the　most　durable　outcome　of　ours　may　be　execution　by　electricity；
  so　in　our　own　society　the　talk　of　benevolence　and　the　cult　of
  childhood　are　the　very　fashion　of　the　hour。　　We；　of　this　self…
  conscious；　incredulous　generation；　sentimentalise　our　children；
  analyse　our　children；　think　we　are　endowed　with　a　special　capacity
  to　sympathise　and　identify　ourselves　with　children；　we　play　at　being
  children。　　And　the　result　is　that　we　are　not　more　child…like；　but
  our　children　are　less　child…like。　　It　is　so　tiring　to　stoop　to　the
  child；　so　much　easier　to　lift　the　child　up　to　you。　　Know　you　what　it
  is　to　be　a　child？　　It　is　to　be　something　very　different　from　the　man
  of　to…day。　　It　is　to　have　a　spirit　yet　streaming　from　the　waters　of
  baptism；　it　is　to　believe　in　love；　to　believe　in　loveliness；　to
  believe　in　belief；　it　is　to　be　so　little　that　the　elves　can　reach　to
  whisper　in　your　ear；　it　is　to　turn　pumpkins　into　coaches；　and　mice
  into　horses；　lowness　into　loftiness；　and　nothing　into　everything；
  for　each　child　has　its　fairy　godmother　in　its　own　soul；　it　is　to
  live　in　a　nutshell　and　to　count　yourself　the　king　of　infinite　space；
  it　is
  To　see　a　world　in　a　grain　of　sand；
  And　a　heaven　in　a　wild　flower；
  Hold　infinity　in　the　palm　of　your　hand；
  And　eternity　in　an　hour；
  it　is　to　know　not　as　yet　that　you　are　under　sentence　of　life；　nor
  petition　that　it　be　commuted　into　death。　　When　we　become　conscious
  in　dreaming　that　we　dream；　the　dream　is　on　the　point　of　breaking；
  when　we　become　conscious　in　living　that　we　live；　the　ill　dream　is
  but　just　beginning。　　Now　if　Shelley　was　but　too　conscious　of　the
  dream；　in　other　respects　Dryden's　false　and　famous　line　might　have
  been　applied　to　him　with　very　much　less　than　it's　usual　untruth。　｛5｝
  To　the　last；　in　a　degree　uncommon　even　among　poets；　he　retained　the
  idiosyncrasy　of　childhood；　expanded　and　matured　without
  differentiation。　　To　the　last　he　was　the　enchanted　child。
  This　was；　as　is　well　known；　patent　in　his　life。　　It　is　as　really；
  though　perhaps　less　obviously；　manifest　in　his　poetry；　the　sincere
  effluence　of　his　life。　　And　it　may　not；　therefore；　be　amiss　to
  consider　whether　it　was　conditioned　by　anything　beyond　his
  congenital　nature。　　For　our　part；　we　believe　it　to　have　been　equally
  largely　the　outcome　of　his　early　and　long　isolation。　　Men　given　to
  retirement　and　abstract　study　are　notoriously　liable　to　contract　a
  certain　degree　of　childlikeness：　　and　if　this　be　the　case　when　we
  segregate　a　man；　how　much　more　when　we　segregate　a　child！　　It　is
  when　they　are　taken　into　the　solution　of　school…life　that　children；
  by　the　reciprocal　interchange　of　influence　with　their　fellows；
  undergo　the　series　of　reactions　which　converts　them　from　children
  into　boys　and　from　boys　into　men。　　The　intermediate　stage　must　be
  traversed　to　reach　the　final　one。
  Now　Shelley　never　could　have　been　a　man；　for　he　never　was　a　boy。
  And　the　reason　lay　in　the　persecution　which　overclouded　his　school…
  days。　　Of　that　persecution's　effect　upon　him；　he　has　left　us；　in　The
  Revolt　of　Islam；　a　picture　which　to　many　or　most　people　very
  probably　seems　a　poetical　exaggeration；　partly　because　Shelley
  appears　to　have　escaped　physical　brutality；　partly　because　adults
  are　inclined　to　smile　tenderly　at　childish　sorrows　which　are　not
  caused　by　physical　suffering。　　That　he　escaped　for　the　most　part
  bodily　violence　is　nothing　to　the　purpose。　　It　is　the　petty
  malignant　annoyance　recurring　hour　by　hour；　day　by　day；　month　by
  month；　until　its　accumulation　becomes　an　agony；　it　is　this　which　is
  the　most　terrible　weapon　that　boys　have　against　their　fellow　boy；
  who　is　powerless　to　shun　it　because；　unlike　the　man；　he　has
  virtually　no　privacy。　　His　is　the　torture　which　the　ancients　used；
  when　they　anointed　their　victim　with　honey　and　exposed　him　naked　to
  the　restless　fever　of　the　flies。　　He　is　a　little　St。　Sebastian；
  sinking　under　the　incessant　flight　of　shafts　which　skilfully　avoid
  the　vital　parts。
  We　do　not；　therefore；　suspect　Shelley　of　exaggeration：　　he　was；　no
  doubt；　in　terrible　misery。　　Those　who　think　otherwise　must　forget
  their　own　past。　　Most　people；　we　suppose；　MUST　forget　what　they　were
  like　when　they　were　children：　　otherwise　they　would　know　that　the
  griefs　of　their　childhood　were　passionate　abandonment；　DECHIRANTS
  （to　use　a　characteristically　favourite　phrase　of　modern　French
  literature）　as　the　griefs　of　their　maturity。　　Children's　griefs　are
