Shelley at Oxford Part 1

Sh.e.l.ley at Oxford.

by Thomas Jefferson Hogg.

INTRODUCTION

Thomas Jefferson Hogg's account of Sh.e.l.ley's career at Oxford first appeared in the form of a series of articles contributed to the _New Monthly Magazine_ in 1832 and 1833. It was afterwards incorporated into his _Life of Sh.e.l.ley_, which was published in 1858. It is by common consent the most life-like portrait of the poet left by any of his contemporaries. "Hogg," said Trelawny, "has painted Sh.e.l.ley exactly as I knew him," and Mary Sh.e.l.ley, referring to Hogg's articles in her edition of Sh.e.l.ley's poems, bore witness to the fidelity with which her husband's character had been delineated. In later times everyone who has written about Sh.e.l.ley has drawn upon Hogg more or less freely, for he is practically the only authority upon Sh.e.l.ley's six months at Oxford. Yet, save in the extracts that appear in various biographies of the poet, this remarkable work is little known. Hogg's fragmentary _Life of Sh.e.l.ley_ was discredited by the plainly-expressed disapproval of the Sh.e.l.ley family and has never been reprinted. But the inaccuracies, to call them by no harsher term, that disfigure Hogg's later production do not affect the value of his earlier narrative, the substantial truth of which has never been impugned.

In 1832 the _New Monthly Magazine_ was edited by the first Lord Lytton (at that time Edward Lytton Bulwer), to whom Hogg was introduced by Mrs Sh.e.l.ley. Hogg complained bitterly of the way in which his ma.n.u.script was treated. "To write articles in a magazine or a review," he observed in the Preface to his _Life of Sh.e.l.ley_, "is to walk in leading-strings. However, I submitted to the requirements and restraints of bibliopolar discipline, being content to speak of my young fellow-collegian, not exactly as I would, but as I might. I struggled at first, and feebly, for full liberty of speech, for a larger license of commendation and admiration, for entire freedom of the press without censorship." Bulwer, however, was inexorable, and it is owing, no doubt, to his salutary influence that the style of Hogg's account of Sh.e.l.ley's Oxford days is so far superior to that of his later compilation. Hogg, in fact, tacitly admitted the value of Bulwer's emendations by reprinting the articles in question in his biography of Sh.e.l.ley word for word as they appeared in the _New Monthly Magazine_, not in the form in which they originally left his pen.

Hogg himself was unquestionably a man of remarkable powers, though his present fame depends almost entirely upon his connection with Sh.e.l.ley. He was born in 1792, being the eldest son of John Hogg, a gentleman of old family and strong Tory opinions, who lived at Norton in the county of Durham. He was educated at Durham Grammar School, and entered University College, Oxford, in January 1810, a short time before Sh.e.l.ley. The account of his meeting with Sh.e.l.ley and of their intimacy down to the day of their expulsion is told in these pages.

On the strength of a remark of Trelawny's it has often been repeated that Hogg was a hard-headed man of the world who despised literature, "he thought it all nonsense and barely tolerated Shakespeare." Such is not the impression that a reader of these pages will retain, nor, I think, will he be inclined to echo the opinion p.r.o.nounced by another critic that Hogg regarded Sh.e.l.ley with a kind of amused disdain. On the contrary, it is plain that Hogg entertained for Sh.e.l.ley a sincere regard and admiration, and although himself a man of temperament directly opposed to that usually described as poetical, he was fully capable of appreciating the transcendent qualities of his friend's genius. There is little to add to the tale of Hogg's and Sh.e.l.ley's Oxford life as told in the following narrative, but further details as to their expulsion and the causes that led to it may be read in Professor Dowden's biography of the poet. After leaving Oxford, Hogg established himself at York, where he was articled to a conveyancer. There he was visited by Sh.e.l.ley and his young wife, Harriet Westbrook, in the course of their wanderings. For the latter Hogg conceived a violent pa.s.sion, and during a brief absence of Sh.e.l.ley's a.s.sailed her with the most unworthy proposals, which she communicated to her husband on his return. After a painful interview Sh.e.l.ley forgave his friend, but left York with his wife abruptly for Keswick. Letters pa.s.sed between Hogg and Sh.e.l.ley, Hogg at first demanding Harriet's forgiveness under a threat of suicide and subsequently challenging Sh.e.l.ley to a duel.

