The author’s explanations in no degree diminish the difficulty of understanding the story. On the contrary, they rather increase the difficulty. Having done his duty in calling the author’s attention to some of the story’s most glaring absurdities, and having (as he imagined) no pecuniary interest to be cautious for in respect to a work that was to be published at the charges of the young gentleman who, sooner or later, would, of course, be able to pay a heavy bill, Mr. Stockdale sent to the printers the thing of lunacy, of which Mr. Garnett says: ‘Worthless as St. Irvyne is of itself, it becomes of high interest when regarded as the first feeble step of a mighty genius on the road to consummate excellence.’

It was enough for the author of Zastrozzi, in the first stage of his fanatical abhorrence of lawful wedlock, to make the virtuous Verezzi speak slightingly of the nuptial rite as needless for the consecration of his spiritual union with the amiable Matilda di Laurentini. In St. Irvyne this repugnance to the fetters put upon passion, that should be left in absolute freedom, is declared more precisely and emphatically. Whilst the exemplary Fitzeustace declares his contempt for the ceremony, Eloise makes it clear she would rather be his mistress than his wife. At the same time, the author in his own person declares that, when Virtue shall have triumphed over Prejudice, women, instead of being given and taken in Marriage, will be given and taken in Free Love. In this matter the Oxonian surpasses the Etonian, and is seen to have advanced a long step towards the conclusions that qualified him to proclaim the sanctity of Free Love in Laon and Cythna,—the poem in which he ‘startled’ (his own word) the men and women of England by insisting that in a perfect state of society a brother and sister would be able, with perfect propriety, to live together in Free Love, and beget children of one another.

In the article entitled ‘A Newspaper Editor’s Reminiscences,’ to be found in the June, 1841, number of Fraser’s Magazine, the curious may find some rather strong, but inconclusive, evidence that at some time between October[3], 1811, and March, 1812, Shelley tried to sell to three or four different London publishers, for a sum of 10l., certain tales in manuscript, out of which he composed Zastrozzi and St. Irvyne. If Shelley, after publishing the two ‘failures’ in prose fiction, tried to wheedle money out of booksellers for the materials out of which those failures were made, he did what he should not have done, and received less than his proper punishment in getting nothing by his pains. But the evidence is so unsatisfactory that the young man did thus endeavour to get money for stuff, whose worthlessness he had ascertained, I cannot hold him guilty of the curious piece of sharp practice. The same newspaper editor’s evidence that one of these tales was either a translation from the German, or alleged by Shelley to have been a translation from the German, being still more unsatisfactory, there is no need to trouble the reader of these volumes to consider the particulars of it.

As he delights in the dreary labour of collating the texts of worthless books, it is strange that Mr. Buxton Forman (who has wasted a great deal of time in collating the different editions of Shelley’s writings) should have failed to discover that St. Irvyne consists, in a considerable degree, of the characters, and positions, and incidents of Zastrozzi, so changed by being turned inside out and differently coloured, as to be likely to be mistaken, by hasty and unsuspicious readers of both books, for new actors and positions and incidents. Towards the close of his career, Thackeray said to a friend, ‘I am no prolific creator of characters. In that respect I have fairly worked myself out. It remains for me now to redress my old puppets with new bits of riband and tinsel.’ The puppets of the Etonian romance are thus redressed in the Oxford story. By change of costume, the puppet, who figures as a man in Zastrozzi, is qualified for a woman’s part in St. Irvyne. By being pulled inside out, the position that was meant to rouse admiration in the one story, becomes a position that (in the hands of an abler artist) would stir to pity in the other. To escape from an humiliating position, Olympia poniards herself in St. Irvyne; even as Verezzi, to escape a melodramatic embarrassment, poniards himself in Zastrozzi. The slumbering Eloise in the later fiction declares her passion for Fitzeustace to the listening Irishman, even as the slumbering Verezzi in the earlier romance declares his passion for Julia to the listening Matilda.

