reason. confined to the lyrics of Burns, it might have been explained by the fact that he, though not without a haunting sense of religion, lived a life which shut him out from its serener influences; he never had the "heart set free," from which alone religious poetry can flow. But the same want is apparent in almost all Scottish songs of every age. The Scotch have passed hitherto for a religious people, and, we may hope, not without Yet there is hardly one of their popular songs which breathes any deep religious emotions, which expresses any of those thoughts that wander towards eternity. This is to be accounted for partly by the fact that the early Scottish songs were so mingled with coarseness and indecency, that the teachers of religion and guardians of purity could not do otherwise than set their face against them. Song and all pertaining to it got to be looked upon as irreligious. Moreover, the old stern religion of Scotland was somewhat repressive of natural feeling, and divided things sacred from things profane by too rigid a partition; and songs and songsinging were reckoned among things profane. Yet the native melodies were so beautiful, and the words, notwithstanding their frequent coarseness, contained so much that was healthful, so much that was intensely human, that they could not be put down, but kept singing themselves on in the hearts and homes of the people, in spite of all denunciations. In the old time, it was often the same people who read their Bibles most, whose memories were most largely stored with these countless melodies. As a modern poetess has said, "They sang by turns The psalms of David, and the songs of Burns." Lady Nairn, who was a religious person, and yet loved her country's songs, and felt how much they contain which, if not directly religious, was yet "not far from the kingdom of heaven," desired to remove the barrier; and she sang one strain, The Land o' the Leal, which, even were there none other such, would remain to prove how little alien to Christianity is the genuine sentiment of Scottish song, - how easily it can rise from true human feeling into the pure air of spiritual religion. If any Scottish religious teacher of modern times possessed a high spiritual ideal, and could set forth the stern side of righteousness, it was Edward Irving; yet in his devoutest moods he could still remember the melodies and songs he had loved in childhood. With a passage from his sermon on Religious Meditation, I shall conclude: "I have seen Sabbath sights and joined in Sabbath worships which took the heart with their simplicity and thrilled it with sublime emotions. I have crossed the hills in the sober, contemplative autumn to reach the retired, lonely church betimes; and as we descended towards the simple edifice, whither every heart and every foot directed itself from the country around on the Sabbath morn, we beheld issuing from every glen its little train of worshippers coming up to the congregation of the Lord's house, round which the bones of their fathers reposed. In so holy a place the people assembled under a roof, where ye of the plentiful South would not have lodged the porter of your gate; but under that roof the people sat and sang their Maker's praise, 'tuning their hearts, by far the noblest aim,' and the pastor poured forth to God the simple wants of the people, and poured into their attentive ears the scope of Christian doctrine and duty. The men were shepherds, and came up in their shepherd's guise, and the very brute, the shepherd's servant and companion, rejoiced to come at his feet. It was a Sabbath, a Sabbath of rest! But were the people stupid? Yes, what an over-excited citizen would call stupid; that is, they cared not for parliaments, for plays, routs, or assemblies, but they cared for their wives and their children, their laws, their religion, and their God; and they sang their own native songs in their own native vales, songs which the men I speak of can alone imagine and compose. And from them we citizens have to be served with songs and melodies, too, for we can make none ourselves." - 13 CHAPTER VIII. SHELLEY AS A LYRIC POET. So many biographies, records, and criticisms of Shelley have lately appeared that one may take for granted in all readers some general acquaintance with the facts of his life. Of the biographies, none perhaps is more interesting than the short work by Mr. J. A. Symonds, which has lately been published as one of the series, edited by Mr. Morley, English Men of Letters. That work has all the charm which intense admiration of its subject, set forth in a glowing style, can lend it. Those who in the main hold with Mr. Symonds, and are at one with him in his fundamental estimate of things, will no doubt find his work highly attractive. Those, on the other hand, who do not altogether admire Shelley's character, or the theories that moulded it, will find Mr. Symonds's work a less satisfactory guide than they could have wished. Of the many comments and criticisms on Shelley's character and poetry, two of the most substantial and rational are an essay by Mr. R. H. Hutton, and one by the late Mr. Walter Bagehot. These two friends had together in their youth felt the charm of Shelley, and each in his riper years has given his estimate of the man and of his poetry. We all admire that which we agree with; and nowhere have I found on this subject thoughts which seem to me so adequate and so helpful as those contained in these two essays, none which give such insight into Shelley's abnormal character, and into the secret springs of his inspiration. Of the benefit of these thoughts I shall freely avail myself, whenever they seem to throw light upon my subject. The effort to enter into the meaning of Shelley's poetry is not altogether a painless one. Some may ask, Why should it be painful? Cannot you enjoy his poems merely in an aesthetic way, take the marvel of his subtle thoughts, and the magic of his melody, without scrutinizing too closely their meaning or moral import? This, I suppose, most of my hearers could do for themselves, without any comment of mine. Such a mere surface, dilettante way of treating the subject might be entertaining, but it would be altogether unworthy of this place. All true literature, all genuine poetry, is the direct outcome, the condensed essence, of actual life and thought. Lyric poetry for the most part is Shelley's especially was the vivid expression of personal experience. It is only as poetry is founded on reality that it has any solid value; otherwise it is worthless. Before, then, attempting to understand Shelley's lyrics, I must ask what was the reality out of which they came that is, what manner of man Shelley was, what were his ruling views of life, along what lines did his thoughts move? Those who knew Shelley best speak of the sweetnes and refinement of his nature, of his lofty disinterested ness, his unworldliness. They speak too of something like heroic self-forgetfulness. These things we can in a measure believe, for there are in his writings many traits that look like those qualities. And yet one receives with some reserve the high eulogies of his friends; for we feel that these were not generally men whose |