Zbc Xonbon Oltbraiv^ 
 
 .oWt >^^<5*v 
 
 HOGG'S LIFE OF SHELLEY 
 
Ube XonDon Xtbrarp 
 
 Autobiography of Lord Herbert of Cberbury. Edited l)y 
 
 Sidney Lee. 
 Letters of Literary Men: Sir Thomas More to Robert 
 
 Bums. Arranged and Edited by F. A. Mumby. 
 Letters of Literary Men: Nineteenth Century. Arranged 
 
 and Edited by F. A. Mumby. 
 Life of Goethe. By G. H. LEWES. 
 Life of Shelley. By T. J. Hogg. With an Introduction by 
 
 Edward Dowden, 
 Memoirs of the Life of Colonel Hutchinson. By his widow, 
 
 LUCY HUTCHINSON. Edited by C. H. Firth. 
 Memoirs of William Cavendish, Duke of Newcastle, and 
 
 Margaret his Wife. Edited by C. H. Firth. 
 The Interpretation of Scripture and other Essays. By 
 
 BENJAMIN JOWETT. 
 
^//,vn, r-jiiifj;/^: O /r^n/yf//fe4 t>lj!?^r 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY. 
 
THE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 By 
 THOMAS JEFFERSON HOGG 
 
 With an Introduction by 
 
 PROFESSOR EDWARD DOWDEN 
 
 AND AN INDEX 
 
 LONDON 
 
 GEORGE ROUTLEDGE & SONS LIMITED 
 
 NEW YORK: E. P. DUTTON & CO 
 
 1906 
 
INTRODUCTION 
 
 Of the several writers who have told in whole or in 
 part the story of Shelley's life, five possessed the great 
 advantage of having known him face to face. Personal 
 intimacy with the subject of a biography does not 
 always ensure accuracy of statement ; it does not even 
 ensure that a figure will be given us, so to speak, in 
 the round. Perhaps we shall get only a sketch taken 
 from a single point of view, and that a point of view 
 from which the features are not seen in their most 
 characteristic aspect. Still the portrait is not made 
 up ; it is not pieced together ; it starts from a direct 
 impression, vivid or vague according to the artist's 
 faculty of perception, and around this impression the 
 less significant details group themselves and cohere. 
 The value of such a portrait does not necessarily lie in 
 its completeness ; if it is true and animated up to a 
 certain point, true as far as it goes, it is of enduring 
 value as a contribution to the whole. But it is im- 
 portant to understand the precise angle from which 
 the sketch was made, and, if possible, to make allow- 
 ance for the personal qualities contributed by the 
 artist's mind and hand. For the eye sees only what 
 it has the power of seeing ; the same sitter posed before 
 a Holbein and a Velasquez would be, in portraiture, 
 two different persons, and yet one and the same. And 
 again, each of us includes many persons in one, and at 
 different periods of life this person or that within us 
 
 V b 
 
vi Introduction 
 
 may for the time be dominant. Thus in the various 
 portraits of Wordsworth, now the north-country 
 dalesman seems to have the upper hand or to have come 
 to the front, and at another time, or with another artist, 
 it is the poet or the brooding and impassioned thinker ; 
 and yet both hkenesses are valuable, both likenesses 
 are genuine. 
 
 Mary Shelley, the poet's widow, was in large 
 measure qualified by intimate knowledge, deep sym- 
 pathy and power of intellectual perception, to have 
 represented his character and his life with fidelity. 
 But perhaps she was too near to see him quite aright ; 
 and she saw him through her tears. She thought 
 anxiously of a biography, but during the earlier years of 
 her widowhood, to publish it would have been im- 
 possible. Her first duty was to her son, and Percy's 
 grandfather. Sir Timothy Shelley, on whose goodwill 
 the boy's welfare in great part depended, could not 
 tolerate the thought of directing public attention to 
 the story of the poet's life. She wrote no biography of 
 Shelley, but the Prefaces and Notes which she added to 
 the poems in her collected editions are invaluable 
 memoranda, telling much of the circumstances and the 
 changing moods of mind that throw light upon the 
 origin and development of both the larger works and 
 the groups of shorter pieces in their annual chronolo- 
 gical succession. They are written with great ardour, 
 held to some extent in control by a studied temperance, 
 for she felt the resistance of public opinion, and sought 
 to confront it with at least an appearance of fair- 
 minded discretion. But as she drew towards the close 
 of her task, and the memories of the last days in Italy 
 crowded upon her mind and heart, it grew inexpressibly 
 painful. ' I began with energy ', she wrote, * and a burn- 
 ing desire to impart to the world, in worthy language, 
 
Introduction vii 
 
 the sense I have of the virtues and genius of the 
 beloved and the lost ; my strength has failed under the 
 task'. There can be no doubt, however, that the 
 testimony borne by Mary Shelley contributed not a 
 little to lighten the cloud of ignorant prejudice which 
 had gathered about her husband's memory. Some of 
 his acts, many of his opinions, might still be con- 
 demned ; but it became evident that before condemna- 
 tion they should be understood. 
 
 The earliest life of Shelley on any considerable scale 
 was that by Thomas Med win, w^hich was published in 
 1847. Medwin was Shelley's cousin on the mother's 
 side ; he was Shelley's schoolfellow at Sion House ; 
 during school vacations the cousins were often together ; 
 when apart, they maintained, for a time, a regular 
 correspondence : ' More than all ', writes Medwin, ' I 
 passed the two last winters and springs of his existence, 
 one under his roof, and the other with him, without the 
 interruption of a single day '. For some years, however, 
 during the middle period of Shelley's life, Medwin, an 
 officer in the 24th Dragoon Guards, was in India, and 
 lost sight of his cousin, until in 182 1 the old intimacy 
 was renewed at Pisa. As early as 1833 a sketch of 
 Shelley's life by Medwin had appeared in his little vol- 
 ume of Shelley Papers ; nearly everything of value 
 in this brief memoir is embodied in the later Life. 
 No one, except Mary Shelley, had advantages equal to 
 those of Medwin in his capacity as biographer, and an 
 acquaintance with Shelley from his childhood was 
 possessed by himself alone. The result of his labours 
 was in no way commensurate with his advantages. His 
 Life of Shelley is well-meant ; he writes with an 
 affectionate regard for Shelley, and with a vague sense 
 that he was a person of extraordinary genius. But 
 Medwin was deficient in the power of quick, intuitive 
 
viii Introduction 
 
 perception ; he was deficient in vigour of intellect ; his 
 touch was feeble and uncertain ; he did not distinguish 
 between what is vital or characteristic and what is 
 accidental or trivial. He falters languidly through his 
 two volumes, and somehow comes to an end ; but 
 what is interesting — and the volumes contain not a 
 little that is interesting — has to be delivered and res- 
 cued by the reader from the book. Add to this that he 
 was a most inaccurate writer, and that in many matters 
 he did not take the pains to inform himself aright. A 
 student of Shelley cannot but be grateful to Medwin 
 for putting on record his reminiscences of the poet, but 
 the thanks which he offers must needs be qualified by 
 many reserves, and he must constantly be on his guard 
 against Medwin 's unintentional errors in the statement 
 of real or supposed facts. 
 
 The other three witnesses who testify with a personal 
 knowledge of Shelley — Peacock, Trelawny, Hogg — 
 were men of exceptional ability. The contribution of 
 Peacock, however, to the biography of Shelley is slight. 
 It consists of two articles published in Fraser^s Maga- 
 zine (June, 1858, and January, i860), with a ' Supple- 
 mentary Notice ' (March, 1862), and a group of ' Un- 
 published Letters ' of Shelley (March, i860). These 
 will be found reprinted in the third volume of The 
 Works of Thomas Love Peacock (1875). The writer's 
 acquaintance with Shelley probably began in the spring 
 or summer of the year 181 2 ; it probably made no con- 
 siderable advance until the autumn of the following 
 year. ' Peacock's way of thinking ' — so I have 
 elsewhere written — ' was one of easy liberality. His 
 conversation sparkled with keen, ironic wit ; he told a 
 good story, and brought out its point with vivacity He 
 viewed all things from a certain mundane point of view, 
 mocking the follies, affectations and extravagances 
 
Introduction ix 
 
 around him ; yet he never became a mere man of the 
 world. Something of the poet was curiously allied in 
 him to the laughing philosopher. He was well read in 
 Greek and Latin authors, had some knowledge of an- 
 cient art, and had seen something of life and of society '. 
 He is described by Shelley in a letter to Hogg as ' a 
 very mild, agreeable man, and a good scholar. His 
 enthusiasm is not very ardent, nor his views very com- 
 prehensive ; but he is neither superstitious, ill-tem- 
 pered, dogmatical, or proud'. The acquaintance con- 
 tinued until the departure of Shelley and Mary for 
 Italy, and from Italy some of the most delightful of 
 Shelley's letters were addressed to Peacock. 
 
 When the earliest in date of his articles in Fraser 
 was written Peacock was seventy- three years of age. 
 With advancing years he had grown more genial in 
 temper ; but it cannot be said that his Memoirs of 
 Shelley err by excess of warmth. He sets down his facts 
 clearly and with decision ; he sometimes gives his wit 
 its play ; he justly eulogises Shelley's ' great genius, 
 extensive acquirements, cordial friendship, disinterested 
 devotion to the well-being of the few with whom he 
 lived in domestic intercourse, and ardent endeavours by 
 private charity and public advocacy to ameliorate 
 the condition of the many who pass their days in unre- 
 munerating toil '. These words are just, and generous 
 as well as just ; but in the main, as was natural with an 
 old man telling of one who was young and enthusiastic, 
 he writes with a sense of aloofness from Shelley, and, 
 as was natural, with a sense of superior knowledge of 
 life. That Peacock's memory sometimes misled him 
 in serious matters was shown by the most intimate 
 and devoted of Shelley students, Richard Garnett, 
 in a paper printed towards the close of his Relics of 
 Shelley (1862). At the same time Peacock's Memoirs 
 
X Introduction 
 
 of Shelley contains much that is interesting and 
 important, and, neither wasting many words nor indulg- 
 ing in much emotion or sentiment, he contrived, with- 
 in narrow hmits, to convey a large body of information, 
 if not to make Shelley exactly live and move before us. 
 Live and move before us Shelley does in Trelawny's 
 Recollections of Shelley and Byron (1858) and in the 
 enlarged edition of the same book, which appeared with 
 the title Records, instead of Recollections, twenty 
 years later. Trelawny, like Peacock, was an old man 
 when his first edition appeared, but he had contem- 
 plated the publication of such a book since compara- 
 tively early days, and he had carried the spirit of youth 
 into these elder years His eyes — the eyes of memory 
 and imagination — were not dimmed by lapse of time ; 
 he still saw Shelley as vividly as he had seen him at 
 Pisa and at Casa Magni in 1822 ; he remembered the 
 tones of his voice ; he recalled the chase of light and 
 shadow across Shelley's mind, like that which flies 
 across the sea. It is true that we cannot accept as 
 literal transcripts all his records of Shelley's conversa- 
 tion ; but as ideal transcripts, representing Shelley's 
 opinions, feelings, manner of speech, they are incom- 
 parably excellent. He was not, what Peacock was 
 described as being in 1814, ' a cold scholar ' ; he had an 
 ardent love of literature — such literature as made an 
 appeal to his own mind ; but he had been more a man 
 of action than a student, and by action his feelings 
 and imagination had been quickened. Towards Mary 
 Shelley, especially in the second form of his book, he is 
 unjust. Shelley had been removed from the world of 
 change, and he stood before Trelawny as he was in the 
 last year of his life Mary Shelley lived on, and es- 
 trangement had crept in between her and her former 
 friend and admirer. The fancies created by that es- 
 
Introduction xi 
 
 trangement mingled with his recollections of her ; but 
 the lost Shelley was unchanged and unchangeable 
 by time ; he was saved for Trelawny's imagination by 
 the very fact that he had been lost. And the Shelley 
 whom he had known was Shelley at the most interesting 
 period, Shelley in the full power of his manhood and his 
 genius. And again he saw Shelley made more impres- 
 sive, more vivid, by the contrast with Byron. The 
 conditions were singularly favourable for the production 
 at least of a swift and characteristic piece of etching ; 
 and Trelawny forfeited none of his advantages ; he 
 selected the essential lines with a sure hand ; his needle 
 was bold yet delicate ; and his acid bit the plate in 
 a way which gives an impression not only of truth 
 of line but truth of colour. Unhappily Trelawny's 
 acquaintance with Shelley was only an acquaintance of 
 six months. But perhaps the unity of his impression 
 would have been less perfect had the acquaintance ex- 
 tended over years, with the alterations and shiftings of 
 years. 
 
 Trelawny in his great old age read for the first time 
 Hogg's Life of Shelley. He recognized in the portraiture 
 of Hogg the veritable Shelley, in years when the poet 
 was still immature, whom he had himself known in the 
 full powers of adult manhood. It is a most happy cir- 
 cumstance that for Shelley's early years we should 
 have such a witness as Hogg, for Shelley's last days such 
 a witness as Trelawny. Hogg, the municipal corporation 
 commissioner, and afterwards the revising barrister for 
 Northumberland and Berwick, had little in common 
 with Trelawny, wild adventurer in privateering ex- 
 peditions in company with the ' De Ruyter ' of his 
 romantic autobiography — The Adventures of a Younger 
 Son — wild adventurer in Greece, who received all but 
 his death- wound from the assassin hard by the moun- 
 
xii Introduction 
 
 tain cavern of Odysseus. But each was a man of keen 
 perceptions and of original character, and each was 
 deeply interested in Shelley. Hogg's Life of Shelley was 
 made up of two portions, written at two periods of the 
 biographer's life, two periods separated by a wide inter- 
 val. The record of Shelley's life at Oxford was pub- 
 lished in The New Monthly Magazine, then under the 
 editorship of Bulwer, in the year 1832. The first and 
 second volume of The Life of Shelley in which the 
 earlier reminiscences were incorporated, was published 
 twenty-six years later. In 1858 Hogg was sixty- 
 six years old. His vivacity, however, had in. no de- 
 gree flagged ; it may err by excess ; it may not 
 always be happily directed ; but it is constant and 
 abounding. In that vivacity there is a singular and 
 piquant admixture of youthful enthusiasm, revived 
 by the recollections of youth, and the nods and becks 
 and wreathed smiles of a man of the world, enjoying 
 ironically the follies and enthusiasms of days long past. 
 The Oxford papers were at once recognized as admir- 
 able of their kind, and perhaps they gained more than 
 they lost — though Hogg himself thought otherwise — 
 through the editorial restraints imposed by Bulwer. 
 Mary Shelley, in her Note on ' Queen Mab ' speaks of 
 these papers as having been written by a man of great 
 talent, a fellow-collegian and warm friend of Shelley ; 
 ' they describe admirably ', she adds, ' the state of his 
 mind during his collegiate life '. Nothing, indeed, can 
 be more animated, nothing more sympathetic than 
 Hogg's account of Shelley at Oxford. We have only to 
 allow for some errors in detail, and to take into account 
 the writer's point of view. 
 
 In my Life of Shelley I endeavoured to indicate 
 Hogg's attitude towards Shelley, and I cannot do better 
 here than reproduce a page written more than twenty 
 
Introduction xiii 
 
 years ago : ' Thomas Jefferson Hogg, son of a gentleman 
 of old family and high Tory politics, residing at Stock- 
 ton-on-Tees, had entered University College in the early 
 part of the year 1810, a short time before Shelley . . . 
 There was little resemblance between the friends. 
 Hogg had intellectual powers of no common order, and 
 all through his life was an ardent lover of literature ; but 
 he cared little or nothing for doctrines and abstract 
 principles such as formed the very food on which the 
 revolutionary intellect of Shelley fed ; and his interest 
 in literature was that of a man of the world, who finds 
 in poetry a refuge from the tediurn of common life. 
 For the foibles and follies and false enthusiasms of in- 
 dividuals or coteries Hogg had a keen eye and a mock- 
 ing tongue ; yet he tolerated all novelties of opinion or 
 of practice as bright oases in the desert of common sense. 
 Above all things he hated a dullard and a bore. For 
 his own part he was well pleased to enjoy the world, to 
 accept things as they are, to toil in the appointed ways 
 for the allotted rewards, to take life pleasantly and have 
 his laugh and his jest at the human comedy ; and thus 
 he was protected by a fine non-conducting web of 
 intellectuality and of worldlinessfrom all those influences 
 which startle and waylay the soul of the poet, the lover, 
 the saint, and the hero. But his perception was clear 
 that it is they, and they alone, who make life something 
 better than a dull round of commonplace from which 
 one might at any moment sink to apathy or disgust. 
 In Shelley there stood real and living before him ' the 
 divine poet ' — all that he himself could never be, and 
 could not even choose to be. For ' the divine poet ' 
 Hogg's admiration was genuine and vivid ; but with his 
 admiration for the poet there mingled a man of the 
 world's sense of superiority to the immortal child. 
 Accordingly Shelley appeared to Hogg at once sublime 
 
xiv Introduction 
 
 and ridiculous, a being fashioned to serve as an inex- 
 haustible source of delight and diversion to men of sense 
 and wit. Sailors, says a French poet, sometimes beguile 
 the tedium of their voyage by putting a captured 
 albatross through his paces on the deck ; the great 
 white wings of the bird of sea and sky droop piteously 
 by his side and impede his movements, while he 
 struggles amidst the j eering crew. As skilless and comical 
 as the albatross did Shelley appear in Hogg's eyes, 
 when he had deserted his region of upper air for this 
 substantial earth of ours. In reality Shelley possessed 
 an excellent business faculty when his imagination 
 and emotions did not disturb his understanding, and 
 when he cared to fix his attention on practical details ; 
 but this fact did not attract the notice of Hogg. In 
 his view Shelley was either ' the divine poet ' or ' the 
 poor fellow ' — most charming and most grotesque of 
 human innocents or oddities ; and the peculiar 
 piquancy of Hogg's account of his relations with Shelley 
 lies in this — that in Hogg the lover of the ideal was at 
 the same time a man of the world, and the man of the 
 world was a lover of the ideal, so that underlying his 
 admiration we can always discover a kind of amused 
 disdain, and again under his disdain a certain involun- 
 tary loyalty and admiration.' ^ 
 
 It must, however, be added that in his youth Hogg 
 was less a man of the world and more of an enthusiastic 
 and romantic person than he might have been willing 
 to allow in later years. He wrote, or attempted to 
 write, poetry. He generously came forward in defence 
 of his friend when the University College authorities 
 summoned before them the unfledged philosopher of 
 The Necessity of Atheism, and with his friend he 
 suffered the punishment of expulsion for contumacy 
 » Life of Shelley, vol. i. pp. 57, 58. 
 
Introduction xv 
 
 in refusing to answer certain questions put to them. 
 Before he was twenty-one Hogg had written a novel — 
 the Memoirs of Prince Alexy Haimatoff — in which 
 he tried hard to be romantic and semi-revolutionary, 
 though with imperfect success. To the reader of the 
 ' translation ' of Prince Alexy's Memoirs by ' John 
 Brown, Esq.', it might seem as if young Hogg, like the 
 young Scythrop of 'Nightmare Abbey', slept with 
 horrid mysteries under his pillow, and dreamed of 
 venerable Eleutherarchs, and ghostly confederates 
 holding midnight conversation in subterranean caves. 
 The book received the honour — its sole distinction — of 
 an extravagantly eulogistic notice by Shelley in The 
 Critical Review^ December, 1814, the authorship of 
 which it fell to my lot to ascertain. 
 
 After the death of Mary Shelley, her son and her 
 daughter-in-law, Sir Percy and Lady Shelley, placed 
 in the hands of Hogg the documents in their possession 
 with a view to his producing a Life of Shelley which 
 should be authentic and authoritative. When in 1858 
 the first two volumes of the designed four appeared, 
 great was their surprise. ' We saw the book for the 
 first time ', wrote Lady Shelley in her Preface to 
 Shelley Memorials (1859), ' when it was given to 
 the world. It was impossible to imagine beforehand 
 that from such materials a book could have been pro- 
 duced which has astonished and shocked those who 
 have the greatest right to form an opinion on the char- 
 acter of Shelley ; and it was with the most painful 
 feelings of dismay that we perused what we could only 
 look upon as a fantastic caricature, going forth to the 
 world with my apparent sanction — for it was dedicated 
 to myself. Lady Shelley adds that feelings of duty to 
 the memory of Shelley left his representatives no' other 
 alternative than to withdraw the materials which had 
 
xvi Introduction 
 
 been entrusted to Hogg, and which, they could not 
 but consider, had been strangely misused. Thus the 
 Life of Shelley, here reprinted, remains a fragment. 
 ' That the conclusion exists in manuscript ', writes 
 Mr. W. M. Rossetti, ' has been affirmed to me as a 
 known fact ; also that it does not exist '. On this 
 matter I am able to add nothing to Mr. Rossetti's state- 
 ment. Any continuation of Hogg's Life of Shelley 
 would have been of the highest interest up to March, 
 r8i8, the date of Shelley's final departure from Eng- 
 land. For the period of Shelley's residence in Italy 
 its value could not be great. 
 
 It is impossible to commend Hogg as a biographer 
 for discretion, good taste, or good workmanship. His 
 resolve to be witty at any cost, to be droll or whim- 
 sical ; his ever-obtruding egoism, his way of rambling 
 into a thousand irrelevancies and trivialities, would 
 lead us to name his book a salmagundi ; we can hardly 
 name it a biography. But in the salmagundi are many 
 delightful morsels, reminding a reader of the dish 
 described in Roderick Random, in which with 
 salt beef from the brine were mingled onions and 
 pepper, ' brought into a consistence with oil and 
 vinegar '. Nor is the portrait of Shelley a mere ' cari- 
 cature '. We must first bear in mind Hogg's point 
 of view. And, secondly, we must remember that the 
 interval between Shelley's expulsion from Oxford and 
 his flight from England in company with Mary Godwin 
 — to which point Hogg's narrative does not quite reach 
 — was little more than three years. In some respects 
 Shelley may perhaps be called a precocious boy ; he 
 was precocious in his energy in action — action which 
 was often unwise ; precocious in his resolution in apply- 
 ing to practice certain hastily caught up opinions. 
 But his various powers were not quickly matured, nor 
 
Introduction xvii 
 
 were they quickly organised and harmonised. Not 
 until after the period with which Hogg's narrative 
 closes was his intellect or his imagination really 
 adult. It was the immature, crude, unorganised 
 Shelley whom Hogg saw, and whom by bits and scraps 
 he painted ; it was Shelley in his state of early ferment- 
 ation, with the frothy and fiocculent yeast rising to 
 the surface ; not the Shelley of ' Julian and Maddalo ', 
 or of ' The Triumph of Life '. Having due regard to 
 these considerations, and allowing for the fact that 
 Hogg's enjoyment of the ludicrous aspect of things 
 carries him away and tempts him to fantastic exagger- 
 ation, and a certain disproportion in his choice of 
 incident, we may discover lines of truth in the portrait 
 which he has drawn. 
 
 There were, however, grave derelictions of a bio- 
 grapher's duty in Hogg's performance of his task. 
 'The worst flaw of all', says Mr. Rossetti, 'is that 
 letters of Shelley given in Hogg's Lije are garbled and 
 misdated'. The garbling was not confined to letters 
 of Shelley. Thus in the letter of C. H. Grove which 
 brings the Life to a close a few lines as printed run 
 thus : ' And not long after, for it was very soon after 
 the Lent term had commenced, a little controversial work 
 was published at Oxford. The pamphlet had not the 
 author's name, but it was suspected in the University 
 who was the author ; and the young friends were dis- 
 missed from Oxford, for contumaciously ' , etc. The 
 actual words of the letter are these : ' And not long 
 after, for it was very soon after the Lent term had 
 commenced, Bysshe and Mr. Hogg published their 
 little work entitled The Necessity of Atheism. They 
 did not publish the pamphet with their names, but 
 it was well understood in the University that they 
 were the authors, and they were expelled the University 
 
xviii Introduction 
 
 for contumaciously', etc. The passage might have 
 been omitted, and nothing would have been lost ; to 
 rewrite the passage was to violate editorial fidelity. 
 Not only this : in certain instances where facts were 
 inconvenient Hogg does not — as might be legiti- 
 mate — ^leave the facts untold ; he perverts the facts, 
 and adapts his account of Shelley's conduct to accord 
 with the perversion. Soon after his first marriage 
 Shelley left his young wife for a short time at York 
 under the care of her sister, while he hastened to the 
 south to seek an interview with his father. On his 
 return to York he was convinced by Harriet that Hogg 
 had made dishonourable advances towards her during 
 his absence. He questioned Hogg, and, unless Shelley 
 was romancing, his former friend acknowledged the 
 offence. An alienation — after pleadings and remon- 
 strance — naturally followed ; Shelley, with his wife 
 and sister-in-law, quitted York for Keswick ; and 
 after a short time correspondence between the friends 
 ceased. 
 
 It could hardly be expected that Hogg should tell 
 this story, but he need not have constructed a narrative 
 that is misleading ; he need not have printed portions 
 of Shelley's letters with an introduction of disguising 
 comment ; he need not — as it cannot be doubted that 
 he did — transform a letter of remonstrance from 
 Shelley into a ' Fragment of a Novel ' with ' Char- 
 lotte ' for the heroine, assigning the Fragment a place 
 in his biography where its true significance could not 
 readily be guessed. 
 
 Hogg's offences as a biographer are grave ; it was 
 not unjust nor indiscreet that the materials for con- 
 tinuing his Life of Shelley should have been with- 
 drawn from his hands. Yet how much less we should 
 know of the youthful Shelley if Hogg had not written \ 
 
Introduction xix 
 
 How admirable a raconteur he often is ! With what 
 zest he tells his story ! And his mocking vein, as far 
 as Shelley is concerned, has no bitterness in it. He 
 smiles at Shelley's foibles and infirmities, but from 
 his own altitude of superior worldly wisdom, 
 he regards Shelley with affectionate admiration. The 
 ' poor fellow ' was also ' the divine poet '. Hogg 
 at least imagined himself glowing ' with generous 
 desire to vindicate aspersed, but unsullied honour, 
 to maintain the just claims of transcendent genius'. 
 He must, indeed, have his laugh at the albatross as 
 it struggles out of its element along the deck ; yet he 
 is well aware all the while that he himself, the amused 
 and much-travelled mariner, could never float aloft in 
 the upper region with majestic poise and scarcely a per- 
 ceptible motion of the wing. The book is indispensable 
 for one who would know Shelley ; and yet for one who 
 would know Shelley fully and aright it is wholly insuffi- 
 cient. It is a fragment not only in the sense that it 
 tells no more than a portion of the story ; it is frag- 
 mentary also in its presentation of Shelley's char- 
 acter. Only by bringing together the testimony of 
 all the witnesses, and by collating this with the poet's 
 writings — his verse, his prose, his earlier and later 
 letters — and with the facts of his life, can the true 
 Shelley be known. 
 
 Edward Dowden. 
 
CHRONOLOGICAL TABLE 
 
 1792. Percy Bysshe Shelley born at Field Place, Horsham, Aug. 4 . 
 
 18 10. Matriculated, Univ. Coll., Oxford. 
 
 181 1. Wrote (with T. J. Hogg) Posthumous Fragments of Margaret 
 
 Nicholson ; published The Necessity of Atheism ; ex- 
 pelled with Hogg in consequence. 
 Married Harriet Westbrook, in Edinburgh. 
 
 1 8 12. Friendship with William Godwin begun. 
 
 18 13. Queen Mab privately printed. i**"!"! 
 
 1 8 14. Re-married his wife, having attained his majority. ^ '"^^J 
 Left England with Mary Godwin, and made settlement on 
 
 Harriet Shelley ; returned to England. 
 
 181 5. Published, anonymously, A Refutation of Deism. 
 
 1 8 16. Published Alasta : friendship with Byron begun. 
 
 Mrs. Shelley committed suicide, and Shelley married Mary 
 Godwin, Dec. 30. 
 
 1817. Settled at Marlow with Mary Woolstonecraft Shelley ; 
 
 friendship with Keats begun. 
 
 18 1 8. Published political pamphlets, and The Revolt of Islam. 
 Left England for Italy. Mrs. Shelley published Franken- 
 stein. 
 
 1 8 19. Rosalind and Helen ; The Cenci. 
 
 1820. Prometheus Unbound; (Edipus Tyrannus (anon.). 
 
 1 82 1. Epipsychidion (anon.) ; Adonais (inspired by death of 
 
 Keats). 
 
 1822. Hellas. 
 
 Drowned off Leghorn, July 8 ; cremated, Aug. 16. 
 1824. Posthumous Poems {The Witch of Atlas, Julian and Maddalo, 
 etc.). 
 
 1839. Poetical Works, edited by Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 1840. Essays, etc., edited by Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 1862. Relics of Shelley, edited by the late Dr. R. Garnett. 
 1876-80. Collected Works, edited by H. Buxton Forman. 
 1886. Life, by Prof. E. Dowden. 
 
PREFACE 
 
 What are they, if they knew their calling high. 
 
 But crushed perfumes exhaling to the sky 
 
 Or weeping clouds, that but awhile are seen, 
 
 Yet keep the earth, they haste to, bright and green ! 
 
 * This is a motto befitting all the illustrious unhappy. But it 
 is too presumptuous an one for me to use, though it bears 
 some affinity to the strange world I fabricate about me, and to 
 the destiny I conceive to be marked out for me. By his works 
 Shelley has raised himself to that well deserved height, that 
 must make him the wonder and glory of future ages. But his 
 private life would remain unknown, and many of his most 
 excellent qualities sleep with his beloved ashes, if I did not ful- 
 fil the task of recording them. His life was in every way 
 romantic, and to have been united to him, and to have been 
 the partner of his fortunes for eight years, has imbued my 
 thoughts and existence with romance ; it is, indeed, only by 
 help of this feeling, and the indulgence that I give to it, that I 
 can in any way endure the prolongation of life marked out for 
 me in the eternal decrees. Strip my situation of its adventi- 
 tious colours, and what is it ? Alas ! in the drear visitings of 
 cold reality, in moments of torpid despair, I but too truly feel 
 what it is. I am one cut off in the prime of life from hope, 
 enjoyment, and prosperity. The prospect was smiling, but I 
 am in a desert ; the rock on which I built my hopes has 
 crumbled away ; my bark of refuge is wrecked, while the 
 universal flood from out of the opened windows of Heaven is 
 emptying its tempests upon me. But I extricate myself from 
 these ideas, and arranging myself in the majesty of the imagina- 
 tion, I give other, and, in very truth, truer names to the 
 circumstances around me. I was the chosen mate of a celestial 
 spirit. He has left me, and I am here to learn wisdom until I 
 am fitted to join him in his native sky. I was the mother of 
 lovely children ; they are gone to attend him in his beautiful 
 mansion ; yet, in pity, they have left one behind them to adorn 
 
 1 B 
 
2 Preface 
 
 my loneliness. Me thinks my' calling is high ; I am to justify 
 his ways ; I am to make him beloved to all posterity. My 
 goal is fixed. The prize waves in the air, and I am ready for the 
 course. Who are the spectators ? Sits umpire Love, and all 
 the virtues attend him. There Wisdom and Self-approbation 
 sit enthroned, and the wise and good of all ages throng around. 
 These are to be my future companions, and I must work hard 
 to make myself worthy of so illustrious a company. Thus I 
 would make my misery my crown ; my solitude, my select 
 society of worthies ; my tears, the ambrosia conferring im- 
 mortality ; my eternal regrets, the nectar to inebriate me, 
 until I arrive at the divine impulse, which is to inspire my tale. 
 I am a priestess, dedicated to his glorification by my suffer- 
 ings ; the bride of the dead, my daily sacrifice is brought to his 
 temple, and under the shadow of his memory I watch each sun 
 to its decline.' 
 
 * I shall write his Life, and thus occupy myself in the only 
 manner from which I can derive consolation. It will be a task 
 that may bring some balm. What, though I weep ? What, 
 though each letter costs a tear ? AlMs better than inaction — 
 not forgetfulness — that never is, but an inactivity of remem- 
 brance. Well, I shall commence my task ; commemorate the 
 virtues of the only creature on earth worth loving or living for, 
 and then, may be, I may join him ; moonshine may be united 
 to her planet, and wander no more, a sad reflection of all she 
 loved on earth. And you, my own boy, I am about to begin 
 a task which, if you live, will be an invaluable treasure in after- 
 times. I^ must collect my materials ; and then, in the com- 
 memoration of the divine virtues of your father, I shall fulfil 
 the only act of pleasure there remains for me, and be ready to 
 follow you, my child, if you should leave me, my task being 
 accomplished.' 
 
 ***** 
 
 ' One of Shelley's characteristics was, that although he had 
 a passion for the reformation of mankind, and though he 
 sacrificed both himself and his possessions to the general and 
 individual view of this question, yet he was never a dupe ; his 
 penetration was wonderful ; he read a man's character in his 
 look, his gesture, his phraseology, and I never knew him 
 mistaken. I would rely on his judgment of a character, as on 
 omniscience, and most certainly was never deceived, when 
 others might think that the ingratitude and treachery which he 
 
Preface 3 
 
 often encountered, might have disappointed him. It did not, 
 for he expected it. He acted from the fixed principle of 
 endeavouring to benefit and improve each person with whom he 
 had communion ; and his chief method to achieve the latter 
 was to make the person satisfied with himself. He was right : 
 the constant benevolence of manner and action to which this 
 system gave rise, and from which he never deviated, except on 
 the most pressing necessity of self-defence ; this amenity of 
 manner awoke an enthusiasm of love, that of force amended 
 and exalted his friends ; and that mind must have been cold 
 and depraved which did not experience this necessary result 
 from his sensibility united to his urbanity.' 
 
 So far Mrs. Shelley has written, but not farther, except a few 
 scraps, which have been inserted at the commencement of this 
 work. The following letter will best explain the motives and 
 the necessity of her silence, and will fully justify it : — 
 
 41, Park Street, Dec. 11, 1838. 
 Dear Jefferson, 
 
 J has told you, I suppose, that I am about to 
 
 publish an Edition of Shelley's Poems. She says, you have not 
 a Queen Mab. Yet have you not ? Did not Shelley give you 
 one — one of the first printed ? If you will lend it me, I shall 
 be so very much obliged ; and I will return it safely when the 
 book is printed. 
 
 Will you lend me your Alastor also ? It will not go to the 
 printer ; I shall only correct the press from it. 
 
 Sir Timothy forbids Biography, under a threat of stopping 
 the supplies. What could I do then ? How could I live ? 
 And my poor boy ! But I mean to write a few Notes apper- 
 taining to the history of the Poems. If you have any of 
 Shelley's letters, mentioning his poetry, and would communi- 
 cate them, I should be glad, and thank you, 
 
 I am ever truly yours, 
 
 Mary W. S. 
 To T. J. H., Temple. 
 
 The Notes appeared, together with the Poetical Works of 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley, not long after the date of this letter. 
 They are exceedingly valuable, and have been read with 
 interest and delight. Be silent, or starve ! The prohibition 
 is certainly hard : harder than all things ; harder than all hard 
 things ; harder than all hard things put together, and hardened 
 
4 Preface 
 
 into one superlatively hard thing. The poor widowed dove 
 was forbidden to lament her lost mate ; the consolation of be- 
 wailing and celebrating him was denied her on pain of death. 
 The brother poets have told us that Philomela was treated 
 with barbarous cruelty, yet perpetual silence was not enjoined ; 
 and every returning summer we hear the nightingale reite- 
 rating anew her plaintive, love-lorn sorrows in woods and 
 groves. But we must restrain our indignation. Let us be 
 just. The author of the injunction did not know how severe it 
 was. He never felt as an enthusiastic biographer feels ; he 
 never glowed with generous desire to vindicate aspersed, but 
 unsullied, honour, to maintain the just claims of transcendent 
 genius. So that a man had an abundant share of the creature 
 comforts, or at least a competent maintenance, he had all that 
 could be wished for ; everjrthing else was sentiment, illusion, 
 affectation : such, no doubt, was his honest and intimate 
 conviction. Thus, a certain would-be Junius — a person as 
 incapable of writing the celebrated work which he laboured to 
 father upon himself, as was the proud jackdaw of producing 
 peacocks' feathers, — is reported to have said to his daughter, 
 as she stood weeping by her mother's coffin : ' Come, come, 
 screw her down, screw her down ; let us have no snivelling 
 here ! ' It might be unfair to assert that the fellow was a 
 brute ; he was, probably, only a man destitute of the ordinary 
 feelings of humanity, who was really unable to comprehend 
 how so trivial a matter as the death of a beloved parent could 
 be the cause to a child of unaffected grief, of genuine, gushing 
 tears. If the bereaved lady — illustrious in her parentage, 
 illustrious in herself and in her works, and most illustrious 
 through her union with the divine Poet — had been permitted 
 to complete the narrative which she had begun, she would have 
 given to the world a precious volume, a book more golden than 
 gold. During the eight years that she was the partner of his 
 fortunes, her account of a life, in every way romantic, would 
 have been inestimable. To esteem or to extol the genius and 
 character of Shelley too highly is impossible ; consequently, 
 even her partiality and affection, however excessive, could 
 never have offended against truth and verisimilitude. The 
 earlier, and perhaps the more interesting, portion of a wild and 
 wondrous tale could only have been told by her at second-hand 
 from the relations of others. It was my good fortune to see 
 much of Shelley, — to know more of him, indeed, on the whole, 
 than any one ; and, therefore, I have constantly been pointed 
 
Preface 5 
 
 at as ' the person best qualified for such an undertaking '. A 
 hasty, careless, and inaccurate compiler has transferred my 
 proper office to another ; my bishopric some metropolitan 
 versifier is to take, who for a long time preyed most persever- 
 ingly on Shelley's substance. If it were a question of assets, of 
 faculties, of effects, — the taking an account of plunder, — an 
 inventory of sums received, of moneys to be repaid, refunded, 
 and disgorged, — a mere calculation of the wind that had been 
 raised, — this indication of the person best qualified to be the 
 biographer of a prince amongst poets would be judicious. His 
 statements might be instructive and astonishing ; he would 
 effect much, but not quite all that is required. I corresponded 
 regularly with Shelley, with greater or less frequency, accord- 
 ing to circumstances, and I have preserved his numerous 
 letters. Some persons, who affirm that they received whole 
 volumes of epistles from him, declare that they have, un- 
 fortunately, lost them. I do not scruple to make public his 
 remarkable communications ; justice to his character and 
 the interests of truth demand the publication. It is to be 
 lamented, that of my letters to my friend scarcely one has been 
 saved ; because, having been written at the moment and on 
 the spur of the occasion, they would have given a fresh and 
 graphic representation of many events and actions, of which 
 the recollection is now faint and imperfect. We often con- 
 versed together about the projected biography of my incom- 
 parable friend ; but no definite arrangement was ever made 
 with his family for giving a full and authentic account of his 
 innocent and imaginative life. It was agreed, however, that, 
 by way of commencement, I should relate, in some periodical, 
 as much as I could remember of those happy days which we 
 spent together at Oxford. With this view Mrs. Shelley 
 introduced me to the estimable and accomplished editor of the 
 New Monthly Magazine, and procured for me the very great 
 advantage of his acquaintance, from whom, on that occasion, 
 and subsequently, I met with much politeness and real kind- 
 ness. But to write articles in a magazine or a review, is to 
 walk in leading-strings ; to march in rank and file under the 
 command of subaltern officers. However, I submitted to the 
 requirements and restraints of bibliopolar discipline, and I 
 contributed six or seven papers ; being content to speak of 
 my young fellow-collegian, not exactly as I would, but as I 
 might. I never had the honour to be the editor of a magazine, 
 or of any other periodical publication, and, therefore, I cannot 
 
6 Preface 
 
 pretend to be a judge of the feelings and responsibilities of a 
 person in such a position. They seem, indeed, to be more 
 serious and oppressive than those who have not felt the weight 
 of empire would suppose ; they can be duly appreciated by 
 Atlas alone, for he has actually borne whole constellations of 
 stars and splendour upon his labouring shoulders. I struggled 
 at first, and feebly, for full liberty of speech ; for a larger 
 licence of commendation and admiration ; for entire freedom 
 of the press without censorship. With what success I con- 
 tended the following letter will show. It relates to a matter of 
 public concernment, and therefore I do not hesitate to make it 
 known to the public, whom it concerns. It is one of many 
 letters on the same subject ; but one will suffice : 
 
 Jan. 12, 1832. 
 My Dear Sir, 
 
 I am very sorry you are displeased with the omissions in 
 your article. Let us come to a right understanding on this 
 head at once. It is not pleasant to me ever to alter an author's 
 MS. for two reasons : First, because it is a trouble I could with 
 greater profit to myself devote to my own compositions. 
 Secondly, because it is an office that can never gratify the 
 author. But if an editor lays before him one great — para- 
 mount — consistent object in a periodical, alteration and 
 omission become of frequent necessity. You must remember, 
 that an oneness of opinion in all the papers is then requisite. 
 Now, what I omitted in your paper, and what I altered, were 
 chiefly passages in which I could not agree with you (about 
 Oxford, and persons in Oxford, for instance) ; a few verbal 
 changes occurred also — but they were chiefly in epithets and 
 phrases, in which I thought a little exaggeration, natural to 
 description and to friendship, had crept in. But on these 
 matters you must allow me to say that, if an editor be worth 
 a straw, he must be absolute and unquestioned ; and however 
 deep the regret I should feel in losing any contribution of yours, 
 I must do so, rather than resign a privilege that I believe to be 
 also a duty. I dwell the more on this, because I have not yet 
 done more than glance over a few lines in your second paper : 
 and I there see that your natural affection for Shelley carries 
 you a little beyond that estimate of what he has left to the 
 world, which as yet we are authorized to express. It is prob- 
 able that this strain may be continued through the whole, and 
 therefore require modification. Let us, then, be candid with 
 each other. I, on my part, will not alter, or rather omit, which 
 
Preface 7 
 
 is my chief sin, without necessity — and will you, on your part, 
 kindly suffer me to use my own discretion, when that necessity 
 is apparent ? 
 