THE DAGGER SCENE IN ‘ZASTROZZI.’ THE DAGGER SCENE IN ‘ST. IRVYNE.’
‘Madness—fiercest madness—revelled through his brain. He raised the poniard high, but Julia rushed forwards, and in accents of desperation, in a voice of alarmed tenderness, besought him to spare himself—to spare her—for all might yet be well.
‘“Oh! never, never!” exclaimed Verezzi, frantically, “no peace but in the grave for me. I am—I am—married to Matilda.”
‘Saying this, he fell backwards upon a sofa in strong convulsions, yet his hand still firmly grasped the fatal poniard.
‘Matilda, meanwhile, fixedly contemplated the scene. Fiercest passions raged through her breast: vengeance, disappointed love—disappointed in the instant, too, when she had supposed happiness to be hers for ever, rendered her bosom the scene of wildest anarchy.
‘Yet she spoke not—she moved not—but collected in herself, stood waiting the issue of that event, which had so unexpectedly dissolved her visions of air-built ecstasy.
‘Serened to firmness from despair, Julia administered everything which could restore Verezzi with the most unremitting attention. At last he recovered. He slowly raised himself, and starting from the sofa where he lay, his eyes rolling wildly, and his whole frame convulsed by fiercest agitation, he raised the dagger which he still retained, and, with a bitter smile of exultation, plunged it into his bosom!—His soul fled without a groan, and his body fell to the floor, bathed in purple blood.’		 ‘“Wilt thou be mine?” exclaimed the enraptured Olympia, as a ray of hope arose in her mind. “Never! never can I,” groaned the agitated Wolfstein, “I am irrevocably, indissolutely another’s.”—Maddened by this death-blow to all expectations of happiness, which the deluded Olympia had so fondly anticipated, she leaped wildly from the bed. A light and flowing night-dress alone veiled her form; her alabaster bosom was shaded by the light ringlets of her hair which rested unconfined upon it. She threw herself at the feet of Wolfstein. On a sudden, as if struck by some thought, she started convulsively from the earth: for an instant she paused.
‘The rays of a lamp, which stood in a recess of the apartment, fell full upon the dagger of Wolfstein. Eagerly Olympia sprung towards it; and ere Wolfstein was aware of her dreadful intent, plunged it into her bosom. Weltering in purple gore, she fell; no groan, no sigh escaped her lips. A smile, which the pangs of dissolution could not dispel, played on her convulsed countenance; it irradiated her features with celestially awful, although terrific, expression. “Ineffectually have I endeavoured to conquer the ardent feelings of my soul; now I overcome them,” were her last words. She uttered them in a tone of firmness, and, falling back, expired in torments, which her fine, her expressive features declared that she gloried in.’

Each of these passages is a fair example of the work from which it is taken. Surely their resemblance in temper, moral fibre, style, verbiage, affords sufficient evidence that the two passages were put together by the same writer. What evidence do they afford that, whilst the passage, taken from Zastrozzi (the novel universally allowed to be a thing of Shelley’s own manufacture), was written as it is printed by the future poet, the passage from St. Irvyne (the novel generally assigned to a German source) is a mere translation from a German original? Why (in the absence of evidence that Shelley could translate a page of German, and in the absence of any German novel, out of which St. Irvyne could have been made) are we to regard the passage of the earlier book as the pure product of Shelley’s mind, and the passage of the later romance as so much of the translated product of a German writer’s mind?

