within himself, but upon others it forced itself upwards and made utterance, as when he sang : "For love, and beauty, and delight, There is no death, nor change; their might No light, being themselves obscure." First as a poet, Shelley was yet an acute speculator upon morals. He had a direct and decided tendency towards metaphysics, but whether he would have fulfilled all Mrs. Shelley's vaticinations may be reasonably open to doubt. He had, however, great and unquestionable originality of mind in this direction. "Had not Shelley deserted metaphysics for poetry in his youth, and had he not been lost to us early, so that all his vaster projects were wrecked with him in the waves, he would have presented the world with a complete theory of mind, a theory to which Berkeley, Coleridge, and Kant would have contributed; but more simple, unimpregnable, and entire, than the systems of these writers." So observes his most ardent apologist. It has always been the earnest belief of philosophers and speculators upon morals, from the time of Thales to Comte, that their several systems were the most clear and distinct ever submitted for the approval of mankind; but the rough edge of criticism has shown how fallacious have been these assumptions. We can well afford to lose one metaphysician more or less in the person of Shelley the poet; the world prefers his music to his speculations upon the recondite problems of human nature. It frequently occurs that the true poet has also a true appreciation of, and love for, the kindred arts of sculpture and painting, though it would be hazardous to affirm this as a general proposition. For the details of art, and for particular schools, the poet may possibly have no special enthusiasm, but the expression of beauty in any form must move his soul. The painter also is a poet in the sense that, when he pursues art from the noblest motives, it is with a view of elevating men, and insisting upon the lesson that human life consists not in the accumulation of material treasure, nor in the simple enjoyment of material good. Art, as well as poetry, is humanising in its effects, though the influence of art is less directly palpable upon the mind; the sensations produced by it are keen, but individually evanescent, and its refining influence upon mankind can be perceived in its entirety, but not in its gradual progress. It moves men silently and slowly; does not play so great a part in morals perhaps as music; and certainly not so operative a part as poetry. Further, the love of art is a taste which affects the root of the human character but in a moderate degree, yet it is a taste which can be encouraged and enkindled in the commonest minds with substantial success. But in minds of a superior order it will generally be found that there is a very strong though sometimes dormant power of appreciation of art. This power may slumber till the opportuneness of circumstances calls it into activity. Such was the case with Shelley. In early years he cared little for the concrete forms of art, and his first awakening was towards sculpture. Many years elapsed after that before he expressed any great delight in painting, but when he did, as we discover in his Letters from Italy, his sympathy was very strong, and, upon occasion, penetrating. Correggio and Guido moved him deeply, the latter, probably, by reason of the high poetic beauty which generally distinguishes his works. If Shelley erred in this admiration-as many critics are disposed to think-he erred in company with thousands who in every generation have perceived the beauty and grandeur of Guido's conceptions. Of course, in matters of art the individual very largely consults his own taste; it is difficult to lay down canons and affirm emphatically that they must be accepted. Art affords unbounded scope for em piricism. Shelley's aversion to Michael Angelo, during the greater part of his life, should, I think, be chiefly attributed to his horror of materialism. He was touched by the poetry of Guido, but revolted (somewhat unreasonably) from the rougher and more gigantic, but equally sublime, productions of Michael Angelo. Yet, when he knew the latter more intimately, his distaste for him waned. Travel, suffering, and ever-expanding thought enlarged his views; and amongst other prejudices which fell away as the treasures of southern art were unfolded before him in all their beauty, majesty, and sublimity, was his strong feeling of animosity towards the great Italian. What is of importance to consider here, however, is that the treasures of art, the raptures of music, and the companionship of the illustrious in letters, from Plato downwards, were cherished not alone for the supreme delight which they afforded to the soul of Shelley, but also as incitements to excellence, and ministrants to virtue. Few could bear the light to beat upon their lives, upon their every thought, deed, and emotion, as could this guileless and child-like poet-this man in whom frail humanity and divine genius were combined in a degree at once striking and unique. His life was super-eminently that described in Bailey's Festus "We live in deeds, not years; in thoughts, not breaths ; In feelings, not in figures on a dial. If Shelley never consciously found God, he drank of the streams of his eternal goodness and virtue unwittingly; for there is but one Source whence these streams flow-the universe presents but one Fountain of benevolence, purity, and love. After the poet's death, Mrs. Shelley wrote-" To be something great and good was the precept given me by my father: Shelley reiterated it." And again-"I would endeavour to consider myself a faint continuation of Shelley's being, and, as far as possible, the revelation to the earth of what he was. Yet, to become this, I must change much, and above all I must acquire that knowledge, and drink at those fountains of wisdom and virtue from which he quenched his thirst." Shelley himself, in writing to his friend Mr. Hookham (after an attempt had been made to assassinate the poet in North Wales), remarked-glad to discover friendship in a world disfigured by deceit and villainy— "If the discovery of truth be a pleasure of singular purity, how far surpassing is the discovery of virtue!" In all seasons, and under all circumstances, he constituted himself the champion of |