 Truly yours, 
 
 E. L, BULWER. 
 
 If it should seem to me, that alteration to any extent is neces- 
 sary, I shall return you the MS. to alter yourself. All I claim 
 is, the power of omission, or abridgment, to such extent as I 
 judge discreet ; and that of alteration only in slight matters ; 
 to omit, in short, as much as I like, and alter as little as I can. 
 When you republish the articles, to which, I dare say, there will 
 be no objection, you can amend them, etc. In regard to the 
 proposed article on his Poetry, I fear that we should not agree. 
 You evidently admire him as a Poet far more than / think 
 criticism warrants us in doing. He is great in parts ; but, the 
 Cenci excepted, does not, in my opinion, effect a great whole. 
 But the additional anecdotes on his life and opinions will be, 
 I trust and beUeve, acceptable. 
 
 To T. J. H., Temple. 
 
 The Shelley Papers, for they soon came to be spoken of and 
 referred to under this title, were successful. They were satis- 
 factory to the Poet's friends and admirers, notwithstanding 
 the somewhat subdued tone which I was constrained to adopt, 
 and the farther dilutions that were made, always no doubt in 
 strict accordance with the rules of art and the canons of 
 editorial revision. I confess that I always have been, and 
 still am, sensitive, too much so perhaps, in the matter of cor- 
 rection, or alteration, by editors, joint-editors, sub-editors. I 
 am content at all times to throw pearls before swine, only I 
 must be permitted, for my own credit's sake, to throw real 
 pearls before them, not glass beads and other worthless coun- 
 terfeits, substitutes for my marine treasures. I was once 
 requested to write something or other on behalf of a knot of 
 people, who busied themselves for a time in diffusing at a low 
 price in shabby pamphlets, what they accounted useful know- 
 ledge. As a powerful inducement I was solemnly assured 
 that whatever I wrote would certainly be revised and corrected 
 seriatim, by every one of the conceited, self-satisfied diffusers 
 whose names were printed on the covers of ' their unsightly 
 publications '. The proposal was a tempting one, but I was 
 not the possessor of any knowledge sufficiently useful to bear 
 
8 Preface 
 
 the ordeal of so much useless intermeddling. Too many cooks 
 spoilt the broth ; and the soup-kitchen of science in forma 
 pauperis was soon shut up without my assistance. 
 
 The Shelley Papers were pillaged freely by amateur bio- 
 graphers, sometimes without acknowledgment, and always 
 without permission ; the publication was anonymous, but my 
 name has been used as freely in connection with them, as if I 
 had myself prefixed it to these sketches. I have sometimes 
 been informed by a total stranger, that he was about to com- 
 pose a Life of Shelley, and intended to reprint the Shelley 
 Papers at length ; and I have been ordered to send forwith to 
 his address, all anecdotes, letters, and unpublished pieces in 
 aid of his'precious work. I found it advisable to take no notice 
 whatever of such applications ; for a civil answer has brought 
 upon me, more than once, a reply full of virulent abuse from 
 the suburban scribbler. It would seem that in the case of 
 Shelley the laws of property were suspended or abrogated ; 
 his earlier works were pirated with impunity ; his books, 
 letters, and papers were stolen ; his writings were found, and 
 without scruple made public by the finder. The forgery of 
 his correspondence, a curious matter, of which hereafter, was 
 an extensive and a profitable speculation. It may be as well 
 to state that, from the 28th of July, 18 14, until a few days 
 before his death, Shelley kept regularly a journal of his daily 
 life, recording, day by day, all that he did, read, and wrote ; 
 mentioning the letters received and sent by himself, the places 
 which he visited, and the persons whom he saw. These MSS. 
 are valuable on many -accounts ; they are useful in being a 
 check upon misrepresentations and inventions, and a test of 
 the veracity and correctness of volunteer and amateur bio- 
 graphers ; they are sovereign indeed in detecting fabrications 
 and forgeries. Many pages are little more than dates, lists of 
 books, and names of places and persons, but much curious 
 matter is interspersed ; whatever is interesting shall be pre- 
 sented hereafter without reserve, nothing of value being kept 
 back. Nor were the friends of Shelley exempt from predatory 
 incursions ; their journals, memoranda, note-books ; their 
 pictures, drawings, and precious relics ; were appropriated as 
 derelict, or seized as plunder by some bold buccanier. Many 
 admirers, devoted hero-worshippers, are offended and morti- 
 fied by the innumerable unlike and unfavourable portraitures 
 of the divine lineaments of a lovely character drawn by unskil- 
 ful hands ; but, I confess, I do not sympathize with them ; I 
 
Preface 9 
 
 am not annoyed by the clumsy workmanship and spurious 
 imitations. Suffer these vulgar daubers, I would say, and 
 forbid them not ; for of such is the kingdom of heaven. It 
 must of necessity be thus with all hero-worship. To 
 be often ill-praised is an essential condition to the 
 universality of renown. For example, if St. Paul might 
 be commended by eloquent preachers only, by profound theo- 
 logians, by erudite and exquisitely judicious eulogists alone, 
 his merits would be seldom celebrated ; but inasmuch as the 
 dull, drowsy prater, the illiterate sectary, the ignorant, the 
 indiscreet, the intemperate, may trumpet forth his praises 
 without restraint, the Apostle of the Gentiles now is, and ever 
 will be, illustrious far and wide. 
 
 The Life of Shelley will frequently suggest that momentous 
 subject, the reformation of our two magnificent universities, 
 especially of the glorious university of Oxford, and will direct 
 our attention to the real point of the case. A strict and 
 searching inquiry into the actual condition of these most im- 
 portant institutions is imperiously demanded ; a thorough, 
 unsparing, unflinching investigation. It is necessary to ascer- 
 tain forthwith, not whether a little more of this or of that, and 
 a little less of the other, is taught there ; whether the regents 
 meet to talk stuff in the House of Convocation on Tuesday or 
 on Thursday, in cramped Latin, or in lax English, and in larger 
 or smaller numbers ; but to answer distinctly the one vital 
 and decisive question, which will be evaded as long as possible. 
 How is the enormous mass of splendid patronage bestowed ? 
 Have they ever given anything to the right person ? If they 
 have, what, and to whom ? The right of patronage is the 
 most sacred of all sacred trusts ; the criminal abuse of it, 
 through jobbing and nepotism, is an eating, destroying cancer, 
 fatal alike to Church and State. Society has manfully asserted 
 at last this great truth, and is fully prepared and resolved to 
 follow out in practice the assertion of principle. And not 
 merely prospectively, but, to a certain extent, retrospectively 
 also, will the sage and salutary reform be accomphshed. Pro- 
 spectively, by sternly forbidding offences under heavy penalties, 
 and severely punishing in future all offenders ; and retrospec- 
 tively also, as sanguine and zealous reformers confidently 
 declare, by removing without delay or compunction every 
 recipient tainted by nepotism. People talk loudly of the 
 sanctity of vested rights ; and the right of these objects of 
 partial patronage no doubt is sacred ; it is the right to undergo 
 
lo Preface 
 
 condign chastisement. They speak boldly and fiercely of 
 compensation ; and perhaps in strictness, compensation ought 
 to be made by disgorging, under the strong compulsion of the 
 sounding lash, every penny of what has been undeservedly and 
 corruptly received. 
 
 Shelley was'great as a poet — divine, indeed ; great as a philo- 
 sopher, as a moralist, as a scholar, as a complete and finished 
 gentleman, great in every respect as a man ; but he was most 
 conspicuously great in that particular excellence, which, in all 
 ages and in all nations, has been invariably the characteristic 
 distinction of the greatest of mankind — he was pre-eminently a 
 lady's man. The following pages will show, but faintly, feebly, 
 and imperfectly, I fear, that he was uniformly the chosen 
 favourite of the charming sex. The moment he entered a 
 house, he inspired the moSt lively interest into every woman in 
 the family ; not only the mistress of the house, her daughters, 
 and other lady relatives, but even the housekeeper and the 
 humblest females in the establishment were animated alike by 
 an active desire to promote and secure his well-being, in every 
 way and to the utmost in their power. In England women 
 have never had too much influence in advancing the fortunes 
 of men ; commonly too little, far too little, for the public wel- 
 fare. It was always a maxim in France, and a wise one, that 
 no man could succeed greatly in life who was not a favourite 
 with the fair. The young Poet's fortunes would certainly have 
 been less rude — they would have been mitigated, and softened, 
 and brightened, if a due preponderance had been conceded to 
 the gentle and humanising patronage and fond devotion of 
 his countless lady friends. 
 
 To ' amend ' the Shelley Papers, to restore them, as nearly as 
 possible to their original condition, as they were written by 
 myself, and as they stood before they underwent editorial 
 censorship, was long my intention ; but many hero-worshippers 
 have informed me, that they desire to procure a copy of the 
 identical sketches, which they had formerly viewed with satis- 
 faction, and which were almost inaccessible to purchasers, 
 being embedded and walled in, as it were, in the body of a 
 voluminous periodical. One meritorious worshipper of 
 singular industry, a citizen of the United States of America, 
 assures me that ' he copied them in manuscript, that he might 
 possess them, and lend them to his friends '. Accordingly, 
 I yielded, but not without reluctance, to their request, and the 
 Shelley Papers will be reprinted here precisely as they ap- 
 
Preface 1 1 
 
 peared in the year 1832, in the New Monthly Magazine. They 
 will be found entire and unaltered in this work, from p. 42 
 to p. 90, and from p. 127 to p. 193. All Shelley's journals, 
 letters, fragments, every scrap of paper, indeed, relating 
 to him, or to his affairs, whether it was written by himself, 
 or by other persons, have been placed in my hands and at my 
 disposal by his family ; my materials are at once authentic 
 and abundant. This is much, but it will be far more, to 
 write a living Life of the young Poet ; to give of him a 
 breathing, moving, speaking portrait. 
 
 It is especially my desire to present a pleasing picture ; but 
 in this particular some explanation, some qualification is 
 necessary. How will he, or she, or they, like his statements ? 
 is not the question which a biographer should ask himself ; 
 the question really being. How ought they to like them ? 
 what can they fairly and reasonably expect from him ? It is 
 his duty to seek to please ; not simply, unconditionally, 
 generally, and in every way to please ; but to please so far 
 only, and in such a manner, as a judicious and impartial reader 
 ought to be pleased. 
 
 I have been informed after these volumes went to the press, 
 that a large box has been found, containing many letters, 
 journals, and other papers of great curiosity and value. They 
 relate, I believe, to a subsequent period of Shelley's life. They 
 will be carefully perused, and whatever is of interest and 
 importance will be presented hereafter in due course and 
 chronological order. 
 
 The following letter is so interesting, and so much to the 
 present purpose, that it ought not to be withheld, or even post- 
 poned to the period to which it relates : 
 
 March g, 1826. 
 i- My Dear Madam, 
 luU^ I saw W. this morning. He says he will write to me when 
 he knows what to do. He has given me no promise. He says 
 Sir T. is much annoyed by the name being brought before the 
 pubUc in the paragraphs respecting your novel. I have 
 little doubt, however, that you will get the money ; but I 
 think you will be punished by a short delay. 
 
 I told W. that your name was not in the title-page, and that 
 its being brought forward at all was the fault of the pubhsher, 
 and very contrary to your wishes. I told him he must remem- 
 ber that you were solitary and dependent ; and that employing 
 
 /,;*3lf»v^^ JtuJUcyo Pf^cUir, 
 
12 Preface 
 
 your time according to your tastes and talents, with a view to 
 better your condition, was what no one could reasonably 
 condemn. This he acknowledged ; but said the name was the 
 matter ; it annoyed Sir T. 
 
 Yours ever faithfully, 
 To Mrs. Shelley. L. T. 
 
 Not only did Sir Timothy Shelley interdict, as has been 
 shown, by his threat of * stopping the supplies * , the pious 
 office upon which his cruelly bereaved daughter-in-law had 
 set her heart, of composing a full and faithful biography of her 
 ' late esposed saint ', but he endeavoured to prevent, by 
 actually stopping them, all authorship ; and altogether to 
 preclude the exercise of her unequalled talents. This attempt, 
 which many will condemn as strangely barbarous and utterly 
 barbarian, was happily unsuccessful. 
 
 One of Mrs. Shelley's admirable novels, it seems, the date 
 points out her wonderful invention, The Last Man, had been 
 advertised by the publisher in her name — a name that had 
 already attained sufficient celebrity to insure the sale of any 
 work to which it was prefixed, and thereupon her scanty 
 stipend was immediately withdrawn. ' The supplies ', to 
 the payment of which such hard conditions — conditions so 
 hurtful to the interests of literature — were annexed, it is right 
 to state were not freely given by the father of her lost husband 
 to support, in decent competence, the widow of his eldest son 
 and the mother of the heir to his name, title, and estates. They 
 were money lent to her on the strength of her expectations, 
 and the security of her bond, to be repaid, and if I mistake 
 not, with interest. The money was duly repaid ; and I regret 
 to add — it has been received. For farther proof of a constant 
 and abiding hostility to all intellectual efforts, I have been 
 referred to in a passage in a letter from myself to Mrs. Shelley, 
 of August 22nd, 1824. * It gave me great pleasure to hear 
 that Sir Timothy has proposed to purchase Field Place of you ; 
 I hope that matters will proceed without interruption, until 
 you find yourself quite at your ease as to pecuniary affairs. 
 The condition for which he stipulated, that The Posthumous 
 Works should be suppressed, is highly characteristic, and 
 forcibly reminds me of old times, when the old Philistine used 
 to make demands equally rational and enlightened'. 
 
 To return to Shelley — it will be seen that the poor fellow 
 was very unfortunate in his political connections. His own 
 
Preface 13 
 
 family and their alliances, without exception, were Whigs, 
 devoted adherents of Norfolk House. Never surely were any 
 creatures so senseless, helpless, and hollow as the Buff and Blue 
 faction ; mere grievance-mongers, desiring always that he and 
 others should have a great grievance, in order that he with 
 them clamouring about such matters might help them to office, 
 to serve their own ends ; by no means to do him any good, and 
 least of all to redress his grievance. The few Tories with 
 whom he became personally acquainted, treated him with 
 kindness, and were well disposed to consider all differences of 
 opinion as not unamiable peculiarities, and to throw their aegis 
 over him : but unhappily he was afraid of them. Conse- 
 quently, he gave himself up too much to people who have 
 since been called Radicals ; these were necessarily vulgar ; 
 they dreaded and detested his conspicuously aristocratical 
 and gentlemanlike dispositions, and being commonly needy 
 men, chiefly perhaps because they were lazy and dissipated, 
 they preyed upon him most unmercifully. We Tories were 
 not without our faults towards him, our short-comings towards 
 others, and so we have long ceased to exist. It has sometimes 
 been asked, What is the difference between a Tory and a Con- 
 servative ? are they not both of the same party ? In like 
 manner we may ask. What is the difference between a bull 
 and an ox ? are they not both the same animal ? An extreme 
 freedom of opinion, or to speak more correctly, of declaration 
 and discussion, together with a taste for chemistry, had been 
 acquired whilst Shelley was a schoolboy, by his intercourse 
 and intimacy with a physician, for whom he long retained a 
 warm regard and a profound reverence. The editor, in her 
 graceful note on The Revolt of Islam, informs us, as my friend 
 had already told me, that, 'There exists in this poem a memorial 
 of a friend of his youth. The character of the old man who 
 liberates Laon from his tower-prison, and tends on him in 
 sickness, is founded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when Shelley 
 was at Eton, had often stood by to befriend and support him, 
 and whose name he never mentioned without love and vener- 
 ation '. Shelley was desirous to make me acquainted with 
 the medical philosopher ; * he will soon remove all your pre- 
 judices ! ' He has not done this, for I never saw Dr. James 
 Lind of Windsor. 
 
 Whether the pupil corresponded with his early preceptor 
 after he left Eton, I know not ; I never saw any letters from 
 the sage, or heard that any had been received. Having care- 
 
14 Preface 
 
 fully inoculated his young patient and satisfied himself that 
 the disease had taken, it should seem that he left him to his 
 fate. 
 
 In the ancient world, the sacrilegious impiety of one who 
 had disclosed the Eleusinian mysteries, must be expiated by his 
 death. It was not prudent to sit under the same roof-tree, or 
 to embark in the same boat, with a man who, notwithstanding 
 that a golden key had come upon his tongue, had divulged 
 the sacred secrets of Ceres : so fiercely was the wrath of the 
 immortal gods kindled against him. Thus, in our degenerate 
 days, is a solemn and sagacious reviewer, who possibly may 
 have his private reasons for disliking disclosures, inflamed 
 against some too communicative biographer, for having rashly 
 revealed that Cottle once lent his tea-kettle and toasting-fork 
 to Coleridge. With all gravity the critic dogmatically affirms, 
 that ' sacred silence should be thrown around such facts, 
 through an exquisite delicacy of mind', and so forth. The 
 names of illustrious heroes are written among the stars ; their 
 history, in the heavens, to be read by all ; their acts, words, 
 and thoughts belong not to their families and private friends 
 — not even to their needy pensioners, however worthless — 
 but to their worshippers, to the public, and to posterity. 
 Nevertheless, I have endeavoured, as far as it was practicable, 
 to spare the feelings of others, and to avoid compromising 
 them by naming them in any delicate conjuncture, without 
 absolute and unavoidable necessity. Many obliging persons 
 have kindly offered me information and assistance, and I 
 trust that they will do me the justice to believe, that want of 
 leisure alone prevented a due acknowledgment of their 
 favour, and well-merited thanks. 
 
 A great deal of nonsense has been written and spoken about 
 the irreligious opinions ascribed to my poor friend. In meta- 
 physical discussions, he was uniformly and eminently bold and 
 uncompromising. I will not venture to engage in theological 
 disquisitions, for which I have neither inclination nor ability, 
 but I will at once dispose of the matter by simply asking one 
 very plain question. Did anybody ever know a poet — and 
 Shelley was a truly great Poet — who was an irreligious man ? 
 Let us consider the immortality of the soul and a future state 
 as subjects of feeling, not of reasoning ; of feeling imprinted 
 and rooted in us for the wisest purposes, and far more con- 
 clusive than any reasoning ; and we may readily get rid of all 
 controversy by asking, in like manner, Does any one who knew 
 
Preface 15 
 
 Shelley, believe that he has ceased to exist — that he is really 
 dead — that we shall never see him more ? If it shall appear 
 in the course of my narrative, that the young Poet's heart ever 
 went astray, I will neither condemn, nor justify, its wander- 
 ings ; I will only observe, with Mister John Boccaccio, late of 
 Florence : ' Love can do much more, dear Reader, than 
 either you or I can do ! ' 
 April, 1858. 
 
I'HE LIFE 
 
 OF 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY 
 
 CHAPTER I 
 
 Have I forgot the words ? 
 Faith ! they are sadder than I thought they were. 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley was born at Field Place, near Hor- 
 sham, in the county of Sussex, on Saturday, the 4th of August, 
 1792. 
 
 ' Saturday's moon comes a day too soon ', says the proverb ; 
 the new moon, which falls on a Saturday, misses by one day 
 the good luck that ought to befall us, when the conjunction 
 of our satellite with the sun takes place on a Sunday. Thus, 
 by coming one day too early into a world that knew him not, 
 did the Divine Poet want all the good fortune which is the 
 portion of a Sunday child. Temporal advantages, worldly 
 prosperity, ephemeral joys, fading honours were not for him ; 
 but the undying laurel, the amaranthine garland, the golden 
 crown were his : the crown of glory, that passeth not away. 
 The royal ornaments, which of right adorn a king of song, 
 were his noble inheritance, of this he can never be despoiled ; 
 for 
 
 Not all the water in the rough rude sea 
 Can wash the balm from an anointed king. 
 
 The science of the astrologer must be vain indeed, if the 
 horoscope of the ' heaven-born child ', as far as regards all 
 the higher blessings, all real good gifts, was not favourable 
 and flattering. 
 
 His father — to return for a while to plain facts — was Timothy 
 Shelley ; his mother, a lady of rare beauty, Elizabeth, the 
 
 " C 
 
1 8 Life of Shelley 
 
 daughter of Charles Pilfold, Esquire. They were married in 
 the year 1791, and of this union their eldest son, Percy Bysshe, 
 was the first child. The poet had four sisters ; Elizabeth, 
 Mary, Hellen, and Margaret, all of whom lived to be distin- 
 guished for remarkable beauty, so that it was frequently 
 observed, ' very few families indeed can boast four such hand- 
 some girls ! ' He had only one brother, John, the youngest 
 child. 
 
 Other members of the family will sometimes of necessity 
 be mentioned incidentally ; but where the subject of biography 
 is alone and of himself sufficient to ennoble a house, and by 
 his immortal reputation to render it for ever illustrious, trifling 
 details concerning inferior honours would be improper and 
 impertinent. Moreover, it would be foreign to the true pur- 
 pose of the present narrative to compose a genealogical history 
 of an ancient and honourable family. To tell how Sir Guyon 
 de Shelley, one of the most famous of the Paladins, made him- 
 self glorious. How he carried about with him at all times 
 three conchs fastened to the inside of his shield, tipt respec- 
 tively with brass, with silver, and with gold. When he blew 
 the first shell, all giants, however huge, fled before him. 
 When he put the second to his lips, all spells were broken, 
 all enchantments dissolved ; and when he made the third 
 conch, the golden one, vocal, the law of God was immediately 
 exalted, and the law of the Devil annulled and abrogated, 
 wherever the potent sound reached. Some historians affirm, 
 that the third shell had a still more remarkable effect ; that 
 its melting notes instantly softened the heart of every female, 
 gentle or simple, who heard them, to such an extent, that it 
 was impossible for her to refuse whatever its owner might 
 ask. This power was dangerous indeed ; but a knight sans 
 peur could find delight only in the society of a lady sans tache ; 
 in the pure ages of chivalry, therefore, nothing derogatory to 
 the limpid honour of knights or dames would ever be required. 
 It is certain that history has not recorded that the good Sir 
 Guyon ever abused the irresistible potency of his golden horn. 
 These wondrous conchs, or shells, are still remembered in the 
 name, and borne in the arms, of the several branches of the 
 house of Shelley. Sir Guyon, we are told, was the personal 
 friend, as well as the companion in arms, of Orlando, notwith- 
 standing the well-known attachment of the fair Angelica for 
 the lord of shells ; but if the beauty of Sir Guyon was 
 transcendent, superhuman, and indeed divine, his continence, 
 
Life of Shelley 19 
 
 chastity, purity, and unsullied, knight-like honour, as the 
 Archbishop of Rheims, Turpin, (who is never in error) affirms, 
 were such that there could be no place for jealousy between 
 the gallant friends, 
 
 Carlovingian families contemn the Crusaders as frigid 
 imitators of heroic gestes, as a degenerate race, but persons, 
 who do not affect to trace their own lineage so high as the 
 eighth century, may still be permitted to admire the pious 
 devotion and exalted courage of the Champions of the Cross. 
 Passing over, however, the period of the Crusades, we read in 
 times comparatively modern, in the sixteenth century, of Sir 
 Richard Shelley, a knight of Malta, and Grand Prior of the 
 English Language, as being remarkable, not only for bravery, 
 which was the common attribute of the Order, and conse- 
 quently no peculiar distinction, but for disinterested generosity. 
 Bosio, the secretary and historian of the Knights of St. John, 
 has recorded that notwithstanding his extreme old age, which 
 would have fully excused his attendance, he came to the sup- 
 port and relief of the Island of Malta, when it was besieged by 
 the Turks, a.d. 1565. 
 
 When one of the family visited Malta lately, he was informed 
 there that they were unable to find the bones of the Grand 
 Prior, Sir Richard Shelley : with what object they sought for 
 them was not stated. 
 
 Of the earliest infancy, the babyhood, of the wonderful 
 child we know nothing. As a boy he was gentle, affectionate, 
 intelligent, amiable ; ever loving, and universally beloved. 
 
 His relatives have supplied interesting details. To give 
 these just as they were received, will be a better illustration 
 of the truth of things than a re-arrangement and classification 
 of facts would afford. 
 
 Nov. 26th, 1856. 
 My dearest J., 
 
 After reading the reminiscences of our Poet Brother 
 in the periodical you lent me, a strong wish arose in my mind 
 to add, even in the trifling degree, which lies in my power, to 
 the scanty details of his outward life. The absurd and 
 imaginary view of Bysshe's character, and the facts, which are 
 sufficient to contradict the fables contained in some books, 
 have been contradicted only, I imagine, from the feeling that 
 reasonable persons could perceive, that a child — who, at six 
 years old, was sent daily to learn Latin at a clergyman's house, 
 
20 Life of Shelley e,u.,U^'s '' 
 
 and as soon as it was expedient removed to Dr. Groonland'o, 
 from thence to Eton, and subsequently to college — could 
 scarcely have been the uneducated son, that some writers would 
 endeavour to persuade those, who read their books, to believe 
 he ought to have been, if his parents despised education. 
 Such books are altogether written with bad feeling, — the 
 petty malice of a little mind avenging itself for slights too well 
 deserved to be forgiven. My knowledge of these publications 
 is not vivid enough to dissect the contents ; but I recollect 
 when they first appeared we were urged to write a contra- 
 diction of the most glaring mistakes, — but who would willingly 
 go to war with a petty state ? Time, generally, elicits truth, 
 and there are many friends of our family, that could indignantly 
 repel the reflections cast upon those, who treat them with 
 silent contempt. I will write again soon. 
 
 Yours always, 
 
 Hellen Shelley. 
 
 My dearest J., 
 
 At this distant period I can scarcely remember my first 
 impressions of Bysshe, but he would frequently come to the 
 nursery and was full of a peculiar kind of pranks. One piece 
 of mischief, for which he was rebuked, was running a stick 
 through the ceiling of a low passage to find some new chamber, 
 which could be made effective for some flights of his vivid 
 imagination. The tales, to which we have sat and listened, 
 evening after evening, seated on his knee, when we came to 
 the dining-room for dessert, were anticipated with that pleasing 
 dread, which so excites the minds of children, and fastens so 
 strongly and indelibly on the memory. There was a spacious 
 garret under the roof of Field Place, and a room, which had 
 been closed for years, excepting an entrance made by the 
 removal of a board in the garret-floor. This unknown land 
 was made the fancied habitation of an Alchemist, old and 
 grey, with a long beard. Books and a lamp, with all the 
 attributes of a picturesque fancy, were poured into our listen- 
 ing ears. We were to go and see him * some day ' ; but we 
 were content to wait, and a cave was to be dug in the orcliard 
 for the better accommodation of this Cornelius Agrippa. 
 Another favourite theme was the ' Great Tortoise ', that 
 lived in Warnham Pond ; and any unwonted noise was 
 accounted for by the presence of this great beast, which was 
 made into the fanciful proportions most adapted to excite 
 
Life of Shelley 21 
 
 awe and wonder. [I never heard Shelley mention the ' Great 
 Tortoise ', but he spoke often of the ' Great Old Snake '. It 
 was a snake of unusual magnitude, which had inhabited the 
 gardens at Field Place for several generations, and which, 
 according to tradition, had been known, as the * Old Snake ', 
 three hundred years ago. It was killed, accidentally, through 
 the carelessness of the gardener, in mowing the grass : killed 
 by the same fatal instrument with which the universal des- 
 troyer. Time, kills everything besides, — by that two-handed 
 engine, the scythe. There is so strong an affinity between 
 serpents and all imaginative and demoniacal characters, that 
 I cannot but regret to have entirely forgotten the legends of 
 the ' Old Snake ' ; narratives perfectly true, no doubt, — not 
 with the common-place truth of ordinary matters of fact, but 
 with the far higher truth of poetical verity' and mythological 
 necessity. — H.] Bysshe was certainly fond of eccentric 
 amusements, but they delighted us, as children, quite as much 
 as if our minds had been naturally attuned to the same tastes ; 
 for we dressed ourselves in strange costumes to personate 
 spirits, or fiends, and Bysshe would take a lire-stove and fill it 
 with some inflammable liquid and carry it flaming into the 
 kitchen and to the back-door ; but discovery of this dangerous 
 amusement soon put a stop to many repetitions. When my 
 brother commenced his studies in chemistry, and practised 
 electricity upon us, I confess my pleasure in it was entirely 
 negatived by terror at its effects. Whenever he came to me 
 with his piece of folded brown packing-paper under his arm, 
 and a bit of wire and a bottle (if I remember right), my heart 
 would sink with fear at his approach ; but shame kept me 
 silent, and, with as many others as he could collect, we were 
 placed hand-in-hand round the nursery table to be electrified ; 
 but when a suggestion was made that chilblains were to be 
 cured by this means, my terror overwhelmed all other feelings, 
 and the expression of it released me from all future annoyance. 
 I have heard that Bysshe 's memory was singularly retentive. 
 Even as a little child, Gray's lines on the Cat and the Gold 
 Fish were repeated, word for word, after once reading ; a fact 
 I have frequently heard from my mother. He used, at my 
 father's bidding, to repeat long Latin quotations, probably 
 from some drama ; for he would act, and the expression of 
 his face and movement of his arms are distinct recollections, 
 though the subject of his declamations was a sealed book to 
 his infant hearers. Poor fellow ! Why did he not live fifty 
 
22 Life of Shelley 
 
 years later : when he would have been assisted by the 
 wonderful improvements of the age in directing his gifted and 
 inquisitive mind ? — Good-bye, dearest, for to-day. 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 The tranquillity of our house must have frequently been 
 rudely invaded by experiments, for, on one occasion, on the morn- 
 ing our Poet and experimentalist left home (for Eton, proba- 
 bly), the washing-room was discovered to have been filled with 
 smoke, by a fire in the grate with the valve closed ; the 
 absence of draught had probably prevented mischief, but 
 much was made of this accident, probably to deter any admir- 
 ing imitators ; and there might have been circumstances 
 connected with it relating to chemical preparations, which 
 did not reach us. My younger brother, John, was a child in 
 petticoats, when I remember Bysshe playing with him under 
 the fir-trees on the lawn, pushing him gently down to let him 
 rise and beg for a succession of such falls, rolling with laughing 
 glee on the grass ; then, as a sequel to this game, the Uttle 
 carriage was drawn through the garden walks at the rate a big 
 boy could draw a little one, and in an unfortunate turn the 
 carriage was upset, and the occupant tossed into the cabbages, 
 or strawberry-bed. Screams, of course, brought sympathetic 
 aid, and, though the child was unhurt, the boy was rebuked ; 
 and when the former was brought down after dinner, in the 
 nurse's arms, ' Bit ', (Bysshe) was apostrophized as a culprit: 
 His great delight was to teach his infant brother schoolboy 
 words, and his first attempt at his knowledge of the devil, was 
 an innocent ' Debbee ! ' 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I feel more confidence in writing when I commence a 
 page, as I have now done ; and after having talked over the 
 small things we remember of our brother, I place them on 
 paper without chronological order ; for you will readily 
 believe that to me it would be impossible, as I do not remember 
 even seeing him after I was eleven years of age. I went to 
 school before Margaret, so that she recollects how Bysshe 
 came home in the midst of the half-year to be nursed ; and 
 when he was allowed to leave the house, he came to the 
 dining-room window, and kissed her through the pane of glass. 
 She remembers his face there, with nose and lips pressed 
 against the window, and at that time she must have been about 
 
Life of Shelley 23 
 
 five years old. In the holidays, he would walk with us, if he 
 could steal away with us ; and on one occasion he walked with 
 us through the fields to Strood ; where, in those days, there 
 was a park stile, to encourage good neighbourhood : there was 
 a sunk fence to divide the lawn from the meadows, and gates 
 were despised, where difficulty would augment the pleasure ; 
 and we were assisted up this perpendicular wall. I was big 
 enough to be pulled over, but Margaret was gently thrown 
 across on the grass. Our shoes were sadly soiled, and the 
 little one of the party was tired, and required carrying ; but 
 she was to be careful to hold her feet so that the trousers might 
 not be damaged. This trait does not seem characteristic, 
 but it is nevertheless true ; and subsequently, Bysshe ordered 
 clothes according to his own fancy at Eton, and the beautifully 
 fitting silk pantaloons, as he stood, as almost all men and boys 
 do, with their coat tails near the fire, excited my silent, though 
 excessive admiration. He must always have been full of 
 imaginative fancies, even before the youthful genius displayed 
 itself in poetry. That wonderful emanation from the brain of 
 a youth of eighteen, Queen Mab, is quite unequalled in gorgeous 
 images and marvellous expression. The free writing down of 
 overflowing thoughts by a boy, where no prudence could be 
 expected ; and the peculiar, not to say unfortunate, tendency 
 of that early stroke of undoubted genius, cannot detract from 
 the poet's fame, though the wisdom and experience of riper 
 years might have modified the poem, as well as his whole after- 
 life. His early death left him unformed ; but who can tell 
 what were the thoughts of one, who had but a few minutes of 
 preparation between this world and the next. It may be 
 (and, oh, that it might be prophecy !) that Love and Mercy 
 took into account the temptations and dangers of a mind 
 almost alone in its peculiar nature, and opened his eyes to that 
 beUef, without which he had better never been born ! 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I meant in my last letter to have given you an illus- 
 tration of Bysshe's boyish traits of imagination, but flew off 
 to a later period. On one occasion he gave the most minute 
 details of a visit he had paid to some ladies, with whom he was 
 acquainted at our village : he described their reception of 
 him, their occupations, and the wandering in their pretty 
 garden, where there was a well-remembered filbert-walk and 
 an undulating turf-bank, the delight of our morning visit. 
 
24 Life of Shelley 
 
 There must have been something pecuHar in this little 
 event, for I have often heard it mentioned as a singular fact, 
 and it was ascertained almost immediately, that the boy had 
 never been to the house. It was not considered as a falsehood 
 to be punished ; but, I imagine, his conduct altogether must 
 have been so little understood, and unlike that of the generality 
 of children, that these tales were left unnoticed. He was, at a 
 later period, in the habit of walking out at night, and the 
 prosaic minds of ordinary mortals could not understand the 
 pleasure to be derived from contemplating the stars, when he 
 probably was repeating to himself lines, which were so soon to 
 astonish those, who looked on him as a boy. The old servant 
 of the family would follow him, and say, that ' Master Bysshe 
 only took a walk, and came back again '. He was full of 
 cheerful fun, and had all the comic vein so agreeable in a 
 household : details of this kind would be trifling in many 
 instances : but, as a child at school, I remember some verses, 
 that were sent by him to one of my elder sisters, illustrating 
 something unfavourable to a French teacher, who was accused 
 of being fond of those pupils, who could supply her with fruit 
 and cakes. I believe it was clever, for the sisters were 
 proud enough of it to be imprudent, and by some means it 
 became known to Madame, and I can just remember the com- 
 motion it made and the * very bold boy our broder must be '. 
 I have somewhere in my possession a very early effusion of 
 Bysshe's, with a cat painted on the top of the sheet, I will 
 try and find it ; but there is no promise of future excellence in 
 the lines, the versification is defective. At one time, he, with 
 my eldest sister, wrote a play secretly, and sent it to Matthews, 
 the comedian ; who, after a time, returned it, with the opinion, 
 that it would not do for acting. I wonder, whether Matthews 
 knew the age of the boy and girl, who ventured upon writing a 
 play. The subject was never known to me ; and most likely 
 the youthful authors made a good blaze with the MS. 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 Every one has heard of Mrs. Hemans, if they have not 
 read her poetry. She published a large volume, when quite a 
 girl and Miss Browne. Early talent attracted Bysshe's admira- 
 tion and sympathy : he wrote to Miss Felicia Dorothea 
 Browne, and he received an answer, but it was to an effect 
 which gave no encouragement to farther correspondence : 
 and he was probably disappointed, as all young, ardent, and 
 
Life of Shelley 25 
 
 admiring spirits would be in such a case. He fancied that I 
 might, with encouragement, write verses, and his first lesson 
 to me, I perfectly remember. Monk Lewis's Poems had a great 
 attraction for him, and any tale of spirits, fiends, etc., seemed 
 congenial to his taste at an early age. I was so young, that I 
 really can remember nothing of the verses I made, farther than 
 to give you as a sample of them : 
 
 There was an old woman, as I have heard say, 
 Who worked metamorphoses every day. 
 
