, rotting, wormy ground! _50 To be nailed down into a narrow place; To see no more sweet sunshine; hear no more Blithe voice of living thing; muse not again Upon familiar thoughts, sad, yet thus lost-- How fearful! to be nothing! Or to be... _55 What? Oh, where am I? Let me not go mad! Sweet Heaven, forgive weak thoughts! If there should be No God, no Heaven, no Earth in the void world; The wide, gray, lampless, deep, unpeopled world! If all things then should be...my father's spirit, _60 His eye, his voice, his touch surrounding me; The atmosphere and breath of my dead life! If sometimes, as a shape more like himself, Even the form which tortured me on earth, Masked in gray hairs and wrinkles, he should come _65 And wind me in his hellish arms, and fix His eyes on mine, and drag me down, down, down! For was he not alone omnipotent On Earth, and ever present? Even though dead, Does not his spirit live in all that breathe, _70 And work for me and mine still the same ruin, Scorn, pain, despair? Who ever yet returned To teach the laws of Death's untrodden realm? Unjust perhaps as those which drive us now, Oh, whither, whither?

LUCRETIA: Trust in God's sweet love, _75 The tender promises of Christ: ere night, Think, we shall be in Paradise.

BEATRICE: 'Tis past! Whatever comes, my heart shall sink no more. And yet, I know not why, your words strike chill: How tedious, false, and cold seem all things. I _80 Have met with much injustice in this world; No difference has been made by God or man, Or any power moulding my wretched lot, 'Twixt good or evil, as regarded me. I am cut off from the only world I know, _85 From light, and life, and love, in youth's sweet prime. You do well telling me to trust in God; I hope I do trust in him. In whom else Can any trust? And yet my heart is cold.

[DURING THE LATTER SPEECHES GIACOMO HAS RETIRED CONVERSING WITH CAMILLO, WHO NOW GOES OUT; GIACOMO ADVANCES.]

GIACOMO: Know you not, Mother...Sister, know you not? _90 Bernardo even now is gone to implore The Pope to grant our pardon.

LUCRETIA: Child, perhaps It will be granted. We may all then live To make these woes a tale for distant years: Oh, what a thought! It gushes to my heart _95 Like the warm blood.

BEATRICE: Yet both will soon be cold. Oh, trample out that thought! Worse than despair, Worse than the bitterness of death, is hope: It is the only ill which can find place Upon the giddy, sharp, and narrow hour _100 Tottering beneath us. Plead with the swift frost That it should spare the eldest flower of spring: Plead with awakening earthquake, o'er whose couch Even now a city stands, strong, fair, and free; Now stench and blackness yawn, like death. Oh, plead _105 With famine, or wind-walking Pestilence, Blind lightning, or the deaf sea, not with man! Cruel, cold, formal man; righteous in words, In deeds a Cain. No, Mother, we must die: Since such is the reward of innocent lives; _110 Such the alleviation of worst wrongs. And whilst our murderers live, and hard, cold men, Smiling and slow, walk through a world of tears To death as to life's sleep; 'twere just the grave Were some strange joy for us. Come, obscure Death, _115 And wind me in thine all-embracing arms! Like a fond mother hide me in thy bosom, And rock me to the sleep from which none wake. Live ye, who live, subject to one another As we were once, who now...

NOTE: _105 yawn edition 1821; yawns editions 1819, 1839.

[BERNARDO RUSHES IN.]

BERNARDO: Oh, horrible! _120 That tears, that looks, that hope poured forth in prayer, Even till the heart is vacant and despairs, Should all be vain! The ministers of death Are waiting round the doors. I thought I saw Blood on the face of one...What if 'twere fancy? _125 Soon the heart's blood of all I love on earth Will sprinkle him, and he will wipe it off As if 'twere only rain. O life! O world! Cover me! let me be no more! To see That perfect mirror of pure innocence _130 Wherein I gazed, and grew happy and good, Shivered to dust! To see thee, Beatrice, Who made all lovely thou didst look upon... Thee, light of life ... dead, dark! while I say, sister, To hear I have no sister; and thou, Mother, _135 Whose love was as a bond to all our loves... Dead! The sweet bond broken! [ENTER CAMILLO AND GUARDS.] They come! Let me Kiss those warm lips before their crimson leaves Are blighted...white...cold. Say farewell, before Death chokes that gentle voice! Oh, let me hear _140 You speak!

NOTE: _136 was as a Rossetti cj.; was a editions 1819, 1821, 1839.

BEATRICE: Farewell, my tender brother. Think Of our sad fate with gentleness, as now: And let mild, pitying thoughts lighten for thee Thy sorrow's load. Err not in harsh despair, But tears and patience. One thing more, my child: _145 For thine own sake be constant to the love Thou bearest us; and to the faith that I, Though wrapped in a strange cloud of crime and shame, Lived ever holy and unstained. And though Ill tongues shall wound me, and our common name _150 Be as a mark stamped on thine innocent brow For men to point at as they pass, do thou Forbear, and never think a thought unkind Of those, who perhaps love thee in their graves. So mayest thou die as I do; fear and pain _155 Being subdued. Farewell! Farewell! Farewell!

BERNARDO: I cannot say, farewell!

CAMILLO: Oh, Lady Beatrice!

BEATRICE: Give yourself no unnecessary pain, My dear Lord Cardinal. Here, Mother, tie My girdle for me, and bind up this hair _160 In any simple knot; ay, that does well. And yours I see is coming down. How often Have we done this for one another; now We shall not do it any more. My Lord, We are quite ready. Well, 'tis very well. _165

THE END.

NOTE ON THE CENCI, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

The sort of mistake that Shelley made as to the extent of his own genius and powers, which led him deviously at first, but lastly into the direct track that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious instance of his modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human mind uses at once to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to make its way out of error into the path which Nature has marked out as its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy: he conceived that I possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always most earnest and energetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent I possessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate of my powers; and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of the fact) I was far too young to have any chance of succeeding, even moderately, in a species of composition that requires a greater scope of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then have fallen to my lot,--or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever possessed, even at the age of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci.

On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to be destitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisites was the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He fancied himself to he defective in this portion of imagination: it was that which gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though he laid great store by it as the proper framework to support the sublimest efforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical and abstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as a tragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion with himself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given any specimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of a story, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to him as an occupation.

The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I: and he had written to me: 'Remember, remember Charles I. I have been already imagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of "St. Leon" begins with this proud and true sentiment: "There is nothing which the human mind can conceive which it may not execute." Shakespeare was only a human being.' 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.])