  little；　certainly；　but　so　is　the　child；　so　is　its　endurance；　so　is
  its　field　of　vision；　while　its　nervous　impressionability　is　keener
  than　ours。　　Grief　is　a　matter　of　relativity；　the　sorrow　should　be
  estimated　by　its　proportion　to　the　sorrower；　a　gash　is　as　painful　to
  one　as　an　amputation　to　another。　　Pour　a　puddle　into　a　thimble；　or
  an　Atlantic　into　Etna；　both　thimble　and　mountain　overflow。　　Adult
  fools；　would　not　the　angels　smile　at　our　griefs；　were　not　angels　too
  wise　to　smile　at　them？
  So　beset；　the　child　fled　into　the　tower　of　his　own　soul；　and　raised
  the　drawbridge。　　He　threw　out　a　reserve；　encysted　in　which　he　grew
  to　maturity　unaffected　by　the　intercourses　that　modify　the　maturity
  of　others　into　the　thing　we　call　a　man。　　The　encysted　child
  developed　until　it　reached　years　of　virility；　until　those　later
  Oxford　days　in　which　Hogg　encountered　it；　then；　bursting　at　once
  from　its　cyst　and　the　university；　it　swam　into　a　world　not
  illegitimately　perplexed　by　such　a　whim　of　the　gods。　　It　was；　of
  course；　only　the　completeness　and　duration　of　this　seclusion
  lasting　from　the　gate　of　boyhood　to　the　threshold　of　youthwhich
  was　peculiar　to　Shelley。　　Most　poets；　probably；　like　most　saints；
  are　prepared　for　their　mission　by　an　initial　segregation；　as　the
  seed　is　buried　to　germinate：　　before　they　can　utter　the　oracle　of
  poetry；　they　must　first　be　divided　from　the　body　of　men。　　It　is　the
  severed　head　that　makes　the　seraph。
  Shelley's　life　frequently　exhibits　in　him　the　magnified　child。　　It
  is　seen　in　his　fondness　for　apparently　futile　amusements；　such　as
  the　sailing　of　paper　boats。　　This　was；　in　the　truest　sense　of　the
  word；　child…like；　not；　as　it　is　frequently　called　and　considered；
  childish。　　That　is　to　say；　it　was　not　a　mindless　triviality；　but　the
  genuine　child's　power　of　investing　little　things　with　imaginative
  interest；　the　same　power；　though　differently　devoted；　which　produced
  much　of　his　poetry。　　Very　possibly　in　the　paper　boat　he　saw　the
  magic　bark　of　Laon　and　Cythna；　or
  That　thinnest　boat
  In　which　the　mother　of　the　months　is　borne
  By　ebbing　night　into　her　western　cave。
  In　fact；　if　you　mark　how　favourite　an　idea；　under　varying　forms；　is
  this　in　his　verse；　you　will　perceive　that　all　the　charmed　boats
  which　glide　down　the　stream　of　his　poetry　are　but　glorified
  resurrections　of　the　little　paper　argosies　which　trembled　down　the
  Isis。
  And　the　child　appeared　no　less　often　in　Shelley　the　philosopher　than
  in　Shelley　the　idler。　　It　is　seen　in　his　repellent　no　less　than　in
  his　amiable　weaknesses；　in　the　unteachable　folly　of　a　love　that　made
  its　goal　its　starting…point；　and　firmly　expected　spiritual　rest　from
  each　new　divinity；　though　it　had　found　none　from　the　divinities
  antecedent。　　For　we　are　clear　that　this　was　no　mere　straying　of
  sensual　appetite；　but　a　straying；　strange　and　deplorable；　of　the
  spirit；　that　（contrary　to　what　Mr。　Coventry　Patmore　has　said）　he
  left　a　woman　not　because　he　was　tired　of　her　arms；　but　because　he
  was　tired　of　her　soul。　　When　he　found　Mary　Shelley　wanting；　he　seems
  to　have　fallen　into　the　mistake　of　Wordsworth；　who　complained　in　a
  charming　piece　of　unreasonableness　that　his　wife's　love；　which　had
  been　a　fountain；　was　now　only　a　well：
  Such　change；　and　at　the　very　door
  Of　my　fond　heart；　hath　made　me　poor。
  Wordsworth　probably　learned；　what　Shelley　was　incapable　of　learning；
  that　love　can　never　permanently　be　a　fountain。　　A　living　poet；　in　an
  article　｛6｝　which　you　almost　fear　to　breathe　upon　lest　you　should
  flutter　some　of　the　frail　pastel…like　bloom；　has　said　the　thing：
  〃Love　itself　has　tidal　moments；　lapses　and　flows　due　to　the　metrical
  rule　of　the　interior　heart。〃　　Elementary　reason　should　proclaim　this
  true。　　Love　is　an　affection；　its　display　an　emotion：　　love　is　the
  air；　its　display　is　the　wind。　　An　affection　may　be　constant；　an
  emotion　can　no　more　be　constant　than　the　wind　can　constantly　blow。
  All；　therefore；　that　a　man　can　reasonably　ask　of　his　wife　is　that
  her　love　should　be　indeed　a　well。　　A　well；　but　a　Bethesda…well；　into
  which　from　time　to　time　the　angel　of　tenderness　descends　to　trouble
  the　waters　for　the　healing　of　the　beloved。　　Such　a　love　Shelley's
  second　wife　appears　unquestionably　to　have　given　him。　　Nay；　she　was
  content　that　he　should　veer　while　she　remained　true；　she　companioned
  him　intellectually；　shared　his　views；　entered　into　his　aspirations；
  and　yetyet；　even　at　the　date　of　Epipsychidion　the　foolish　child；
  h