 — and these two lines are probably left in my memory, because 
 Bysshe expressed so much astonishment at my knowledge of 
 the word metamorphoses. There were several short poems, I 
 think, of which he gave me the subject ; and one Une about 
 * an old woman in her bony gown ', (even the rhyme to which 
 line I forget), elicited the praise for which I wrote. Sub- 
 sequently he had them printed, and a mistake I made about 
 sending one of my heroes, or heroines, out by night and day in 
 the same stanza, he would not alter, but excused it by quoting 
 something from Shakespeare. When I saw my name in the 
 title-page * H — 11 — n Sh — 11 — y ', I felt much more frightened 
 than pleased, and as soon as the publication was seen by my 
 superiors, it was bought up and destroyed. I should not think 
 there could have been anything in it worth either keeping, or 
 destroying, but it will tend to show, that my brother was full 
 of pleasant attention to children, though his mind was so far 
 above theirs. He had a wish to educate some child, and often 
 talked seriously of purchasing a little girl for that purpose : a 
 tumbler, who came to the back door to display her wonderful 
 feats, attracted him, and he thought she would be a good sub- 
 ject for the purpose, but all these wild fancies came to nought. 
 He would take his pony and ride about the beautiful lanes and 
 fields surrounding the house, and would talk of his intention, 
 but he did not consider that board and lodging would be 
 indispensable, and this difficulty, probably, was quite sufficient 
 to prevent the talk from becoming reahty. 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I think you have heard me mention a few tilings con- 
 cerning Bysshe, which may only be interesting to you, and me, 
 and two or three others ; for when I write about him, whose 
 poems and writings, and attainments, which were never known 
 to the world in all their wonderful profusion, I feel that my 
 
26 Life of Shelley 
 
 anecdotes are scarcely indicative of his character ; but you 
 remember that my knowledge of Bysshe ended at ten years of 
 age, and probably the last time I saw him was at Clapham, 
 where we were at school, and he came occasionally to see us, 
 and ask questions about our comfort. One day his ire was 
 greatly excited at a black mark hung round one of our throats, 
 as a penalty for some small misdemeanour. He expressed 
 great disapprobation, more of the system than that one of his 
 sisters should be so punished. Another time he found me, I 
 think, in an iron collar, which certainly was a dreadful instru- 
 ment of torture in my opinion. It was not worn as a punish- 
 ment, but because I poked ; but Bysshe declared it would 
 make me grow crooked, and ought to be discontinued im- 
 mediately. The old lady who kept the school, would not, I 
 believcy have hurt one of her pupils for any amount of approba- 
 tion, so that she was not likely to continue an objectionable 
 practice, if boldly disapproved of,and I was released forthwith. 
 He came once with the elders of the family, and Harriet Grove, 
 his early love, was of the party ; how fresh and pretty she 
 was ! Her assistance was invoked to keep the wild boy quiet, 
 for he was full of pranks, and upset the port wine on the tray 
 cloth, for our school mistress was hospitable, and had offered 
 refreshments ; then we all walked in the garden, and there was 
 much ado to calm the spirits of the wild boy. His disap- 
 pointment a few years afterwards, in losing the lady of his love, 
 had a great effect upon him ; and my eldest sister has fre- 
 quently told me how narrowly she used to watch him and 
 accompany him in his walks with his dog and gun. I believe 
 this matter has been discussed amongst others, probably with 
 little knowledge of the truth. It was not put an end to by 
 mutual consent ; but both parties were very young, and her 
 father did not think the marriage would be for his daughter's 
 happiness. He, however, with truly honourable feeling, 
 would not have persisted in his objection, if his daughter had 
 considered herself bound by a promise to my brother, but this 
 was not the case, and time healed the wound, by means of 
 another Harriet, whose name and similar complexion, perhaps, 
 attracted the attention of my brother. I do not consider any 
 details of a later date would be in my province, for I only know 
 his history as I have been told it. 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I began my last letter intending to tell you of a morn- 
 
Life of Shelley 27 
 
 ing's event. As we were sitting in the little breakfast-room 
 our eyes were attracted by a country-man passing the window 
 with a truss of hay on a prong over his shoulders ; the intruder 
 was wondered at and called after, when it was discovered that 
 Bysshe had put himself in costume to take some hay to a 
 young lady at Horsham, who was advised to use hay-tea for 
 chilblains. When visitors were announced during his visit to 
 the vicar's daughter, he concealed himself under the table, but 
 the concealment did not probably last long. We have lately 
 been on a visit to Cuckfield Park, and it was singular enough 
 that our host, without having heard this story, mentioned his 
 single recollection of having once, when quite a Httle boy, seen 
 Bysshe, who came to his uncle. Colonel Sergison, whilst on a 
 visit to his lawyer in Horsham, and asked, in Sussex language, 
 to be hired as gamekeeper's boy. My informant thought his 
 suit was successful, and then, of course, there was an explosion 
 of laughter. I remember incidents, but nothing that either 
 preceded or followed them, connectedly. My reminiscences 
 must necessarily be limited to a few early years, for the tales of 
 others, with regard to my brother, do not appear to me truth- 
 ful. I read of his discordant voice and stooping figure, and I 
 think excitement, in one case, and deep thinking in another, 
 might have made this true in a measure ; but, as I remember 
 Bysshe, his figure was slight and beautiful, — his hands were 
 models, and his feet are treading the earth again in one of his 
 race ; his eyes, too, have descended in their wild, fixed beauty 
 to the same person. As a child, I have heard that his skin was 
 like snow, and bright ringlets covered his head. He was, I 
 have heard, a beautiful boy. His old nurse lived, within the 
 last two or three years, at Horsham. One of the curates there 
 — a Mr. Du Barry — was a great admirer of my brother's poetry, 
 and we were able, through him, to remind her of those years, 
 when she used to come regularly every Christmas to Field 
 Place, to receive a substantial proof that she was not to be 
 forgotten, though her nurse-child was gone from earth, for 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I have just found the lines which I mentioned ; a 
 child's effusion about some cat, which evidently had a story, 
 but it must have been before I can remember. It is in Eliza- 
 beth's hand-writing, copied probably later than the com- 
 position of the lines, though the hand-writing is unformed. 
 
28 Life of Shelley 
 
 It seems to be a tabby cat, for it has an indistinct, brownish- 
 grey coat. 
 
 I have not painted it for you : 
 
 A cat in distress, 
 
 Nothing more, nor less ; 
 Good folks, I must faithfully tell ye. 
 
 As I am a sinner. 
 
 It waits for some dinner 
 To stuff out its own little belly. 
 
 You would not easily guess 
 
 All the modes of distress 
 Which torture the tenants of earth ; 
 
 And the various evils. 
 
 Which like so many devils, 
 Attend the poor souls from their birth. 
 
 Some a living require, 
 
 And others desire 
 An old fellow out of the way ; 
 
 And which is the best 
 
 I leave to be guessed. 
 For I cannot pretend to say. 
 
 One wants society, 
 
 Another variety. 
 Others a tranquil life ; 
 
 Some want food. 
 
 Others, as good. 
 Only want a wife. 
 
 But this poor little cat 
 
 Only wanted a rat. 
 To stuff out its own little maw ; 
 
 And it were as good 
 
 Some people had such food. 
 To make them hold their jaw ! 
 
 That last expression is, I imagine, still classical at boys* 
 schools, and it was a favourite one of Bysshe's, which I re- 
 member from a painful fact, that one of my sisters ventured to 
 make use of it, and was punished in some old-fashioned way, 
 which impressed the sentence on my memory. 
 
 Hellen. 
 
 At ten years of age Shelley was sent to Sion House, Brent- 
 ford. In walking with him to Bishopsgate from London, he 
 pointed out to me, more than once, a gloomy brick-house, as 
 being this school. He spoke of the master. Dr. Greenlaw, not 
 without respect, saying, ' he was a hard-headed Scotchman, 
 
Life of Shelley 29 
 
 and a man of rather liberal opinions *. Of this period of his 
 life he never gave me an account ; nor have I heard or read 
 any details, which appeared to bear the impress of truth. 
 How long he remained at Sion House I know not ; nor at what 
 age he was removed to Eton. Among his papers is the com- 
 mencement of an essay on Friendship, written not long before 
 his death ; in it he has thus commemorated a youthful attach- 
 ment. Whether the school was Sion House, or Eton, does not 
 appear. His age of eleven or twelve years agrees better with 
 the former. 
 
 FRIENDSHIP 
 
 I once had a friend, whom an inextricable multitude of 
 circumstances has forced me to treat with apparent neglect. 
 To him I dedicate this essay. If he finds my own words 
 condemn me, will he not forgive ? 
 
 (Yes, he has forgiven you ! I saw this fragment, for the first 
 time, a few months ago ; I listened to the question, as to a 
 voice from another world, heard once more after a silence of 
 thirty-five long years ; and I immediately answered it. I 
 thankfully accept the dedication, and I lament that it is only 
 of the following brief fragment :) 
 
 AN ESSAY ON FRIENDSHIP 
 
 The nature of love and friendship is very little understood, 
 and the distinctions between them ill-established. This latter 
 feeling — at least, a profound and sentimental attachment to 
 one of the same sex, often precedes the former. It is not right 
 to say, merely, that friendship is exempt from the smallest 
 alloy of sensuality. It rejects, with disdain, all thoughts but 
 those of an elevated and imaginative character. I remember 
 forming an attachment of this kind at school. I cannot recall 
 to my memory the precise epoch at which this took place ; but 
 I imagine it must have been at the age of eleven or twelve. 
 
 The object of these sentiments was a boy about my own 
 age, of a character eminently generous, brave and gentle ; and 
 the elements of human feeling seemed to have been, from his 
 birth, genially compounded within him. There was a delicacy 
 and a simplicity in his manners, inexpressibly attractive. It 
 has never been my fortune to meet with him since my school- 
 boy-days ; but either I confound my present recollections with 
 the delusions of past feelings, or he is now a source of honour 
 and utility to every one around him. The tones of his voice 
 
30 Life' of Shelley 
 
 were so soft and winning, that every word pierced into my 
 heart ; and their pathos was so deep, that in Ustening to him 
 the tears have involuntarily gushed from my eyes. Such was 
 the being for whom I first experienced the sacred sentiments of 
 friendship. I remember in my simplicity writing to my 
 mother a long account of his admirable qualities and my own 
 devoted attachment. I suppose she thought me out of my 
 wits, for she returned no answer to my letter. I remember we 
 used to walk the whole play-hours up and down by some moss- 
 covered palings, pouring out our hearts in youthful talk. We 
 used to speak of the ladies, with whom we were in love, and I 
 remember that our usual practice was to confirm each other in 
 the everlasting fidelity, in which we had bound ourselves to- 
 wards them, and towards each other. I recollect thinking my 
 friend exquisitely beautiful. Every night, when we parted to 
 go to bed, we kissed each other like children, as we still were ! 
 
 CHAPTER II • 
 
 My dearest Jane, 
 
 I had no conception that Bysshe's marriage with 
 Harriet Westbrook would have elicited the quotation in 
 
 Charles G 's letter, which proves he was sacrificing himself 
 
 to a point of honour. You will perceive that C. G. had no 
 unpleasant recollections of harsh voice, etc., which I cannot 
 help thinking must have been noticeable only when the boy 
 was entering manhood. 
 
 I remember well how he used to sing to us ; he could not 
 bear any turns or twists in music, but liked a tune played quite 
 simply. 
 
 About Miss Westbrook ; I recollect hearing Bysshe married 
 her, because her name was Harriet. She was not a person 
 likely to attach him permanently ; I remember her well ; a 
 very handsome girl, with a complexion quite unknown in these 
 days — brilliant in pink and white — with hair quite like a poet's 
 dream, and Bysshe's peculiar admiration. 
 
 I should not remember many of her contemporaries, but 
 the governess and teachers used to remark upon her beauty ; 
 and once I heard them talking together of a possible F6te 
 Champetre, and Harriet Westbrook might enact Venus. 
 
 The engraved portraits of Bysshe, which have hitherto been 
 published, are frightful pictures for a spiritual-looking being, 
 
Life of Shelley 31 
 
 like the poet. Yet I do not expect that my ideal will ever be 
 created, because he must have altered from boy to man. His 
 forehead was white, the eyes deep blue, — darker than John's. 
 He had an eccentric quantity of hair, in those days, when he 
 came by stealth to Field Place ; and EUzabeth, on one occa- 
 sion, made him sit down to have it cut, and be made to look 
 like a Christian. His good temper was a pleasant memory 
 always, and I do not recollect an instance of the reverse to- 
 wards any of us. I tell you little things as they pass in my 
 mind, and you had better tear them off and paste them in the 
 book, for I find a difficulty in recalling far-off memories, when 
 I set about it as a task, however palatable the task may be. 
 There is no life which could bear the test of a detective, and 
 Bysshe's faults and feelings were all laid bare by a too great 
 moral courage, which made him witness against himself, when 
 the rest of his fellow-men conceal their failings, and set their 
 virtues only upon high ; for we are all erring mortals. 
 
 Hellen. 
 
 Let us next write of the immortal dead, whilst he was at 
 Eton. And — oh ! let us write of him with a tender sadness, as 
 a dove would write about his lost mate ; and why may not a 
 dove write with a pen drawn painfully from his own wing ? 
 Of the testimonies relating to this period of his life, the first 
 place is, for many reasons, due to that of Mrs. Shelley. Mary 
 tells us that : 
 
 **On being placed at Eton, Shelley had to undergo aggravated 
 miseries from his systematic and determined resistance to that 
 law of a public school, denominated fagging. It were long to 
 discuss the merits of the question now. To show how the most 
 obedient fags become the worst tyrants ; or how it is detri- 
 mental to the disposition, both of the elder and the younger 
 boys : of the one, that they should capriciously command ; of 
 the other, that they should slavishly and fearfully obey. 
 Shelley would never obey. And this incapacity on his part was 
 the cause of whatever persecutions might attend him, both at 
 school and in his future life. This disposition, which is made 
 only more impregnable the greater the force that is employed 
 against it, is much feared and disliked among men ; and it is 
 agreed, that such has been the characteristic of the most 
 vicious among our species. But there is this striking distinc- 
 tion between the worst and the best, when they are actuated 
 by this impulse. The bad man follows his own will, governed 
 
32 Life of Shelley 
 
 by none ; the good person, whose mind is yet deeply imbued 
 by independence, is to be led — even ag an infant to the mother's 
 breast — by affection and reason. And Shelley, from the sensi- 
 bility of his nature, and the forwardness of his understanding, 
 was peculiarly susceptible of both these modes of government. 
 There is also another line to be drawn between the vicious and 
 the good in these circumstances, which is, the mode in which 
 they employ their liberty. The most rigid censor could hardly 
 have found fault with Shelley's. His heart was set on the 
 acquirement of knowledge, and his time was spent in that 
 exercise. At the very time that he neglected the rules of 
 school-attendance, he translated half of Pliny's Natural 
 History into English. His money was employed, either in 
 purposes of benevolence, or in the purchase of books, or in- 
 struments. " 
 
 ^^ I do not give him as an example for children to follow. 
 Away with this cant of schoolboy reproving. I describe, and 
 as far as in me lies unfold the secrets of a human heart ; and, 
 if I be true to'nature, I depict an uprightness of purpose, a 
 generosity of sentiment, and a sweetness of disposition, that 
 yielded not to the devil of hate, but to the god of love, un- 
 equalled by any human being that ever existed. Tamed by 
 affection, but unconquered by blows, what chance was there 
 that Shelley should be happy at a public school ? " 
 
 *' Affection does not enter in the head-master's code of laws ; 
 kindness is too troublesome a mode of discipline, and fear is a 
 short way of enchaining a multitude. ''' 
 
 " One is glad when we can bring our pretended moralists to a 
 forced acquiescence. What is it that in spite of all his worth, 
 still always gives an air of the ridiculous to the character of a 
 schoolmaster ? Think you that it would be so, if his heart 
 and soul were engaged in forming perfect human beings from 
 the little embryos placed under his care ; or, if beloved by his 
 pupils, studying their dispositions, imbuing them with virtue 
 by the force of reason only ; winding them to his purpose 
 by the resistless power of superior wisdom ? Oh, no ! look at 
 the picture of the schoolmaster. Is it the paternal care that 
 his countenance expresses ? the thoughtful, yet deep-felt, 
 affection that causes his eyes to beam ? the lessons of virtue, 
 dropping, like honey, from his tongue ? the gentle remon- 
 strance ? the firm yet angerless resistance to the freaks of his 
 little flock ? Are these what cause a smile of contempt ? No. 
 Look at him. His frowning brow ; the rod uplifted in one 
 
Life of Shelley 33 
 
 hand ; the book, the fatal, incomprehensible book, in the 
 other ; the slave, that cowed, fearful, and stammering, stands 
 before him — his cheek already tingling with the expected 
 blow ! This is no caricature of a schoolmaster ; such is the 
 picture universally acknowledged as his prototype, and you 
 dare to inculpate the angelic nature of Shelley, because he 
 bent not his back to this autocrat ! ^■ 
 
 Inasmuch as a lady, however clever and well-informed, can- 
 not attain to an accurate comprehension of the manners and 
 morals of a public school, exaggeration and inaccuracy may be 
 pardoned. I will not pretend to decide the great question, as 
 to the expediency of a well-regulated system of fagging ; I 
 have sometimes ventured to discuss it with my animated and 
 eloquent friend ; and I must confess, that I still think that 
 something may be said in favour of the old practice. For 
 my own part, I learned as a fag, how to do many very useful 
 things. To make a bed, to brush a hat and clothes ; to clean 
 knives and forks, and plates, and shoes and boots, in particu- 
 lar ; to set a good polish on the last with a moderate consump- 
 tion of blacking. To roast potatoes, chestnuts, and the like ; 
 to boil an egg ; to make coffee, toast, and other good things ; 
 to put on buttons, sew up a seam, and in one word, to make 
 myself generally useful. This salutary exercise of humble 
 faculties did me no sort of harm ; on the contrary, it was 
 eminently serviceable in after-life. ' I was a dutiful fag, but I 
 am no more a slave, Shelley, than yourself ; and from my 
 servile submission to this so-called tyranny, it is quite certain 
 that my aristocratical feelings took no detriment. Whilst I 
 was still a fag, a boy at school, whom I had offended, said to me 
 one day : " People say, as proud as Lucifer ; but I say, if 
 Lucifer were only half as proud as you are, he would have 
 something to be proud of ! " ' Shelley sometimes reminded 
 me of the boy's sally, and he would add : ' How I wish I could 
 be fastidious and exclusive as you are ; but I cannot. I fear 
 it is not in my nature to be so ! ' But to return to Mrs. Shelley's 
 testimonies. 
 
 '* While at Eton he formed several sincere friendships ; 
 although disliked by the masters, and hated by his superiors 
 in age, he was adored by his equals. He was all passion, — 
 passionate in his resistance to injury, passionate in his 
 love. Kindness could win his whole soul, and the idea of self 
 never for a moment tarnished the purity of his sentiments. 
 
 He became intimate, also, at Eton, with a man whom he 
 
 D 
 
34 Life of Shelley 
 
 never mentioned, except in terms of the tenderest respect. 
 This was Dr. Lind, a name well known among the professors of 
 medical science. ' This man *, he has often said, * is exactly 
 what an old man ought to be. Free, calm-spirited, full of 
 benevolence, and even of youthful ardour ; his eye seemed to 
 burn with supernatural spirit beneath his brow, shaded by his 
 venerable white locks ; he was tall, vigorous, and healthy in 
 his body ; tempered, as it had ever been, by his amiable mind. 
 I owe to that man far, ah ! far more than I owe to my father ; 
 he loved me, and I shall never forget our long talks, where he 
 breathed the spirit of the kindest tolerance and the purest 
 wisdom. Once, when I was very ill during the holidays, as I 
 was recovering from a fever which had attacked my brain, a 
 servant overheard my father consult about sending me to a 
 private madhouse. I was a favourite among all our servants, 
 so this fellow came and told me as I lay sick in bed. My 
 horror was beyond words, and I might soon have been mad 
 indeed, if they had proceeded in their iniquitous plan. I had 
 one hope. I was master of three pounds in money, and, with 
 the servant's help, I contrived to send an express to Dr. Lind. 
 He came, and I shall never forget his manner on that occasion. 
 His profession gave him authority ; his love for me ardour. 
 He dared my father to execute his purpose, and his menaces 
 had the desired effect.*^ 
 
 I relate this in my Shelley's words, for I well remember them. 
 I well remember where they were spoken ; it was that night 
 that decided my destiny ; when he opened at first with the 
 confidence of friendship, and then with the ardour of love, his 
 whole heart to me.'' 
 
 Of Dr. Lind more will be told hereafter. I have heard 
 Shelley speak of his fever and this scene at Field Place more 
 than once, in nearly the same terms as Mrs. Shelley adopts. 
 It appeared to myself, and to others also, that his recollections 
 were those of a person not quite recovered from a fever, which 
 had attacked his brain, and still disturbed by the horrors of 
 the disease. Truth and justice demand that no event of his 
 life should be kept back, but that all the materials for the 
 formation of a correct judgment should be freely given. 
 
 Amongst his other self-sought studies, he was passionately 
 attached to the study of what used to be called the occult 
 sciences, conjointly with that of the new wonders, which 
 chemistry and natural philosophy have displayed to us. His 
 pocket-money was spent in the purchase of books relative to 
 
Life of Shelley 35 
 
 these darling pursuits — of chemical apparatus and materials. 
 The books consisted of treatises on magic and witchcraft, as 
 well as those more modern ones detailing the miracles of 
 electricity and galvanism. Sometimes he watched the live- 
 long nights for ghosts. At his father's house, where his 
 influence was, of course, great among the dependants, he even 
 planned how he might get admission to the vault, or charnel- 
 house, at Warnham Church, and might sit there all night, har- 
 rowed by fear, yet trembling with expectation, to see one of 
 the spiritualized owners of the bones piled around him. He 
 consulted his books, how to raise a ghost ; and once, at mid- 
 night — he was then at Eton — he stole from his Dame's house, 
 and quitting the town, crossed the fields towards a running 
 stream. As he walked along the pathway amidst the long 
 grass, he heard it rustle behind him ; he dared not look back ; 
 he felt convinced that the devil followed him ; he walked fast, 
 and held tight the skull, the prescribed assistant of his incan- 
 tations. 
 
 When he had crossed the field he felt less fearful, for the 
 grass no longer rustled, so the devil no longer followed him. 
 He came to some of the many beautiful clear streams near 
 Eton, and sought for one which he could bestride Colossus- 
 like 1 ; then, standing thus, he repeated his charm, and drank 
 thrice from the skull. No ghost appeared, but for the credit 
 of glamour-books, he did not doubt that the incantation failed 
 from some mistake of his own. It was useless to repeat it that 
 night. Very probably the human skull was wanting, a tum- 
 bler, or mug supplying its place, but inadequately, and there- 
 fore the youthful enchanter was baflled. 
 
 It is sometimes in my power to illustrate the life of Shelley 
 by parallel passages drawn from my own. I passed three or 
 four years at a preparatory school in Yorkshire, near Ferry- 
 bridge, where boys remained until they were eleven or twelve 
 •years old. I have a lively recollection of several remarkable 
 events that occurred whilst I was there. Among others, of 
 the Peace of Amiens. The treaty was signed on the 27th 
 of March, 1802, and soon afterwards the joyful intelligence 
 reached us. It was one Sunday morning, and, in token of 
 rejoicing, plum-puddings were forthwith ordered for our din- 
 ner. When these were placed upon the table at one o'clock 
 
 1 No devil, ghost, or spirit, can cross running water (this superstition may have some 
 reference to the rite of baptism) ; it is prudent, therefore, in all dealings with demons, to 
 have a running stream at hand. 
 
36 Life of Shelley 
 
 — for, according to the old fashion, we used to begin the 
 meal with pudding — our master looked upon them compla- 
 cently, and, standing up, delivered a special grace, which I 
 never heard before or since : ' Peace be within her walls, and 
 plenteousness within her palaces ! ' After dinner we went 
 to church a second time, as usual ; and, as usual, we heard a 
 second very long sermon, but on this occasion our master dis- 
 coursed at length of the great and manifold blessings of peace. 
 
 My next recollection has more relation to the sorceries at 
 Eton and Warnham. In the same village was another and a 
 larger school, containing bigger boys. We had a common 
 playground, to which we repaired on half-holidays ; at other 
 times we must be content with the run of several large gardens. 
 This school was only what is called a commercial academy ; 
 ours was a classical school. We were accounted young gen- 
 tlemen, and were so styled, being intended for the learned 
 professions, or being the heirs to landed estates. Our superior 
 station compensated for the more advanced age of the boys, 
 as they were called, of the larger school, and therefore we were 
 perfectly equal, and always agreed very well, being the best 
 friends in the world. The common play-ground was a pleasant 
 grass field of eight or ten acres, watered by several pure streams. 
 One half-holiday, in the summer, I started off for the play- 
 ground the moment dinner was over ; I took the shortest way 
 to it, as I was wont, across a garden. The garden was separ- 
 ated from the field by a sunk fence ; there was a low wall, and 
 a stream of very clear water flowed along the sunk fence at the 
 foot of the wall. A boy, standing in the field, stopped me, as 
 I was about to take my accustomed leap over the sunk fence. 
 
 ' Stay where you are, stay where you are ; you must not 
 come into the play-ground ! ' 
 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 ' Because they are going to raise the devil ; and he cannot 
 hurt you so long as there is a stream of running water between 
 you and him.' 
 
 ' But he will get you when he comes.' 
 
 ' No he will not ; for the moment they have fairly raised 
 him, I shall clamber over to you, and then I shall be safe too.* 
 
 He explained how this feat of incantation was to be effected ; 
 and I saw several of the bigger boys standing together. They 
 were within a magic circle, into which the devil, it was said, 
 could not enter ; and a circle was marked out on the ground. 
 The chief magician was a boy twenty years of age — a full- 
 
Life of Shelley 57 
 
 grown man, indeed. He was a negro, or so nearly one, that I 
 could not have distinguished him from a real negro ; and, as 
 such, he was believed to understand perfectly Oby, Fetiches, 
 Taboo, in a word, the whole of the Black Art. A black hat 
 was placed on the ground a short distance without the circle ; 
 the Lord's Prayer was to be read thrice backwards, and the 
 black necromancer was to perform other rites, which I do not 
 remember. When these had been duly completed, the devil 
 was to appear under the hat ; first, as a crooked black pin. 
 When the hat was lifted up, the pin would turn into a black 
 cat. This, after a while, would become a shaggy black dog ; 
 the dog would frisk about a long time, running round and 
 round, and trying often, but in vain, to get within the magic 
 circle. The black dog would slowly grow into a huge black 
 bull, exceedingly fierce, terrible, and dangerous, and with eyes 
 of fire ; and finally, the devil would assume his own shape, 
 whatever this may be. The operations of the African magi- 
 cian seemed to advance but slowly — not at all, indeed. The 
 boys within the circle kept on consulting together. I could 
 not hear their consultations, but they lasted a very long time ; 
 and, as far as I could perceive, nothing more was done. At 
 last the negro pulled out his watch — a large silver hunting- 
 watch — and looking at it, said aloud : ' In a few minutes we 
 shall have to go in to tea ' , — ' drinkings ' , this meal is called 
 in that part of the county of York — ' it will be of no use, lads, 
 raising him to-night ! ' The rest assented, and here the cere- 
 monies ended. 
 
 The boy who stood on the other side of the sunk fence, talk- 
 ing to me all this tedious time, appeared to be alarmed and 
 uneasy : he belonged to the commercial academy. 
 
 ' It is a great shame raising him ! What can they want 
 with him ? What is the use of it ? What good is he to do ? 
 How will they get him laid again ? I have a great mind to go 
 and tell our master, that he may come and prevent it.' 
 
 ' Will it not be time enough to go and tell, when they have 
 raised him ? ' 
 
 ' No ; it Avill be too late then. I do not suppose the master 
 can do more then, than anybody else. I rather fancy the 
 devil will not mind him a bit.' 
 
 For my part, I was rather surprised than frightened. I 
 stood still on the wall, because I had been given to understand, 
 that I should certainly be licked, if I entered the play-ground, 
 it being evidently a measure of precaution to keep us out of 
 
38 Life of Shelley 
 
 it ; for if the devil, after he was raised, should carry off one of 
 the young gentlemen, the commercial boys would get into 
 great trouble. I had read Paradise Lost at that time, not 
 regularly through, but yet almost the whole of it. Jacob 
 Tonson's edition of Milton's poems used always to lie on the 
 table at home, with Boswell's Life of Johnson, Tristram Shandy, 
 and some other standard works, in a room where I often sat, 
 Tonson's Milton was a nice book for a boy, for it had plates, in 
 which the devils were represented with handsome long tails. 
 These sporting figures tempted me to read the book, a bit here 
 and a bit there. I understood little of what I read, but I was 
 fully convinced, that I understood enough of the nature of 
 devils to feel quite confident, that such grand, pompous, con- 
 sequential fellows as they plainly were, would never leave 
 Pandemonium and come up in our common play-ground, 
 merely to gratify the grinning negro and his commercial com- 
 panions. I often overheard them afterwards consulting about 
 raising the devil ; but the consultation invariably terminated 
 by a reference to the large silver hunting-watch, and a farther 
 adjournment. If, then, the blackamoor ever actually raised 
 the devil, it must have been on some occasion when I was not 
 present. 
 
 This was the whole of my experience in the Art Magic, and 
 it is not much ; but when I told the tale, such as it is, to 
 Shelley, he listened to it with earnest and eager delight. ' Yes, 
 the blacks really understand magic, and often practise it with 
 success. Africa is a most wonderful country ! I will see it 
 some day — I will visit it some day — that is certain ! * He 
 seemed greatly to desire to know our negro, esteeming him, 
 doubtless, as a most valuable acquaintance, and wishing, pro- 
 bably, to write to him and to make him his friend. 
 ^< The Quarterly Reviewer, telling a story, partly true and 
 partly false, of his destroying some old trees at Eton with a 
 burning-glass, remarks, that you might foresee the future 
 opponent of superstition and tyranny in the author of this 
 exploit. There is great truth in this observation ; and to 
 those acquainted with the early circumstances of Shelley's 
 life, the remark bears still greater force. From his earliest 
 years, all his amusements and occupations were of a daring, 
 and, in one sense of the term, lawless nature. He delighted 
 to exert his powers, not as a boy, but as a man ; and so, with 
 manly powers and childish wit, he dared and achieved attempts 
 that none of his comrades could even have conceived. His 
 
Life of Shelley 39 
 
 understanding and the early development of imagination never 
 permitted him to mingle in childish plays ; and his natural 
 aversion from tyranny prevented him from paying due atten- 
 tion to his school duties. But he was always actively 
 employed ; and although his endeavours were prosecuted 
 with puerile precipitancy, yet his aim and thoughts were con- 
 stantly directed to those great objects, which have employed 
 the thoughts of the greatest among men ; and though his 
 studies were not followed up according to school discipline, 
 they were not the less diligently applied to. 
 
 Enjoying more liberty at Field Place than he possibly could 
 at Eton, that was the chief scene of his experiments. He 
 there possessed an electrical machine, he contrived a galvanic 
 battery, and amused himself by experiments, which might 
 well excite delight and wonder in so ardent a mind. ^* 
 
 Here, I regret to say, the brief fragments of biography 
 written by Mrs. Shelley terminate. 
 
 To set a large tree on fire by means of an ordinary burning 
 glass seems to be impossible ; and the distance at which this 
 achievement was reported to have been performed made the 
 tale altogether incredible. For some time, therefore, I con- 
 sidered it as fabulous. I have since been informed by Eton 
 men, that an old tree was actually set on fire, but that the fire 
 was caused by gunpowder, and that the gunpowder was 
 ignited by a lens. If a small quantity of gunpowder were 
 placed in the hollow of an old tree, when it exploded it would 
 doubtless set the dry rotten wood alight ; a train might easily 
 be laid from the mine to a distant point, where, with a com- 
 mon burning-glass, the train might be kindled and the mine 
 sprung. This piece of boyish mischief Shelley, they assured 
 me, really executed. It was a very trifling affair, but the fire 
 and explosion were of sufficient magnitude greatly to terrify 
 the timid old gentlewoman, who then presided over the school, 
 and against whose nerves the flaming attack was aimed. 
 
 Had the Reviewer, being present on the spot, exclaimed, 
 at the moment the boy's squib burst, ' Here is the future 
 opponent of superstition and tyranny ; we plainly see him 
 in the author of this exploit, and by the fight of his own 
 powder ! ' he would have gained much credit for his acumen : 
 and had the ingenious critic added : ' These are no common 
 crackers, surely ; they are the crackers of a divine poet ! ' it 
 is evident that he would seem to have attained to something 
 
40 Life of Shelley 
 
 of prophetic vein, and might well have passed, not only in 
 Albemarle Street, but wherever the Quarterly Review cir- 
 culates, for a wise man — a soothsayer. 
 
 Shelley had several attached friends at Eton ; I will insert 
 the kind testimonial of one of them, because it is equally 
 creditable to both the friends : 
 
 Glenthorne, February 2/th, 1857. 
 My dear Madam, 
 
 Your letter has taken me back to the sunny time of 
 boyhood^ ' when thought is speech, and speech is truth ' ; 
 when I was the friend and companion of Shelley at Eton. 
 What brought us together in that small world was, I suppose, 
 kindred feelings, and the predominance of fancy and imag- 
 ination. Many a long and happy walk have I had with him 
 in the beautiful neighbourhood of dear old Eton. We used to 
 wander for hours about Clewer, Frogmore, the Park at Windsor, 
 the Terrace ; and I was a delighted and willing listener to his 
 marvellous stories of fairy-land, and apparitions, and spirits, 
 and haunted ground ; and his speculations were then (for his 
 mind was far more developed than mine) of the world beyond 
 the grave. Another of his favourite rambles was Stoke Park, 
 and the picturesque churchyard where Gray is said to have 
 written his Elegy, of which he was very fond. I was myself 
 far too young to form any estimate of character, but I loved 
 Shelley for his kindliness and affectionate ways : he was not 
 made to endure the rough and boisterous pastime at Eton, and 
 his shy and gentle nature was glad to escape far away to muse 
 over strange fancies, for his mind was reflective and teeming 
 with deep thought. His lessons were child's play to him, 
 and his power of Latin versification marvellous. I think I 
 remember some long work he had even then commenced, but 
 I never saw it. His love of nature was intense, and the 
 sparkling poetry of his mind shone out of his speaking 
 eye, when he was dwelling on anything good or great. 
 He certainly was not happy at Eton, for his was a disposition 
 that needed especial personal superintendence, to watch, and 
 cherish, and direct all his noble aspirations, and the remark- 
 able tenderness of his heart. He had great moral courage, 
 and feared nothing, but what was base, and false, and low. 
 He never joined in the usual sports of the boys, and, what is 
 remarkable, never went out in a boat on the river. What I 
 have here set down will be of Uttle use to you, but will please 
 
Life of Shelley 41 
 
 you as a sincere, and truthful, and humble tribute to one whose 
 good name was sadly whispered away. Shelley said to me, 
 when leaving Oxford under a cloud : ' Halliday, I am come 
 to say good-bye to you, if you are not afraid to be seen with 
 me ! ' I. saw him once again in the autumn of 1 8 14, in London, 
 when he was glad to introduce me to his wife. I think he 
 said, he was just come from Ireland. You have done quite 
 right in applying to me direct, and I am only sorry that I have 
 no anecdotes, or letters, of that period to furnish. 
 
 I am yours truly, 
 
 Walter S. Halliday. 
 
 Dr. Keate, the head-master of Eton school, was a short, 
 short-necked, short-legged man ; thick-set, powerful, and very 
 active. His countenance resembled that of a bull-dog ; the 
 expression was not less sweet and bewitching ; his eyes, his 
 nose, and especially his mouth were exactly like that comely 
 and engaging animal ; and so were his short, crooked legs. 
 It was said in the school, that old Keate could pin and hold 
 a bull with his teeth. His iron sway was the more unpleasant 
 and shocking, after the long, mild, Saturnian reign of Dr. 
 Goodall, whose temper, character, and conduct corresponded 
 precisely with his name, and under whom Keate had been 
 master of the lower school. Discipline, wholesome and neces- 
 sary in moderation, was carried by him to an excess ; it is 
 reported, that on one morning he flogged eighty boys. Although 
 he was rigid, coarse, and despotical, some affirm that, on the 
 whole, he was not unjust, nor altogether devoid of kindness. 
 His behaviour was accounted vulgar and ungentle manlike, 
 and therefore he was peculiarly odious to the gentlemen of 
 the school, especially to the refined and aristocratical Shelley. 
 Being universally unpopular, to torment him was excusable, 
 legitimate, and even commendable. In school, the head- 
 master sate enthroned in a spacious elevated desk, enclosed 
 on all sides, like a pew, with two doors, one on each side. 
 These the boys one morning screwed fast. The Doctor entered 
 the school at eleven o'clock, advanced to his desk, tried to 
 open one door, and found it was fastened. He went round, 
 grinning, growling, and snarling, to the other side ; the door 
 there had been secured also. Then turning furiously to the 
 boys, he said : 
 
 ' You think to keep me out, eh ! You think I cannot get 
 in here, eh ! But I will soon show you the difference, eh ! ' 
 
42 Life of Shelley 
 
 The desk was as high as the breast of an ordinary man, and 
 as high as the httle Doctor's head, but laying his hand on it, he 
 hghtly vaulted in. The season was summer ; in school old 
 Keate wore a long gown and cassock, and in warm weather, 
 it seemed, nothing under them ; for, in his leap, the learned 
 and reverend Doctor displayed not only his agihty, but his 
 naked stern, all lower integuments being wanting. The 
 unwonted spectacle was saluted with loud cheers, and a hearty 
 laugh. The mutinous explosion inflamed his wrath to the 
 utmost. 
 
 * You shall pay for this, eh ! I will make some of you suffer 
 for it, eh ! ' 
 
 However, nothing came of it ; the enraged and insulted 
 pedagogue could not discover the offenders. The screws had 
 been bought by two boys, a tall boy and a short one. That 
 was all the detectives could find out. 
 