One of Sh.e.l.ley's replies, characteristically n.o.ble in sentiment, was printed by Hogg with cynical effrontery in his biography of the poet many years later as a "Fragment of a Novel." After these incidents there was no intercourse between the two until, in October 1812, the Sh.e.l.leys arrived in London, whither Hogg had moved. From that time until Sh.e.l.ley's final departure from England in 1818 his connection with Hogg was resumed with much of its old intimacy.

In the year 1813 Hogg produced a work of fiction, _The Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff_, said to be translated from the original Latin MSS. under the immediate inspection of the Prince, by John Brown, Esq. The tale, which is for the most part told in stilted and extravagant language, can hardly be called amusing, but the discussions upon liberty which are a feature of it appear to be an echo of Sh.e.l.ley's conversation, and the hero himself may possibly be intended as a portrait of the poet. Certainly there are points in the Prince's description of himself which seem to be borrowed from Sh.e.l.ley's physiognomy. "My complexion was a clear brown, rather inclining to yellow; my hair a deep and bright black; my eyes dark and strongly expressive of pride and anger,... my hands very small, and my head remarkable for its roundness and diminutive size." It would be interesting to trace in the other characters the portraits of various members of Hogg's circle. Mr Garnett identifies Gothon as Dr Lind, the Eton tutor whose sympathy and encouragement did much to alleviate the misery of Sh.e.l.ley's school-days. The fair Rosalie ought to be Harriet, and certain features of her character recall that unhappy damsel, but Rosalie disliked reading and thought Aristotle an "egregious trifler," whereas Harriet's taste in literature was of an extreme seriousness, and her partiality for reading works of a moral tendency to her companions in season and out of season was one of the least engaging features of her character.

Sh.e.l.ley reviewed _The Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff_ in the _Critical Review_ of December 1814, discussing the talents of the author in terms of glowing eulogy, though he found fault with his views on the subject of s.e.xual relations. Soon after his York experiences Hogg had entered at the Middle Temple and he was called to the Bar in 1817. He was not successful as a barrister, lacking the quickness and ready eloquence that command success. In or about the year 1826 Hogg married Jane, the widow of Edward Ellerker Williams, who had shared Sh.e.l.ley's fate three years previously.

It is said that Mrs Williams insisted upon Hogg's preparing himself for the union, or perhaps we should rather say, proving his devotion, by a course of foreign travel. Hogg undertook the ordeal, voluntarily depriving himself of three things, each of which, to use his own words, "daily habit had taught me to consider a prime necessary of life--law, Greek, and an English newspaper." In 1827 he published the record of his tour in two volumes, ent.i.tled _Two Hundred and Nine Days; or, The Journal of a Traveller on the Continent_, which, so far from ill.u.s.trating the anguish of hope deferred, is a storehouse of shrewd and cynical observation.

In 1833 Hogg was appointed one of the Munic.i.p.al Corporation Commissioners for England and Wales, and for many years he acted as Revising Barrister for Northumberland, Berwick and the Northern Boroughs. About 1855 he was commissioned by the Sh.e.l.ley family to write the poet's biography and was furnished with the necessary papers. In 1858 he produced the two extant volumes, which proved so little satisfactory to Sh.e.l.ley's representatives that the materials for the continuation of his task were withdrawn and the work interrupted, never to be resumed. Hogg died in 1862. He was a man of varied culture; in knowledge of Greek few scholars of his time surpa.s.sed him, and he was well read in German, French, Italian and Spanish. He was a fair botanist, and rejoiced to think that he was born upon the anniversary of the birth of Linnaeus, for whose concise and simple style he professed a great admiration. Nevertheless it is chiefly as the friend and biographer of Sh.e.l.ley that he interests the present generation, and the re-publication of his account of the poet's Oxford experiences can scarcely fail to win him new admirers.

