The mind of man is not merely a sensorium. His intelligence is not
merely an instrument for adaptation. There is a germ within, a nucleus
of force and organisation, which can be unfolded, under favourable
circumstances, into a perfection inwardly determined. Man's
constitution is a fountain from which to draw an infinity of gushing
music, not representing anything external, yet not unmeaning on that
account, since it represents the capacities and passions latent in him
from the beginning. These potentialities, however, are no oracles of
truth. Being innate they are arbitrary; being _a priori_ they are
subjective; but they are good principles for fiction, for poetry, for
morals, for religion. They are principles for the true expression of
man, but not for the true description of the universe. When they are
taken for the latter, fiction becomes deception, poetry illusion,
morals fanaticism, and religion bad science. The orgy of delusion into
which we are then plunged comes from supposing the _a priori_ to be
capable of controlling the actual, and the innate to be a standard for
the true. That rich and definite endowment which might have made the
distinction of the poet, then makes the narrowness of the philosopher.
So Shelley, with a sort of tyranny of which he does not suspect the
possible cruelty, would impose his ideal of love and equality upon all
creatures; he would make enthusiasts of clowns and doves of vultures.
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