THE BEDROOM SCENE IN ‘ZASTROZZI.’ THE PAVILION SCENE IN ‘ST. IRVYNE.’
‘The morning came—Matilda arose from a sleepless couch, and with hopes yet unconfirmed soughtVerezzi’s apartment. She stood near the door listening. Her heart palpitated with tremulous violence, asshe listened to Verezzi’s breathing—every sound from within alarmed her. At last she slowly opened thedoor, and though adhering to the physician’s directions in not suffering Verezzi to see her, she could notdeny herself the pleasure of watching him, and busying herself in little offices about his apartment.
‘She could hear Verezzi question the attendant collectedly, yet as a person who was ignorant where hewas, and knew not the events which had immediately preceded his present state.
‘At last he sank into a deep sleep.—Matilda now dared to gaze on him; the hectic colour which had flushedhis cheek was fled, but the ashy hue of his lips had given place to a brilliant vermilion. She gazed intently on his countenance.
‘A heavenly yet faint smile diffused itself over his countenance—his hand slightly moved.
‘Matilda, fearing that he would awake, again concealed herself. She was mistaken: for, on looking again, he still slept.
‘She still gazed upon his countenance. The visions of his sleep were changed, for tears came fast fromunder his eyelids, and a deep sigh burst from his bosom.
‘Thus passed several days: Matilda still watched, with the most affectionate assiduity, by the bedside of the unconscious Verezzi.
‘The physician declared that his patient’s mind was yet in too irritable a state to permit him to see Matilda, but that he was convalescent.
‘One evening she sate by his bedside, and gazing upon the features of the sleeping Verezzi, felt unusualsoftness take possession of her soul—an indefinable tumultuous emotion shook her bosom—her whole framethrilled with rapturous ecstasy, and seizing the hand, which lay motionless, beside her, she imprinted on it a thousand burning kisses.
‘“Ah, Julia! Julia! is it you?” exclaimed Verezzi, as he raised his enfeebled frame; but perceiving hismistake, as he cast his eyes on Matilda, sank back and fainted.		 ‘Heedless yet of the beauties of nature, the loveliness of the scene, they entered the pavilion.
‘Eloise convulsively pressed her hand upon her forehead.
‘“What is the matter, my dearest Eloise?” inquired Fitzeustace, whom awakened tenderness had thrown off his guard.
‘“Oh! nothing, nothing; but a momentary faintness. It will soon go off: let us sit down.”
‘They entered the pavilion.
‘“’Tis nothing but drowsiness,” said Eloise, affecting gaiety; “’twill soon go off. I sate up late last night: that I believe was the occasion.”
‘“Recline on this sofa, then,” said Fitzeustace, reaching another pillow to make the couch easier, “and I willplay some of those Irish tunes which you admire so much.”
‘Eloise reclined on the sofa, and Fitzeustace, seated on the floor, began to play; the melancholy plaintivenessof his music touched Eloise; she sighed, and concealed her tears in her handkerchief. At length shesunk into a profound sleep; still Fitzeustace continued playing, noticing not that she slept.
‘He approached. She lay wrapped in sleep: a sweet and celestial smile played on her countenance and irradiatedher features with a tenfold expression of etheriality.
‘Suddenly the visions of her slumber appeared to have changed; the smile yet remained, but the expressionwas melancholy; tears stole gently from her eyelids:—she sighed.
‘Ah! with what eagerness of ecstasy did Fitzeustace lean over her form.
‘He dared not speak, he dared not move; but pressing a ringlet of hair, which had escaped its band, to his lips, waited silently.
‘“Yes, yes; I think—it may,—” at last she muttered; but so confusely, as scarcely to be distinguishable.
‘Fitzeustace remained rooted in rapturous attention, listening.
‘“I thought, I thought he looked as if he could love me” articulated the sleeping Eloise. “Perhaps, though hecannot love me, he may allow me to love him.—Fitzeustace!”
‘On a sudden again were changed the visions of her slumbers; terrified, she started from sleep and cried, “Fitzeustace.”
Chapter IX. Chapter XII.
‘The soul of Verezzi was filled with irresistible disgust, as, recovering, he found himself in Matilda’sarms. His whole frame trembled with chilly horror, and he could scarcely withhold himself from again fainting. He fixed his eyes upon hercountenance—they met hers—an ardent fire, mingled with a touching softness, filled their orbits.’ ‘Needless were it to expatiate on their transports; they loved each other, and that is enough for thosewho have felt like Eloise and Fitzeustace.’

After comparing these two scenes of two sleeping lovers, each, of whom reveals the heart’s secret to an attentive watcher; after comparing the literary characteristics of the one scene with those of the other, the structure of the sentences, language, details, touches; after noticing the identity of the very words used in some parts of the parallel passages, can any reader think the two scenes were by two different writers? that, whilst the extract from Zastrozzi is a piece of original writing, the extract from St. Irvyne is a piece of a translation from the undiscovered work of an undiscovered German author? These passages are fair examples of the two books from which they are taken. Can any reader hesitate in coming to the conclusion that Shelley reproduced in the later the materials of the earlier romance? The writer may have been unaware he was reproducing scraps of his former work. The reproduction may have been the result of mental action, occasioned by the effort of producing the earlier tale, rather than the consequence of a deliberate design to use the old stuff for a second time. But the reproduction is obvious.

St. Irvyne contains six sets of verses, that are interesting examples of the earliest fruits of the poetical disposition, which soon developed into Shelley’s poetical genius. Resembling Byron’s Hours of Idleness, in affording only the faintest indications of the author’s eventual faculty for the service of the Muse, these sets of verses are chiefly noteworthy for their evidence that the Hours of Idleness may be styled ‘the horn-book,’ from which Shelley acquired the rudiments of the art of poesy. The resemblance of one of those pieces of versification to one of the stanzas of ‘Lachin-y-Gair’ in the Hours of Idleness is so remarkable, that the Oxonian’s lines may fairly be styled a plagiarism on the lines that had come a few years earlier from the Byron of Cambridge.

The Stanza of ‘Lachin-y-Gair.’
‘Shades of the dead! have I not heard your voices
Rise on the night-rolling breath of the gale?
Surely the soul of the hero rejoices,
And rides on the wind, o’er his own Highland vale.
Round Loch-na-Garr, while the stormy mist gathers,
Winter presides in his cold icy car;
Clouds there encircle the forms of my fathers:
They dwell in the tempests of dark Loch-na-Garr.’