R. A. STREATFEILD

Sh.e.l.lEY AT OXFORD

CHAPTER I

What is the greatest disappointment in life? The question has often been asked. In a perfect life--that is to say, in a long course of various disappointments, when the collector has completed the entire set and series, which should he p.r.o.nounce to be the greatest? What is the greatest disappointment of all? The question has often been asked, and it has received very different answers. Some have said matrimony; others, the accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously antic.i.p.ated; others, the attainment of honours; others, the deliverance from an ancient and intolerable nuisance, since a new and more grievous one speedily succeeded to the old. Many solutions have been proposed, and each has been ingeniously supported. At a very early age I had formed a splendid picture of the glories of our two Universities. My father took pleasure in describing his academical career. I listened to him with great delight, and many circ.u.mstances gave additional force to these first impressions.

The clergy--and in the country they make one's princ.i.p.al guests--always spoke of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their academical days as the happiest of their lives.

When I went to school, my prejudices were strengthened; for the master noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every remarkable proficiency as being fit, for the University. Such expressions marked the utmost limits of blame and of praise. Whenever any of the elder boys were translated to college--and several went thither from our school every year--the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. I had always contemplated my own removal with the like feeling, and as the period approached, I antic.i.p.ated it with a reverent impatience. The appointed day at last arrived, and I set out with a schoolfellow, about to enter the same career, and his father. The latter was a dutiful and a most grateful son of _alma mater_; and the conversation of this estimable man, during our long journey, fanned the flame of my young ardour. Such, indeed, had been the effect of his discourse for many years; and as he possessed a complete collection of the Oxford Almanacks, and it had been a great and frequent gratification to contemplate the engravings at the top of the annual sheets when I visited his quiet vicarage, I was already familiar with the aspect of the n.o.ble buildings that adorn that famous city. After travelling for several days we reached the last stage, and soon afterwards approached the point whence, I was told, we might discern the first glimpse of the metropolis of learning. I strained my eyes to catch a view of that land of promise, for which I had so eagerly longed. The summits of towers and spires and domes appeared afar and faintly; then the prospect was obstructed. By degrees it opened upon us again, and we saw the tall trees that shaded the colleges. At three o'clock on a fine autumnal afternoon we entered the streets of Oxford. Although the weather was cold we had let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and I sat forward, devouring every object with greedy eyes. Members of the University, of different ages and ranks, were gliding through the quiet streets of the venerable city in academic costume.

We devoted two or three days to the careful examination of the various objects of interest that Oxford contains. The eye was gratified, for the external appearance of the University even surpa.s.sed the bright picture which my youthful imagination had painted. The outside was always admirable; it was far otherwise with the inside. It is essential to the greatness of a disappointment that the previous expectation should have been great. Nothing could exceed my young antic.i.p.ations--nothing could be more complete than their overthrow. It would be impossible to describe my feelings without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable University. On this subject, then, I will only confess my disappointment, and discreetly be silent as to its causes. Whatever those causes, I grew, at least, and I own it cheerfully, soon pleased with Oxford, on the whole; pleased with the beauty of the city and its gentle river, and the pleasantness of the surrounding country.

Although no great facilities were afforded to the student, there were the same opportunities of _solitary_ study as in other places. All the irksome restraints of school were removed, and those of the University are few and trifling. Our fare was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to have been, in return for the enormous cost; and I liked the few companions with whom I most commonly mixed. I continued to lead a life of tranquil and studious and somewhat melancholy contentment until the long vacation, which I spent with my family; and, when it expired, I returned to the University.