 CHAPTER III 
 
 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY AT OXFORD 
 
 What is the greatest disappointment in life ? The question 
 has often been asked. In a perfect life, that is to say, in a long 
 course of various disappointments, when the collector has 
 completed the entire set and series, which should he pronounce 
 to be the greatest ? What is the greatest disappointment of 
 all ? The question has often been asked, and it has received 
 very different answers. Some have said matrimony ; others, 
 the accession of an inheritance that had long been anxiously 
 anticipated ; others, the attainment of honours ; others, the 
 deliverance from an ancient and intolerable nuisance, since a 
 new and more grievous one speedily succeeded to the old. 
 Many solutions have been proposed, and each has been ingeni- 
 ously supported. At a very early age I had formed a splendid 
 picture of the glories of our two Universities. My father took 
 pleasure in describing his academical career. I listened to 
 him with great delight, and many circumstances gave addi- 
 . tional force to these first impressions. The clergy — and in 
 the country they make one's principal guests — always spoke 
 of these establishments with deep reverence, and of their acade- 
 mical days as the happiest of their lives. When I went to 
 
Life of Shelley 43 
 
 school, my prejudices were strengthened ; for the master 
 noticed all deficiencies in learning as being unfit, and every 
 remarkable proficiency as being fit, for the University ; — 
 such expressions marked the utmost limits of blame and of 
 praise. Whenever any of the elder boys were translated to 
 college — and several went thither from our school every year 
 — the transmission was accompanied with a certain awe. I had 
 always contemplated my own removal with the like feeling ; 
 and as the period approached, I anticipated it with a reverent 
 impatience. The appointed day at last arrived, and I set 
 out with a school-fellow, about to enter the same career, and 
 his father. The latter was a dutiful and a most grateful son 
 of alma mater ; and the conversation of this estimable man, 
 during our long journey, fanned the flame of -my young ardour. 
 Such, indeed, had been the effect of his discourse for many 
 years ; and as he possessed a complete collection of the Oxford 
 Almanacks, and it had been a great and a frequent gratifi- 
 cation to contemplate the engravings at the top of the annual 
 sheets, when I visited his quiet vicarage, I was already familiar 
 with the aspect of the noble buildings that adorn that famous 
 city. After travelling for several days, we reached the last 
 stage, and soon afterwards approached the point, whence, I 
 was told, we might discern the first glimpse of the metropolis 
 of learning. I strained my eyes to catch a view of that land 
 of promise, for which I had so eagerly longed. The summits 
 of towers, and spires, and domes appeared afar, and faintly ; 
 then the prospect was obstructed ; by degrees it opened upon 
 us again, and we saw the tall trees that shaded the colleges. 
 At three o'clock on a fine autumnal afternoon we entered the 
 streets of Oxford. Although the weather was cold, we had 
 let down all the windows of our post-chaise, and I sat forward, 
 devouring every object with greedy eyes. Members of the 
 University, of different ages and ranks, were gliding through 
 the quiet streets of the venerable city in academic costume. 
 We devoted two or three days to the careful examination of 
 the various objects of interest that Oxford contains. The 
 eye was gratified ; for the external appearance of the Univer- 
 sity even surpassed the bright picture which my youthful 
 imagination had painted. The outside was always admir- 
 able : it was far otherwise with the inside. It is essential to 
 the greatness of a disappointment, that the previous expect- 
 ation should have been great : nothing could exceed my young 
 anticipations, — nothing could be more complete than their 
 
44 Li^e of Shelley 
 
 overthrow. It would be impossible to describe my feelings 
 without speaking harshly and irreverently of the venerable 
 University. On this subject, then, I will only confess my dis- 
 appointment, and discreetly be silent as to its causes. What- 
 ever those causes, I grew, at least, and I own it cheerfully, 
 soon pleased with Oxford, on the whole ; pleased with the 
 beauty of the city, and its gentle river, and the pleasantness 
 of the surrounding country. 
 
 Although no great facilities were afforded to the student, 
 there were the same opportunities of solitary study as in other 
 places. All the irksome restraints of school were removed, 
 and those of the University are few and trifling. Our fare 
 was good, although not so good, perhaps, as it ought to have 
 been, in return for the enormous cost ; and I liked the few 
 companions with whom I most commonly mixed. I continued 
 to lead a life of tranquil, studious, and somewhat melancholy 
 contentment, until the long vacation, which I spent with my 
 family, and, when it expired, I returned to the University. 
 
 At the commencement of Michaelmas term, that is, at the 
 end of October, in the year 1810, I happened one day to sit 
 next to a freshman at dinner : it was his first appearance in 
 hall. His figure was slight, and his aspect remarkably youth- 
 ful, even at our table, where all were very young. He seemed 
 thoughtful and absent. He ate little, and had no acquaintance 
 with any one. I know not how it was that we fell into con- 
 versation, for such familiarity was unusual, and, strange to 
 say, much reserve prevailed in a society where there could not 
 possibly be occasion for any. We have often endeavoured in 
 vain to recollect in what manner our discourse began, and 
 especially by what transition it passed to a subject sufficiently 
 remote from all the associations we were able to trace. The 
 stranger had expressed an enthusiastic admiration for poetical 
 and imaginative works of the German school. I dissented ^ 
 from his criticisms. He upheld the originality of the German 
 writings. I asserted their want of nature. 
 
 ' What modern literature ', said he, * will you compare to 
 theirs ? ' 
 
 I named the Italian. This roused all his impetuosity ; 
 and few, as I soon discovered, were more impetuous in argu- 
 mentative conversation. So eager was our dispute, that when 
 the servants came to clear the tables, we were not aware that 
 we had been left alone. I remarked, that it was time to quit 
 the hall, and I invited the stranger to finish the discussion at 
 
Life of Shelley 45 
 
 my rooms. He eagerly assented. He lost the thread of his 
 discourse in the transit, and the whole of his enthusiasm in the 
 caus3 of Germany ; for as soon as he arrived at my rooms, and 
 whilst I was lighting the candles, he said calmly, and to my 
 great surprise, that he was not qualified to maintain such a 
 discussion, for he was alike ignorant of Italian and German, 
 and had only read the works of the Germans in translations, 
 and but little of Italian poetry, even at second hand. For 
 my part, I confessed, with an equal ingenuousness, that I knew 
 nothing of German, and but little of Italian ; that I had 
 spoken only through others, and like him, had hitherto seen 
 by the glimmering light of translations. 
 
 It is upon such scanty data that young men reason ; upon 
 such slender materials do they build up their opinions. It 
 may be urged, however, that if they did not discourse freely 
 with each other upon insufficient information — for such alone 
 can be acquired in the pleasant morning of life, and until they 
 educate themselves — they would be constrained to observe a 
 perpetual silence, and to forgo the numerous advantages that 
 flow from frequent and liberal discussion. 
 
 I inquired of the vivacious stranger, as we sat over our wine 
 and dessert, how long he had been at Oxford, how he liked it ? 
 He answered my questions with a certain impatience, and, 
 resuming the subject of our discussion, he remarked that, 
 ' Whether the literature of Germany, or of Italy, be the more 
 original, or in a purer and more accurate taste, is of little 
 importance, for polite letters are but vain trifling ; the study 
 of languages, not only of the modern tongues, but of Latin and 
 Greek also, is merely the study of words and phrases, of the 
 names of things ; it matters not how they are called ; it is 
 surely far better to investigate things themselves '. I inquired, 
 a little bewildered, how this was to be effected ? He answered, 
 ' through the physical sciences, and especially through chem- 
 istry ; 'and raising his voice, his face flushing as he spoke, he dis- 
 coursed with a degree of animation, that far outshone his zeal 
 in defence of the Germans of chemistry and chemical analysis. 
 Concerning that science, then so popular, I had merely a 
 scanty and vulgar knowledge, gathered from elementary books, 
 and the ordinary experiments of popular lecturers. I listened, 
 therefore, in silence to his eloquent disquisition, interposing 
 a few brief questions only, and at long intervals, as to the 
 extent of his own studies and manipulations. As I felt, in 
 truth, but a slight interest in the subject of his conversation. 
 
46 Life of Shelley 
 
 I had leisure to examine, and I may add, to admire, the appear- 
 ance of my very extraordinary guest. It was a sum of many 
 contradictions. His figure was slight and fragile, and yet 
 his bones and joints were large and strong. He was tall, but 
 he stooped so much, that he seemed of a low stature. His 
 clothes were expensive, and made according to the most 
 approved mode of the day ; but they were tumbled, rumpled, 
 unbrushed. His gestures were abrupt, and sometimes violent, 
 occasionally even awkward, yet more frequently gentle and 
 graceful. His complexion was delicate, and almost feminine, 
 of the purest red and white ; yet he was tanned and freckled 
 by exposure to the sun, having passed the autumn, as he said, 
 in shooting. His features, his whole face, and particularly his 
 head, were, in fact, unusually small ; yet the last appeared of a 
 remarkable bulk, for his hair was long and bushy, and in fits 
 of absence, and in the agonies (if I may use the word) of anxious 
 thought, he often rubbed it fiercely with his hands, or passed his 
 fingers quickly through his locks unconsciously, so that it was 
 singularly wild and rough. In times when it was the mode to 
 imitate stage-coachmen as closely as possible in costume, and 
 when the hair was invariably cropped, like that of our soldiers, 
 this eccentricity was very striking. His features were not 
 symmetrical (the mouth, perhaps, excepted), yet was the 
 effect of the whole extremely powerful. They breathed an 
 animation, a fire, an enthusiasm, a vivid and preternatural 
 intelligence, that I never met with in any other countenance. 
 Nor was the moral expression less beautiful than the intel- 
 lectual ; for there was a softness, a delicacy, a gentleness, and 
 especially (though this will surprise many) that air of profound 
 religious veneration, that characterises the best works, and 
 chiefly the frescoes (and into these they infused their whole 
 souls), of the great masters of Florence and of Rome. I 
 recognized the very peculiar expression in these wonderful 
 productions long afterwards, and with a satisfaction mingled 
 with much sorrow, for it was after the decease of him in whose 
 countenance I had first observed it. I admired the enthusiasm 
 of my new acquaintance, his ardour in the cause of science, and 
 his thirst for knowledge. I seemed to have found in him all 
 those intellectual qualities which I had vainly expected to 
 meet with in an University. But there was one physical 
 blemish that threatened to neutralize all his excellence. 
 * This^is a fme, clever fellow! ' I said to myself, ' but I can never 
 bear his society ; I shall never be able to endure his voice ; it 
 
Life of Shelley 47 
 
 would kill me. What a pity it is ! ' I am very sensible of 
 imperfections, and especially of painful sounds — and the voice 
 of the stranger was excruciating : it was intolerably shrill, 
 harsh, and discordant ; of the. most cruel intension — it was 
 perpetual, and without any remission — it excoriated the ears. 
 He continued to discourse of chemistry, sometimes sitting, 
 sometimes standing before the fire, and sometimes pacing about 
 the room ; and when one of the innumerable clocks that speak 
 in various notes during the day and the night at Oxford, pro- 
 claimed a quarter to seven, he said suddenly that he must go 
 to a lecture on mineralogy, and declared enthusiastically that 
 he expected to derive much pleasure and instruction from it. 
 I am ashamed to own that the cruel voice made me hesitate 
 for a moment ; but it was impossbile to omit' so indispensable 
 a civility — I invited him to return to tea ; he gladly assented, 
 promised that he would not be absent long, snatched his cap, 
 hurried out of the room, and I heard his footsteps, as he ran 
 through the silent quadrangle, and afterwards along High- 
 street. 
 
 An hour soon elapsed, whilst the table was cleared, and the 
 tea was made, and I again heard the footsteps of one running 
 quickly. My guest suddenly burst into the room, threw down 
 his cap, and as he stood shivering and chafing his hands over 
 the fire, he declared how much he had been disappointed in 
 the lecture. Few persons attended ; it was dull and languid, 
 and he was resolved never to go to another. * I went away, 
 indeed ', he added, with an arch look, and in a shrill whisper, 
 coming close to me as he spoke, — ' I went away, indeed, 
 before the lecture was finished. I stole away ; for it was so 
 stupid, and I was so cold, that my teeth chattered. The Pro- 
 fessor saw me, and appeared to be displeased. I thought 
 I could have got out without being observed ; but I struck 
 my knee against a bench, and made a noise, and he looked 
 at me. I am determined that he shall never see me again.' 
 
 * What did the man talk about ? ' 
 
 ' About stones ! about stones ! ' he answered, with a down- 
 cast look and in a melancholy tone, as if about to say some- 
 thing excessively profound. * About stones ! — stones, stones, 
 stones ! — nothing but stones ! — and so drily. It was wonder- 
 fully tiresome — and stones are not interesting things in them- 
 selves ! ' 
 
 We took tea, and soon aftei-wards had supper, as was usual. 
 He discoursed after supoer with as much warmth as before 
 
4^ Life of Shelley 
 
 of the wonders of chemistry ; of the encouragement that 
 Napoleon afforded to that most important science ; of the 
 French chemists and their glorious discoveries ; and of the 
 happiness of visiting Paris, and sharing in their fame and their 
 experiments. The voice, however, seemed to me more cruel 
 than ever. He spoke likewise of his own labours and of his 
 apparatus, and starting up suddenly after supper, he proposed 
 that I should go instantly with him to see the galvanic trough. 
 I looked at my watch, and observed that it was too late ; that 
 the fire would be out, and the night was cold. He resumed his 
 seat, saying that I might come on the morrow, early, to break- 
 fast, immediately after chapel. He continued to declaim in his 
 rapturous strain, asserting that chemistry was, in truth, the 
 only science that deserved to be studied. I suggested doubts. 
 I ventured to question the pre-eminence of the science, and 
 even to hesitate in admitting its utility. He described in 
 glowing language some discoveries that had lately been made ; 
 but the enthusiastic chemist candidly allowed that they were 
 rather brilliant than useful, asserting, however, that they would 
 soon be applied to purposes of solid advantage. 
 
 ' Is not the time of by far the larger proportion of the human 
 species *, he inquired, with his fervid manner and in his 
 piercing tones, * wholly consumed in severe labour ? And is 
 not this devotion of our race — of the whole of our race, I may 
 say (for those who, like ourselves, are indulged with an exemp- 
 tion from the hard lot are so few, in comparison with the rest, 
 that they scarcely deserve to be taken into the account) — 
 absolutely necessary to procure subsistence ; so that men 
 have no leisure for recreation or the high improvement of the 
 mind ? Yet this incessant toil is still inadequate to procure 
 an abundant supply of the common necessaries of life : some 
 are doomed actually to want them, and many are compelled 
 to be content with an insufficient provision. We know little 
 of the peculiar nature of those substances which are proper for 
 the nourishment of animals ; we are ignorant of the qualities 
 that make them fit for this end. Analysis has advanced so 
 rapidly of late that we'may confidently anticipate that we shall 
 soon discover wherein their aptitude really consists ; having 
 ascertained the cause, we shall next be able to command it, 
 and to produce at our pleasure the desired effects. It is 
 easy, even in our present state of ignorance, to reduce our 
 ordinary food to carbon, or to lime ; a moderate advancement 
 in chemical science will speedily enable us, we may hope, to 
 
Life of Shelley 49 
 
 create, with equal facility, food from substances that appear 
 at present to be as ill adapted to sustain us. What is the 
 cause of the remarkable fertility of some lands, and of the 
 hopeless sterility of others ? A spadeful of the most produc- 
 tive soil, does not to the eye differ much from the same quantity 
 taken from the most barren. The real difference is probably 
 very slight ; by chemical agency the philosopher may work a 
 total change, and may transmute an unfruitful region into a 
 land of exuberant plenty. Water, like the atmospheric air, 
 is compounded of certain gases : in the progress of scientific 
 discovery a simple and sure method of manufacturing the 
 useful fluid, in every situation and in any quantity, may be 
 detected ; the arid deserts of Africa may then be refreshed 
 by a copious supply, and may be transformed at once into 
 rich meadows, and vast fields of maize and rice. The genera- 
 tion of heat is a mystery, but enough of the theory of caloric 
 has already been developed to induce us to acquiesce in the 
 notion that it will hereafter, and perhaps at no very distant 
 period, be possible to produce heat at will, and to warm the 
 most ungenial climates as readily as we now raise the tempera- 
 ture of our apartments to whatever degree we may deem 
 agreeable or salutary. If, however, it be too much to antici- 
 pate that we shall ever become sufficiently skilful to command 
 such a prodigious supply of heat, we may expect, without the 
 fear of disappointment, soon to understand its nature and the 
 causes of combustion, so far at least as to provide ourselves 
 cheaply with a fund of heat that will supersede our costly and 
 inconvenient fuel, and will suf&ce to warm our habitations, 
 for culinary purposes and for the various demands of the 
 mechanical arts. We could not determine, without actual 
 experiment, whether an unknown substance were combustible ; 
 when we shall have thoroughly investigated the properties of 
 fire, it may be that we shall be qualified to communicate to 
 clay, to stones, and to water itself, a chemical recomposition 
 that will render them as inflammable as wood, coals, and oil, 
 for the difference of structure is minute and invisible, and the 
 power of feeding flame may perhaps be easily added to any 
 substance, or taken away from it. What a comfort would it 
 be to the poor at all times, and especially at this season, if 
 we were capable of solving this problem alone, if we could 
 furnish them with a competent supply of heat ! These specu- 
 lations may appear wild, and it may seen improbable that 
 they will ever be realised, to persons who have not extended 
 
 E 
 
50 Life of Shelley 
 
 their views of what is practicable by closely watching science 
 in its course onward ; but there are many mysterious powers, 
 many irresistible agents, with the existence and with some of 
 the phenomena of which all are acquainted. What a mighty 
 instrument would electricity be in the hands of him who knew 
 how to wield it, in what manner to direct its omnipotent 
 energies ; and we may command an indefinite quantity of the 
 fluid : by means of electrical kites we may draw down the 
 lightning from heaven ! What a terrible organ would the 
 supernal shock prove, if we were able to guide it ; how many 
 of the secrets of nature would such a stupendous force unlock ! 
 The galvanic battery is a new engine ; it has been used 
 hitherto to an insignificant extent, yet has it wrought wonders 
 already ; what will not an extraordinary combination of 
 troughs, of colossal magnitude, a well-arranged system of 
 hundreds of metallic plates, effect ? The balloon has not yet 
 received the perfection of which it is surely capable ; the art 
 of navigating the air is in its first and most helpless infancy ; 
 the aerial mariner still swims on bladders, and has not mounted 
 even the rude raft : if we weigh this invention, curious as it 
 is, with some of the subjects I have mentioned, it will seem 
 trifling, no doubt — a mere toy, a feather, in comparison with 
 the splendid anticipations of the philosophical chemist ; yet it 
 ought not altogether to be contemned. It promises pro- 
 digious facilities for locomotion, and will enable us to traverse 
 vast tracts with ease and rapidity, and to explore unknown 
 countries without difficulty. Why are we still so ignorant of 
 the interior of Africa ? — why do we not despatch intrepid 
 aeronauts to cross it in every direction, and to survey the whole 
 peninsula in a few weeks ? The shadow of the first balloon, 
 which a vertical snn would project precisely underneath it, as 
 it glided silently over that hitherto unhappy country, would 
 virtually emancipate every slave, and would annihilate slavery 
 for ever.' 
 
 With such fervour did the slender, beardless stranger specu- 
 late concerning the march of physical science : his speculations 
 were as wild as the experience of twenty-one years has shown 
 them to be ; but the zealous earnestness for the augmentation 
 of knowledge, and the glowing philanthropy and boundless 
 benevolence that marked them, and beamed forth in the 
 whole deportment of that extraordinary boy, are not less 
 astonishing than they would have been if the whole of his 
 glorious anticipations had been prophetic ; for these high 
 
Life of Shelley 51 
 
 qualities at least, I have never found a parallel. When he 
 had ceased to predict the coming honours of chemistry, and 
 to promise the rich harvest of benefits it was soon to yield, I 
 suggested that, although its results were splendid, yet for 
 those who could not hope to make discoveries themselves, it 
 did not afford so valuable a course of mental discipline as 
 the moral sciences ; moreover, that if chemists asserted that 
 their science alone deserved to be cultivated, the mathema- 
 ticians made the same assertion, and with equal confidence, 
 respecting their studies ; but that I was not sufficiently 
 advanced myself in mathematics to be able to judge how far it 
 was well founded. He declared that he knew nothing of 
 mathematics, and treated the notion of, their paramount 
 importance with contempt. 
 
 ' What do you say of metaphysics ? ' I continued ; ' is that 
 science, too, the study of words only .? ' 
 
 ' Ay, metaphysics ', he said, in a solemn tone, and with a 
 mysterious air, ' that is a noble study indeed ! If it were 
 possible to make any discoveries there, they would be more 
 valuable than anything the chemists have done, or could do ; 
 they would disclose the analysis of mind, and not of mere 
 matter ! ' Then rising from his chair, he paced slowly about 
 the room, with prodigious strides, and discoursed of souls 
 with still greater animation and vehemence than he had dis- 
 played in treating of gases — of a future state — and especially 
 of a former state — of pre-existence, obscured for a time through 
 the suspension of consciousness — of personal identity, and also 
 of ethical philosophy, in a deep and earnest tone of elevated 
 morality, until he suddenly remarked that the fire was nearly 
 out, and the candles were glimmering in their sockets, when he 
 hastily apologized for remaining so long. I promised to visit 
 the chemist in his laboratory, the alchemist in his study, the 
 wizard in his cave, not at breakfast on that day, for it was 
 already one, but in twelve hours — one hour after noon — and 
 to hear some of the secrets of nature ; and for that purpose, 
 he told me his name, and described the situation of his rooms. 
 I lighted him downstairs as well as I could with the stump of 
 a candle which had dissolved itself into a lamp, and I soon heard 
 him running through the quiet quadrangle in the still night. 
 That sound became afterwards so familiar to my ear, that I 
 still seem to hear Shelley's hasty steps. 
 
 I trust, or I should perhaps rather say, I hope, that I was 
 as much struck by the conversation, the aspect, and the 
 
52 Life of Shelley 
 
 deportment of my new acquaintance, as entirely convinced 
 of the value of the acquisition I had just made, and as deeply 
 impressed with surprise and admiration, as became a young 
 student not insensible of excellence, to whom a character so 
 extraordinary, and indeed almost preternatural, had been 
 suddenly unfolded. During his animated and eloquent dis- 
 courses I felt a due reverence for his zeal and talent, but the 
 human mind is capable of a certain amount of attention only. 
 I had listened and discussed for seven or eight hours, and my 
 spirits were totally exhausted ; I went to bed as soon as Shelley 
 had quitted my rooms, and fell instantly into a profound 
 sleep ; and I shook off with a painful effort, at the accustomed 
 signal, the complete oblivion which then appeared to have 
 been but momentary. Many of the wholesome usages of 
 antiquity had ceased at Oxford ; that of early rising, however, 
 still lingered. 
 
 As soon as I got up, I applied myself sedulously to my 
 academical duties and my accustomed studies. The power 
 of habitual occupation is great and engrossing, and it is possible 
 that my mind had not yet fully recovered from the agreeable 
 fatigue of the preceding evening, for I had entirely forgotten 
 my engagement, nor did the thought of my young guest 
 once cross my fancy. It was strange that a person so remark- 
 able and attractive should have thus disappeared for several 
 hours from my memory ; but such in truth was the fact, 
 although I am unable to account for it in a satisfactory man- 
 ner. 
 
 At one o'clock I put away my books and papers, and pre- 
 pared myself for my daily walk ; the weather was frosty, with 
 fog, and whilst I lingered over the fire with that reluctance to 
 venture forth into the cold air, common to those who have 
 chilled themselves by protracted sedentary pursuits, the recol- 
 lection of the scenes of yesterday flashed suddenly and vividly 
 across my mind, and I quickly repaired to a spot that I may 
 perhaps venture to predict many of our posterity will hereafter 
 reverently visit, to the rooms in the corner next the hall of 
 the principal quadrangle of University College ; they are on 
 the first floor, and on the right of the entrance, but by reason 
 of the turn in the stairs, when you reach them, they will be 
 upon your left hand. I remember the direction given at 
 parting, and I soon found the door : it stood ajar. I tapped 
 gently, and the discordant voice cried shrilly — 
 
 ' Come in ! ' 
 
Life of Shelley 53 
 
 It was now nearly two. I began to apologize for my delay, 
 but I was interrupted by a loud exclamation of surprise — 
 
 ' What ! is it one ? I had no notion it was so late ; I thought 
 it was about ten or eleven.' 
 
 ' It is on the stroke of two, sir ', said the scout, who was 
 engaged in the vain attempt of setting the apartment in order. 
 
 ' Of two ! ' Shelley cried, with increased wonder, and pres- 
 ently the clock struck, and the servant noticed it, retired; 
 and shut the door. 
 
 I perceived at once that the young chemist took no note of 
 time. He measured duration, not by minutes and hours, like 
 watchmakers and their customers, but by the successive 
 trains of ideas and sensations ; consequently, if there was a 
 virtue of which he was utterly incapable, it was that homely, 
 but pleasing and useful one, punctuality. He could not tear 
 himself from his incessant abstractions to observe at intervals 
 the growth and decline of the day ; nor was he ever able to 
 set apart even a small portion of his mental powers for a duty 
 so simple as that of watching the course of the pointers on the 
 dial. 
 
 I found him cowering over the fire, his chair planted in the 
 middle of the rug, and his feet resting upon the fender ; his 
 whole appearance was dejected. His astonishment at the 
 unexpected lapse of time roused him : as soon as the hour of 
 the day was ascertained, he welcomed me, and seizing one of 
 my arms with both his hands, he shook it with some force, and 
 very cordially expressed his satisfaction at my visit. Then 
 resuming his seat and his former posture, he gazed fixedly at 
 the fire, and his limbs trembled and his teeth chattered with 
 cold. I cleared the fire-place with the poker and stirred the 
 fire, and when it blazed up, he drew back, and looking askance 
 towards the door, he exclaimed with a deep sigh, 
 
 * Thank God, that fellow is gone at last ! ' 
 
 The assiduity of the scout had annoyed him, and he pres- 
 ently added 
 
 ' If you had not come, he would have stayed until he had 
 put everything in my rooms into some place where I should 
 never have found it again ! ' 
 
 He then complained of his health, and said that he was very 
 unwell ; but he did not appear to be affected by any disorder 
 more serious than a slight aguish cold. I remarked the same 
 contradiction in his rooms which I had already observed in his 
 person and dress ; they had just been papered and painted ; 
 
54 Life of Shelley 
 
 the carpet, curtains, and furniture were quite new, and had not 
 passed through several academical generations, after the 
 established custom of transferring the whole of the movables 
 to the successor on payment of thirds, that is, of two-thirds 
 of the price last given. The general air of freshness was 
 greatly obscured, however, by the indescribable confusion in 
 which the various objects were mixed ; notwithstanding the 
 unwelcome exertions of the officious scout, scarcely a single 
 article was in its proper position. 
 
 Books, boots, papers, shoes, philosophical instruments, 
 clothes, pistols, linen, crockery, ammunition, and phials 
 innumerable, with money, stockings, prints, crucibles, bags 
 and boxes, were scattered on the floor and in every place ; 
 as if the young chemist, in order to analyse the mystery of 
 creation, had endeavoured first to re-construct the primeval 
 chaos. The tables, and especially the carpet, were already 
 stained with large spots of various hues, which frequently 
 proclaimed the ugency of fire. An electrical machine, an 
 air-pump, the galvanic trough, a solar microscope, and large 
 glass jars and receivers, were conspicuous amidst the mass of 
 matter. Upon the table by his side were some books lying 
 open, several letters, a bundle of new pens, and a bottle of 
 japan ink, that served as an inkstand ; a piece of deal, lately 
 part of the lid of a box, with many chips, and a handsome 
 razor that had been used as a knife. There were bottles of 
 soda water, sugar, pieces of lemon, and the traces of an effer- 
 vescent beverage. Two piles of books supported the tongs, 
 and these upheld a small glass retort above an argand lamp. 
 I had not been seated many minutes before the liquor in the 
 vessel boiled over, adding fresh stains to the table, and rising 
 in fumes with a most disagreeable odour. Shelley snatched 
 the glass quickly, and dashing it in pieces among the ashes 
 under the gate, increased the unpleasant and penetrating efflu- 
 vium. 
 
 He then proceeded, with much eagerness and enthusiasm, 
 to show me the various instruments, especially the electrical 
 apparatus ; turning round the handle very rapidly, so that 
 the fierce, crackling sparks flew forth ; and presently standing 
 upon the stool with glass feet, he begged me to work the 
 machine until he was filled with the fluid, so that his long, wild 
 locks bristled and stood on end. Afterwards he charged a 
 powerful battery of several large jars ; labouring with vast 
 energy, and discoursing with increasing vehemence of the 
 
Life of Shelley 55 
 
 marvellous powers of electricity, of thunder and lightning ; 
 describing an electrical kite that he had made at home, and 
 projecting another and an enormous one, or rather a combina- 
 tion of many kites, that would draw down from the sky an 
 immense volume of electricity, the whole ammunition of a 
 mighty thunderstorm ; and this being directed to some point 
 would there produce the most stupendous results. 
 
 In these exhibitions and in such conversation the time passed 
 away rapidly, and the hour of dinner approached. Having 
 pricked csger that day, or, in other words, having caused his 
 name to be entered as an invalid, he was not required, or 
 permitted, to dine in hall, or to appear in public within the 
 college, or without the walls, until a night's rest should have 
 restored the sick man to health. 
 
 He requested me to spend the evening at his rooms ; I 
 consented, nor did I fail to attend immediately after dinner. 
 We conversed until a late hour on miscellaneous topics. I 
 remember that he spoke frequently of poetry, and that there 
 was the same animation, the same glowing zeal, which had 
 characterized his former discourses, and was so opposite to 
 the listless languor, the monstrous indifference, if not the ab- 
 solute antipathy, to learning, that so strangely darkened the 
 collegiate atmosphere. It would seem, indeed, to one who 
 rightly considered the final cause of the institution of an 
 University, that all the rewards, all the honours, the most 
 opulent foundation could accumulate, would be inadequate 
 to remunerate an individual, whose thirst for knowledge was 
 so intense, and his activity in the pursuit of it so wonderful 
 and so unwearied. I participated in his enthusiasm, and soon 
 forgot the shrill and unmusical voice that had at first seemed 
 intolerable to my ear. 
 
 He was, indeed, a whole University in himself to me, in 
 respect of the stimulus and incitement which his example 
 afforded to my love of study, and he amply atoned for the dis- 
 appointment I had felt on my arrival at Oxford. In one respect 
 alone could I pretend to resemble him, in an ardent desire 
 to gain knowledge ; and as our tastes were the same in 
 many particulars, we immediately became, through sympathy, 
 most intimate and altogether inseparable companions. We 
 almost invariably passed the afternoon and evening together ; 
 at first alternately at our respective rooms, through a cer- 
 tain punctiliousness, but afterwards, when we became more 
 familiar, most frequently by far at his ; sometimes one or 
 
56 Life of Shelley 
 
 two good an,d harmless men of our acquaintance were present, 
 but we were usually alone. His rooms were preferred to mine, 
 because there his philosophical apparatus was at hand ; and 
 at that period he was not perfectly satisfied with the condition 
 and circumstances of his existence, unless he was able to 
 start from his seat at any moment, and seizing the air-pump, 
 some magnets, the electrical machine, or the bottles containing 
 those noxious and nauseous fluids, wherewith he incessantly 
 besmeared and disfigured himself and his goods, to ascertain 
 by actual experiment the value of some new idea that rushed 
 into his brain. He spent much time in working by fits and 
 starts and in an irregular manner with his instruments, and 
 especially consumed his hours and his money in the assiduous 
 cultivation of chemistry. 
 
 We have heard that one of the most distinguished of modern 
 discoverers was abrupt, hasty, and to appearance disorderly 
 in the conduct of his manipulations : the variety of the habits of 
 great men is indeed infinite ; it is impossible, therefore, to 
 decide peremptorily as to the capabilities of individuals from 
 their course of proceeding, yet it certainly seemed highly improb- 
 able that Shelley was qualified to succeed in a science wherein 
 a scrupulous minuteness and a mechanical accuracy are indis- 
 pensable. His chemical operations seemed to an unskilful 
 observer to promise nothing but disasters. His hands, his 
 clothes, his books, and his furniture were stained and corroded 
 by mineral acids. More than one hole in the carpet could 
 elucidate the ultimate phenomenon of combustion ; especi- 
 ally a formidable aperture in the middle of the room, where the 
 floor also had been burnt by the spontaneous ignition caused 
 by mixing ether with some other fluid in a crucible ; and the 
 honourable wound was speedily enlarged by rents, for the 
 philosopher, as he hastily crossed the room in pursuit of truth, 
 was frequently caught in it by the foot. Many times a day, 
 but always in vain, would the sedulous scout say, pointing to 
 the scorched boards with a significant look 
 
 ' Would it not be better, sir, for us to get this place mended ? ' 
 It seemed but too probable that in the rash ardour of ex- 
 periment he would some day set the college on fire, or that 
 he would blind, maim, or kill himself by the explosion of 
 combustibles. It was still more likely indeed that he would 
 poison himself, for plates and glasses, and every part of his 
 tea equipage were used indiscriminately with crucibles, 
 retorts, and recipients, to contain the most deleterious ingre- 
 
Life of Shelley 57 
 
 dients. To his infinite diversion I used always to examine 
 every drinking- vessel narrowly, and often to rinse it carefully, 
 after that evening when we were taking tea by firelight, and 
 my attention being attracted by the sound of something in 
 the cup into which I was about to pour tea, I was induced to 
 look into it. I found a seven-shilling piece partly dissolved 
 by the aqua regia in which it was immersed. Although he 
 laughed at my caution, he used to speak with horror of the 
 consequences of having inadvertently swallowed, through a 
 similar accident, some mineral poison, I think arsenic, at 
 Eton, which he declared had not only seriously injured his 
 health, but that he feared he should never entirely recover 
 from the shock it had inflicted on his constitution. It seemed 
 probable, notwithstanding his positive assertions, that his 
 lively fancy exaggerated the recollection of the unpleasant 
 and permanent taste, of the sickness and disorder of the 
 stomach, which might arise from taking a minute portion of 
 some poisonous substance by the like chance, for there was 
 no vestige of a more serious and lasting injury in his youthful 
 and healthy, although somewhat delicate aspect. 
 
 I knew little of the physical sciences, and I felt there- 
 fore but a slight degree of interest in them ; I looked 
 upon his philosophical apparatus merely as toys and 
 playthings, like a chess-board or a billiard-table. Through 
 lack of sympathy, his zeal, which was at first so ardent, gradu- 
 ally cooled ; and he applied himself to these pursuits, after 
 a short time, less frequently and with less earnestness. The 
 true value of them was often the subject of animated discussion; 
 and I remember one evening at my own rooms, when we had 
 sought refuge against the intense cold in the little inner apart- 
 ment, or study, I referred, in the course of our debate, to a 
 passage in Xenophon's Memorabilia, where Socrates speaks 
 in disparagement of Physics. He read it several times very 
 attentively, and more than once aloud, slowly and with em- 
 phasis," and it appeared to make a strong impression on 
 him. 
 
 Notwithstanding our difference of opinion as to the import- 
 ance of chemistry, and on some other questions, our intimacy 
 rapidly increased, and we soon formed the habit of passing 
 the greater part of our time together ; nor did this constant 
 intercourse interfere with my usual studies. I never visited 
 his rooms until one o'clock, by which hour, as I rose very 
 early, I had not only attended the college lectures, but had 
 
SB Life of Shelley 
 
 read in private for several hours. I was enabled, moreover to 
 continue my studies afterwards in the evening, in consequence 
 of a very remarkable peculiarity. My young and energetic 
 friend was then overcome by extreme drowsiness, vv^hich 
 speedily and completely vanquished him ; he would sleep 
 from two to four hours, often so soundly that his slumbers 
 resembled a deep lethargy ; he lay occasionally upon the sofa, 
 but more commonly stretched upon the rug before a large 
 fire, like a cat ; and his little round head was exposed to such 
 a fierce heat, that I used to wonder how he was able to bear it. 
 Sometimes I have interposed some shelter, but rarely with 
 any permanent effect ; for the sleeper usually contrived to 
 turn himself, and to roll again into the spot where the fire 
 glowed the brightest. His torpor was generally profound, 
 but he would sometimes discourse incoherently for a long 
 while in his sleep. At six he would suddenly compose himself, 
 even in the midst of a most animated narrative or of earnest 
 discussion ; and he would lie buried in entire forgetfulness, in 
 a sweet and mighty oblivion, until ten, when he would suddenly 
 start up, and rubbing his eyes with great violence, and passing 
 his fingers swiftly through his long hair, would enter at once 
 into a vehement argument, or begin to reciteverses, either of his 
 own composition or from the works of others, with a rapidity 
 and an energy that were often quite painful. During the 
 period of his occupation I took tea, and read or wrote without 
 interruption. He would sometimes sleep for a shorter time, for 
 about two hours; postponing for the like period the commence- 
 ment of his retreat to the rug, and rising with tolerable punc- 
 tuality at ten ; and sometimes, although rarely, he was able 
 entirely to forgo the accustomed refreshment. 
 
 We did not consume the whole of our time, when he was 
 awake, in conversation ; we often read apart, and more 
 frequently together : our joint studies were occasionally inter- 
 rupted by long discussions — nevertheless I could enumerate 
 many works, and several of them are extensive and im- 
 portant, which we perused completely and very carefully in 
 this manner. At ten, when he awoke, he was always ready 
 for his supper, which he took with a peculiar relish : after 
 that social meal his mind was clear and penetrating, and his 
 discourse eminently brilliant. He was unwilling to separate ; 
 but when the college clock struck two, I used to rise and retire 
 to my room. Our conversations were sometimes considerably 
 prolonged, but they seldom terminated before that chilly 
 
Life of Shelley 59 
 
 hour of the early morning ; nor did I feel any inconvenience 
 from thus reducing the period of rest to scarcely five hours. 
 
 A disquisition on some difficult question in the open air was 
 not less agreeable to him than by the fireside ; if the weather 
 was fine, or rather not altogether intolerable, we used to sally 
 forth, when we met at one. 
 
 I have already pointed out several contradictions in his 
 appearance and character ; his ordinary preparation for a 
 rural walk formed a very remarkable contrast with his mild 
 aspect and pacific habits. He furnished himself with a pair 
 of duelling pistols, and a good store of powder and ball ; and 
 when he came to a solitary spot, he pinned a card, or fixed some 
 other mark upon a tree or a bank, and amused himself by firing 
 at it : he was a pretty good shot, and was much delighted at 
 his success. He often urged me to try my hand and eye, 
 assuring me that I was not aware of the pleasure of a good hit. 
 One day when he was peculiarly pressing, I took up a pistol and 
 asked him what I should aim at ? And observing a slab of 
 wood, about as big as a hearthrug, standing against a wall, I 
 named it as being a proper object. He said that it was much 
 too far off, it was better to wait until we came nearer ; but 
 I answered — ' I may as well fire here as anywhere' , and 
 instantly discharged my pistol. To my infinite surprise, the 
 ball struck the elm target most accurately in the very centre. 
 Shelley was delighted ; he ran to the board, placed his chin 
 close to it — gazed at the hole where the bullet was lodged — 
 examined it attentively on all sides many times, and more 
 than once measured the distance to the spot where I had stood. 
 
 I never knew any one so prone to admire as he was, in whom 
 the principle of veneration was so strong ; he extolled my 
 skill, urged me repeatedly to display it again, and begged that 
 I would give him instructions in an art in which I so much 
 excelled. I suffered him to enjoy his wonder for a few days, 
 and then I told him, and with difficulty persuaded him, that 
 my success was purely accidental ; for I had seldom fired a 
 pistol before, and never with ball, but with shot only, as a 
 schoolboy, in clandestine and bloodless expeditions against 
 blackbirds and yellowhammers. 
 
