I
I have committed sins, of course;
but I have not committed enough of them to entitle me to the
punishment of reduction to the bread and water of ordinary
literature during six years when I might have been living on the
fat diet spread for the righteous in Professor Dowden's Life of
Shelley, if I had been justly dealt with.
During these six years I have
been living a life of peaceful ignorance. I was not aware that
Shelley's first wife was unfaithful to him, and that that was why
he deserted her and wiped the stain from his sensitive honor by
entering into soiled relations with Godwin's young daughter. This
was all
new to me when I heard it lately,
and was told that the proofs of it were in this book, and that this
book's verdict is accepted in the girls' colleges of America and
its view taught in their literary classes.
In each of these six years
multitudes of young people in our country have arrived at the
Shelley-reading age. Are these six multitudes unacquainted with
this life of Shelley? Perhaps they are; indeed, one may feel pretty
sure that the great bulk of them are. To these, then, I address
myself, in the hope that some account of this romantic historical
fable and the fabulist's manner of constructing and adorning it may
interest them.
First, as to its literary style.
Our negroes in America have several ways of entertaining themselves
which are not found among the whites anywhere. Among these
inventions of theirs is one which is particularly popular with
them. It is a competition in elegant deportment. They hire a hall
and bank the spectators' seats in rising tiers along the two sides,
leaving all the middle stretch of the floor free. A cake is
provided as a prize for the winner in the competition, and a bench
of experts in deportment is appointed to award it. Sometimes there
are as many as fifty contestants, male and female, and five hundred
spectators. One at a time the contestants enter, clothed regardless
of expense in what each considers the perfection of style and
taste, and walk down the vacant central space and back again with
that multitude of critical eyes on them. All that the competitor
knows of fine airs and graces he throws into his carriage, all that
he knows of seductive expression he throws into his countenance. He
may use all the helps he can devise: watch-chain to twirl with his
fingers, cane to do graceful things with, snowy handkerchief to
flourish and get artful effects out of, shiny new stovepipe hat to
assist in his courtly bows; and the colored lady may have a fan to
work up her effects with, and smile over and blush behind, and she
may add other helps, according to her judgment. When the review by
individual detail is over, a grand review of all the contestants in
procession follows, with all the airs and graces and all the
bowings and smirkings on exhibition at once, and this enables the
bench of experts to make the necessary comparisons and arrive at a
verdict. The successful competitor gets the prize which I have
before mentioned, and an abundance of applause and envy along with
it. The negroes have a name for this grave deportment-tournament; a
name taken from the prize contended for. They call it a
Cake-walk.
This Shelley biography is a
literary cake-walk. The ordinary forms of speech are absent from
it. All the pages, all the paragraphs, walk by sedately, elegantly,
not to say mincingly, in their Sunday-best, shiny and sleek,
perfumed, and with boutonnieres in their button-holes; it is rare
to find even a chance sentence that has forgotten to dress. If the
book wishes to tell us that Mary Godwin, child of sixteen, had
known afflictions, the fact saunters forth in this nobby outfit:
“Mary was herself not unlearned in the lore of pain”—meaning by
that that she had not always traveled on asphalt; or, as some
authorities would frame it, that she had “been there herself,” a
form which, while preferable to the book's form, is still not to be
recommended. If the book wishes to tell us that Harriet Shelley
hired a wet-nurse, that commonplace fact gets turned into a
dancing-master, who does his professional bow before us in pumps
and knee-breeches, with his fiddle under one arm and his crush-hat
under the other, thus: “The beauty of Harriet's motherly relation
to her babe was marred in Shelley's eyes by the introduction into
his house of a hireling nurse to whom was delegated the mother's
tenderest office.”