At the commencement of Michaelmas term--that is, at the end of October, in the year 1810, I happened one day to sit next to a freshman at dinner. It was his first appearance in hall. His figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youthful, even at our table, where all were very young. He seemed thoughtful and absent. He ate little, and had no acquaintance with anyone. I know not how it was that we fell into conversation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not possibly be occasion for any. We have often endeavoured in vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and especially by what transition it pa.s.sed to a subject sufficiently remote from all the a.s.sociations we were able to trace. The stranger had expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical and imaginative works of the German school; I dissented from his criticisms. He upheld the originality of the German writings; I a.s.serted their want of nature.

"What modern literature," said he, "will you compare to theirs?"

I named the Italian. This roused all his impetuosity; and few, as I soon discovered, were more impetuous in argumentative conversation. So eager was our dispute that, when the servants came in to clear the tables, we were not aware that we had been left alone. I remarked that it was time to quit the hall, and I invited the stranger to finish the discussion at my rooms. He eagerly a.s.sented. He lost the thread of his discourse in the transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the cause of Germany; for, as soon as he arrived at my rooms, and whilst I was lighting the candles, he said calmly, and to my great surprise, that he was not qualified to maintain such a discussion, for he was alike ignorant of Italian and German, and had only read the works of the Germans, in translations, and but little of Italian poetry, even at second hand. For my part, I confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that I knew nothing of German, and but little of Italian; that I had spoken only through others, and, like him, had hitherto seen by the glimmering light of translations.

It is upon such scanty data that young men reason; upon such slender materials do they build up their opinions. It may be urged, however, that if they did not discourse freely with each other upon insufficient information--for such alone can be acquired in the pleasant morning of life, and until they educate themselves--they would be constrained to observe a perpetual silence, and to forego the numerous advantages that flow from frequent and liberal discussion.

I inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine and dessert, how long he had been at Oxford, and how he liked it? He answered my questions with a certain impatience, and, resuming the subject of our discussion, he remarked that, "Whether the literature of Germany or of Italy be the more original, or in a purer and more accurate taste, is of little importance, for polite letters are but vain trifling; the study of languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of Latin and Greek also, is merely the study of words and phrases, of the names of things; it matters not how they are called. It is surely far better to investigate things themselves." I inquired, a little bewildered, how this was to be effected?

He answered, "Through the physical sciences, and especially through chemistry;" and, raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he discoursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal in defence of the Germans, of chemistry and chemical a.n.a.lysis. Concerning that science, then so popular, I had merely a scanty and vulgar knowledge, gathered from elementary books, and the ordinary experiments of popular lecturers. I listened, therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition, interposing a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the extent of his own studies and manipulations. As I felt, in truth, but a slight interest in the subject of his conversation, I had leisure to examine, and, I may add, to admire, the appearance of my very extraordinary guest. It was a sum of many contradictions. His figure was slight and fragile, and yet his bones and joints were large and strong. He was tall, but he stooped so much that he seemed of a low stature. His clothes were expensive, and made according to the most approved mode of the day, but they were tumbled, rumpled, unbrushed. His gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and graceful. His complexion was delicate and almost feminine, of the purest red and white; yet he was tanned and freckled by exposure to the sun, having pa.s.sed the autumn, as he said, in shooting.

His features, his whole face, and particularly his head, were, in fact, unusually small; yet the last _appeared_ of a remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or pa.s.sed his fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was singularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, this eccentricity was very striking. His features were not symmetrical (the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the effect of the whole extremely powerful. They breathed an animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural intelligence, that I never met with in any other countenance. Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intellectual; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound religious veneration that characterises the best works, and chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused their whole souls) of the great masters of Florence and of Rome. I recognised the very peculiar expression in these wonderful productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose countenance I had first observed it. I admired the enthusiasm of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science and his thirst for knowledge. I seemed to have found in him all those intellectual qualities which I had vainly expected to meet with in a University. But there was one physical blemish that threatened to neutralise all his excellence. "This is a fine, clever fellow!" I said to myself, "but I can never bear his society; I shall never be able to endure his voice; it would kill me. What a pity it is!" I am very sensible of imperfections, and especially of painful sounds, and the voice of the stranger was excruciating. It was intolerably shrill, harsh and discordant; of the most cruel intension. It was perpetual, and without any remission; it excoriated the ears. He continued to discourse on chemistry, sometimes sitting, sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about the room; and when one of the innumerable clocks, that speak in various notes during the day and the night at Oxford, proclaimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it. I am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate for a moment; but it was impossible to omit so indispensable a civility--I invited him to return to tea. He gladly a.s.sented, promised that he would not be absent long, s.n.a.t.c.hed his hat, hurried out of the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran through the silent quadrangle and afterwards along High Street.

An hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared and the tea was made, and I again heard the footsteps of one running quickly. My guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in the lecture. Few persons attended; it was dull and languid, and he was resolved never to go to another.

"I went away, indeed," he added, with an arch look, and in a shrill whisper, coming close to me as he spoke--"I went away, indeed, before the lecture was finished. I stole away, for it was so stupid, and I was so cold that my teeth chattered. The Professor saw me, and appeared to be displeased. I thought I could have got out without being observed, but I struck my knee against a bench and made a noise, and he looked at me. I am determined that he shall never see me again."

"What did the man talk about?"

"About stones! about stones!" he answered, with a downcast look and in a melancholy tone, as if about to say something excessively profound. "About stones! stones, stones, stones!--nothing but stones!--and so drily. It was wonderfully tiresome, and stones are not interesting things in themselves!"

We took tea, and soon afterwards had supper, as was usual. He discoursed after supper with as much warmth as before of the wonders of chemistry; of the encouragement that Napoleon afforded to that most important science; of the French chemists and their glorious discoveries, and of the happiness of visiting Paris and sharing in their fame and their experiments. The voice, however, seemed to me more cruel than ever. He spoke, likewise, of his own labours and of his apparatus, and starting up suddenly after supper, he proposed that I should go instantly with him to see the galvanic trough. I looked at my watch, and observed that it was too late; that the fire would be out, and the night was cold. He resumed his seat, saying that I might come on the morrow early, to breakfast, immediately after chapel. He continued to declaim in his rapturous strain, a.s.serting that chemistry was, in truth, the only science that deserved to be studied. I suggested doubts. I ventured to question the pre-eminence of the science, and even to hesitate in admitting its utility. He described in glowing language some discoveries that had lately been made; but the enthusiastic chemist candidly allowed that they were rather brilliant than useful, a.s.serting, however, that they would soon be applied to purposes of solid advantage.

"Is not the time of by far the larger proportion of the human species," he inquired, with his fervid manner and in his piercing tones, "wholly consumed in severe labour? And is not this devotion of our race--of the whole of our race, I may say (for those who, like ourselves, are indulged with an exemption from the hard lot are so few in comparison with the rest, that they scarcely deserve to be taken into account)--absolutely necessary to procure subsistence, so that men have no leisure for recreation or the high improvement of the mind? Yet this incessant toil is still inadequate to procure an abundant supply of the common necessaries of life. Some are doomed actually to want them, and many are compelled to be content with an insufficient provision. We know little of the peculiar nature of those substances which are proper for the nourishment of animals; we are ignorant of the qualities that make them fit for this end.