 The duelling pistols were a most discordant interruption 
 of the repose of a quiet country walk ; besides, he handled 
 them with such inconceivable carelessness, that I had per- 
 petually reason to apprehend that, as a trifling episode in the 
 grand and heroic work of drilUng a hole through the back of 
 
6o Life of Shelley 
 
 a card, or the front of one of his father's franks, he would shoot 
 himself, or me, or both of us. How often have I lamented 
 that Nature, which so rarely bestows upon the world a creature 
 endowed with such marvellous talents, ungraciously rendered 
 the gift less precious by implanting a fatal taste for perilous 
 recreations, and a thoughtlessness in the pursuit of them, that 
 often caused his existence from one day to another to seem in 
 itself miraculous. I opposed the practice of walking armed, 
 and I at last succeeded in inducing him to leave the pistols 
 at home, and to forbear the use of them. I prevailed, 
 I believe, not so much by argument or persuasion, as by 
 secretly abstracting, when he equipped himself for the field, 
 and it was not difficult with him, the powder-flask, the 
 flints, or some other indispensable article. One day, I remem- 
 ber, he was grievously discomposed, and seriously offended, 
 to find, on producing his pistols, after descending rapidly into 
 a quarry, where he proposed to take a few shots, that not only 
 had the flints been removed, but the screws, and the bits of 
 steel at the tops of the cocks, which hold the flints, were also 
 wanting. He determined to return to College for them — 
 I accompanied him. I tempted him, however, by the way, to 
 try to define anger, and to discuss the nature of that affection 
 of the mind, to which, as the discussion waxed warm, he grew 
 exceedingly hostile in theory, and could not be brought to 
 admit that it could possibly be excusable in any case. In the 
 course of conversation, moreover, he suffered himself to be 
 insensibly turned away from his original path and purpose. 
 I have heard, that some years after he left Oxford he resumed 
 the practice of pistol-shooting, and attained to a very unusual 
 degree of skill in an accomplishment so entirely incongruous 
 with his nature. 
 
 Of rural excursions he was at all times fond ; he loved to 
 walk in the woods, to stroll on the banks of the Thames, but 
 especially to wander about Shotover Hill. There was a pond 
 at the foot of the hill, before ascending it, and on the left of 
 the road ; it was formed by the water which had filled an old 
 quarry : whenever he was permitted to shape his course as he 
 would, he proceeded to the edge of this pool, although the 
 scene had no other attractions than a certain wildness and 
 barrenness. Here he would linger until dusk, gazing in 
 silence on the water, repeating verses aloud, or earnestly 
 discussing themes that had no connexion with surrounding 
 objects. Sometimes he would raise a stone as large as he 
 
Life of Shelley 6i 
 
 could lift, deliberately throw it into the water as far as his 
 strength enabled him ; then he would loudly exult at the 
 splash, and would quietly watch the decreasing agitation, 
 until the last faint ring and almost imperceptible ripple dis- 
 appeared on the still surface. ' Such are the effects of an 
 impulse on the air ', he would say ; and he complained of our 
 ignorance of the theory of sound — that the subject was obscure 
 and mysterious, and many of the phenomena were contra- 
 dictory and inexplicable. He asserted that the science of 
 acoustics ought to be cultivated, and that by well-devised 
 experiments valuable discoveries would undoubtedly be made ; 
 and he related many remarkable stories, connected with the 
 subject, that he had heard or read. Sometimes, he would 
 busy himself in splitting the slaty stones, in selecting thin and 
 flat pieces, and in giving them a round form ; and when he 
 had collected a sufficient number, he would gravely make 
 ducks and drakes with them, counting, with the utmost glee, 
 the number of bounds, as they flew along skimming the surface 
 of the pond. He was a devoted worshipper of the water- 
 nymphs ; for whenever he found a pool, or even a small puddle, 
 he would loiter near it, and it was no easy task to get him to 
 quit it. He had not yet learned that art, from which he after- 
 wards derived so much pleasure — the construction of paper 
 boats. He twisted a morsel of paper into a form that a lively 
 fancy might consider a likeness of a boat, and committing it 
 to the water, he anxiously watched the fortunes of the frail 
 bark, which, if it was not soon swamped by the faint winds and 
 miniature waves, gradually imbibed water through its porous 
 sides, and sank. Sometimes, however, the fairy vessel per- 
 formed its little voyage, and reached the opposite shore of the 
 puny ocean in safety. It is astonishing with what keen 
 delight he engaged in this singular pursuit. It was not easy 
 for an uninitiated spectator to bear with tolerable patience the 
 vast delay, on the brink of a wretched pond upon a bleak 
 common, and in the face of a cutting north-east wind, on 
 returning to dinner from a long walk at sunset on a cold 
 winter's day ; nor was it easy to be so harsh as to interfere 
 with a harmless gratification, that was evidently exquisite. 
 It was not easy, at least, to induce the shipbuilder to desist 
 from launching his tiny fleets, so long as any timber remained 
 in the dockyard. I prevailed once, and once only ; it was 
 one of those bitter Sundays that commonly receive the new 
 year ; the sun had set, and it had almost begun to snow. I 
 
62 Life of Shelley 
 
 had exhorted him long in vain, with the eloquence of a frozen 
 and famished man, to proceed ; at last, I said in despair — 
 alluding to his never-ending creations, for a paper-navy that 
 was to be set afloat simultaneously lay at his feet, and he was 
 busily constructing more, with blue and swollen hands — 
 ' Shelley, there is no use in talking to you ; you are the 
 Demiurgus of Plato ! ' He instantly caught up the whole 
 flotilla, and bounding homeward with mighty strides, laughed 
 aloud — laughed like a giant, as he used to say. So long as 
 his paper lasted, he remained riveted to the spot, fascinated by 
 this peculiar amusement ; all waste paper was rapidly con- 
 sumed, then the covers of letters, next letters of little value : 
 the most precious contributions of the most esteemed corre- 
 pondent, although eyed wistfully many times, and often 
 returned to the pocket, were sure to be sent at last in pursuit 
 of the former squadrons. Of the portable volumes which were 
 the companions of his rambles, and he seldom went out without 
 a book, the fly-leaves were commonly wanting — he had applied 
 them as our ancestor Noah applied Gopher wood ; but learning 
 was so sacred in his eyes, that he never trespassed farther upon 
 the integrity of the copy ; the work itself was always respected. 
 It has been said, that he once found himself on the north bank 
 of the Serpentine river without the materials for indulging 
 those inclinations, which the sight of water invariably inspired, 
 for he had exhausted his supplies on the round pond in Ken- 
 sington Gardens. Not a single scrap of paper could be found, 
 save only a bank-post bill for fifty pounds ; he hesitated long, 
 but yielded at last ; he twisted it into a boat with the extreme 
 refinement of his skill, and committed it with the utmost 
 dexterity to fortune, watching its progress, if possible, with a 
 still more intense anxiety than usual. Fortune often favours 
 those who frankly and fully trust her ; the north-east wind 
 gently wafted the costly skiff to the south bank, where, during 
 the latter part of the voyage, the venturous owner had waited 
 its arrival with patient solicitude. The story, of course, is 
 a Mythic fable, but it aptly pourtrays the dominion of a 
 singular and most unaccountable passion over the mind of an 
 enthusiast. 
 
 But to return to Oxford. Shelley disliked exceedingly all 
 college-meetings, and especially one which was the most 
 popular with others — the public dinner in the hall ; he used 
 often to absent himself, and he was greatly delighted whenever 
 I agreed to partake with him in a slight luncheon at one, to 
 
Life of Shelley 63 
 
 take a long walk into the country, and to return after dark to 
 tea and supper in his rooms. On one of these expeditions we 
 wandered farther than usual, without regarding the distance or 
 the lapse of time ; but we had no difficulty in finding our way 
 home, for the night was clear and frosty, and the moon at the 
 full ; and most glorious was the spectacle as we approached 
 the City of Colleges, and passed through the silent streets. It 
 was near ten when we entered our college ; not only was it 
 too late for tea, but supper was ready, the cloth laid, and the 
 table spread. A large dish of scalloped oysters had been set 
 within the fender, to be kept hot for the famished wanderers. 
 Among the innumerable contradictions in the character 
 and deportment of the youthful poet was a strange mixture 
 of a singular grace, which manifested itself in his actions and 
 gestures, with an occasional awkwardness almost as remark- 
 able. As soon as we entered the room, he placed his chair as 
 usual directly in front of the fire, and eagerly pressed forward 
 to warm himself, for the frost was severe, and he was very 
 sensible of cold. Whilst cowering over the fire and rubbing 
 his hands, he abruptly set both his feet at once upon the edge 
 of the fender ; it immediately flew up, threw under the grate 
 the dish, which was broken into two pieces, and the whole of 
 the delicious mess was mingled with the cinders and ashes, that 
 had accumulated for several hours. It was impossible that 
 a hungry and frozen pedestrian should restrain a strong 
 expression of indignation, or that he should forbear, notwith- 
 standing the exasperation of cold and hunger, from smiling 
 and forgiving the accident at seeing the whimsical air and 
 aspect of the offender, as he held up with the shovel the long- 
 anticipated food, deformed by ashes, coals, and cinders, with 
 a ludicrous expression of exaggerated surprise, disappoint- 
 ment, and contrition. It would be easy to fill many volumes 
 with reminiscences characteristic of my young friend, and 
 of these the most trifling would perhaps best illustrate 
 his innumerable peculiarities. With the discerning, trifles, 
 although they are accounted such, have their value. A 
 familiarity with the daily habits of Shelley, and the knowledge 
 of his demeanour in private, will greatly facilitate, and they 
 are perhaps even essential to, the full comprehension of his 
 views and opinions. Traits that unfold an infantine simplicity, 
 the genuine simplicity of true genius, will be slighted by those 
 only who are ignorant of the qualities that constitute greatness 
 of soul : the philosophical observer knows well, that to have 
 
64 Life of Shelley 
 
 shown a mind to be original and perfectly natural, is no 
 inconsiderable step in demonstrating that it is also great. 
 
 Our supper had disappeared under the grate, but we were 
 able to silence the importunity of hunger. As the supply of 
 cheese was scanty, Shelley pretended, in order to atone for 
 his carelessness, that he never ate it ; but I refused to take 
 more than my share, and notwithstanding his reiterated 
 declarations, that it was offensive to his palate and hurtful 
 to his stomach, as I was inexorable, he devoured the remainder, 
 greedily swallowing not merely the cheese, but the rind also, 
 after scraping it cursorily, and with a curious tenderness. A 
 tankard of the stout brown ale of our college aided us greatly 
 in removing the sense of cold, and in supplying the deficiency 
 of food, so that we turned our chairs towards the fire, and 
 began to brew our negus as cheerfully as if the bounty of the 
 hospitable gods had not been intercepted. 
 
 We reposed ourselves after the fatigue of an unusually long 
 walk, and silence was broken by short remarks only, and at 
 considerable intervals, respecting the beauty of moonlight 
 scenes, and especially of that we had just enjoyed ; the 
 serenity and clearness of the night exceeded any we had before 
 witnessed ; the light was so strong it would have been easy to 
 read or write. * How strange was it, that light proceeding from 
 the sun, which was at such a prodigious distance, and at that 
 time entirely out of sight, should be reflected from the moon, 
 and that was no trifling journey, and sent back to the earth in 
 such abundance, and with so great force ! ' 
 
 Languid expressions of admiration dropped from our lips, as 
 we stretched our stiff and wearied limbs towards the genial 
 warmth of a blazing fire. On a sudden, Shelley started from 
 his seat, seized one of the candles, and began to walk about the 
 room on tiptoe in profound silence, often stooping low, and 
 evidently engaged in some mysterious search. I asked him 
 what he wanted, but he returned no answer, and continued 
 his whimsical and secret inquisition, which he prosecuted in 
 the same extraordinary manner in the bedroom and the little 
 study. It had occurred to him that a dessert had possibly 
 been sent to his rooms whilst we were absent, and had been 
 put away. He found the object of his pursuit at last, and 
 produced some small dishes from the study ; apples, oranges, 
 almonds and raisins, and a little cake. These he set close 
 together at my side of the table, without speaking, but with a 
 triumphant look, yet with the air of a penitent making restitu- 
 
Life of Shelley 
 
 tion and reparation, and then resumed his seat. The unex- 
 pected succour was very seasonable ; this Hght fare, a few 
 glasses of negus, warmth, and especially rest, restored our lost 
 vigour, and our spirits. We spoke of our happy life, of 
 Universities, of what they might be ; of what they were. 
 How powerfully they might stimulate the student, how much 
 valuable instruction they might impart ! We agreed that, 
 although the least possible benefit was conferred upon us in 
 this respect at Oxford, we were deeply indebted, nevertheless, 
 to the great and good men of former days, who founded those 
 glorious institutions, for devising a scheme of life, which, how- 
 ever deflected from its original direction, still tended to study, 
 and especially for creating establishments that called young 
 men together from all parts of the empire, and for endowing 
 them with a celebrity that was able to induce so many to 
 congregate. Without such an opportunity of meeting we 
 should never have been acquainted with each other ; in so large 
 a body there must doubtless be many at that time, who were 
 equally thankful for the occasion of the like intimacy ; and in 
 former generations how many friendships that had endured 
 through all the various trials of a long and eventful life, had 
 arisen here from accidental communion, as in our own case. 
 
 If there was little positive encouragement, there were 
 various negative inducements to acquire learning ; there were 
 no interruptions, no secular cares ; our wants were well 
 supplied without the slightest exertion on our part, and the 
 exact regularity of academical existence cut off that dissipation 
 of the hours and the thoughts, which so often prevails where 
 the daily course is not pre-arranged. The necessity of early 
 rising was beneficial ; like the Pythagoreans of old, we began 
 with the Gods ; the salutary attendance in chapel every 
 morning not only compelled us to quit our beds betimes, but 
 imposed additional duties conducive to habits of industry ; it 
 was requisite, not merely to rise, but to leave our rooms, to 
 appear in public, and to remain long enough to destroy the 
 disposition to indolence, which might still linger if we were 
 permitted to remain by the fireside. To pass some minutes in 
 society, yet in solemn silence, is like the Pythagorean initiation, 
 and we auspicate the day happily by commencing with sacred 
 things. I scarcely ever visited Shelley before one o'clock ; 
 when I met him in the morning at chapel, he used studiously 
 to avoid all communication, and, as soon as the doors were 
 opened, to effect a ludicrously precipitate retreat to his rooms. 
 
 F 
 
66 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' The country near Oxford ', he continued, as we reposed 
 after our meagre supper, ' has no pretensions to peculiar 
 beauty, but it is quiet, and pleasant, and rural, and purely 
 agricultural after the good old fashion ; it is not only unpol- 
 luted by manufactures and commerce, but it is exempt from 
 the desecration of the modern husbandry, of a system which 
 accounts the farmer a manufacturer of hay and corn : I 
 delight to wander over it '. He enlarged upon the pleasure of 
 our pedestrian excursions, and added — * I can imagine few 
 things that would annoy me more severely than to be disturbed 
 in our tranquil course ; it would be a cruel calamity to be 
 interrupted by some untoward accident, to be compelled to 
 quit our calm and agreeable retreat. Not only would it be a 
 sad mortification, but a real misfortune, for if I remain here I 
 shall study more closely and with greater advantage than I 
 could in any other situation that I can conceive. Are you 
 not of the same opinion ? ' 
 
 * Entirely.' 
 
 * I regret only that the period of our residence is limited to 
 four years ; I wish they would revive, for our sake, the old 
 term of six or seven years. If we consider how much there is 
 for us to learn ' — here he paused and sighed deeply through 
 that despondency which sometimes comes over the unwearied 
 and zealous student — ' we shall allow that the longer period 
 would still be far too short ! ' 
 
 I assented, and we discoursed concerning the abridgment 
 of the ancient term of residence, and the diminution of the 
 academical year by frequent, protractedj and most incon- 
 venient vacations. 
 
 * To quit Oxford ', he said, ' would be still more unpleasant 
 to you than to myself, for you aim at objects that I do not seek 
 to compass, and you cannot fail, since you are resolved to 
 place your success beyond the reach of chance.' 
 
 He enumerated with extreme rapidity and in his enthusiastic 
 strain, some of the benefits and comforts of a college life. 
 
 ' Then the oak is such a blessing ', he exclaimed with peculiar 
 fervour, clasping his hands, and repeating often — ' the oak is 
 such a blessing ! ' slowly and in a solemn tone. * The oak alone 
 goes far towards making this place a paradise. In what other 
 spot in the world, surely in none that I have hitherto visited, 
 can you say confidently, it is perfectly impossible, physically 
 impossible, that I should be disturbed ? Whether a man 
 desire solitary study, or to enjoy the society of a friend or 
 
Life of Shelley (i'] 
 
 two, he is secure against interruption. It is not so in a house, 
 not by any means ; there is not the same protection in a 
 house, even in the best-contrived house. The servant is bound 
 to answer the door ; he must appear and give some excuse : 
 he may betray by hesitation and confusion that he utters a 
 falsehood ; he must expose himself to be questioned ; he must 
 open the door and violate your privacy in some degree ; 
 besides there are other doors, there are windows at least, 
 through which a prying eye can detect some indication that 
 betrays the mystery. How different is it here ! The bore 
 arrives ; the outer door is shut ; it is black and solid, and per- 
 fectly impenetrable, as is your secret ; the doors are all alike ; 
 he can distinguish mine from yours by the geographical 
 position only. He may knock ; he may call ; he may kick, 
 if he will ; he may inquire of a neighbour, but he can inform 
 him of nothing ; he can only say, the door is shut, and this he 
 knows already. He may leave his card, that you may rejoice 
 over it, and at your escape ; he may write upon it the hour 
 when he proposes to call again, to put you upon your guard, 
 and that he may be quite sure of seeing the back of your door 
 once more. When the bore meets you and says, I called at 
 your house at such a time, you are required to explain your 
 absence, to prove an alibi in short, and perhaps to undergo a 
 rigid cross-examination ; but if he tells you, " I called at your 
 rooms yesterday at three, and the door was shut ", you have 
 only to say, " Did you ? was it .? " and there the matter ends.* 
 
 ' Were you not charmed with your oak ? did it not instantly 
 captivate you ? ' 
 
 ' My introduction to it was somewhat unpleasant and 
 unpropitious. The morning after my arrival I was sitting at 
 breakfast ; my scout, the Arimaspian, apprehending that the 
 singleness of his eye may impeach his character for officious- 
 ness, in order to escape the reproach of seeing half as much only 
 as other men, is always striving to prove that he sees at least 
 twice as far as the most sharpsighted : after many demon- 
 strations of superabundant activity, he inquired if I wanted 
 anything more ; I answered in the negative. He had already 
 opened the door : " Shall I sport, sir ? " he asked briskly as 
 he stood upon the threshold. He seemed so unlike a sporting 
 character, that I was curious to learn in what sport he pro- 
 posed to indulge. I answered — " Yes, by all means ", and 
 anxiously watched him, but to my surprise and disappoint- 
 ment he instantly vanished. As soon as I had finished my 
 
68 Life of Shelley 
 
 breakfast, I sallied forth to survey Oxford ; I opened one door 
 quickly, and not suspecting that there was a second, I struck 
 my head against it with some violence. The blow taught me 
 to observe that every set of rooms has two doors, and 1 soon 
 learned that the outer door, which is thick and solid, is called 
 the oak, and to shut it is termed, to sport. I derived so much 
 benefit from my oak, that I soon pardoned this slight incon- 
 venience : it is surely the tree of knowledge.' 
 
 ' Who invented the oak ? ' 
 
 * The inventors of the science of living in rooms, or chambers 
 — the Monks.' 
 
 ' Ah ! they were sly fellows ; none but men who were reputed 
 to devote themselves for many hours to prayers, to religious 
 meditations, and holy abstractions, would ever have been 
 permitted quietly to place at pleasure such a barrier between 
 themselves and the world. We now reap the advantage of 
 their reputation for sanctity ; I shall revere my oak more than 
 ever, since its origin is so sacred.' 
 
 The sympathies of Shelley were instantaneous and powerful 
 with those who evinced in any degree the qualities for which 
 he was himself so remarkable — simplicity of character, un- 
 affected manners, genuine modesty, and an honest willingness 
 to acquire knowledge, and he sprang to meet their advances 
 with an ingenuous eagerness which was peculiar to him ; but 
 he was suddenly and violently repelled, like the needle from 
 ihe negative pole of the magnet, by any indication of pedantry, 
 presumption, or affectation. So much was he disposed to 
 take offence at such defects, and so acutely was he sensible 
 of them, that he was sometimes unjust, through an excessive 
 sensitiveness, in his estimate of those, who had shocked him 
 by sins, of which he was himself utterly incapable. Whatever 
 might be the attainments, and however solid the merits of the 
 persons filling at that time the important office of instructors 
 in the University, they were entirely destitute of the attrac- 
 tions of manner ; their address was sometimes repulsive, and 
 the formal, priggish tutor was too often intent upon the 
 ordinary academical course alone to the entire exclusion of 
 every other department of knowledge : his thoughts were 
 wholly engrossed by it, and so narrow were his views that he 
 overlooked the claims of all merit, however exalted, except 
 success in the public examinations. 
 
 ' They are very dull people here,' Shelley said to me one 
 evening soon after his arrival, with a long-drawn sigh, after 
 
Life of Shelley 69 
 
 musing awhile ; ' a little man sent for me this morning, and 
 told me in an almost inaudible whisper that I must read : 
 " you must read ", he said many times in his small voice. I 
 answered that I had no objection. He persisted ; so, to 
 satisfy him, for he did not appear to believe me, I told him I 
 had some books in my pocket, and I began to take them out. 
 He stared at me, and said that was not exactly what he meant : 
 * ' you must read Prometheus Vinctus, and Demosthenes de 
 Corona, and Euclid ". Must I read Euclid ? I asked sorrow- 
 fully. " Yes, certainly ; and when you have read the Greek 
 works I have mentioned, you must begin Aristotle's Ethics, 
 and then you may go on to his other treatises. It is of the 
 utmost importance to be well acquainted with Aristotle ' ' . This 
 he repeated so often that I was quite tired, and at last I said, 
 Must I care about Aristotle ? what if I do not mind Aristotle ? 
 I then left him, for he seemed to be in great perplexity.' 
 
 Notwithstanding the slight he had thus cast upon the great 
 master of the science, that has so long been the staple of Ox- 
 ford, he was not blind to the value of the science itself. He 
 took the scholastic logic very kindly, seized its distinctions 
 with his accustomed quickness, felt a keen interest in the 
 study, and patiently endured the exposition of those minute 
 discriminations, which the tyro is apt to contemn as vain and 
 trifling. 
 
 It should seem that the ancient method of communicating 
 the art of syllogizing has been preserved, in part at least, by 
 tradition in this university. I have sometimes met with 
 learned foreigners, who understood the end and object of the 
 scholastic logic, having received the traditional instruction in 
 some of the old universities on the Continent ; but I never 
 found even one of my countrymen, except Oxonians, who 
 rightly comprehended the nature of the science : I may, per- 
 haps, add, that in proportion as the self-taught logicians had 
 laboured in the pursuit, they had gone far astray. It is 
 possible, nevertheless, that those who have drunk at the 
 fountain-head, and have read the Organon of Aristotle in 
 the original, may have attained to a just comprehension by 
 their unassisted energies ; but in this age, and in this country, 
 I apprehend the number of such adventurous readers is very 
 inconsiderable. 
 
 Shelley frequently exercised his ingenuity in long discussions 
 respecting various questions in logic, and more frequently 
 indulged in metaphysical inquiries. We read several meta- 
 
JO Life of Shelley 
 
 physical works together, in whole, or in part, for the first time, 
 or after a previDus perusal, by one, or by both of us. 
 
 The examination of a chapter of Locke's Essay concerning 
 Human Understanding would induce him, at any moment, to 
 quit every other pursuit. We read together Hume's Essays, 
 and some productions of Scotch metaphysicians, of inferior 
 ability — all with assiduous and friendly altercations, and the 
 latter writers, at least, with small profit, unless some sparks cf 
 knowledge were struck out in the collision of debate. We read 
 also certain popular French works, that treat of man, for the 
 most part in a mixed method, metaphysically, morally, and 
 politically. Hume's Essays were a favourite book with 
 Shelley, and he was always ready to put forward in argument 
 the doctrines they uphold. 
 
 It may seem strange that he should ever have accepted the 
 sceptical philosophy, a system so uncongenial with a fervid and 
 imaginative genius, which can allure the cool, cautious, ab- 
 stinent reasoner alone, and would deter the enthusiastic, the 
 fanciful, and the speculative. We must bear in mind, how- 
 ever, that he was an eager, bold, and unwearied disputant ; and 
 although the position, in which the sceptic and the materialist 
 love to entrench themselves, offers no picturesque attrac- 
 tions to the eye of the poet, it is well adapted for defensive 
 warfare ; and it is not easy for an ordinary enemy to dislodge 
 him, who occupies a post that derives strength from the weak- 
 ness of the assailant. It has been insinuated, that whenever a 
 man of real talent and generous feelings condescends to fight 
 under these colours, he is guilty of a dissimulation, which he 
 deems harmless, perhaps even praiseworthy, for the sake of 
 victory in argument. 
 
 It was not a little curious to observe one, whose sanguine 
 temper led him to believe implicitly every assertion, so that it 
 was improbable and incredible, exulting in the success of his 
 philosophical doubts, when, like the calmest and most sus- 
 picious of analysts, he refused to admit, without strict proof, 
 propositions that many, who are not deficient in metaphysical 
 prudence, account obvious and self-evident. The sceptical 
 philosophy had another charm ; it partook of the new and the 
 wonderful, inasmuch as it called into doubt, and seemed to 
 place in jeopardy, during the joyous hours of disputation, 
 many important practical conclusions. To a soul loving 
 excitement and change, destruction, so that it be on a grand 
 scale, may sometimes prove hardly less inspiring than creation. 
 
Life of Shelley 71 
 
 The feat of the magician, who, by the touch of his wand, could 
 cause the great pyramid to dissolve into the air, and to vanish 
 from the sight, would be as surprising as the achievement of 
 him who, by the same rod, could instantly raise a similar mass 
 in any chosen spot. If the destruction of the eternal monu- 
 ment was only apparent, the ocular sophism would be at once 
 harmless and ingenious : so was it with the logomachy of the 
 young and strenuous logician, and his intellectual activity 
 merited praise and reward. 
 
 There was another reason, moreover, why the sceptical 
 philosophy should be welcome to Shelley at that time : he 
 was young, and it is generally acceptable to youth. It is 
 adopted as the abiding rule of reason throughout life by those 
 only who are distinguished by a sterility of soul, a barrenness 
 of invention, a total dearth of fancy, and a scanty stock of 
 learning. Such, in truth, although the warmth of juvenile 
 blood, the light burthen of few years, and the precipitation of 
 inexperience, may sometimes seem to contradict the assertion, 
 is the state of the mind at the commencement of manhood, 
 when the vessel has as yet received only a small portion of the 
 cargo of the accumulated wisdom of past ages, when the 
 amount of mental operations, that have actually been per- 
 formed, is small, and the materials, upon which the imagina- 
 tion can work, are insignificant ; consequently, the inventions 
 of the young are crude and frigid. 
 
 Hence the most fertile mind exactly resembles in early youth 
 the hopeless barrenness of those, who have grown old in vain, 
 as to its actual condition, and it differs only in the unseen 
 capacity for future production. The philosopher who de- 
 clares that he knows nothing, and that nothing can be known, 
 will readily find followers among the young, for they are 
 sensible that they possess the requisite qualification for enter- 
 ing his school, and are as far advanced in the science of 
 ignorance as their master. 
 
 A stranger, who should have chanced to have been present 
 at some of Shelley's disputes, or who knew him only from 
 having read some of the short argumentative essays which he 
 composed as voluntary exercises, would have said, * Surely the 
 soul of Hume passed by transmigration into the body of that 
 eloquent young man ; or rather, he represents one of the 
 enthusiastic and animated materialists of the French school, 
 whom revolutionary violence lately intercepted at an early age 
 in his philosophical career.' 
 
72 Life of Shelley 
 
 There were times, however, when a visitor, who had Ustened 
 to glowing discourses dehvered with a more intense ardour, 
 would have hailed a young Platonist, breathing forth the ideal 
 philosophy, and in his pursuit of the intellectual world entirely 
 overlooking the material, or noticing it only to contemn it. 
 The tall boy, who is permitted for the first season to scare the 
 partridges with his new fowling-piece, scorns to handle the top 
 or the hoop of his younger brother ; thus the man, whose 
 years and studies are mature, slights the first feeble aspirations 
 after the higher departments of knowledge, that were deemed 
 so important during his residence at college. It seems laugh- 
 able, but it is true, that our knowledge of Plato was derived 
 solely from Dacier's translation of a few of the dialogues, and 
 from an English version of that French translation ; we had 
 never attempted a single sentence in the Greek. Since that 
 time, however, I believe, few of our countrymen have read the 
 golden works of that majestic philosopher in the original 
 language more frequently and more carefully than ourselves ; 
 and few, if any, with more profit than Shelle3^ 
 Although the source, whence flowed our earliest taste of the 
 divine philosophy, was scanty and turbid, the draught was not 
 the less grateful to our lips : our zeal in some measure atoned 
 for our poverty. 
 
 Shelley was never weary of reading, or of listening to me 
 whilst I read, passages from the dialogues contained in this 
 collection, and especially from the Phcedo, and he was vehe- 
 mently excited by the striking doctrines which Socrates unfolds, 
 especially by that which teaches that all our knowledge con- 
 sists of reminiscences of what we had learned in a former 
 existence. He often rose, paced slowly about the room, shook 
 his long wild locks, and discoursed in a solemn tone and with a 
 mysterious air, speculating concerning our previous condition, 
 and the nature of our life and occupations in that world, where, 
 according to Plato, we had attained to erudition, and had 
 advanced ourselves in knowledge so far that the most studious 
 and the most inventive, or in other words, those who have the 
 best memory, are able to call back a part only, and with much 
 pain and extreme difficulty, of what was formerly familiar to 
 us. 
 
 It is hazardous, however, to speak of his earliest efforts as a 
 Platonist, lest they should be confounded with his subsequent 
 advancement ; it is not easy to describe his first introduc- 
 tion to the exalted wisdom of antiquity without borrowing 
 
Life of Shelley 73 
 
 inadvertently from the knowledge which he afterwards 
 acquired. The cold, ungenial, foggy atmosphere of northern 
 metaphysics was less suited to the ardent temperament of his 
 soul, than the warm, bright, vivifying climate of the southern 
 and eastern philosophy ; his genius expanded under the 
 benign influence of the latter, and he derived copious instruc- 
 tion from a luminous system, that is only dark through excess 
 of brightness, and seems obscure to vulgar vision through its 
 extreme radiance. Nevertheless, in argument — and to argue 
 on all questions was his dominant passion — he usually adopted 
 the scheme of the sceptics, partly, perhaps, because it was 
 more popular and is more generally understood : the disputant, 
 who would use Plato as his text-book in this age, would reduce 
 his opponents to a small number indeed. 
 
 The study of that highest department of ethics, which 
 includes all the inferior branches, and is directed towards 
 the noblest and most important ends, of Jurisprudence, was 
 always next my heart ; at an early age it attracted my atten- 
 tion. 
 
 When I first endeavoured to turn the regards of Shelley 
 towards this engaging pursuit, he strongly expressed a very 
 decided aversion from such inquiries, deeming them worthless 
 and illiberal. The beautiful theory of the art of right, and the 
 honourable office of administering distributive justice, have 
 been brought into general discredit, unhappily for the best 
 interests of humanity, and, to the vast detriment of the state, 
 into unmerited disgrace in the modern world by the errors of 
 practitioners. An ingenuous mind instinctively shrinks from 
 the contemplation of legal topics, because the word law is 
 associated with and inevitably calls up the idea of the low 
 chicanery of a pettifogging attorney, of the vulgar oppression 
 and gross insolence of a bailiff, or, at best, of the wearisome 
 and unmeaning tautology that distends an act of parliament, 
 and the dull dropsical compositions of the special pleader, the 
 conveyancer, or other draughtsman. 
 
 In no country is this unhappy debasement of a most illustrious 
 science more remarkable than in our own ; no other nation is 
 so prone to, or so patient of abuses ; in no other land are posts 
 in themselves honourable so accessible to the meanest. The 
 spirit of trade favours the degradation, and every commercial 
 town is a well-spring of vulgarity, which sends forth hosts of 
 practitioners devoid of the solid and elegant attainments which 
 could sustain the credit of the science, but so strong in the 
 
74 Life of Shelley 
 
 artifices that insure success, as not only to monopolize the 
 rewards due to merit, but sometimes even to climb the judg- 
 ment-seat. 
 
 It is not wonderful, therefore, that generous minds, until 
 they have been taught to discriminate, and to distinguish a 
 noble science from ignoble practices, should usually con- 
 found them together, hastily condemning the former with 
 the latter. Shelley listened with much attention to questions 
 of natural law, and with the warm interest that he felt in all 
 metaphysical disquisitions, after he had conquered his first 
 prejudice against practical jurisprudence. 
 
 The science of right, like other profound and extensive 
 sciences, can only be acquired completely when the founda- 
 tions have been laid at an early age : had the energies of 
 Shelley's vigorous mind taken this direction at that time, it is 
 impossible to doubt that he would have become a distinguished 
 jurist. Besides that fondness for such inquiries, which is 
 necessary to success in any liberal pursuit, he displayed the 
 most acute sensitiveness of injustice, however slight, and a 
 vivid perception of inconvenience. As soon as a wrong, aris- 
 ing from a proposed enactment, or a supposed decision, was 
 suggested, he instantly rushed into the opposite extreme ; and 
 when a greater evil was shown to result from the contrary 
 course which he had so hastily adopted, his intellect was 
 roused, and he endeavoured most earnestly to ascertain the 
 true mean that would secure the just by avoiding the unjust 
 extremes. 
 
 I have observed in young men, that the propensity to plunge 
 headlong into a net of difficulty, on being startled at an 
 apparent want of equity in any rule that was propounded, 
 although at first it might seem to imply a lack of caution and 
 foresight — which are eminently the virtues of legislators and 
 of judges — was an unerring prognostic of a natural aptitude 
 for pursuits, wherein eminence is inconsistent with an inertness 
 of the moral sense and a recklessness of the violation of rights, 
 however remote and trifling. Various instances of such 
 aptitude in Shelley might be furnished, but these studies are 
 interesting to a limited number of persons only. 
 
 As the mind of Shelley was apt to acquire many of the most 
 valuable branches of liberal knowledge, so there were other 
 portions comprised within the circle of science, for the recep- 
 tion of which, however active and acute, it was entirely unfit. 
 He rejected with marvellous impatience every mathematical 
 
Life of Shelley 75 
 
 discipline that was offered ; no problem could awaken the 
 slightest curiosity, nor could he be made sensible of the 
 beauty of any theorem. The method of demonstration had no 
 charms for him ; he complained of the insufferable prolixity 
 and the vast tautology of Euclid and the other ancient geo- 
 metricians ; and when the discoveries of modern analysts were 
 presented, he was immediately distracted, and fell into endless 
 musings. 
 
 With respect to the Oriental tongues, he coldly observed that 
 the appearance of the characters was curious. Although he 
 perused with more than ordinary eagerness the relations of 
 travellers in the East, and the translations of the marvellous 
 tales of oriental fancy, he was not attracted by the desire to 
 penetrate the languages which veil these treasures. He would 
 never deign to lend an ear, or an eye, for a moment to my 
 Hebrew studies, in which I had made at that time some small 
 progress ; nor could he be tempted to inquire into the value of 
 the singular lore of the Rabbins. 
 
 He was able, like the many, to distinguish a violet from a 
 sunflower, and a cauliflower from a peony : but his botanical 
 knowledge was more limited than that of the least skilful of 
 common observers, for he was neglectful of flowers. He was 
 incapable of apprehending the delicate distinctions of structure 
 which form the basis of the beautiful classification of modern 
 botanists. I was never able to impart even a glimpse of the 
 merits of Ray, or Linnaeus, or to encourage a hope that he 
 would ever be competent to see the visible analogies that con- 
 stitute the marked, yet mutually approaching genera, into 
 which the productions of nature, and especially vegetables, are 
 divided. 
 
 It may seem invidious to notice imperfections in a mind of 
 the highest order, but the exercise of a due candour, how- 
 ever unwelcome, is required to satisfy those who were not 
 acquainted with Shelley, that the admiration excited by his 
 marvellous talents and manifold virtues in all who were so 
 fortunate as to enjoy the opportunity of examining his merits 
 by frequent intercourse, was not the result of the blind parti- 
 ality that amiable and innocent dispositions, attractive man- 
 ners, and a noble and generous bearing sometimes create. 
 
 Shelley was always unwilling to visit the remarkable speci- 
 mens of architecture, the objects of art, and the various anti- 
 quities that adorn Oxford ; although, if he encountered them 
 by accident, and they were pointed out to him, he admired 
 
']() Life of Shelley 
 
 them more sincerely and heartily than the generality of 
 strangers, who, through compliance with fashion, ostenta- 
 tiously sought them out. His favourite recreation, as I have 
 already stated, was a free, unrestrained ramble into the 
 country. 
 
 After quitting the city and its environs by walking briskly 
 along the highway for several miles, it was his delight to strike 
 boldly into the fields, to cross the country daringly on foot, as 
 is usual with sportsmen in shooting ; to perform, as it were, a 
 pedestrian steeple-chase. He was strong, light, and active, 
 and in all respects well suited for such exploits, and we used 
 frequently to traverse a considerable tract in this manner, 
 especially when the frost had dried the land, had given com- 
 plete solidity to the most treacherous paths, and had thrown 
 a natural bridge over spots that in open weather during the 
 winter would have been nearly impassable. 
 
 By resolutely piercing through a district in this manner, we 
 often stumbled upon objects in our humble travels that created 
 a certain surprise and interest : some of them are still fresh in 
 my recollection. My susceptible companion was occasionally 
 much delighted and strongly excited by incidents that would 
 perhaps have seemed unimportant trifles to others. 
 
 One day we had penetrated somewhat farther than usual, 
 for the ground was in excellent order, and as the day was 
 intensely cold, although bright and sunny, we had pushed on 
 with uncommon speed. I do not remember the direction we 
 took ; nor can I even determine on which side of the Thames 
 our course lay. We had crossed roads and lanes, and had 
 traversed open fields and inclosures ; some tall and ancient 
 trees were on our right hand ; we skirted a little wood, and 
 presently came to a small copse. It was guarded by an old 
 hedge, or thicket ; we were deflected, therefore, from our on- 
 ward course towards the left, and we were winding round it, 
 when the quick eye of my companion perceived a gap ; he 
 instantly dashed in with as much alacrity as if he had suddenly 
 caught a glimpse of a pheasant that he had lately wounded in a 
 district where such game was scarce, and he disappeared in a 
 moment. 
 
 I followed him, but with less ardour, and passing through a 
 narrow belt of wood and thicket, I presently found him stand- 
 ing motionless in one of his picturesque attitudes, riveted to the 
 earth in speechless astonishment. He had thrown himself 
 thus precipitately into a trim flower-garden, of a circular. 
 
