In addition to his extreme fondness for children, another and a not less unequivocal characteristic of a truly philanthropic mind was eminently and still more remarkably conspicuous in Shelley—his admiration of men of learning and genius. In truth the devotion, the reverence, the religion with which he was kindled towards all the masters of intellect, cannot be described, and must be utterly inconceivable to minds less deeply enamoured with the love of wisdom. The irreverent many cannot comprehend the awe, the careless apathetic worldling cannot imagine the enthusiasm, nor can the tongue that attempts only to speak of things visible to the bodily eye, express the mighty motion that inwardly agitated him when he approached, for the first time, a volume which he believed to be replete with the recondite and mystic philosophy of antiquity; his cheeks glowed, his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled, and his entire attention was immediately swallowed up in the depths of contemplation. The rapid and vigorous conversion of his soul to intellect can only be compared with the instantaneous ignition and combustion which dazzle the sight, when a bundle of dry reeds or other inflammable substance is thrown upon a fire already rich with accumulated heat.
The company of persons of merit was delightful to him, and he often spoke with a peculiar warmth of the satisfaction he hoped to derive from the society of the most distinguished literary and scientific characters of the day in England, and the other countries of Europe, when his own attainments would justify him in seeking their acquaintance. He was never weary of recounting the rewards and favours that authors had formerly received; and he would detail in pathetic language, and with a touching earnestness, the instances of that poverty and neglect which an iron age assigned as the fitting portion of solid erudition and undoubted talents. He would contrast the niggard praise and the paltry payments that the cold and wealthy moderns reluctantly dole out, with the ample and heartfelt commendation and the noble remuneration which were freely offered by the more generous but less opulent ancients. He spoke with an animation of gesture and an elevation of voice of him who undertook a long journey, that he might once see the historian Livy; and he recounted the rich legacies which were bequeathed to Cicero and Pliny the younger by testators venerating their abilities and attainments—his zeal, enthusiastic in the cause of letters, giving an interest and a novelty to the most trite and familiar instances. His disposition being wholly munificent, gentle and friendly, how generous a patron would he have proved had he ever been in the actual possession of even moderate wealth!
Out of a scanty and somewhat precarious income, inadequate to allow the indulgence of the most ordinary superfluities, and diminished by various casual but unavoidable incumbrances, he was able, by restricting himself to a diet more simple than the fare of the most austere anchorite, and by refusing himself horses and the other gratifications that appear properly to belong to his station, and of which he was in truth very fond, to bestow upon men of letters, whose merits were of too high an order to be rightly estimated by their own generation, donations large indeed, if we consider from how narrow a source they flowed.
But to speak of this, his signal and truly admirable bounty, save only in the most distant manner and the most general terms, would be a flagrant violation of that unequalled delicacy with which it was extended to undeserved indigence, accompanied by well-founded and most commendable pride. To allude to any particular instance, however obscurely and indistinctly, would be unpardonable; but it would be scarcely less blameable to dismiss the consideration of the character of the benevolent young poet without some imperfect testimony of this rare excellence.
That he gave freely, when the needy scholar asked or in silent, hopeless poverty seemed to ask his aid, will be demonstrated most clearly by relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps honest penury. It is delightful to attempt to delineate from various points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty, but one instance must suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be selected because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is essential to the conversion of almsgiving into the genuine virtue of charity—self-denial.
On returning to town after the long vacation at the end of October, I found Shelley at one of the hotels in Covent Garden. Having some business in hand he was passing a few days there alone. We had taken some mutton chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city at an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and especially in the evening, was his supreme delight.
The aspect of the fields to the north of Somers Town, between that beggarly suburb and Kentish Town, has been totally changed of late. Although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind, seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of London. There were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding and groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the village green. There was, oh blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of the parks; there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which gave character to the scene.
Whenever Shelley was imprisoned in London—for to a poet a close and crowded city must be a dreary gaol—his steps would take that direction, unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who chose to guide his walk. On this occasion I was led thither, as indeed I had anticipated. The weather was fine, but the autumn was already advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the dusky evening closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened.
“How black those trees are,” said Shelley, stopping short and pointing to a row of elms. “It is so dark the trees might well be houses and the turf pavement—the eye would sustain no loss. It is useless, therefore, to remain here; let us return.” He proposed tea at his hotel, I assented; and hastily buttoning his coat he seized my arm and set off at his great pace, striding with bent knees over the fields and through the narrow streets. We were crossing the New Road, when he said shortly, “I must call for a moment, but it will not be out of the way at all,” and then dragged me suddenly towards the left. I inquired whither we were bound, and, I believe, I suggested the postponement of the intended call till the morrow. He answered, it was not at all out of our way.
I was hurried along rapidly towards the left. We soon fell into an animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the Romans, which in some measure beguiled the weary way. Whilst he was talking with much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door; to my infinite surprise I found myself in a pawnbroker’s shop. It was in the neighbourhood of Newgate Street, for he had no idea whatever, in practice, either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method in the conduct of business.