a.n.a.lysis has advanced so rapidly of late that we may confidently antic.i.p.ate that we shall soon discover wherein their apt.i.tude really consists; having ascertained the cause, we shall next be able to command it, and to produce at our pleasure the desired effects. It is easy, even in our present state of ignorance, to reduce our ordinary food to carbon, or to lime; a moderate advancement in chemical science will speedily enable us, we may hope, to create, with equal facility, food from substances that appear at present to be as ill adapted to sustain us. What is the cause of the remarkable fertility of some lands, and of the hopeless sterility of others? A spadeful of the most productive soil does not to the eye differ much from the same quant.i.ty taken from the most barren. The real difference is probably very slight; by chemical agency the philosopher may work a total change, and may trans.m.u.te an unfruitful region into a land of exuberant plenty. Water, like the atmospheric air, is compounded of certain gases; in the progress of scientific discovery a simple and sure method of manufacturing the useful fluid, in every situation and in any quant.i.ty, may be detected. The arid deserts of Africa may then be refreshed by a copious supply and may be transformed at once into rich meadows and vast fields of maize and rice. The generation of heat is a mystery, but enough of the theory of caloric has already been developed to induce us to acquiesce in the notion that it will hereafter, and perhaps at no very distant period, be possible to produce heat at will, and to warm the most ungenial climates as readily as we now raise the temperature of our apartments to whatever degree we may deem agreeable or salutary. If, however, it be too much to antic.i.p.ate that we shall ever become sufficiently skilful to command such a prodigious supply of heat, we may expect, without the fear of disappointment, soon to understand its nature and the causes of combustion, so far at least, as to provide ourselves cheaply with a fund of heat that will supersede our costly and inconvenient fuel, and will suffice to warm our habitations, for culinary purposes and for the various demands of the mechanical arts. We could not determine without actual experiment whether an unknown substance were combustible; when we shall have thoroughly investigated the properties of fire, it may be that we shall be qualified to communicate to clay, to stones, and to water itself, a chemical recomposition that will render them as inflammable as wood, coals and oil; for the difference of structure is minute and invisible, and the power of feeding flame may, perhaps, be easily added to any substance, or taken away from it. What a comfort would it be to the poor at all times, and especially at this season, if we were capable of solving this problem alone, if we could furnish them with a competent supply of heat! These speculations may appear wild, and it may seem improbable that they will ever be realised to persons who have not extended their views of what is practicable by closely watching science in its course onward; but there are many mysterious powers, many irresistible agents with the existence and with some of the phenomena of which all are acquainted. What a mighty instrument would electricity be in the hands of him who knew how to wield it, in what manner to direct its omnipotent energies, and we may command an indefinite quant.i.ty of the fluid. By means of electrical kites we may draw down the lightning from heaven! What a terrible organ would the supernal shock prove, if we were able to guide it; how many of the secrets of nature would such a stupendous force unlock. The galvanic battery is a new engine; it has been used hitherto to an insignificant extent, yet has it wrought wonders already; what will not an extraordinary combination of troughs, of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of hundreds of metallic plates, effect? The balloon has not yet received the perfection of which it is surely capable; the art of navigating the air is in its first and most helpless infancy; the aerial mariner still swims on bladders, and has not mounted even the rude raft; if we weigh this invention, curious as it is, with some of the subjects I have mentioned, it will seem trifling, no doubt--a mere toy, a feather in comparison with the splendid antic.i.p.ations of the philosophical chemist; yet it ought not altogether to be contemned. It promises prodigious facilities for locomotion, and will enable us to traverse vast tracts with ease and rapidity, and to explore unknown countries without difficulty. Why are we still so ignorant of the interior of Africa?--why do we not despatch intrepid aeronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole peninsula in a few weeks? The shadow of the first balloon, which a vertical sun would project precisely underneath it, as it glided silently over that hitherto unhappy country, would virtually emanc.i.p.ate every slave, and would annihilate slavery for ever."

With such fervour did the slender, beardless stranger speculate concerning the march of physical science; his speculations were as wild as the experience of twenty-one years has shown them to be; but the zealous earnestness for the augmentation of knowledge, and the glowing philanthropy and boundless benevolence that marked them, and beamed forth in the whole deportment of that extraordinary boy, are not less astonishing than they would have been if the whole of his glorious antic.i.p.ations had been prophetic; for these high qualities at least I have never found a parallel. When he had ceased to predict the coming honours of chemistry, and to promise the rich harvest of benefits it was soon to yield, I suggested that, although its results were splendid, yet for those who could not hope to make discoveries themselves, it did not afford so valuable a course of mental discipline as the moral sciences; moreover, that, if chemists a.s.serted that their science alone deserved to be cultivated, the mathematicians made the same a.s.sertion, and with equal confidence, respecting their studies; but that I was not sufficiently advanced myself in mathematics to be able to judge how far it was well founded. He declared that he knew nothing of mathematics, and treated the notion of their paramount importance with contempt.