Life of Shelley 77 
 
 or rather an oval form, of small dimensions, encompassed by 
 a narrow, but close girdle of trees and underwood ; it was 
 apparently remote from all habitations, and it contrasted 
 strongly with the bleak and bare country through which we 
 had recently passed. 
 
 Had the secluded scene been bright with the gay flowers of 
 spring, with hyacinths and tulips ; had it been powdered with 
 mealy auriculas, or conspicuous for a gaudy show of all anem- 
 ones and of every ranunculus ; had it been profusely decora- 
 ted by the innumerable roses of summer, it would be easy to 
 understand why it was so cheerful. But we were now in the 
 very heart of winter, and after much frost scarcely a single 
 wretched brumal flower lingered and languished. There was no 
 foliage, save the dark leaves of evergreens, and of them there 
 were many, especially around and on the edges of the magic 
 circle, on which account possibly, but chiefly perhaps through 
 the symmetry of the numerous small parterres, the scrupulous 
 neatness of the corresponding walks, the just ordonnance and 
 disposition of certain benches, the integrity and freshness of 
 the green trellices, and of the skeletons of some arbours, and 
 through every leafless excellence which the dried anatomy of a 
 flower-garden can exhibit, its past and its future wealth seemed 
 to shine forth in its present poverty, and its potential glories 
 adorns its actual disgrace. 
 
 The sudden transition from the rugged fields to this gar- 
 nished and decorated retreat was striking, and held my imagina- 
 tion captive a few moments ; the impression, however, would 
 probably have soon faded from my memory, had it not been 
 fixed there by the recollection of the beings who gave anima- 
 tion and a permanent interest to the polished nook. 
 
 We admired the trim and retired garden for some minutes 
 in silence, and afterwards each answered in monosyllables the 
 other's brief expressions of wonder. Neither of us had 
 advanced a single step beyond the edge of the thicket through 
 which we had entered ; but I was about to precede, and to 
 walk round the magic circle, in order fully to survey the place, 
 when Shelley startled me by turning with astonishing rapidity, 
 and dashing through the bushes and the gap in the fence with 
 the mysterious and whimsical agility of a kangaroo. Had he 
 caught a glimpse of a tiger crouching behind the laurels, and 
 preparing to spring upon him, he could not have vanished 
 more promptly, or more silently. I was habituated to his 
 abrupt movements, nevertheless his alacrity surprised me. 
 
78 Life of Shelley 
 
 and I tried in vain to discover what object had scared him 
 away. I retired, therefore, to the gap, and when I reached 
 it, I saw him already at some distance, proceeding with gigantic 
 strides nearly in the same route by which we came. I ran 
 after him, and when I rejoined him, he had halted upon a turn- 
 pike-road, and was hesitating as to the course he ought too 
 pursue. It was our custom to advance across the country 
 as far as the utmost limits of our time would permit, and to 
 go back to Oxford by the first public road we found, after 
 attaining the extreme distance to which we could venture to 
 wander. 
 
 Having ascertained the route homeward, we pursued it 
 quickly, as we were wont, but less rapidly than Shelley had 
 commenced his hasty retreat. He had perceived that the 
 garden was attached to a gentleman's house, and he had conse- 
 quently quitted it thus precipitately. I had already observed 
 on the right a winding path that led through a plantation to 
 certain offices, which showed that a house was about a quarter 
 of a mile from the spot where I then stood. 
 
 Had I been aware that the garden was connected with a 
 residence, I certainly should not have trespassed upon it ; 
 but having entered unconsciously, and since the owner was 
 too far removed to be annoyed by observing the intrusion, 
 I was tempted to remain a short time to examine a spot which, 
 during my brief visit, seemed so singular. The superior and 
 highly sensitive delicacy of my companion instantly took the 
 alarm on discovering indications of a neighbouring mansion : 
 hence his marvellous precipitancy in withdrawing himself 
 from the garnished retirement he had unwittingly penetrated ; 
 and we had advanced some distance along the road before he 
 had entirely overcome his modest confusion. 
 
 Shelley had looked on the ornate inclosure with a poet's 
 eye, and as we hastily pursued our course towards Oxford by 
 the frozen and sounding way, whilst the day rapidly declined, 
 he discoursed of it fancifully, and with a more glowing ani- 
 mation than ordinary, like one agitated by a divine fury, and 
 by the impulse of inspiring Deity. He continued, indeed, 
 so long to enlarge upon the marvels of the enchanted grove, 
 that I hinted the enchantress might possibly be at hand, and 
 since he was so eloquent concerning the nest, what would have 
 been his astonishment had he been permitted to see the bird 
 herself. 
 
 He sometimes described with a curious fastidiousness the 
 
Life of Shelley 79 
 
 qualities, which a female must possess, to kindle the fire of 
 love in his bosom : the imaginative youth supposed that he 
 was to be moved by the most absolute perfection alone. It is 
 equally impossible to doubt the exquisite refinement of his 
 taste, or the boundless power of the most mighty of divinities ; 
 to refuse to believe that he was a just and skilful critic of 
 feminine beauty and grace, and of whatever is attractive, or 
 that he was never practically as blind, at the least, as men of 
 ordinary talent. How sadly should we disparage the triumphs 
 of Love were we to maintain that he is able to lead astray the 
 senses of the vulgar alone ! 
 
 In the theory of love, however, a poet will rarely err. 
 Shelley's lively fancy had painted a gOodly portraiture of the 
 mistress of the fair garden, nor were apt words wanting to 
 convey to me a faithful copy of the bright original. It would 
 be a cruel injustice to an orator, should a plain man attempt, 
 after a silence of more than twenty years, to revive his glow- 
 ing harangue from faded recollections ; I will not seek, there- 
 fore, to pourtray the likeness of the ideal nymph of the flower- 
 garden. 
 
 ' Since your fairy gardener ' , I said, * has so completely 
 taken possession of your imagination ' — and he was wonder- 
 fully excited by the unexpected scene and his own splendid 
 decorations — ' it is a pity we did not notice the situation, for 
 I am quite sure I should not be able to return thither, to 
 recover your Eden, and the Eve whom you created to till it ; 
 and I doubt whether you could guide me.' 
 
 He acknowledged that he was as incapable of finding it 
 again, as of leading me to that paradise to which I had com- 
 pared it. 
 
 ' You may laugh at my enthusiasm ', he continued, ' but 
 you must allow that you were not less struck by the singularity 
 of that mysterious corner of the earth than myself ; you are 
 equally entitled, therefore, to dwell there, at least in fancy, 
 and to find a partner whose character will harmonise with 
 the genius of the place.' 
 
 He then declared, that henceforth it should be deemed the 
 possession of two tutelary nymphs, not of one ; and he pro- 
 ceeded with unabated fervour, to delineate the second patron- 
 ess, and to distinguish her from the first. 
 
 ' No ! ' he exclaimed, pausing in the rapid career of words, 
 and for a while he was somewhat troubled, ' the seclusion is 
 too sweet, too holy, to be the theatre of ordinary love ; the 
 
"So Life of Shelley 
 
 love of the sexes, however pure, still retains some taint of 
 earthly grossness ; we must not admit it within the sanctuary.* 
 
 He was silent for several minutes, and his anxiety visibly 
 increased. 
 
 * The love of a mother for her child is more refined ; it is 
 more disinterested, more spiritual ; but ', he added, after some 
 reflection, ' the very existence of the child still connects it with 
 the passion, which we have discarded ' ; and he relapsed into 
 his former musings. 
 
 ' The love a sister bears towards a sister ' , he exclaimed 
 abruptly, and with an air of triumph, ' is unexceptionable.' 
 
 The idea pleased him, and as he strode along he assigned 
 the trim garden to two sisters, affirming, with the confidence 
 of an inventor, that it owed its neatness to the assiduous 
 culture of their neat hands ; that it was their constant haunt ; 
 the care of it their favourite pastime, and its prosperity, next 
 after the welfare of each other, the chief wish of both. He 
 described their appearance, their habits, their feelings, and 
 drew a lovely picture of their amiable and innocent attachment ; 
 of the meek and dutiful regard of the younger, which partook, 
 in some degree, of filial reverence, but was more facile and 
 familiar ; and of the protecting, instructing, hoping fondness 
 of the elder, that resembled maternal tenderness, but had less 
 of reserve and more of sympathy. In no other relation could 
 the intimacy be equally perfect ; not even between brothers, 
 for their life is less domestic ; there is a separation in their 
 pursuits, and an independence in the masculine character. 
 The occupations of all females of the same age and rank are 
 the same, and by night sisters cherish each other in the same 
 quiet nest. Their union wears not only the grace of delicacy, 
 but of fragility also ; for it is always liable to be suddenly 
 destroyed by the marriage of either party, or at least to be 
 interrupted and suspended for an indefinite period. 
 
 He depicted so eloquently the excellence of sisterly affec- 
 tion, and he drew so distinctly and so minutely, the image of 
 the two sisters, to whom he chose to ascribe the unusual 
 comeliness of the spot into which we had unintentionally 
 intruded, that the trifling incident has been impressed upon 
 my memory, and has been intimately associated in my mind, 
 through his creations, with his poetic character. 
 
 The prince of Roman eloquence affirms that the good man 
 alone can be a perfect orator — and truly, for without the 
 weight of a spotless reputation, it is certain that the most 
 
Life of Shelley 8 1 
 
 artful and elaborate discourses must want authority, the main 
 ingredient in persuasion. 
 
 The position is, at least, equally true of the poet whose 
 grand strength always lies in the ethical force of his compo- 
 sitions ; and these are great in proportion to the efficient 
 greatness of their moral purpose. If, therefore, we would 
 criticise poetry correctly, and from the foundation, it behoves 
 us to examine the morality of the bard. 
 
 In no individual, perhaps, was the moral sense ever more 
 completely developed than in Shelley ; in no being was the 
 perception of right and of wrong more acute. The biographer 
 who takes upon himself the pleasing and instructive, but 
 difficult and delicate task of composing a faithful history of 
 his whole life, will frequently be compelled to discuss the 
 important questions, whether his conduct, at certain periods, 
 was altogether such as ought to be proposed for imitation ; 
 whether he was ever misled by an ardent imagination a glow- 
 ing temperament, something of hastiness in choice, and a 
 certain constitutional impatience ; whether, like less gifted 
 mortals, he ever shared in the common portion of mortality, 
 — repentance ; and to what extent ? 
 
 Such inquiries, however, do not fall within the compass of 
 a brief narrative of his career at the University. The un- 
 matured mind of a boy is capable of good intentions only, and 
 of generous and kindly feelings, and these were pre-eminent 
 in him. It will be proper to unfold the excellence of his dis- 
 positions, not for the sake of vain and empty praise, but 
 simply to show his aptitude to receive the sweet fury of the 
 Muses. 
 
 His inextinguishable thirst for knowledge, his boundless 
 philanthropy, his fearless, it may be, his almost imprudent, 
 pursuit of truth, have been already exhibited. If mercy to 
 beasts be a criterion of a good man, numerous instances of 
 extreme tenderness would demonstrate his worth. I will 
 mention one only. 
 
 We were walking one afternoon in Bagley Wood ; on turning 
 a corner, we suddenly came upon a boy who was driving an 
 ass. It was very young, and very weak, and was staggering 
 beneath a most disproportionate load of faggots, and he was 
 belabouring its lean ribs angrily and violently with a short, 
 thick, heavy cudgel. 
 
 At the sight of cruelty Shelley was instantly transported 
 far beyond the usual measure of excitement : he sprang for- 
 
 G 
 
82 Life of Shelley 
 
 ward, and was about to interpose with energetic and indignant 
 vehemence. I caught him by the arm, and to his present 
 annoyance held him back, and with much difficulty persuaded 
 him to allow me to be the advocate of the dumb animal. His 
 cheeks glowed with displeasure, and his lips murmured his 
 impatience during my brief dialogue with the young tyrant. 
 
 * That is a sorry little ass, boy ' , I said ; ' it seems to have 
 scarcely any strength '. 
 
 * None at all ; it is good for nothing.' 
 
 * It cannot get on ; it can hardly stand ; if any body could 
 make it go, you would ; you have taken great pains with it.' 
 
 * Yes, I have ; but it is to no purpose ! ' 
 
 * It is of little use striking it, I think.' 
 
 * It is not worth beating ; the stupid beast has got more 
 wood now than it can carry ; it can hardly stand, you see ! ' 
 
 * I suppose it put it upon its back itself ? ' 
 The boy was silent : I repeated the question. 
 
 * No ; it has not sense enough for that ', he replied with an 
 incredulous leer. 
 
 By dint of repeated blows he had split one end of his cudgel, 
 and the sound caused by the divided portion had alarmed 
 Shelley's humanity : I pointed to it and said, * You have split 
 your stick ; it is not good for much now.' 
 
 He turned it, and held the divided end in his hand. 
 
 ' The other end is whole I see ; but I suppose you could 
 split that too on the ass's back if you chose ; it is not so 
 thick.' 
 
 ' It is not so thick, but it is full of knots ; it would take a 
 great deal of trouble to split it, and the beast is not worth 
 that ; it would do no good ! ' 
 
 ' It would do no good, certainly ; and if any body saw you, 
 he might say that you were a savage young ruffian, and that 
 you ought to be served in the same manner yourself.' 
 
 The fellow looked at me with some surprise, and sank into 
 sullen silence. 
 
 He presently threw his cudgel into the wood as far as he was 
 able, and began to amuse himself by pelting the birds with 
 pebbles, leaving my long-eared client to proceed at its own 
 pace, having made up his mind, perhaps, to be beaten himself, 
 when he reached home, by a tyrant still more unreasonable 
 than himself, on account of the inevitable default of his ass. 
 
 Shelley was satisfied with the result of our conversation, and 
 I repeated to him the history of the injudicious and unfortunate 
 
Life of Shelley 83 
 
 interference of Don Quixote between the peasant, John 
 Haldudo, and his servant, Andrew. Although he reluctantly 
 admitted that the acrimony of humanity might often aggravate 
 the sufferings of the oppressed by provoking the oppressor, 
 I always observed that the impulse of generous indignation, 
 on witnessing the infliction of pain, was too vivid to allow 
 him to pause and consider the probable consequences of the 
 abrupt interposition of the knight errantry, which would at 
 once redress all grievances. Such exquisite sensibility and 
 sympathy with suffering so acute and so uncontrolled may 
 possibly be inconsistent with the calmness and forethought 
 of the philosopher, but they accord well with the high tempera- 
 ture of a poet's blood. 
 
 As his port had the meekness of a maiden, so the heart of 
 the young virgin who has never crossed her father's threshold 
 to encounter the rude world, could not be more susceptible 
 of all the sweet domestic charities than his : in this respect 
 Shelley's disposition would happily illustrate the innocence 
 and virginity of the Muses. 
 
 In most men, and especially in very young men, an exces- 
 sive addiction to study tends to chill the heart, and to blunt 
 the feelings, by engrossing the attention. Notwithstanding 
 his extreme devotion to literature, and amidst his various and 
 ardent speculations, he retained a most affectionate regard 
 for his relations, and particularly for the females of his family ; 
 it was not without manifest joy that he received a letter from 
 his mother, or his sisters. 
 
 A child of genius is seldom duly appreciated by the world 
 during his life, least of all by his own kindred. The parents of 
 a man of talent may claim the honour of having given him 
 birth,''yet they commonly enjoy but little of his society. 
 Whilst we hang with delight over the immortal pages, we are 
 apt to suppose that the gifted author was fondly cherished ; 
 that a possession so uncommon and so precious was highly 
 prized ; that his contemporaries anxiously watched his going 
 out, and eagerly looked for his coming in ; for we should our- 
 selves have borne him tenderly in our hands, that he might 
 not dash his foot against a stone. Surely such an one was 
 given in charge to angels, we cry. On the contrary. Nature 
 appears most unaccountably to slight a gift that she gave 
 grudgingly ; as if it were of small value, and easily replaced. 
 
 An unusual number of books, Greek or Latin classics, each 
 inscribed with the name of the donor, which had been pre- 
 
84 Life of Shelley 
 
 sented to him, according to the custom, on quitting Eton, 
 attested that Shelley had been popular among his school- 
 fellows. Many of them were then at Oxford, and they fre- 
 quently called at his rooms : although he spoke of them with 
 regard, he generally avoided their society, for it interfered 
 with his beloved study, and interrupted the pursuits to which 
 he ardently and entirely devoted himself. 
 
 In the nine centuries that elapsed from the time of our great 
 founder, Alfred, to our days, there never was a student who 
 more richly merited the favour and assistance of a learned 
 body, or whose fruitful mind would have repaid with a larger 
 harvest, the labour of careful and judicious cultivation. And 
 such cultivation he was well entitled to receive. Nor did 
 his scholar-like virtues merit neglect ; still less to be betrayed, 
 like the young nobles of Falisci, by a traitorous school- 
 master, to an enemy less generous than Camillus. No 
 student ever read more assiduously. He was to be found, 
 book in hand, at all hours ; reading in season and out of 
 season ; at table, in bed, and especially during a walk ; not 
 only in the quiet country, and in retired paths ; not only at 
 Oxford, in the public walks, and High Street, but in the most 
 crowded thoroughfares of London. Nor was he less absorbed 
 by the volume that was open before him, in Cheapside, in 
 Cranbourne Alley, or in Bond Street, than in a lonely lane, or 
 a secluded library. 
 
 Sometimes a vulgar fellow would attempt to insult or 
 annoy the eccentric student in passing. Shelley always 
 avoided the malignant interruption by stepping aside with 
 his vast and quiet agility. 
 
 Sometimes I have observed as an agreeable contrast to 
 these wretched men, that persons of the humblest station 
 have paused and gazed with respectful wonder as he advanced 
 almost unconscious of the throng, stooping low, with bent 
 knees and outstretched neck, poring earnestly over the volume, 
 which he extended before him : for they knew this, although 
 the simple people knew but little, that an ardent scholar is 
 worthy of deference, and that the man of learning is necessarily 
 the friend of humanity, and especially of the many. I never 
 beheld eyes that devoured the pages more voraciously 
 than his : I am convinced that two-thirds of the period 
 of day and night were often employed in reading. It is no 
 exaggeration to affirm, that out of the twenty-four hours, 
 he frequently read sixteen. At Oxford, his diligence in this 
 
Life of Shelley 85 
 
 respect was exemplary, but it greatly increased afterwards, 
 and I sometimes thought that he carried it to a pernicious 
 excess : I am sure, at least, that I was unable to keep pace 
 with him. 
 
 On the evening of a wet day, when we had read with scarcely 
 any intermission from an early hour in the morning, I have 
 urged him to lay aside his book. It required some extrava- 
 gance to rouse him to join heartily in conversation ; to tempt 
 him to avoid the chimney-piece, on which commonly he had 
 laid the open volume. 
 
 ' If I were to read as long as you read, Shelley, my hair and 
 my teeth would be strewed about on the floor, and my eyes 
 would slip down my cheeks into my waistcoat pockets ; or 
 at least I should become so weary and nervous that I should 
 not know whether it were so or not.' 
 
 He began to scrape the carpet with his feet, as if teeth were 
 actually lying upon it, and he looked fixedly at my face, and 
 his lively fancy represented the empty sockets ; his imagin- 
 ation was excited, and th*e spell that bound him to his books 
 was broken, and, creeping close to the fire, and, as it were, under 
 the fire-place, he commenced a most animated discourse. 
 Few were aware of the extent, and still fewer, I apprehend, 
 of the profundity of his reading ; in his short life, and without 
 ostentation, he had, in truth, read more Greek than many an 
 aged pedant, who, with pompous parade, prides himself upon 
 this study alone. Although he had not entered critically 
 into the minute niceties of the noblest of languages, he was 
 thoroughly conversant with the valuable matter it contains. 
 A pocket edition of Plato, of Plutarch, of Euripides, without 
 interpretation or notes, or of the Septuagint, was his ordinary 
 companion ; and he read the text straightforward for hours, 
 if not as readily as an English author, at least with as much 
 facility as French, Italian, or Spanish. 
 
 ' Upon my soul, Shelley, your style of going through a 
 Greek book is something quite beautiful ! ' was the wondering 
 exclamation of one who was himself no mean student. 
 
 As his love of intellectual pursuits was vehement, and the 
 vigour of his genius almost celestial, so were the purity and 
 sancity of his life most conspicuous. 
 
 His food was plain and simple as that of a hermit, with a 
 certain anticipation, even at this time, of a vegetable diet, 
 respecting which he afterwards became an enthusiast in theory, 
 and in practice an irregular votary. 
 
86 Life of Shelley 
 
 With his usual fondness for moving the abstruse and diffi- 
 cult questions of the highest theology, he loved to inquire, 
 whether man can justify, on the ground of reason alone, the 
 practice of taking the life of the inferior animals, except in the 
 necessary defence of his life, and of his means of life, the fruits 
 of that field which he has tilled, from violence, and spoliation. 
 
 ' Not only have considerable sects ', he would say, ' denied 
 the right altogether, but those among the tender-hearted and 
 imaginative people of antiquity, who accounted it lawful to 
 kill and eat, appear to have doubted whether they might 
 take away life merely for the use of man alone. They slew 
 their cattle not simply for human guests, like the less scrupulous 
 butchers of modern times, but only as a sacrifice, for the 
 honour and in the name of the Deity ; or rather of those sub- 
 ordinate divinities, to whom, as they believed, the Supreme 
 Being had assigned the creation and conservation of the visible 
 material world ; as an incident to these pious offerings, they 
 partook of the residue of the victims, of which, without such 
 sanction and santification, they would not have presumed 
 to taste. So reverent was the caution of humane and prudent 
 antiquity ! ' 
 
 Bread became his chief sustenance, when his regimen 
 attained to that austerity which afterwards distinguished it. 
 He could have lived on bread alone without repining. When 
 he was walking in London with an acquaintance, he would 
 suddenly run into a baker's shop, purchase a supply, and 
 breaking a loaf, he would offer half of it to his companion. 
 
 ' Do you know ', he said to me one day, with much surprise, 
 ' that such an one does not like bread ? Did you ever know a 
 person who disliked bread ? ' and he told me that a friend had 
 refused such an offer. 
 
 I explained to him, that the individual in question probably 
 had no objection to bread in a moderate quantity, at a proper 
 time and with the usual adjuncts, and was only unwilling to 
 devour two or three pounds of dry bread in the streets, and at 
 an early hour. 
 
 Shelley had no such scruple ; his pockets were generally 
 well-stored with bread. A circle upon the carpet, clearly 
 defined by an ample verge of crumbs, often marked the place 
 where he had long sat at his studies, his face nearly in contact 
 with his book, greedily devouring bread at intervals amidst 
 his profound abstractions. For the most part he took no 
 condiment ; sometimes, however, he ate with his bread the 
 
Life of Shelley 87 
 
 common raisins which are used in making puddings, and these 
 he would buy at Httle mean shops. 
 
 He was walking one day in London with a respectable 
 solicitor, who occasionally transacted business for him ; with 
 his accustomed precipitation he suddenly vanished, and as 
 suddenly reappeared ; he had entered the shop of a little 
 grocer in an obscure quarter, and had returned with some 
 plums, which he held close under the attorney's nose, and the 
 man of fact was as much astonished at the offer, as his client, 
 the man of fancy, at the refusal. 
 
 The common fruit of stalls, and oranges and apples, were 
 always welcome to Shelley ; he would crunch the latter as 
 heartily as a schoolboy. Vegetables, and especially salads, 
 and pies and puddings, were acceptable : his beverage con- 
 sisted of copious and frequent draughts of cold water, but tea 
 was ever grateful, cup after cup, and coffee. Wine was taken 
 with singular moderation, commonly diluted largely with 
 water, and for a long period he would abstain from it alto- 
 gether ; he avoided the use of spirits almost invariably, and 
 even in the most minute portions. 
 
 Like all persons of simple tastes, he retained his sweet tooth ; 
 he would greedily eat cakes, gingerbread, and sugar ; honey, 
 preserved or stewed fruit, with bread, were his favourite 
 delicacies, these he thankfully and joyfully received from 
 others, but he rarely sought for them, or provided them for 
 himself. The restraint and protracted duration of a convivial 
 meal were intolerable ; he was seldom able to keep his seat 
 during the brief period assigned to an ordinary family dinner. 
 
 These particulars may seem trifling, if indeed anything can 
 be little that has reference to a character truly great ; but they 
 prove how much he was ashamed that his soul was in body, 
 and illustrate the virgin abstinence of a mind equally favoured 
 by the Muses, the Graces, and Philosophy. It is true, however, 
 that his application at Oxford, although exemplary, was not so 
 unremitting as it afterwards became ; nor was his diet, al- 
 though singularly temperate, so meagre ; however, his mode of 
 living already offered a foretaste of the studious seclusion and 
 absolute renunciation of every luxurious indulgence which 
 ennobled him a few years later. 
 
 Had a parent desired that his children should be exactly 
 trained to an ascetic life, and should be taught by an eminent 
 example to scorn delights and to live laborious days ; that 
 they should behold a pattern of native innocence and genuine 
 
88 Life of Shelley 
 
 simplicity of manners ; he would have consigned them to his 
 house as to a temple, or to some primitive and still unsophisti- 
 cated monastery. 
 
 It is an invidious thing to compose a perpetual panegyric, 
 yet it is difficult to speak of Shelley, and impossible to speak 
 justly, without often praising him ; it is difficult also to divest 
 myself of later recollections ; to forget for a while what he be- 
 came in days subsequent, and to remember only what he then 
 was, when we were fellow-collegians. It is difficult, more- 
 over, to view him with the mind which I then bore — with a 
 young mind ; to lay aside the seriousness of old age ; for 
 twenty years of assiduous study have induced, if not in the 
 body, at least within, something of premature old age. 
 
 It now seems an incredible thing, and altogether incon- 
 ceivable, when I consider the gravity of Shelley and his in- 
 vincible repugnance to the comic, that the monkey tricks of 
 the schoolboy could have still lingered, but it is certain that 
 some slight vestiges still remained. The metaphysician of 
 eighteen actually attempted once or twice to electrify the son 
 of his scout, a boy like a sheep, by name James, who roared 
 aloud with ludicrous and stupid terror, whenever Shelley 
 affected to bring by stealth any part of his philosophical 
 apparatus near to him. 
 
 As Shelley's health and strength were visibly augmented, if 
 by accident he was obliged to accept a more generous diet than 
 ordinary, and as his mind sometimes appeared to be exhausted 
 by never, ending toil, I often blamed his abstinence and his 
 perpetual application. It is the office of an University, of a 
 public institution for education, not only to apply the spur to 
 the sluggish, but also to rein in the young steed, that, being 
 too mettlesome, hastens with undue speed towards the goal. 
 
 ' It is a very odd thing, but every woman can live with my 
 lord and do just what she pleases with him, except my lady. 
 Such was the shrewd remark, which a long familiarity taught 
 an old and attached servant to utter respecting his master, a 
 noble poet. 
 
 We may wonder in like manner, and deeply lament, that the 
 most docile, the most facile, the most pliant, the most con- 
 fiding creature, that ever was led through any of the various 
 paths on earth ; that a tractable youth, who was conducted at 
 pleasure by anybody that approached him — it might be 
 occasionally by persons delegated by no legitimate authority — 
 was never guided for a moment by those upon whom, fully and 
 
Life of Shelley 89 
 
 without reservation, that most solemn and sacred obligation 
 had been imposed, strengthened moreover by every public and 
 private, official and personal, moral, political and religious 
 tie, which the civil polity of a long succession of ages could 
 accumulate. Had the University been in fact, as in name, a 
 kind nursing mother to the most gifted of her sons ; to one, 
 who seemed to those that knew him best 
 
 Heaven's exile straying from the orb of light ; 
 
 had that most awful responsibility, the right institution of 
 those, to whom are to be consigned the government of the 
 country and the conservation of whatever good human society 
 has elaborated and excogitated, duly weighed upon the 
 consciences of his instructors, they would have gained his 
 entire confidence by frank kindness, they would have re- 
 pressed his too eager impatience to master the sum of know- 
 ledge, they would have mitigated the rigorous austerity of his 
 course of living, and they would have remitted the extreme 
 tension. of his soul by reconciling him to liberal mirth ; con- 
 vincing him that, if life be not wholly a jest, there are at least 
 many comic scenes occasionally interspersed in the great 
 drama. Nor is the last benefit of trifling importance, for, as 
 an unseemly and excessive gravity is usually the sign of a dull 
 fellow, so is the prevalence of this defect the characteristic of an 
 unlearned and illiberal age. 
 
 Shelley was actually offended, and indeed more indignant 
 than would appear to be consistent with the singular mildness 
 of his nature, at a coarse and awkward jest, especially if it were 
 immodest, or uncleanly ; in the latter case his anger was un- 
 bounded, and his uneasiness pre-eminent ; he was, however, 
 sometimes vehemently delighted by exquisite and delicate 
 sallies, particularly with a fanciful, and perhaps somewhat 
 fantastical, facetiousness — possibly the more because he was 
 himself utterly incapable of pleasantry. 
 
 In every free state, in all countries that enjoy republican 
 institutions, the view which each citizen takes of politics is an 
 essential ingredient in the estimate of his ethical character. 
 The wisdom of a very young man is but foolishness ; neverthe- 
 less, if we would rightly comprehend the moral and intellectual 
 constitution of the youthful poet, it will be expedient to take 
 into account the manner in which he was affected towards the 
 grand political questions, at a period when the whole of the 
 civilized world was agitated by a fierce storm of excitement, 
 
90 Life of Shelley 
 
 that, happily for the peace and well-being of society, is of rare 
 occurrence. 
 
 CHAPTER IV 
 
 One morning, a few days after I made Shelley's acquaintance, 
 I was at his rooms, and we were reading together, two Etonians 
 called on him, as they were wont to do ; they remained a short 
 time conversing with him. 
 
 * Do you mean to be an Atheist here, too, Shelley ? ' one of 
 them inquired. 
 
 ' No ! ' he answered, ' certainly not. There is no motive for 
 it ; there would be no use in it ; they are very civil to us here ; 
 they never interfere with us ; it is not like Eton.* 
 
 To this they both assented. When his visitors were gone, I 
 asked him what they meant. He told me that at Eton he had 
 been called Shelley the Atheist ; and he explained to me the 
 true signification of the epithet. This is the substance of his 
 explanation : 
 
 All persons who are familiar with public schools, are well 
 aware that there is a set of nicknames, many of them denoting 
 offices, as the Pope, the Bishop, the Major, the General, the 
 Governor, and the like, and these are commonly filled by 
 successive generations. At Eton, but at no other school, that 
 I ever heard of, they had the name and office of Atheist ; but 
 this usually was not full, it demanded extraordinary daring to 
 attain to it ; it was commonly in commission, as it were, and 
 the youths of the greatest hardihood might be considered as 
 boys commissioners for executing the office of Lord High 
 Atheist. 
 
 Shelley's predecessor had filled the office some years before 
 his time ; he also was called Blank the Atheist, we must say, 
 for I have forgotten his name. The act of Atheism, in virtue 
 of which he obtained the title, was gross, flagrant, and down- 
 right. 
 
 A huge bunch of grapes, richly gilded, hung in front of ' The 
 Christopher ', as the sign, or in aid of the sign, of the inn. This 
 the profane young wretch took down one dark winter's night, 
 and suspended at the door of the head-master of his day. In 
 the morning, when he rushed out in the twilight to go to chapel, 
 being habitually too late, and always in a hurry, he ran full 
 
Life of Shelley 91 
 
 butt against the bunch of grapes, which was at least as big as 
 himself, a little man. From this it is evident that the word 
 Atheist was used by the learned at Eton, not in a modern, but 
 in an ancient and classical sense, meaning an Antitheist, rather 
 than an Atheist ; for an opposer and contemner of the gods, 
 not one who denies their existence. 
 
 Capaneus, Salmoneus, the Cyclops, and the other strong 
 spirits of the olden time, were termed aOioi, because they in- 
 sulted and defied their deities ; not because they doubted, or 
 denied, that they existed. 
 
 The gods of Eton were the authorities of the school ; no- 
 body ever denied the existence of Old Keate, but many a lad 
 of pluck did everything in his power to torment the old boy ; 
 and amongst these Shelley was conspicuous ; he held the 
 fulminating Jove in scorn, and despised his birchen thunder- 
 bolts. 
 
 It was for contumaciously setting the old tree on fire, of 
 which we have spoken, that he first obtained the full title of 
 Shelley the Atheist, which he held and enjoyed so long as he 
 remained at school. 
 
 Two or three Eton boys called another day, and begged their 
 former schoolfellow to curse his father and the king, as he used 
 occasionally to do at school. Shelley refused, and for some 
 time persisted in his refusal, saying that he had left it off ; but 
 as they continued to urge him, by reason of their importunity 
 he suddenly broke out, and delivered, with vehemence and 
 animation, a string of execrations, greatly resembling in its 
 absurdity a papal anathema ; the f ulmination soon terminated 
 in a hearty laugh, in which we all joined. When we were 
 alone, I said : 
 
 ' Why, you young reprobate, who in the world taught you to 
 curse your father — your own father ? ' 
 
 ' My grandfather. Sir Bysshe, partly ; but principally my 
 friend. Dr. Lind, at Eton. When anything goes wrong at 
 Field Place, my father does nothing but swear all day long 
 afterwards. Whenever I have gone with my father to visit 
 Sir Bysshe, he always received him with a tremendous oath, 
 and continued to heap curses upon his head so long as he re- 
 mained in the room.' 
 
 Sir Bysshe being Ogygian, gouty, and bed-ridden, the poor 
 old baronet had become excessively testy and irritable ; and a 
 request for money instantly aggravated and inflamed every 
 symptom, moved his choler, and stirred up his bile, impelling 
 
92 Life of Shelley 
 
 him irresistibly to alleviate his sufferings by the roundest 
 oaths. 
 
 The grandson gave me some choice specimens of his grand- 
 father's male and nervous eloquence in that peculiar depart- 
 ment of oratory. Dr. Lind communicated to Shelley a taste 
 for chemistry and chemical experiments, as has been before 
 stated ; the mild, the amiable, the gentle Dr. Lind, also taught 
 his young pupil how to deal damnation round the land. 
 
 Shelley invariably spoke with respect, regard, and gratitude 
 of Dr. Lind, and of the injuries which the Doctor had received, 
 whatever the^' might be, with indignant sympathy. He used to 
 go to tea with the meek and benevolent physician at Eton ; 
 and after tea they used to curse King George the Third, for the 
 Doctor had really been, or firmly believed that he had been, 
 cruelly wronged by that pious and domestic, but obstinate and 
 impracticable, monarch. 
 
 After a light and digestible repast of tea — made by the 
 daughter, or niece, of the Doctor, with a proper regard, doubt- 
 less, for the nervous system, and of bread and butter prepared 
 upon sanatory principles, the butter being thinly superinduced 
 upon bread, the stalest that could be procured, or of the same, 
 bread lightly toasted, and to be taken without any condiment 
 — the execrations began. 
 
 After the salubrious meal, the good old Doctor proceeded 
 solemnly to launch the greater excommunication against the 
 father of his people, who, he thought, had acted like a step- 
 father to himself, and the rest joined in the condemnatory rite : 
 in what precise form of words Miss Lind chimed in, I never 
 heard. From cursing the father of his people, it was an easy 
 and natural transition to curse his own natural father. 
 
 The dirae, as they were recited before me once, and once 
 only, were of a peculiar character, differing much from or- 
 dinary execrations, and they operated, if at all, demoniacally, 
 by devoting their object to the evil spirits and infernal gods ^ 
 whatever else might be the effect of these curses, they certainly 
 did not shorten life, either in the case of the excommunicated 
 monarch, or of his liege man, old Timotheus. The denuncia- 
 tions at Oxford were plainly a joke ; of the estimable, but angry 
 Doctor's vehement scolding, without having heard him, it 
 would be unfair to form any judgment. Shelley had a decided 
 inclination for magic, demonology, incantations, raising the 
 dead, evoking spirits and devils, seeing ghosts, and chatting 
 familiarly with apparitions, which led him to interesting read- 
 
Life of Shelley 93 
 
 ing, and curious and amusing investigations ; it is probable 
 that he picked up, or improved, these medieval fancies at the 
 physician's sober board. One thing at least is certain, the 
 denial of the existence of gods, and devils, and spirits, if it was 
 to be found in him at all, was only to be found in his words and 
 arguments ; practically, his turn of mind was towards super- 
 stition, by no means towards irreligion and materialism. 
 
 Field Place, Dec. 20, 1810. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The moment which announces your residence, I write. 
 There is now need of all my art ; I must resort to deception. 
 
 My father called on S. in London, who has converted him to 
 sanctity. He mentioned my name, as a supporter of sceptical 
 principles. My father wrote to me, and I am now surrounded, 
 environed by dangers, to which compared the devils, who be- 
 sieged St. Anthony, were all inefficient. They attack me for 
 my detestable principles ; I am reckoned an outcast ; yet I 
 defy them, and laugh at their ineffectual efforts. 
 
 S. will no longer do for me ; I am at a loss whom to select. 
 S.'s skull is very thick, but I am afraid that he will not believe 
 my assertion ; indeed, should it gain credit with him, should he 
 accept the offer of publication, there exist numbers who will 
 find out, or imagine, a real tendency ; and booksellers possess 
 more power than we are aware of in impeding the sale of any 
 book, containing opinions displeasing to them. I am disposed 
 to offer it to Wilkie and Robinson, Paternoster Row, and to 
 take it there myself ; they published Godwin's works, and it is 
 scarcely possible to suppose that any one, layman or clergyman, 
 will assert that these support Gospel doctrines. If that will 
 not do, I must print it myself. Oxford, of course, would be 
 most convenient for the correction of the press. 
 
 Mr. L.'s principles are not v^ry severe ; he is more a votary 
 to Mammon than God. 
 
 O ! I burn with impatience for the moment of the dissolu- 
 tion of intolerance ; it has injured me. I swear on the altar of 
 perjured Love to revenge myself on the hated cause of the 
 effect, which even now I can scarcely help deploring. Indeed, I 
 think it is to the benefit of society to destroy the opininon 
 which can annihilate the dearest of its ties. Inconveniences 
 would now result from my owning the novel, which I have in 
 preparation for the press. I give out, therefore, that I will 
 publish no more ; every one here, but the select few who enter 
 
94 Life of Shelley 
 
 into its schemes, believe my assertion. I will stab the wretch 
 in secret. Let us hope that the wound which I inflict, though 
 the dagger be concealed, will rankle in the heart of the adver- 
 sary. 
 
 My father wished to withdraw me from college : I would not 
 consent to it. There lowers a terrific tempest, but I stand, as 
 it were, on a pharos, and smile exultingly at the vain beating of 
 the billows below. 
 
 So much for egotism ! 
 
 Your poetry pleases me very much ; the idea is beautiful, but 
 I hope that the contrast is not from nature. The verses on the 
 Dying Gladiator are good, but they seem composed in a hurry. 
 I am composing a satirical -poera ; I shall print it at Oxford, 
 unless I find, on visiting him, that R. is ripe for printing what- 
 ever will sell. In case of that, he is my man. 
 
