Every reflecting mind must acknowledge that there is no proof of the existence of a Deity.

[The note continues, citing texts from Isaac Newton, Francis Bacon, Holbach, Pliny, Sir William Drummond (whom Shelley challenges) and Spinoza, in support of the contention that belief in the existence of a creative deity is an indemonstrable hypothesis.]

[14] VII.67

Ahasuerus, rise!

[The note narrates in prose the tormented existence of the Wandering Jew Ahasuerus, cursed by God to roam the earth until the Day of Judgement – based upon a translation from the German of C. F. D. Schubart’s Der ewige Jude: Eine lyrische Rhapsodie (1783). Shelley claims, dubiously, that] This fragment is the translation of part of some German work, whose title I have vainly endeavoured to discover. I picked it up, dirty and torn, some years ago, in Lincoln’s-Inn Fields.

[15] VII.135–6

I will beget a Son, and he shall bear

The sins of all the world

[The note sketches a sympathetic portrait of Jesus who lost his life ‘in the cause of suffering humanity’ while it mounts a critical assault on the distortions of Christian doctrine, the belief in miracles, prophecies and divine inspiration, and the coercions of institutional Christianity.]

[16] VIII.203–7

Him, still from hope to hope the bliss pursuing,

Which from the exhaustless lore of human weal

Draws on the virtuous mind, the thoughts that rise

In time-destroying infiniteness, gift

With self-enshrined eternity, &c.

Time is our consciousness of the succession of ideas in our mind. Vivid sensation, of either pain or pleasure, makes the time seem long, as the common phrase is, because it renders us more acutely conscious of our ideas. If a mind be conscious of an hundred ideas during one minute, by the clock, and of two hundred during another, the latter of these spaces would actually occupy so much greater extent in the mind as two exceed one in quantity. If, therefore, the human mind, by any future improvement of its sensibility, should become conscious of an infinite number of ideas in a minute, that minute would be eternity. I do not hence infer that the actual space between the birth and death of a man will ever be prolonged; but that his sensibility is perfectible, and that the number of ideas which his mind is capable of receiving is indefinite. One man is stretched on the rack during twelve hours; another sleeps soundly in his bed: the difference of time perceived by these two persons is immense; one hardly will believe that half an hour has elapsed, the other could credit that centuries had flown during his agony. Thus, the life of a man of virtue and talent, who should die in his thirtieth year, is, with regard to his own feelings, longer than that of a miserable priest-ridden slave, who dreams out a century of dulness. The one has perpetually cultivated his mental faculties, has rendered himself master of his thoughts, can abstract and generalize amid the lethargy of every-day business;—the other can slumber over the brightest moments of his being, and is unable to remember the happiest hour of his life. Perhaps the perishing ephemeron enjoys a longer life than the tortoise.

            Dark flood of time!

Roll as it listeth thee—I measure not

By months or moments thy ambiguous course.

Another may stand by me on the brink

And watch the bubble whirled beyond his ken

That pauses at my feet. The sense of love,

The thirst for action, and the impassioned thought

Prolong my being: if I wake no more,

My life more actual living will contain

Than some grey veteran’s of the world’s cold school,

Whose listless hours unprofitably roll,

By one enthusiast feeling unredeemed.

See Godwin’s Pol. Jus. vol. i. p. 411;—and Condorcet, Esquisse d’un Tableau Historique des Progrès de l’Esprit Humain, Epoque ix.

[17] VIII.211–12

                        No longer now

He slays the lamb that looks him in the face.

I hold that the depravity of the physical and moral nature of man originated in his unnatural habits of life. The origin of man, like that of the universe of which he is a part, is enveloped in impenetrable mystery. His generations either had a beginning, or they had not. The weight of evidence in favour of each of these suppositions seems tolerably equal; and it is perfectly unimportant to the present argument which is assumed. The language spoken however by the mythology of nearly all religions seems to prove, that at some distant period man forsook the path of nature, and sacrificed the purity and happiness of his being to unnatural appetites. The date of this event seems to have also been that of some great change in the climates of the earth, with which it has an obvious correspondence. The allegory of Adam and Eve eating of the tree of evil, and entailing upon their posterity the wrath of God, and the loss of everlasting life, admits of no other explanation than the disease and crime that have flowed from unnatural diet. Milton was so well aware of this, that he makes Raphael thus exhibit to Adam the consequence of his disobedience.

                     Immediately a place

Before his eyes appeared: sad, noisome, dark:

A lazar-house it seem’d; wherein were laid

Numbers of all diseased: all maladies

Of ghastly spasm, or racking torture, qualms

Of heart-sick agony, all feverous kinds,

Convulsions, epilepsies, fierce catarrhs,

Intestine stone and ulcer, colic pangs,

Daemoniac frenzy, moping melancholy,

And moon-struck madness, pining atrophy,

Marasmus, and wide-wasting pestilence,

Dropsies, and asthmas, and joint-racking rheums.

And how many thousands more might not be added to this frightful catalogue!

The story of Prometheus is one likewise which, although universally admitted to be allegorical, has never been satisfactorily explained. Prometheus stole fire from heaven, and was chained for this crime to Mount Caucasus, where a vulture continually devoured his liver, that grew to meet its hunger. Hesiod says, that, before the time of Prometheus, mankind were exempt from suffering; that they enjoyed a vigorous youth, and that death, when at length it came, approached like sleep, and gently closed their eyes. Again, so general was this opinion, that Horace, a poet of the Augustan age, writes—

      Audax omnia perpeti,

Gens humana ruit per vetitum nefas;

      Audax Iapeti genus

Ignem fraude malâ gentibus intulit:

      Post ignem aetheriâ domo

Subductum, macies et nova febrium

      Terris incubuit cohors,

Semotique prius tarda necessitas

      Lethi corripuit gradum.

How plain a language is spoken by all this.