"What do you say of metaphysics?" I continued; "is that science, too, the study of words only?"

"Ay, metaphysics," he said, in a solemn tone, and with a mysterious air, "that is a n.o.ble study indeed! If it were possible to make any discoveries there, they would be more valuable than anything the chemists have done, or could do; they would disclose the a.n.a.lysis of mind, and not of mere matter!" Then, rising from his chair, he paced slowly about the room, with prodigious strides, and discoursed of souls with still greater animation and vehemence than he had displayed in treating of gases--of a future state--and especially of a former state--of pre-existence, obscured for a time through the suspension of consciousness--of personal ident.i.ty, and also of ethical philosophy, in a deep and earnest tone of elevated morality, until he suddenly remarked that the fire was nearly out, and the candles were glimmering in their sockets, when he hastily apologised for remaining so long. I promised to visit the chemist in his laboratory, the alchemist in his study, the wizard in his cave, not at breakfast on that day, for it was already one, but in twelve hours--one hour after noon--and to hear some of the secrets of nature; and for that purpose he told me his name, and described the situation of his rooms. I lighted him downstairs as well as I could with the stump of a candle which had dissolved itself into a lump, and I soon heard him running through the quiet quadrangle in the still night. That sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear, that I still seem to hear Sh.e.l.ley's hasty steps.

CHAPTER II

I trust, or I should perhaps rather say I hope, that I was as much struck by the conversation, the aspect, and the deportment of my new acquaintance, as entirely convinced of the value of the acquisition I had just made, and as deeply impressed with surprise and admiration as became a young student not insensible of excellence, to whom a character so extraordinary, and indeed almost preternatural, had been suddenly unfolded. During his animated and eloquent discourses I felt a due reverence for his zeal and talent, but the human mind is capable of a certain amount of attention only. I had listened and discussed for seven or eight hours, and my spirits were totally exhausted. I went to bed as soon as Sh.e.l.ley had quitted my rooms, and fell instantly into a profound sleep; and I shook off with a painful effort, at the accustomed signal, the complete oblivion which then appeared to have been but momentary. Many of the wholesome usages of antiquity had ceased at Oxford; that of early rising, however, still lingered.

As soon as I got up, I applied myself sedulously to my academical duties and my accustomed studies. The power of habitual occupation is great and engrossing, and it is possible that my mind had not yet fully recovered from the agreeable fatigue of the preceding evening, for I had entirely forgotten my engagement, nor did the thought of my young guest once cross my fancy. It was strange that a person so remarkable and attractive should have thus disappeared for several hours from my memory; but such in truth was the fact, although I am unable to account for it in a satisfactory manner.

At one o'clock I put away my books and papers, and prepared myself for my daily walk; the weather was frosty, with fog, and whilst I lingered over the fire with that reluctance to venture forth into the cold air common to those who have chilled themselves by protracted sedentary pursuits, the recollection of the scenes of yesterday flashed suddenly and vividly across my mind, and I quickly repaired to a spot that I may perhaps venture to predict many of our posterity will hereafter reverently visit--to the rooms in the corner next the hall of the princ.i.p.al quadrangle of University College. They are on the first floor, and on the right of the entrance, but by reason of the turn in the stairs, when you reach them they will be upon your left hand. I remember the direction given at parting, and I soon found the door. It stood ajar. I tapped gently, and the discordant voice cried shrilly,--

"Come in!"

It was now nearly two. I began to apologise for my delay, but I was interrupted by a loud exclamation of surprise.

"What! is it one? I had no notion it was so late. I thought it was about ten or eleven."

"It is on the stroke of two, sir," said the scout, who was engaged in the vain attempt of setting the apartment in order.

"Of two!" Sh.e.l.ley cried with increased wonder, and presently the clock struck, and the servant noticed it, retired and shut the door.