 It is not William Godwin, who lives in Holborn : it is John, 
 no relation to the other. 
 
 As to W., I wrote to him when in London, by way of a gentle 
 alterative. He promised to write to me when he had time, 
 seemed surprised at what I said, yet directed to me as the 
 Reverend : his amazement must be extreme. 
 
 I shall not read Bishop Prettyman, or any more of them, un- 
 less I have some particular reason. Bigots will not argue ; it 
 destroys the very nature of the thing to argue ; it is contrary to 
 faith. How, therefore, could you suppose that one of these 
 liberal gentlemen would listen to scepticism, on the subject even 
 of St. Athanasius's sweeping anathema ? 
 
 I have something else to tell you, and I will in another letter. 
 
 Love ! dearest, sweetest power ! how much are we indebted 
 to thee ! How much superior are even thy miseries to the 
 pleasures which arise from other sources ! How much su- 
 perior to ' fat, contented ignorance ' is even the agony which 
 thy votaries experience ! Yes, my friend, I am now con- 
 vinced that a monarchy is the only form of government (in 
 a certain degree) which a lover ought to live under. Yet in 
 this alone is subordination necessary. Man is equal, and I am 
 convinced that equality will be the attendant on a more 
 advanced and ameliorated state of society. But this is asser- 
 tion, not proof, — indeed, there can be none, then you will say, 
 excuse my believing it ; willingly. 
 
 St. Irvyne is come out ; it is sent to you at Mr. Dayrell's ; 
 you can get one in London by mentioning my name to Stock- 
 dale ; you need not state your own, and as names are not now 
 
Life of Shelley 95 
 
 inscribed on the front of every existing creature, you run no 
 risk of discovery in person, if it be a crime, or a sin, to procure 
 my Novel. 
 
 How can you fancy that I shall ever think you mad ; am 
 not I the wildest, the most delirious of enthusiasm's offspring ? 
 On one subject I am cool, toleration ; yet that coolness alone 
 possesses me that I may with more certainty guide the spear 
 to the breast of my adversary, with more certainty ensanguine 
 it with the heart's blood of Intolerance — hated name ! 
 
 Adieu ! Down with Bigotry ! Down with Intolerance ! 
 In this endeavour your most sincere friend will join his every 
 power, his every feeble resource. Adieu ! 
 To T. J. H., 
 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
 Field Place, Dec. -3, 18 10. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The first desire which I felt on receiving your letters, 
 was instantly to come to London, that a friend might sym- 
 pathize in those sorrows, which are beyond alleviation. That 
 I cannot do this week ; on Sunday or Monday next I will 
 come, if you still remain in town. 
 
 Why will you add to the never dying remorse, which my 
 egotizing folly has occasioned, for which, as long as its fatal 
 effects remain, never can I forgive myself, by accusing your- 
 self of a feeling, as intrusive, which I cannot but regard as 
 another part of that amiability, which has marked your char- 
 acter since first I had the happiness of your friendship. 
 Where exists the moral wrong of seeking the society of one, 
 whom I loved ? what oifence to reason, to virtue, was there 
 in desiring the communication of a lengthened correspondence, 
 in order that both, she and myself, might see, if by coincidence 
 of intellect we were willing to enter into a closer, an eternal 
 union ? No, it is no offence to reason, or virtue ; it is obey- 
 ing its most imperious dictates, it is complying with the 
 designs of the Author of our nature : can this be immorality ? 
 Can it be selfishness, or interested ambition, to seek the happi- 
 ness of the object of attachment ? I am sure, your own 
 judgment, your own reason, must answer in the negative. 
 Let me now ask you, what reason was there then for despair, 
 even supposing my love to have been incurable ? 
 
 Her disposition was in all probability divested of the enthu- 
 siasm by which mine is characterized, could therefore hers be 
 
96 Life of Shelley 
 
 prophetic ? She might not be susceptible of that feeUng 
 which arises from an admiration of virtue, when abstracted 
 from identity. 
 
 My sister attempted sometimes to plead my cause, but 
 unsuccessfully. She said : 
 
 ' Even supposing I take your representation of your brother's 
 qualities and sentiments, which as you coincide in and admire, 
 I may fairly imagine to be exaggerated, although you may 
 not be aware of the exaggeration ; what right have /, admit- 
 ting that he is so superior, to enter into an intimacy, which 
 must end in delusive disappointment, when he finds how really 
 inferior I am to the being which his heated imagination has 
 pictured.' 
 
 This was unanswerable, particularly as the prejudiced 
 description of a sister, who loves her brother as she does, 
 might, indeed must, have given to her an erroneously exalted 
 idea of the superiority of my mental attainments. 
 
 You have said, that the philosophy, which I pursued, is 
 not uncongenial with the strictest morality ; you must see, 
 that it militates with the received opinions of the world ; that, 
 therefore, does it offend ; but prejudice and superstition, 
 that superstitious bigotry, inspired by the system upon 
 which at present the world acts, of believing all that we are 
 told as incontrovertible facts. 
 
 I hope, that what I have said will induce you to allow me 
 still, and all the more, to remain your friend. 
 
 I hope, that you will soon have an opportunity of seeing, of 
 conversing, with Elizabeth. 
 
 How sorry I am that I cannot invite you here now. I will 
 tell you the reason when we meet. Believe me, my dear 
 friend, when I assert, that I shall ever continue so to you. / 
 have reason to lament deeply the sorrows with which fate has 
 marked my life ; I am not so deeply debased by it, however, 
 taht the exertions for the happiness of my friend shall super- 
 sede considerations of narrower and selfish interests, but that 
 his woes should claim a sigh before one repining thought arose 
 at my own lot. I know the cause of all human disappoint- 
 ment — worldly prejudice ; mine is the same, I know also its 
 origin, — bigotry. 
 
 Adieu ! Write again. Believe me your most sincere 
 friend. Adieu ! P. B. S. 
 
 To T. J. H., 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields. 
 
Life of Shelley 97 
 
 Field Place, Dec. 26, 18 10. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Why do you express yourself so flatteringly grateful 
 to me, when I ought to experience that sensation towards 
 you in the highest manner of which our nature is capable ? 
 Why do you yet suppose, that you have offended against any 
 of those rules for our conduct which we ought to regard with 
 veneration ? 
 
 What is delicacy ? Come, I must be severe with myself, I 
 must irritate the wound which I wish to heal. 
 
 Supposing the object of my affections does not regard me, 
 how have you transgressed against its dictates ; in what have 
 you offended ? What is delicacy ? Let us define it, in the 
 light in which you take it. I conceive it to be that inherent 
 repugnance to injuring others, particularly as regarding the 
 objects of their dearer preference, which beings of superior 
 intelligence feel. In what, then, let me ask again, if I do not 
 think you culpable, in what, then, have you offended ? Tell 
 me, then, my dear friend, no more of sorrow, no more of 
 remorse, at what you have said. Circumstances have oper- 
 ated in such a manner, that the attainment of the object of 
 my heart was impossible, whether on account of extraneous 
 influences, or from a feeling which possessed her mind, which 
 told her not to deceive another, not to give him the possibility 
 of disappointment. I feel I touch the string which, if vibrated, 
 excites acute pain, but truth and my real feelings, which I wish 
 to give you a clear idea of, overcome my resolve never to speak 
 on the subject again. It is with reluctance to my own feelings 
 that I have entered into this cold disquisition, when your 
 heart sympathizes so deeply in my affliction ; but for Heaven's 
 sake consider, and do not criminate yourself, do not wrong 
 the motives, which actuated you upon so feeble a ground as 
 that of delicacy. I do this, I say this, in justice as well as 
 friendship ; I demand that you should do justice to yourself, 
 then no more is required to give you at all events a conscious- 
 ness of rectitude. 
 
 I read most of your letters to my sister ; she frequently 
 inquires after you, and we talk of you often. I do not wish 
 to awaken her intellect too powerfully ; this must be my 
 apology for not communicating all my speculations to her. 
 Thanks, truly thanks for opening your heart to me, for telling 
 me your feelings towards me. Dare I do the same to you ? I 
 dare not to myself, how can I to another, perfect as he may 
 
 H 
 
98 Life of Shelley 
 
 be ? I dare not even to God, whose mercy is great. My 
 unhappiness is excessive ; but I will cease ; I will no more 
 speak in riddles, but now quit for ever a subject which awakens 
 too powerful susceptibilities for even negative misery. But 
 that which injured me shall perish ! I even now by anti- 
 cipation hear the expiring yell of intolerance ! Pardon me ! 
 My sorrows are not so undeserved as you believe ; they are 
 obtrusive to narrate to myself ; they must be so to you. Let 
 me wish you an eternity of happiness ! I wish you knew 
 Elizabeth, she is a great consolation to me ; but if all be well, 
 my wishes on that score will soon be accomplished. On 
 Monday night you will see me. I cannot bear to suffer alone. 
 Adieu ! I have scarce a moment's time, only to tell you how 
 sincerely I am your friend. 
 To T. J. H. 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. 
 
 Field Place, Dec. 28, 18 10. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The encomium of one incapable of flattery is indeed 
 flattering. Your discrimination of that chapter is more just 
 than the praises which you bestow on so unconnected a thing 
 as the romance taken collectively. I wish you very much to 
 publish a tale ; send one to a publisher. Oh, here we are in 
 the midst of all the uncongenial jollities of Christmas, when 
 you are compelled to contribute to the merriment of 
 others — when you are compelled to live under the severest 
 of all restraints, concealment of feelings pregnant enough in 
 themselves, how terrible is your lot ! I am learning abstrac- 
 tion, but I fear that my proficiency will be but trifling. I 
 cannot, dare not, speak of myself. Why do you still con- 
 tinue to say. Do not despond, that you must not despair ? 
 
 I admit that this despair would be unauthorized, when it 
 was rational to suppose, that at some future time mutual 
 knowledge would awaken reciprocity of feeling. 
 
 Your letter arrived at a moment when I could least bear 
 any additional excitement of feelings. I have succeeded now 
 in calming my mind, but at first I knew not how to act ; 
 indecision and a fear of injuring another, by complying with 
 what perhaps were the real wishes of my bosom, distracted 
 me. I do not tell you this by way of confession of my own 
 state, for I believe that I may not be sufficiently aware of 
 what I feel myself, even to own it to myself. Believe me, my 
 
Life of Shelley 99 
 
 dear friend, that my only ultimate wishes now are for your 
 happiness and that of my sisters. At present a thousand 
 barriers oppose any more intimate connexion, any union with 
 another, which, although unnatural and fettering to a virtuous 
 mind, are nevertheless unconquerable. 
 
 I will, if possible, come to London on Monday, certainly 
 some time next week. I shall come about six o'clock, and 
 will remain with you until that time the next morning, when 
 I will tell you my reasons for wishing to return. Adieu. 
 Excuse the shortness of this, as the servant waits. I will 
 write on Sunday. 
 
 To T. J. H., London. 
 
 Yours most sincerely. 
 
 Field Place, Jan. 2, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I cannot come to London before next week. I am 
 but just returned to Field Place from an inefficient effort. 
 Why do you, my happy friend, tell me of perfection in love ? 
 Is she not gone ? And yet I breathe, I live ! But adieu 
 to egotism ; I am sick to death at the name of self. Oh, 
 your theory cost me much reflection ; I have not ceased to 
 think of it since your letter came, which was put into my 
 hands at the moment of departure on Sunday morning. Is 
 it not, however, founded on that hateful principle ? Is it self 
 which you propose to raise to a state of superiority by your 
 system of eternal perfectibility in love ? No ? Were this 
 frame rendered eternal, were the particles which compose it, 
 both as to intellect and matter, indestructible, and then to 
 undergo torments such as now we should shudder to think of 
 even in a dream — to undergo this, I say, for the extension of 
 happiness to those for whom we feel a vivid preference ; then 
 would I love, adore, idolize your theory — wild, unfounded as 
 it might be : but no. I can conceive neither of these to be 
 correct, considering matters in a philosophical light, it evi- 
 dently appears (if it is not treason to speak thus coolly on a sub- 
 ject so deliriously ecstatic)that we were not destined for misery. 
 What, then, shall happiness arise from ? Can we hesitate ? 
 Love, dear love, and though every mental faculty is bewildered 
 by the agony, which is in this life its too constant attendant, 
 still is not that very agony to be preferred to the most thrilling 
 sensualities of epicurism ? 
 
 I have wandered in the snow, for I am cold, wet, and mad. 
 
100 Life of Shelley 
 
 Pardon me, pardon my delirious egotism ; this really shall be 
 the last. My sister is well ; I fear she is not quite happy on 
 my account, but is much more cheerful than she was some 
 days ago. I hope you will publish a tale ; I shall then give 
 a copy to Elizabeth, unless you forbid it. I would do it not 
 only to show her what your ideas are on the subject of works 
 of imagination, and to interest her, but that she should see 
 her brother's friend in a new point of view. When you 
 examine her character, you will find humanity, not divinity, 
 amiable as the former may sometimes be : however, I, a 
 brother, must not write treason against my sister ; so I will 
 check my volubility. Do not direct your next letter to Field 
 Place, only to Horsham. Tomorrow I will write more con- 
 nectedly. 
 
 Yours sincerely. 
 To T. J. H., 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, London. 
 
 Field Place, Jan. 3, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Before we deny or believe the existence of anything, it 
 is necessary that we should have a tolerably clear idea of what 
 it is. The word * God ', a vague word, has been, and will con- 
 tinue to be, the source of numberless errors, until it is erased 
 from the nomenclature of philosophy. Does it not imply 
 ' the soul of the universe, the intelligent and necessarily bene- 
 ficient, actuating principle '. This it is impossible not to be- 
 lieve in ; I may not be able to adduce proofs, but I think 
 that the leaf of a tree, the meanest insect on which we trample, 
 are, in themselves, arguments more conclusive than any which 
 can be advanced, that some vast intellect animates infinity. 
 If we disbelieve this, the strongest argument in support of 
 the existence of a future state instantly becomes annihilated. 
 I confess that I think Pope's 
 
 All are but parts of one stupendous whole, 
 
 something more than poetry. It has ever been my favourite 
 theory, for the immoral soul, ' never to be able to die, never 
 to escape from some shrine as chilling as the clay-formed 
 dungeon, which now it inhabits ' ; it is the future punish- 
 ment which I can most easily believe in. 
 
 Love, love, infinite in extent, eternal in duration, yet (allow- 
 
Life of Shelley loi 
 
 iiig your theory in that point) perfectible, should be the 
 reward ; but can we suppose that this reward will arise, spon- 
 taneously, as a necessary appendage to our nature, or that 
 our nature itself could be without cause — a first cause — a 
 God ? When do we see effects arise without causes ? What 
 causes are there without correspondent effects ? Yet here, I 
 swear — and as I break my oaths, may Infinity, Eternity 
 blast me — here I swear that never will I forgive intolerance ! 
 It is the only point on which I allow myself to encourage 
 revenge ; every moment shall be devoted to my object, which 
 I can spare ; and let me hope that it will not be a blow which 
 spends itself, and leaves the wretch at rest, — but lasting, long 
 revenge ! I am convinced, too, that it is of great disservice 
 to society — that it encourages prejudices, which strike at the 
 root of the dearest, the tenderest, of its ties. Oh ! how I wish 
 I were the avenger ! — that it were mine to crush the demon ; 
 to hurl him to his native hell, never to rise again, and thus to 
 establish for ever perfect and universal toleration, I expect 
 to gratify some of this insatiable feeling in poetry. You shall 
 see — you shall hear — how it has injured me. She is no longer 
 mine ! she abhors me as a sceptic, as what she was before ! 
 Oh, bigotry ! When I pardon this last, this severest of thy 
 persecutions, may Heaven (if there be wrath in Heaven) bla^t 
 me ! Has vengeance, in its armoury of wrath, a punishment 
 more dreadful ? Yet, forgive me, I have done ; and were it 
 not for your great desire to know why I consider myself as the 
 victim of severer anguish, that I could have entered into this 
 brief recital. 
 
 I am afraid there is selfishness in the passion of love, for I 
 cannot avoid feeling every instant as if my soul was bursting ; 
 but I will feel no more ! It is selfish. I would feel for others, 
 but for myself — oh ! how much rather would I expire in the 
 struggle ! Yes, that were a relief ! Is suicide wrong ? I 
 slept with a loaded pistol and some poison, last night, but did 
 not die. I could not come on Monday, my sister would not 
 part with me ; but I must — I will see you soon. My sister 
 is now comparatively happy ; she has felt deeply for me. 
 Had it not been for her — had it not been for a sense of what 
 I owed to her, to you, I should have bidden you a final fare- 
 well some time ago. But can the dead feel ; dawns any day- 
 beam on the night of dissolution ? 
 
 Pray publish your tale ; demand one hundred pounds for 
 it from any publisher ; — he will give it in the event. It is 
 
102 Life of Shelley 
 
 delightful, it is divine — not that I like your heroine — but the 
 poor Mary is a character worthy of Heaven. I adore her ! 
 
 Adieu, my dear friend. Your sincere, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 W has written. I have read his letter. It is too long to 
 
 answer. I continue to dissipate Elizabeth's melancholy by 
 keeping her, as much as possible, employed in poetry. You 
 shall see some to-morrow. I cannot tell you when I can come 
 to town. I wish it very much. 
 To T. J. H., London. 
 
 Field Place, /a>e. 6, 1811. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Dare I request one favour for myself — for my own 
 sake ? not the keenest anguish which the most unrelenting 
 tyrant could invent, should force me to request from you so 
 great a sacrifice of friendship. It is a beloved sister's happi- 
 ness which forces me to this. She saw me when I received 
 your letter of yesterday. She saw the conflict of my soul. 
 At first she said nothing ; and then she exclaimed, * Re- 
 direct it, and send it instantly to the post ! ' Believe me, I 
 feel far more than I will allow myself to express, for the cruel 
 disappointments which I have undergone. Write to me 
 whatever you wish to say ; you may say what you will on 
 other subjects ; but on that I dare not even read what you 
 would write. Forget her ? What would I not have given 
 up to have been thus happy ? I thought I knew the means 
 by which it might have been effected. Yet I consider what 
 a female sacrifices when she returns the attachment even of 
 one whose faith she supposes inviolable. Hard is the agony 
 which is indescribable, which is only to be felt. Will she not 
 encounter the opprobrium of the world ; and what is more 
 severe (generally speaking) the dereliction and contempt of 
 those who, before, had avowed themselves most attached to 
 her ? I did not encourage the remotest suspicion. I was 
 convinced of her truth, as I was of my own existence. Still 
 was it not natural in her, even although she might return the 
 most enthusiastic prepossessions arising from the conscious- 
 ness of intellectual sympathy, ignorant, as she was, of some 
 of my opinions, of my sensations (for unlimited confidence is 
 requisite for the existence of mutual love) to have some doubts 
 — some fears ? Besides, when in her natural character, her 
 spirits are good, her conversation animated, and she was 
 
Life of Shelley 1 03 
 
 almost, in consequence ignorant of the refinements in love, 
 which can only be attained by solitary reflection. Forsake 
 her ! Forsake one whom I loved ! Can I ? Never ! But she 
 is gone — she is lost to me for ever ; for ever ! There is a 
 mystery which I dare not to clear up ; it is the only point on 
 which I will be reserved to you. I have tried the methods 
 you would have recommended. I followed her. I would 
 have followed her to the end of the earth, but — If you value 
 the little happiness which yet remains, do not mention again 
 to me, sorrows which; if you could share in, would wound a 
 heart, which it now shall be my endeavour to heal of those 
 pains which, through sympathy with me, it has already 
 suffered. I will crush Intolerance. I will, at least, attempt 
 it. To fail even in so useful an attempt were glorious ! 
 I inclose some poetry : 
 
 Oh ! take the pure gem to where southerly breezes, 
 
 Waft repose to some bosom as faithful as fair, 
 In which the warm current of love never freezes, 
 
 As it rises unmingled with selfishness there. 
 Which, untainted by pride, unpolluted by care, 
 Might dissolve the dun icedrop, might bid it arise, 
 Too pure for these regions, to gleam in the skies. 
 
 Or where the stern warrior, his country defending. 
 
 Dares fearless the dark-rolling battle to pour. 
 Or o'er the fell corpse of a dread tyrant bending. 
 
 Where patriotism red with his guilt-reeking gore 
 Plants liberty's flag on the slave-peopled shore. 
 With victory's cry, with the shout of the free, 
 Let it fly, taintless spirit, to mingle with thee. 
 
 For I found the pure gem, when the daybeam returning. 
 
 Ineffectual gleams on the snow-covered plain. 
 When to others the wished-for arrival of morning 
 
 Brings relief to long visions of soul-racking pain ; 
 But regret is an insult — to grieve is in vain : 
 And why should we grieve that a spirit so fair 
 Seeks Heaven to mix with its own kindred there ? 
 
 But still 'twas some spirit of kindness descending 
 
 To share in the load of mortaUty's woe. 
 Who over thy lowly-built sepulchre bending 
 
 Bade sympathy's tenderest tear-drop to flow. 
 Not for thee, soft compassion, celestials did know. 
 But if angels can weep, sure man may repine. 
 May weep in mute grief o'er thy low-laid shrine. 
 
I04 Life of Shelley 
 
 And did I then say, for the altar of glory. 
 
 That the earliest, the loveliest of flowers I'd entwine, 
 
 Tho' with millions of blood-reeking victims 'twas gory, 
 Tho' the tears of the widow polluted its shrine, 
 
 Tho' around it the orphans, the fatherless pine ? 
 
 Oh ! Fame, all thy glories I'd yield for a tear 
 
 To shed on the grave of a heart so sincere. 
 
 I am very cold this morning, so you must excuse bad writing, 
 as I have been most of the night pacing a churchyard. I must 
 now engage in scenes of strong interest. 
 
 You see the subject of the foregoing. I send it, because it 
 may amuse you. Your letter has just arrived ; I will send 
 
 W 's to University, when I can collect them, If it amuses 
 
 you, you can answer him ; if not, I will. 
 
 I will consider your argument against the Non-existence 
 of a Deity. Do you allow, that some supernatural power 
 actuates the organization of physical causes ? It is evident 
 so far as this, that if power and wisdom are employed in the con- 
 tinual arrangement of these affairs, that this power, etc., is 
 something out of the comprehension of man, as he now exists ; 
 at least if we allow, that the soul is not matter. Then, admit- 
 ting that this actuating principle is such as I have described, 
 admitting it to be finite, there must be something beyond this, 
 which influences its actions and all this series advancing, as if it 
 does in one instance, it must to infinity, must at last terminate, 
 if it can terminate, in the existence, which may be called a 
 Deity. And if this Deity thus influences the actions of the 
 Spirits (if I may be allowed the expression), which take care 
 of minor events (supposing your theory to be true), why is it 
 not the soul of the Universe ; in what is it not analogous to 
 the soul of man ? Why too is not gravitation the soul of a 
 clock ? I entertain no doubt of the fact, although it possesses 
 no capabilities of variation ; if the principle of life (that of 
 reason put out of the question, as in the cases of dogs, horses, 
 and oysters) be soul, then gravitation is as much the soul of 
 a clock, as animation is that of an oyster. I think we may 
 not inaptly define Soul, as the most supreme, superior, and 
 distinguished abstract appendage to the nature of anything. 
 
 But I will write again : my head is rather dizzy to-day, on 
 account of not taking rest, and a slight attack of typhus. 
 Adieu 1 I will write soon. Your sincerest, 
 
 To T. J. H., Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 University College, Oxford. 
 
Life of Shelley 105 
 
 Field Place, Jan. 11, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I will not now consider your little Essay, which arrived 
 this morning ; I wait till to-morrow. It coincides exactly 
 with Elizabeth's sentiments on the subject, to whom I read 
 it : indeed it has convinced her, although from my having a 
 great deal to do to-day, I cannot listen to so full an exposition 
 of her sentiments on the subject, as I would wish to send you. 
 I shall write to you to-morrow on this matter ; and if you 
 clear up some doubts, which yet remain, dissipate some hopes 
 relative to the perfectibility of man generally considered, as 
 well as individually, I will willingly submit to the system, which 
 at present I cannot but strongly reprobate. 
 
 How can I find words to express my thanks for such generous 
 conduct with regard to my sister with talents and attainments, 
 such as you possess, to promise what I ought not perhaps to 
 have required, what nothing but a dear sister's intellectual 
 improvement could have induced me to demand. What 
 can I say on the subject of your letter concerning Elizabeth ? 
 is it not dictated by the most generous and disinterested of 
 human motives ? I have not shown it to her yet, I need not 
 explain the reason. On this point you know all. 
 
 There is only one affair, of which I will make the least cloud 
 of mystery ; it is the only point on which I will be a solitary 
 being ! To be solitary, to be reserved in communicating pain, 
 surely cannot be criminal ; it cannot be contrary to the strict- 
 est duties of friendship. 
 
 She is gone ! She is lost to me for ever ! She is married ! 
 Married to a clod of earth ; she will become as insensible her- 
 self ; all those fine capabilities will moulder ! 
 
 Let us speak no more on the subject. Do not deprive me 
 of the little remains of peace, which yet linger ; that which 
 arises from endeavours to make others happy ! 
 
 The Poetry, which I sent you, alluded not to the subject 
 of my nonsensical ravings. I hope that you are now publishing 
 
 one of your tales. L would do it, as well as any one ; 
 
 if you do not choose to publish a book at Oxford, you can print 
 it there ; and I will engage to dispose of five hundred copies. 
 
 S professes to be acquainted with your family ; hinc 
 
 illcB lacrymcB ! I attempted to enlighten my father, mirahile 
 dictu ! He for a time listened to my arguments ; he allowed 
 the impossibility (considered abstractedly) of any preternatural 
 interferences by Providence. He allowed the utter incredi- 
 
io6 Life of Shelley 
 
 bility of witches, ghosts, legendary miracles. But when I 
 came to apply the truths, on which we had agreed so harmoni- 
 ously, he started at the bare idea of some facts generally 
 believed, never having existed, and silenced me with an Equine 
 argument, in effect with these words : — * I believe, because I 
 do believe.* 
 
 My mother imagines me to be in the high road to Pande- 
 monium, she fancies I want to make a deistical coterie of all 
 my little sisters : how laughable ! 
 
 You must be very solitary at Oxford ; I wish I could come 
 there now ; but for reasons, which I will tell you at meeting, 
 
 it is delayed for a fortnight. I have a Poem with Mr. L , 
 
 which I shall certainly publish ; there is some of Elizabeth's in 
 it. I will write to-morrow. I have something to add to it, 
 
 and if L has any idea, when he speaks to you of publishing 
 
 it with my name, will you tell him to leave it alone till I come ? 
 
 Yes ! the arms of Britannia victorious are bearing 
 
 Fame, triumph, and glory, wherever they speed, 
 Her Lion his crest o'er the nations is rearing. 
 
 Ruin follows, it tramples the dying and dead, 
 Thy countrymen fall, the blood-reeking bed '-, 
 
 Of the battle-slain sends a complaint-breathing sigh. 
 
 It is mixed with the shoutings of Victory. 
 
 Old Ocean to shrieks of despair is resounding, 
 It washes the terror-struck nations with gore. 
 
 Wild Horror the fear-palsied earth is astounding, 
 
 And murmurs of fate fright the dread-convulsed shore. 
 
 The Andes in sympathy start at the roar. 
 
 Vast iEtna, alarmed, leans his flame-glowing brow. 
 And huge Teneriffe stoops with his pinnacled snow. 
 
 The ice mountains echo, the Baltic, the Ocean, 
 
 Where Cold sits enthroned on his column of snows. 
 
 Even Spitzbergcn perceives the terrific commotion, 
 
 The roar floats on the whirlwind of sleet, as this blows 
 
 Blood tinges the streams as half -frozen they flow, 
 The meteors of war lurid flame thro' the air, 
 They mix thek bright gleam with the red polar star. 
 * * *     
 
 All are brethren, and even the African bending 
 
 To the stroke of the hard-hearted Englishman's rod. 
 
 The courtier at Luxury's palace attending. 
 The senator trembling at Tyranny's nod, 
 
 Each nation which kneels at the footstool of God 
 All are brethren — then banish distinction afar. 
 Let Concord and Love heal the miseries of War ! 
 
 These are Elizabeth's. She has written many more, and I 
 
Life of Shelley 107 
 
 will show you at some future time the whole of the composition. 
 I like it very much, if a brother may be allowed to praise a 
 sister. I will write to-morrow. 
 
 Yours with affection, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 Can you read this ? 
 
 To T. J. H., 
 
 University College, Oxford. 
 
 Field Place, Jan. 12, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your letter with the extremely beautiful enclosed 
 poetry came this morning. It is really admirable ; it touches 
 the heart ; but I must be allowed to offer one critique upon it. 
 You will be surprised to hear that I think it unfinished. You 
 have not said, that * the ivy, after it had destroyed the oak, 
 as if to mock the miseries, which it caused, twined around a pine 
 which stood near.' It is true, therefore, but does not com- 
 prehend the whole truth. As to the stuff which I sent you, I 
 write all my poetry of that kind from the feelings of the mo- 
 ment ; if therefore it neither has allusion to the sentiments 
 which rationally might be supposed to possess me, or to those 
 which my situation might awaken, it is another proof of that 
 egotizing variability, whilst I shudder to reflect how much I 
 am in its power. To you I dare represent myself as I am : 
 wretched to the last degree — sometimes one gleam of hope, 
 one faint solitary gleam, seems to illumine the darkened pros- 
 pect before me — but it has vanished. I fear it will never 
 return. My sister will, I fear, never return the attachment 
 which would once again bid me be calm. Yes ! In this alone 
 is my feeble anticipation of peace placed ! But what am I ? 
 Am I not the most degraded of deceived enthusiasts ? Do I 
 not deceive myself ? I never, never can feel peace again. 
 What necessity is there for continuing in existence ? But 
 Heaven ! Eternity ! Love ! My dear friend, I am yet a 
 sceptic on these subjects ; would that I could believe them to 
 be, as they are represented ; would that I could totally dis- 
 believe them ! But no ! That would be selfish. I still 
 have firmness enough to resist this last, this most horrible 
 of errors. Is my despair the result of the hot, sickly love which 
 inflames the admirers of Sterne or Moore ? It is the conviction 
 of unmerited unkindness, the conviction that, should a future 
 
io8 Life of Shelley 
 
 world exist, the object of my attachment would be as miser- 
 able as myself, is the cause of it. 
 
 I here take God (and a God exists) to witness, that I wish tor- 
 ments, which beggar the futile description of a fancied hell, 
 would fall upon me ; provided I could obtain thereby that 
 happiness for what I love, which, I fear, can never be ! The 
 question is, what do I love ? It is almost unnecessary to 
 answer. Do I love the person, the embodied identity, if I 
 may be allowed the expression ? No ! I love what is superior, 
 what is excellent, or what I conceive to be so ; and I wish, 
 ardently wish, to be profoundly convinced of the existence of 
 a Deity, that so superior a spirit might derive some degree 
 of happiness from my feeble exertions : for love is heaven, 
 and heaven is love. You think so, too, and you disbelieve 
 not the existence of an eternal, omnipresent Spirit. Am I not 
 mad ? Alas ! I am, but I pour out my ravings into the ear 
 of a friend who will pardon them. Stay ! I have an idea. 
 I think I can prove the existence of a Deity — A First Cause. 
 I will ask a materialist, how came this universe at first ? He 
 will answer. By chance. What chance ? I will answer in 
 the words of Spinoza : * An infinite number of atoms had been 
 floating from all eternity in space, till at last one of them 
 fortuitously diverged from its track, which, dragging with it 
 another, formed the principle of gravitation, and in conse- 
 quence the universe '. What cause produced this change, 
 this chance ? For where do we know that causes arise without 
 their correspondent effects ; at least we must here, on so 
 abstract a subject, reason analogically. Was not this then 
 a cause, was it not a first cause ? Was not this first cause a 
 Deity ? Now nothing remains but to prove, that this Deity 
 has a care, or rather that its only employment consists in 
 regulating the present and future happiness of its creation. 
 Our ideas of infinite space, etc., arc scarcely to be called ideas, 
 for we cannot either comprehend or explain them ; therefore 
 the Deity must be judged by us from attributes analogical to 
 our situation. Oh, that this Deity were the soul of the uni- 
 verse, the spirit of universal, imperishable love ! Indeed I 
 believe it is : but now to your argument of the necessity of 
 Christianity. I am not sure that your argument does not tend 
 to prove its unreality. If it does not, you allow, you say, that 
 love is the only true source of rational happiness : one man 
 is capable of it, why not all ? 
 
 The callibility of man preterite, I allow, but because men are, 
 
Life of Shelley 109 
 
 and have been callible, I see no reason why they should always 
 continue so. Have there not been fluctuations in the opinions 
 of mankind ; and as the stuff, which soul is made of, must be 
 in every one the same, would not an extended system of rational 
 and moral unprejudiced education, render each individual 
 capable of experiencing that degree of happiness, to which 
 each ought to aspire, more for others, than self ? Hideous, 
 hated traits of Superstition. Oh ! Bigots, how I abhor your 
 influence ; they are all bad enough — but do we not see Fanati- 
 cism decaying ? is not its influence weakened, except where 
 Faber, Rowland Hill, and several others of the Armageddon 
 heroes maintain their posts with all the obstinacy of long- 
 established dogmatism ? How I pity them ; how I despise, 
 hate them ! S. knows Mr. D. would publish your tale. 
 I am beyond measure anxious for its appearance. Adieu ! 
 Excuse my mad arguments ; they are none at all, for I am 
 rather confused, and fear, in consequence of a fever, they 
 will not allow me to come on the 26th, but I will. Adieu ! 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 You can inclose to Timothy Shelley, Esq., M.P. 
 To T. J. H., 
 
 University College, Oxford. 
 
 Jan. 14, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your letter and that of W came to-day ; yours is 
 
 excellent, and, I think, will fully (in his own mind) convince 
 Mr. W . I inclosed five sheets of paper full this morn- 
 ing, and sent them to the coach with yours. I sate up all night 
 to finish them ; they attack his hypothesis in its very basis, 
 which, at some future time, I will explain to you ; and I have 
 attempted to prove, from the existence of a Deity and of Reve- 
 lation, the futility of the superstition upon which he founds his 
 whole scheme. 
 
 I am sorry to see that you even remotely suspected me of 
 being offended with you. How I wish that I could persuade 
 you that it is impossible ! I am really sleepy ; could you 
 suppose that I should be so apathetic as ever to sleep again till 
 my last slumber ? But it is so, and I shall take a walk in 
 St. Leonard's Forest to dissipate it. Adieu ! You shall 
 hear from me to-morrow. 
 
 Your sincere friend, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
no Life of Shelley 
 
 S has behaved infamously to me : he has abused the 
 
 confidence I reposed in him in sending him my work ; 
 and he has made very free with your character, of which he 
 
 knows nothing, with my father. I shall call on S in my 
 
 way, that he may explain. May I expect to sec your Tale 
 printed ? 
 
 To T. J. H., 
 University College, Oxford. 
 
 CHAPTER V 
 
 The long vacation is an admirable and blessed institution, 
 worthy of all honour and of perpetual observance ; but the 
 short vacations at Christmas and at Easter deserve utter 
 execration, and exist only to be abolished. They are a per- 
 nicious interruption of the course of study, which is broken off 
 almost as soon as it is fully begun, and an unseasonable dis- 
 ruption of studious friendships and agreeable society. If they 
 were tolerable to young men, whose families reside at a moder- 
 ate distance from the University, they were insupportable to 
 those unfortunates who must travel by coaches, perhaps two 
 whole days, and certainly two nights, to reach their household 
 gods, and for the like space of time to return to College. All 
 lectures, all instruction ceased, public libraries and every 
 other place of amusement or resort were closed during these 
 ferial days, even the entertainment of attending chapel was 
 denied. The tutors departed, as well as all the under-gradu- 
 ates ; the porter and the master shut themselves up closely 
 in their respective lodges ; and the College servants could 
 seldom be found. A dinner was provided certainly, but not 
 in the Hall ; the inhospitable table was spread in some mysteri- 
 ous apartment, which I never entered at any other time, and 
 which seemed to have vanished as soon as term recommenced, 
 so that I have sometimes wondered what became of it. At the 
 dinner I commonly found myself alone. It consisted of a 
 joint of meat, potatoes, and bread ; all very good of their 
 kind, no doubt ; but it was impossible to obtain anything 
 else — any of those little extras for which one might battel 
 in term time ; the very cheese suffered dim echpse, not a slice 
 was to be procured. The College cook, in truth, would have 
 
Life of Shelley ill 
 
 felt that he was unworthy of his important office if he had 
 approved himself less lazy than the master and tutors. 
 
 Many and great reforms were needed at our famous Univer- 
 sity in those days, which were far more pressing and urgent 
 than the discouragement of metaphysical speculations in the 
 active minds of a few studious youths. 
 
 It was manifest that my presence in the vacant seat of 
 learning was unwelcome. To travel to the north of England, 
 to rest myself for a few days there after my journey, and then 
 to come back in the dark, as it were, in an ungenial season and 
 the shortest days, was too severe a sacrifice to be made even 
 to the grossest abuse of educational trusts ; so I determined 
 to go to London. 
 
 London is a delightful place at all times ; always full of 
 instruction for those who are disposed to seek it ; but, for a 
 stranger to live, like a gentleman, at a hotel in London is 
 expensive. After ten days or a fortnight, it was prudent to 
 return to Oxford. 
 
 At the beginning of January, 1811, the weather was 
 intensely cold ; there was a severe frost, and the ground was 
 thickly covered with snow. I studied alone, until I could 
 study no more ; I read until I was weary and cold. Oh ! so 
 cold ! A youth of eighteen cannot warm himself by sitting over 
 the fire ; to thaw my blood by parading the solitary streets 
 of the deserted city, or the lonely frozen public walks, was 
 uninviting, and, indeed, impracticable. I was at all times well 
 inclined for a pedestrian tour, and I now resolved to under- 
 take one ; accordingly I took counsel with myself, and planned 
 it. Stonehenge, of which I had read so much and such strange 
 things, and the two glorious cathedrals of Salisbury and 
 Winchester, of which I had seen several views in sundry rooms 
 at Oxford and elsewhere, were more tempting than any other 
 objects within the reach of a walk, and I made up my mind 
 to visit the three wonderful temples. One morning, there- 
 fore, at the beginning of January, I equipped myself, as for 
 the chase, with strong shooting shoes and gaiters, taking no 
 more luggage than the pockets of a shoo ting- jacket would 
 contain, and, after an early breakfast, I sallied forth. My 
 travelling library consisted of * P. Virgilii Maronis Bucolica, 
 Georgica, et ^Eneis, ad optimorum exemplarium fidem re- 
 censita. i2mo. Edinburgi et Glasguae, 1796.' 
 
 Adscensu supero, et adrectis auribus adsto. 
 
112 Life of Shelley 
 
 This verse abundantly testifies that the recension on the 
 faith of the best copies was a reprint of Heyne's text. I crossed 
 the frozen Isis, and entered Berkshire, and I took my lonely 
 way through Bagley Wood to Abingdon ; with this portion 
 of my journey I was already familiar. I then entered upon 
 new ground, and proceeded, if I mistake not, through Islip, 
 by fields covered with snow — ploughed lands, for the most 
 part, and uninclosed ; a district altogether without interest ; 
 a vast solitude, for I scarcely met a human being all day. 
 
 When the short day closed in, which, however, was somewhat 
 lengthened, and lighted by the reflection of the bright snow, I 
 began to look out for a resting-place, and I came at last to an 
 ancient, solitary, decaying inn, which I entered. There seemed 
 to be no male creature there, at least I saw none during my 
 stay. I found only two stale women ; a stale middle-aged 
 woman, who acted as waiter and chambermaid, and an older 
 and still staler woman, the landlady ; they were equally 
 sullen, slow, and stupid. 
 
 The wanderer, Ulysses, was welcomed so far by Calypso and 
 her attendant nymph that he was not actually turned out of 
 doors by them ; dinner and a bed were not absolutely denied 
 him. After a long sojourn in a cold, gloomy room, by the 
 side of a half-lighted fire, dinner was served. Those were 
 wonderful days for inns, especially in the matter of steaks and 
 chops. It is wonderful how they could procure beef and mut- 
 ton, so tough, and at the same time, not over fresh ; how they 
 could make the article so black and greasy, and utterly uneat- 
 able, be the appetite what it might ! Such viands the stale 
 hand-maid put upon the table, with raw potatoes, muddy beer, 
 stinking cheese, and wine that might be paid for, but not 
 drunken. The hope of tea was the sole remaining consolation ; 
 it was a great one, and seemed all-sufficient. Wiltshire and 
 Berkshire, according to my subsequent experience, are two 
 starving counties, and the common people are mere clods. As 
 much virtue as there is in chopped straw, so much was there 
 in this tea, and no more. No milk could be had, as I have 
 often found to be the case in Berkshire ; but there was a 
 huge, indurated loaf, and salt butter such as it was. 
 
 Nothing remained but to go to bed. The stale chamber- 
 maid conducted me upstairs to a large, old, cold room ; the 
 fire below did not induce me to require one above, but I ven- 
 tured to ask to have my bed warmed. The stale woman 
 hesitated, but finally consented. She withdrew, and, after 
 
Life of Shelley 113 
 
 a long reluctant delay, returned, and began her genial office. 
 If she was long in beginning, she was still longer in ending ; 
 it seemed as if she had taken root in the floor, and would have 
 remained for ever fixed at the foot of the bed. But her tardi- 
 ness in this instance was beneficial ; and, when I was allowed 
 at last to get into bed, I soon felt a warmth which I had not 
 supposed so grim a wench could have imparted. Breakfast 
 was a repetition of tea : eggs there were none ; bacon was 
 ignored ; there were steaks and chops : these had been tried 
 before. The name of the place, where the staring, solitary, 
 old inn stood, the stale women would not or -could not tell me. 
 I paid my score, and departed, having fulfilled my destinies. 
 It seemed indeed as though the whole course of hospitality 
 had been guided by destiny, and that the hotel was kept by 
 two of the Fates, by the two survivors, the third having died 
 of cold and hunger. A walk of an hour or two brought me to 
 Hungerford, a hungry-looking place, where nothing tempted 
 me to tarry. I continued my journey over a vast plain, not 
 a dead level, not absolutely flat, but gently undulating, and 
 covered with snow, white, bright, and shining. It was less 
 unsatisfactory than the landscape of the day before, for it did 
 not affect to be anything else than what it was — a vacuum, 
 mere space, empty space. I continued my solitary ramble ; 
 I quitted Berkshire at what point I know not, and I got into 
 Wiltshire. After a time I reached Amesbury, which seemed, 
 notwithstanding a thick covering of snow, a pleasant spot ; 
 a fruitful oasis in the midst of a desert. It was the first place 
 I met with since I left Oxford, where I would willingly have 
 remained ; to be made Duke of Queensbury, or at least to 
 have inhabited his beautiful mansion, would have been an 
 offer not lightly to have been rejected. I was here told how 
 tQ find my way to the first object of my tour, to the first of the 
 three famous temples, to the Pagan, the Celtic temple : it 
 was only two or three miles distant. 
 
 I readily found the celebrated Stonehenge ; like everything 
 else, it was deeply imbedded in snow. The snow lay thick 
 upon the few transverse stones which still remained in their 
 original position, and upon all the large stones that had been 
 thrown down, and were scattered on the hard frozen ground. 
 It is a wonderful monument of a most remote and unknown 
 antiquity ; but I could not think that there was much to be 
 seen there. Many sheep had found shelter amongst these 
 ruins, and they were attended by two or three shepherds. I 
 
114 Life of Shelley 
 
 remembered, that when I was a child, I had read with pleasure 
 some tale of the Shepherd of Salisbury Plain ; here he was 
 then, I had found him at last ! The shepherds were very 
 civil to me ; they seemed deeply impressed with the import- 
 ance of the locality, and explained various matters to me. A 
 professed antiquary could not have told the wondrous tale 
 better, perhaps not so well. They expressed much regret 
 that my first visit to the scene, which they esteemed so highly, 
 had been made in deep snow, for I saw it then to great dis- 
 advantage ; I should have seen it far better if the ground 
 had been clear. One of them made a remark which I never 
 heard before or since ; nor have I ever found it in any book, 
 viz., that the huge stones are not real native stones, but a com- 
 position. And he took much pains to show me that they had 
 no grain, no veins, no layers ; and he gave me at parting a 
 piece which he had himself broken off, and he pointed out the 
 stone from which he had taken it, fitting it into its place 
 exactly. This fragment had rather the appearance certainly 
 of Roman cement than of stone ; perhaps it was more like a 
 volcanic substance called tufa, with which I long afterwards 
 became familiar at Rome and at Naples. The good shepherds 
 pointed out the road to Salisbury, and told me, when I should 
 see the tall spire before me ; the distance, if I remember 
 right, they said was six miles. 
 
 I followed the shepherds' direction and my solitary journey. 
 It was dusk when I arrived at the city of Salisbury. The 
 West of England in those days was renowned for the badness 
 of its inns, and Salisbury did not lessen this evil repute : I 
 found there every possible discomfort. Next morning, as 
 early as the short days would permit, I repaired to the second 
 object of my pilgrimage, the beautiful cathedral. The Close, 
 like the rest of the diocese, was at that time overspread wii:h 
 snow. I have seen it more than once afterwards a green lawn 
 with venerable trees in full leaf. Our marvellous old churches 
 are commonly blocked up on every side with mean, squalid, 
 ugly buildings. It was agreeable to find a large open space, 
 to see that the exquisite edifice was clear on all sides, and to 
 examine the exterior from different points of view. As such 
 structures are always, but never ought to be, it was fast locked 
 up. But when I was trying in vain to open the fastened doors, 
 a middle-aged man appeared, and imlocked the wicket. I 
 entered and walked slowly round ; the interior, as such edifices 
 too commonly are, was in a state of dirty neglect ; but the 
 
Life of Shelley 115 
 
 glories of the purest lancet style of Gothic architecture might 
 be dimmed and obscured but not quenched by the stupid 
 indifference of a Dean and his Chapter, a chapter of accidents 
 — of most untoward accidents. 
 
 My guide was not by any means such a sullen brute as a 
 verger usually is ; on the contrary, he was obliging and patient. 
 He appeared to sympathize with my intense admiration of the 
 lovely building, of which he had the charge, and instead of 
 hurrying me over the church, and abruptly turning me out 
 before I had half seen it, he permitted me to return to some 
 objects which I desired to look at a second time ; and his 
 manner almost invited me to stay. He was, I think, the only 
 functionary of the kind to whom I ever gave half-a-crown 
 without grudging it. A curious traveller has undoubtedly as 
 much right to contemplate at his leisure the inside of a public 
 building gratuitously, as he has to look up at the face of the 
 cathedral clock ; and to be shut out is scarcely less offensive 
 than it would be for some officer of the ecclesiastical corpora- 
 tion to march up to a stranger, and, placing his hand over his 
 eyes, to say, * Unless you will give me one shilling at least, and 
 as much more as you please, you shall not know what time it is 
 — such are the orders of Mr. Dean.* 
 
 The refined delight which I experienced in admiring the 
 wonders of art was seriously interrupted by a very gross and 
 vulgar consideration ; my shooting-shoes were already begin- 
 ning to fail me, the sharp ice and the hard frozen roads had 
 told severely upon them. It would have been easy enough to 
 have bought a new pair of strong shoes at Salisbury, but it 
 would be by no means easy to walk back to Oxford in them by 
 way of Winchester. My only course was to try to get them 
 repaired. Accordingly, having quitted my dirty, dreary inn, 
 I looked out for a shoemaker ; I soon found one, and I entered 
 the shop of a humble cobbler. I told him what I wanted. He 
 looked at my shoes, and soon re-assured me by promising, in 
 an hour or less, to put them in good order. 
 
 ' A few parables will do it.' 
 
 I thought the man said parables. I had heard much of 
 instruction being conveyed by parables, but I wondered not a 
 little how shoes could be repaired by parables, parallelisms, 
 or proverbs. The venerable man took off my shoes, put them 
 on his lasts, and proceeded to knock a number of small nails 
 into the soles — nails of a peculiar form. I took up one of the 
 nails. 
 
Il6 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' Are these what you call parables ? It is a remarkable 
 name, why do you call them so? * 
 
 ' Because they are like the beak of a bird — of a sparrow ; 
 that is why they are always called sparrow-bills.' 
 
 The job was soon done, and the shoes put on again. He 
 hoped that I would not consider sixpence unreasonable ; he 
 had put nearly sixpennyworth of sparrow-bills into them, to 
 say nothing of the work. I did not think the demand unrea- 
 sonable ; and the old man and his old wife pointed out the road 
 to Winchester. It lay through a pleasant valley, all white 
 with snow, the roads being frozen as hard as ever. It was not 
 a long walk, I know not how long, but, having spent much time 
 at Salisbury, I reached Winchester in the dark. I had quitted 
 Wiltshire, at what point I could not tell, and entered Hamp- 
 shire for the first time ; where I passed the boundary of the 
 two counties I knew not. I put up at a spacious, cold, dull inn, 
 which did not derogate from the well-founded pretensions of 
 the West of England. I was treated with condescending kind- 
 ness by a pompous old waiter, who used towards me a certain 
 slow, cumbrous, ponderous, officious civility ; but the place 
 was thoroughly uncomfortable. After an especially nasty 
 dinner, I wrote a long letter to Field Place, describing my 
 pedestrian tour. I was desirous, next day, to make my escape 
 as soon as possible ; but this was not to be affected readily ; 
 however, after long delays, having at last obtained breakfast 
 and my bill from the dignified lord high chamberlain of the 
 dreary establishment, I betook myself to the third and last 
 object of my liberal curiosity — the very ancient and most 
 majestic cathedral. 
 
 I stood for some time viewing with admiration the prodigious 
 length of the church, and the sober grandeur of the exterior, 
 when the bells began to ring for the morning service. The 
 doors were opened, and I entered. I wandered about in every 
 direction, and found no interruption, except so far as black 
 looks were an interruption, for some persons eyed me with 
 jealousy, as if they thought that I was stealing a march 
 upon them. I will not describe what has been already often 
 described, so far, indeed, as it is capable of description. The 
 morning service had begun. I went into the choir and heard a 
 part of it. But, recollecting that I had seen all the three 
 objects of my winter- walk, the two Christian and one Druidical 
 temples, nothing now remained but to walk back to Oxford, 
 and that I ought not to lose time, but make the best of my 
 
Life of Shelley 117 
 
 way thither, I quitted the last of the three venerable temples, 
 and not the least venerable of them, with regret ; and I am 
 sorry to add that I have never seen it since, save from the 
 window of a carriage, lately, on the Southampton Railway. 
 I left the noble old pile, and turned my face to the north. The 
 day was intensely cold, raw, and foggy ; I inquired for the 
 road to Newbury, and I pursued it, walking fast to warm 
 myself. After a while the frost began to give, and walking 
 became slippery and unpleasant. 
 
 I found nothing remarkable in my way ; the country was 
 less bare, desolate, and hedgeless, than- on the road from 
 Oxford to Salisbury. In the afternoon a young farmer joined 
 me, walking by my side ; he was a modest, ingenuous youth, 
 with whom there could be no need of concealment ; so I told 
 him my story, a simple story enough. He cheered me by the 
 information that I should find good accommodation at New- 
 bury, and communicated the sign of the inn where it was to be 
 had. He halted at the door of a farm-house. * I live here ', 
 he said ; ' we are going to tea, step in and take it with us ; 
 you must want something ! ' 
 
 We entered a kitchen where there was a blazing fire, the 
 father and mother, old people, and two or three female ser- 
 vants ; in a snug corner by the fire there sat, in a suit of rusty 
 black, an itinerant Methodist preacher. The good people 
 gave me tea in the olden fashion, in exceedingly small cups, 
 very sweet, very weak, and intensely hot, as weak tea invari- 
 ably is ; and thick bread and butter. The humble entertain- 
 ment was infinitely refreshing. 
 
 On hearing that I belonged to the University of Oxford, 
 for which they appeared to feel the most profound reverence, 
 the old people asked me a number of questions, and very sensi- 
 ble and pertinent ones, respecting it. The good folks at the 
 farm-house could enter into the feelings that led me forth to 
 wander to the tliree vast and famous temples, and to undergo 
 great fatigue, and take much trouble for such an object. They 
 could comprehend also, which, for the most part, persons of 
 higher station and superior education could not — how with 
 augmented curiosity and interest, with long accumulated feel- 
 ings of reverence, these famous structures are slowly, and 
 perhaps painfully, approached on foot ; and how different a 
 thing it is to drive to them easily and rapidly in a post- 
 chaise or mailcoach. 
 
 When I rose to depart, and acknowledged their hospitality, 
 
Ii8 Life of Shelley 
 
 they thanked me for my condescension ; and the preacher, 
 who had not spoken before, but had employed himself in put- 
 ting away a large store of bread and butter, said, * It is good 
 to exercise hospitality, for some unawares have entertained 
 angels ! ' The good-natured young farmer walked by the 
 side of the angel of the Church of Oxford some two miles, 
 through the slush, for the thaw was extremely rapid. At 
 parting he said, if I rightly remember, ' It is now three miles 
 to Newbury '. 
 
 My progress was slow and painful, and it was quite dark 
 when I entered Newbury. I was guided to the inn which the 
 farmer's son had recommended, and I found there warmth, 
 cleanliness, civility, good cheer, and every comfort, rendered 
 still more agreeable by the force of contrast, all which I greatly 
 needed ; for I had walked, and walked hard, in very severe 
 weather for four long days, and I was literally perishing with 
 cold, hunger, and fatigue. 
 
 The walk to Abingdon, next day, was horrible ; the thaw 
 continued, and the roads were broken up ; the poor sparrow- 
 bills were as tired of it as myself, and began to give way, so 
 that iced water and melting snow found a passage into my 
 shoes. At Abingdon, a nasty little girl gave me some nasty 
 tea in a nasty cold room. After my scurvy meal, I ploughed 
 on through liquid mud and liquefying snow with intolerable 
 labour. It was dark long before I reached Oxford, and when 
 I got to University College, the kitchen and buttery 'were 
 closed, and the college-servants had gone home for the night, 
 taking the keys of my rooms with them. However, the solemn 
 old porter, with some trouble, contrived to open the spring 
 lock of the outer door, with the thin blade of an old table- 
 knife, and I was thus enabled to do one thing, which was, in 
 fact, under the present circumstances, everything, to get rid of 
 the wet gaiters, stockings, and shoes, with all their sparrow- 
 bills, and to creep into bed. Such was my pilgrimage to the 
 three great Western Temples. 
 
 I had satisfied my curiosity, and, moreover, I had taken 
 away — for the first few days, it seemed, for ever — my desire of 
 walking. To sit before the fire and read, appeared to be the 
 summit of human felicity ! The first-fruits of my sitting still,, 
 and of this strong disinclination ever to go out of the college- 
 gates again, were to read the Going-up of Cyrus. The A nahqsis 
 of Xenophon was a book deservedly in high repute at Oxford. 
 I perused it very carefully, with the lexicon and atlas by my 
 
Life of Shelley 119 
 
 side, for the first time, with unspeakable gratification, and 
 endless, abiding profit. 
 
 [No date.'] 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You are all over the country. I shall be at Oxford on 
 Friday or Saturday evening. I will write to you from London. 
 My father's prophetic prepossession in your favour is become 
 as high as before it was to your prejudice. Whence it arises, 
 or from what cause, I am inadequate to say ; I can merely 
 state the fact. He came from London full of your praises ; 
 your family, that of Mr. Hogg, of Norton House, near Stockton- 
 upon-Tees. Your principles are now as divine as before they 
 were diabolical. I tell you this with extreme satisfaction, 
 and, to sum up the whole, he has desired me to make his com- 
 pliments to you, and to invite you to make Field Place your 
 head-quarters for the Easter vacation. I hope you will accept 
 of it. I fancy he has been talking in town to some of the 
 northern Members of Parliament who are acquainted with 
 your family. However that may be, I hope you have no other 
 arrangement for Easter which can interfere with granting me 
 the pleasure of introducing you personally here. 
 
 You have very well drawn your line of distinction between 
 instinctive and rational motives of action ; the former are not 
 in our own power, yet we may doubt if even these are purely 
 selfish, as congeniality, sympathy, unaccountable attractions 
 of intellect, which arise independent frequently of any con- 
 siderations of your own interest, operating violently in contra- 
 diction to it, and bringing on wretchedness, which your reason 
 plainly foresees, which yet, although your judgment disap- 
 proves of, you take no pains to obviate. All this is not selfish. 
 And surely the operations of reason, of judgment, in a man 
 whose judgment is fully convinced of the baseness of any 
 motive, can never be consonant with it. 
 
 Adieu ! Your affectionate. 
 
 To T. J. H., Oxford. 
 
 Field Place, Jan. 16, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You will hear from me to-morrow. I have, to-day, 
 scarcely time but to tell you that I do not forget you. You 
 tell me that it will show greatness of soul to rise after such a 
 fall as mine. Ah ! what pain must I feel when I contradict 
 
I20 Life of Shelley 
 
 the flattering view which you have taken of my character. 
 Do I not know myself ? Do I not feel the acutest poignancy 
 of mortification amounting to actual misery ? Alas ! I must, 
 with Godwin, say that in man, imperfect as he now exists, 
 there is never a motive for action unmixed ; that the best has 
 its alloy, the worst is commingled with virtue. What does 
 my mortification arise from ? Surely not wholly for myself, 
 not wholly for the happiness of the being whom I have lost. 
 Did I know, were I convinced, that I felt for nothing but Her, 
 no self-reproach would tell me that my pangs were disgraceful. 
 But now, when I fear, when I feel, that, in spite of myself, 
 regret for the high happiness which I have lost is mingled with 
 the other consideration, do I feel, too, that it is disgraceful, 
 degrading ! Adieu ! I will write to-morrow. 
 To T. J. H., Oxford. 
 
 Field Place, January 17, 18 11. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I shall be with you as soon as possible next week. You 
 really were at Hungerford, whether you knew it or not. You 
 tell me nothing about the tale which you promised me. I 
 hope it gets on in the press, I am anxious for its appearance. 
 
 S certainly behaved in a vile manner to me ; no other 
 
 bookseller would have violated the confidence reposed in him. 
 I will talk to him in London, where I shall be on Tuesday. 
 Can I do anything for you there ? 
 
 You notice the peculiarity of the expression ' My Sister ' in 
 my letters. It certainly arose independent of consideration, 
 and I am happy to hear that it is so. 
 
 Your systematic cudgel for blockheads is excellent. I tried 
 it on with my father, who told me that thirty years ago he had 
 read Locke, but this made no impression. The * equus et res ' 
 are all that I can boast of ; the ' pater ' is swallowed up 
 in the first article of the catalogue. You tell me nothing of 
 the tale ; I am all anxiety about it. I am forced hastily to bid 
 you adieu. 
 
 To T. J. H., 
 
 University College, Oxford. 
 
 We are told in the editor's preface to the Poetical Works of 
 Shelley, that it was not until he resided in Italy that he made 
 Plato his study. If it be meant, as no doubt it is, that he did 
 not study Plato in the original, the assertion is correct. It 
 
Life of Shelley 121 
 
 would be absurd to affirm that a profound, accurate, critical 
 knowledge of the author may be acquired through the medium 
 of translations, and at second-hand by abstracts and abridg- 
 ments. But enough of the philosopher's doctrine and prin- 
 ciples may be, and were, in fact, imbibed at Oxford, and at an 
 early age, without consulting the Greek text to convince him 
 of the incorrectness and inconclusiveness, of the dangers 
 indeed, of the reasonings and conclusions of the school of 
 Locke and his disciples. Many of the tenets of Plato, of Soc- 
 rates their common master, are exhibited by Xenophon, whose 
 writings we had already read in the original. The English 
 version of the French translation by Dacier of the Phcedo, 
 and several other dialogues of Plato, was the first book we had, 
 and this we read together several times very attentively at 
 Oxford. We had a French translation of the Republic ; 
 and we perused with infinite pleasure the elegant translation of 
 Floyer Sydenham. We had several of the publications of the 
 learned and eccentric Platonist, Thomas Taylor. In truth, 
 it would be tedious to specify and describe all the reflected 
 lights borrowed from the great luminary, the sun of the Acad- 
 emy, that illumined the path of two young students. That 
 Shelley had not read any portion of Plato in the original before 
 he went to Italy, is not strictly true. He had a very legible 
 edition of the Works of Plato in several volumes ; a charming 
 edition, the Bipont, I think, and I have read passages out of 
 it with him. I remember going up to London with him from 
 Marlow one morning ; he took a volume of Plato with him, 
 and we read a good deal of it together, sitting side by side on 
 the top of the coach. Phaedrus, I am pretty sure, was the dia- 
 logue — on beauty. Before Shelley came to Oxford he com- 
 posed a tale, or a fragment of a tale, on the subject of the Wan- 
 dering Jew, giving to him, however, the name of a Persian, not 
 of a Jew — Ahasuerus, Artaxerxes. This no learned, accurate 
 German would have done. That he found the composition in 
 the streets of London is an integral portion of the fiction. ' This 
 fragment is the translation of part of some German work, the 
 title of which I have vainly endeavoured to discover. I 
 picked it up, dirty and torn, some years ago, in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields.' 
 
 It is a common device to add to the interest of a romance by 
 asserting that the MS. was discovered in a cavern, in a casket ; 
 that it had lain long hidden in an old chest, or a tomb. From 
 the preface of Dictys the Cretan, whose history of the Trojan 
 
122 Life of Shelley 
 
 war was discovered, we are told, in Crete, the author's tomb 
 having been opened by an earthquake, down to the most 
 modern fictions, this embellishment has been in constant use. 
 Respecting the finding of this fragment, some have affirmed 
 one thing, and some another. It has been said that it was part 
 of a printed book in the German language. If it had been in 
 German, Shelley could not have translated it at that time, for 
 he did not know a word of German. The study of that tongue 
 — being both equally ignorant of it — we commenced together 
 in 1815. Of this our joint study hereafter. Somebody or 
 other, determined 'not to be left behind in the race, declares 
 that he found it himself, if I mistake not, and presented it to 
 Shelley. Was not this worthy gentleman also present at 
 Gnossus when the tablets of Dictys were brought to light by 
 the earthquake ? A portion of the fragment has been printed 
 in the notes to Queen Mab. I have amongst Shelley's papers 
 a fragment of the fragment, in his handwriting. It is one leaf 
 only, and it appears to be the last, the conclusion of the story. 
 The last sentence has never been printed ; it presents the 
 narrative of the sufferings of Ahasuerus in a totally different 
 point of view with reference to moral and religious considera- 
 tions, and is therefore not undeserving attention. 
 
 FRAGMENT OF THE WANDERING JEW 
 
 did the elephant trample on me, in vain the iron hoof of 
 
 the wrathful steed. The mine, big with destructive power, 
 burst upon me and hurled me high in the air. I fell down upon 
 a heap of smoking limbs, but was only singed. The giant's 
 steel club rebounded from my body. The executioner's hand 
 could not strangle me ; nor would the hungry lion in the circus 
 devour me ; I cohabited with poisonous snakes ; I pinched the 
 red crest of the dragon ; the serpent stung, but could not 
 kill me ; the dragon tormented, but could not devour me. 
 I now provoked the fury of tyrants. I said to Nero, ' Thou 
 art a bloodhound ' ; said to Christern, Thou art a bloodhound ' ; 
 said to Muley Ismail, ' Thou art a bloodhound '. The tyrants 
 invented cruel torments, but could not kill me. Ha ! Not 
 to be able to die ; not to be permitted to rest after the toils of 
 life ; to be doomed for ever to be imprisoned in this clay- 
 formed dungeon ; to be for ever clogged with this worthless 
 body, its load of diseases and infirmities ; to be condemned 
 to hold for millenniums that yawning monster, Time, that 
 
Life of Shelley 123 
 
 hungry liyena, ever bearing children, ever devouring again 
 her offspring. 
 
 Ha ! Not to be permitted to die ! Awful Avenger in 
 Heaven, hast Thou in Thine armoury of wrath a punishment 
 more dreadful ? Then let it thunder upon me. Command a 
 hurricane to sweep me down to the foot of Carmel, that I there 
 may lie extended, may pant, and writhe, and die ! 
 
 And Ahasuerus dropped down. Night covered his bristly 
 eyelid. The Angel bore me back to the cavern. ' Sleep here ', 
 said the Angel, ' sleep in peace ; the wrath of thy Judge is 
 appeased ; when thou shalt awake. He will be arrived. He 
 whose blood thou sawest flow upon Golgotha. Whose mercy 
 is extended even to thee !' 
 
 London, May 30, 1834. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I did not inquire, but, as you did not show it to me, I 
 presume you do not possess in your inestimable collection the 
 autograph of poor Shelley. I now send you a poem, or 
 rather a rough draft of part of a poem, by his hand, and from his 
 head and heart. The papers amongst which it was found, and 
 other circumstances, lead me to believe that it was written in 
 1 8 10, when the young poet was but seventeen or eighteen years 
 old. It is doubtless unpublished, and of a more early date 
 than any of his published poems ; on all accounts, therefore, it 
 is most interesting. I selected it for you soon after my return, 
 but I mislaid it, and when I wrote to you the other day I could 
 not find it. With kind regards to Mrs. Turner, 
 
 I am, etc., 
 
 T. J. Hogg. 
 Dawson Turner, Esq., 
 Yarmouth. 
 
 Death 
 
 For my dagger is bathed in the blood of the brave, 
 I come, care-worn tenant of life, from the grave, 
 Where Innocence sleeps 'neath the peace-giving sod. 
 And the good cease to tremble at Tyranny's nod ; 
 I offer a calm habitation to thee, 
 Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me ? 
 My mansion is damp, cold silence is there, 
 But it lulls in oblivion the fiends of despair, 
 Not a groan of regret, not a sigh, not a breath, 
 Dares dispute with grim silence the empire of Death. 
 I offer a calm habitation to thee, 
 Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me ? 
 
24 Life of Shelley 
 
 Mortal 
 
 Mine eyelids are heavy ; my soul seeks repose, 
 It longs in thy cells to embosom its woes. 
 It longs in thy cells to deposit its load, 
 Where no longer the scorpions of Perfidy goad ; 
 Where the phantoms of Prejudice vanish away. 
 And Bigotry's bloodhounds lose scent of their prey ; 
 Yet tell me, dark Death, when thine empire is o'er. 
 What awaits on Futurity's mist-covered shore ? 
 
 Death 
 
 Cease, cease, wayward Mortal ! I dare not unveil 
 
 The shadows that float on Eternity's vale ; 
 
 Nought waits for the good, but a spirit of Love, 
 
 That will hail their blest advent to regions above. 
 
 For Love, Mortal, gleams thro' the gloom of my sway, 
 
 And the shades which surround me fly fast at its ray. 
 
 Hast thou loved ? — Then depart from these regions of hate, 
 
 And in slumber with me blunt the arrows of fate. 
 
 I offer a calm habitation to thee. 
 
 Say, victim of grief, wilt thou slumber with me ? 
 
 Mortal 
 
 Oh ! sweet is thy slumber ! oh ! sweet is the ray 
 
 Which after thy night introduces the day ; 
 
 How concealed, how persuasive, self-interest's breath, 
 
 Tho' it floats to mine ear from the bosom of Death. 
 
 I hoped that I quite was forgotten by all. 
 
 Yet a lingering friend might be grieved at my fall. 
 
 And duty forbids, tho' I languish to die. 
 
 When departure might heave virtue's breast with a sigh. 
 
 Oh, Death ! oh, my friend ! snatch this form to thy shrine. 
 
 And I fear, dear destroyer, I shall not repine. 
 
 The following unfinished verses were written at Oxford ; 
 they have never been published. 
 
 Death ! where is thy victory ? 
 To triumph whilst I die. 
 To triumph whilst thine ebon wing 
 
 Infolds my shuddering soul. 
 Oh, Death ! where is thy sting ? 
 
 Not when the tides of murder roll. 
 When nations groan, that kings may bask in bliss. 
 Death ! canst thou boast a victory such as this ? 
 When in his hour of pomp and power 
 
 His blow the mightiest murders gave, 
 'Mid nature's cries the sacrifice 
 Of millions to glut the grave ; 
 When sunk the tyrant desolation's slave ; 
 Or Freedom's life-blood streamed upon thy shrine ; 
 Stern tyrant, couldst thou boast a victory such as mine ? 
 
Life of Shelley T25 
 
 To know in dissolution's void. 
 
 That mortals baubles sunk decay. 
 That everything, but Love, destroyed 
 Must perish with its kindred clay. 
 Perish Ambition's crown, 
 Perish her sceptered sway ; 
 From Death's pale front fades Pride's fastidious frown. 
 In Death's damp vault the lurid fires decay, 
 That Envy lights at heaven-born Virtue's beam — 
 
 That all the cares subside. 
 
 Which lurk beneath the tide 
 
 Of life's unquiet stream. 
 
 Yes ! this is victory ! 
 And on yon rock, whose dark form glooms the sky. 
 To stretch these pale limbs, when the soul is fled ; 
 To baffle the lean passions of their prey. 
 
 To sleep within the palace of the dead ! 
 Oh ! not the King, around whose dazzling throne 
 His countless courtiers mock the words they say. 
 Triumphs amid the bud of glory blown, 
 As I in this cold bed, and faint expiring groan ! 
 
 Tremble, ye proud, whose grandeur mocks the woe. 
 Which props the column of unnatural state, 
 You the plainings faint and low. 
 From misery's tortured soul that flow. 
 Shall usher to your fate. 
 
 Tremble, ye conquerors, at whose fell command 
 The war-fiend riots o'er a peaceful land. 
 
 You desolation's gory throng 
 
 Shall bear from Victory along 
 To that mysterious strand. 
 
 Cold, cold is the blast, when December is howling. 
 
 Cold are the damps on a dying man's brow. 
 Stern are the seas, when the wild waves are rolling. 
 
 And sad the grave where a loved one lies low. 
 But colder is scorn from the being who loved thee. 
 
 More stem is the sneer from the friend who has proved thee, 
 More sad are the tears when these sorrows have moved thee, 
 
 Which mixed with groans, anguish, and wild madness flow. 
 
 And, ah ! poor Louisa has felt all this horror ; 
 
 Full long the fallen victim contended with fate. 
 Till a destitute outcast, abandoned to sorrow. 
 
 She sought her babe's food at her miner's gate. 
 Another had charmed the remorseless betrayer. 
 
 He turned callous aside from her moan and her prayer, — 
 She said nothing, but wringing the wet from her hair, 
 
 Crossed the dark mountain's side, tho' the hovu: it was late. 
 
126 Life of Shelley 
 
 'Twas on the dark summit of huge Penmanmauer 
 
 That the form of the wasted Louisa reclined ; 
 She shrieked to the ravens that croaked from afar. 
 
 And she sighed to the gusts of the wild-sweeping wind. 
 
   I call not yon clouds, where the thunder-peals rattle, 
 I call not yon rocks, where the elements battle. 
 
 But thee, perjured Henry, I call thee unkind ! * 
 
 Then she wreathed in her hair the wild flowers of the mountain, 
 
 And, deliriously laughing, a garland entwined. 
 She bedewed it with tears, then she hung o'er the fountain. 
 
 And, laving it, cast it a prey to the wind. 
 
 ' Ah, go,' she exclaimed, ' where the tempest is yeUing ; 
 
 'Tis unkind to be cast on the sea that is swelling ; 
 But I left, a pitiless outcast, my dwelling ; 
 
 My garments are torn — so, they say, is my mind.' 
 
 Not long lived Louisa — but over her grave 
 
 Waved the desolate form of a storm-blasted yew, 
 Around it no demons or ghosts dare to rave. 
 
 But spirits of Peace steep her slumbers in dew. 
 Then stay thy swift steps 'mid the dark mountain heather 
 
 Tho' chill blow the wind and severe be the weather. 
 For Perfidy, traveller, cannot bereave her 
 
 Of the tears to the tombs of the innocent due ! 
 
 Oh ! sweet is the moonbeam that sleeps on yon fountain. 
 And sweet the mild rush of the soft -sighing breeze. 
 
 And sweet is the glimpse of yon dimly-seen mountain 
 'Neath the verdant arcades of yon shadowy trees ; 
 
 But sweeter than all 
 
 And, ah ! she may envy the heart-shocked quarry. 
 
 Who bids to the scenery of childhood farewell. 
 She may envy the bosom all bleeding and gory. 
 
 She may envy the soimd of the drear-passing knell. 
 Not so deep are his woes on his death-couch reposing 
 
 When on the last vision his dim eyes are closing. 
 As the outcast— — 
 
 Those notes were so sad and so soft, that, ah ! never 
 May the sound cease to vibrate on memory's ear ! 
 
 Bysshe wrote down these verses for me at Oxford from mem- 
 ory. I was to have a complete and more correct copy of them 
 some day. They were the composition of his sister EUzabeth, 
 and he valued them highly as well as their author, with whom, 
 except an occasional tiff, when she preferred less dry and 
 abstruse matters to his ethical and metaphysical speculations, 
 he agreed most affectionately, cordially, and perfectly. I was 
 to undertake to fall in love with her ; if I did not I had no 
 
Life of Shelley 127 
 
 business to go to Field Place, and he would never forgive me. 
 I promised to do my best ; and, probably, it would not have 
 been difficult to have kept my promise, at least, in a poetical 
 sense. For any one whose age, fortune, and inclinations dis- 
 posed him to settle in life, it might have been very easy to fall 
 in love in a more earnest and practical manner, for she was one 
 of those young ladies who win golden opinions from all their 
 acquaintance. 
 
 I often found Shelley reading Gebir. There was something 
 in that poem which caught his fancy. - He would read it aloud, 
 or to himself sometimes, with a tiresorne pertinacity. One 
 morning, I went to his rooms to tell him something of import- 
 ance, but he would attend to nothing but Gebir. With a young 
 impatience, I snatched the book out of the obstinate fellow's 
 hand, and threw it through the open window into the quad- 
 rangle. It fell upon the grass-plat, and was brought back 
 presently by the servant. I related this incident, some years 
 afterwards, and after the death of my poor friend, at Florence 
 to the highly gifted author. He heard it with his hearty, 
 cordial, genial laugh. * Well, you must allow it is something 
 to have produced what could please one fellow creature and 
 offend another so much.' 
 
 I regret that those two intellectual persons were not ac- 
 quainted with each other. If I would confer a real benefit 
 upon a friend, I would procure for him, if it were possible, 
 the friendship of Walter Savage Landor ! 
 
 CHAPTER VI 
 
 ' Above all things. Liberty ! ' The political creed of Shelley 
 may be comprised in a few words ; it was, in truth, that of 
 most men, and, in a peculiar manner, of young men, during the 
 freshness and early spring of revolutions. He held that not 
 only is the greatest possible amount of civil liberty to be pre- 
 ferred to all other blessings, but that this advantage is all- 
 sufficient, and comprehends within itself every other desirable 
 object. The former position is as unquestionably true as the 
 latter is undoubtedly false. It is no small praise, however, to 
 a very young man, to say, that, on a subject so remote from the 
 comprehension of youth, his opinions were at least half right. 
 
128 Life of Shelley 
 
 Twenty/years ago, the young men at our Universities were 
 satisfied with upholding the poUtical doctrines of which they 
 approved by private discussions : they did not venture to form 
 clubs of brothers, and to move resolutions, except a small 
 number of enthusiasts, of doubtful sanity, who alone sought to 
 usurp, by crude and premature efforts, the offices of a matured 
 understanding and of manly experience. 
 
 Although our fellow-collegians were willing to learn before 
 they took upon themselves the heavy and thankless charge of 
 instructing others, there was no lack of beardless politicians 
 amongst us : of these, some were more strenuous supporters of 
 the popular cause in our little circles than others ; but all were 
 abundantly liberal. A Brutus, or a Gracchus, would have 
 found many to surpass him, and few, indeed, to fall short, in 
 theoretical devotion to the interests of equal freedom. I can 
 scarcely recollect a single exception amongst my numerous 
 acquaintances : all, I think, were worthy of the best ages of 
 Greece, or of Rome ; all were true, loyal citizens, brave and 
 free. How, indeed, could it be otherwise ? Liberty is the 
 morning-star of youth ; and those who enjoy the inappreciable 
 blessing of a classical education, are taught betimes to lisp its 
 praises. They are nurtured in the writings of its votaries ; 
 and they even learn their native tongue, as it were, at second- 
 hand, and reflected in the glorious pages of the authors, who, 
 in the ancient languages, and in strains of a noble eloquence, 
 that will never fail to astonish succeeding generations, proclaim 
 unceasingly, with every variety of powerful and energetic 
 phrase, ' Above all things. Liberty ! ' The praises of liberty 
 were the favourite topic of our earliest verses, whether they 
 flowed with natural ease, or were elaborated painfully out of the 
 resources of art ; and the tyrant was set up as an object of 
 scorn, to be pelted with the first ink of our themes. How, then, 
 can an educated youth be other than free ? 
 
 Shelley was entirely devoted to the lovely theory of freedom ; 
 but he was also eminently averse at that time from engaging in 
 the far less beautiful practices wherein are found the actual 
 and operative energies of liberty. I was maintaining against 
 him one day at my rooms the superiority of the ethical sciences 
 over the physical. In the course of the debate he cried, with 
 shrill vehemence — for as his aspect presented to the eye much 
 of the elegance of the peacock, so, in like manner, he cruelly 
 lacerated the ear with its discordant tones — * You talk of the 
 pre-eminence of moral philosophy ; do you comprehend 
 
Life of Shelley 129 
 
 politics under that name ? and will you tell me, as others do, 
 and as Plato, I believe, teaches, that of this philosophy the 
 political department is the highest and the most important ? * 
 Without expecting an answer, he continued — * A certain noble- 
 man (and he named him) advised me to turn my thoughts 
 towards politics immediately. " You cannot direct your atten- 
 tion that way too early in this country ", said the Duke ; 
 " they are the proper career for a young man of ablility and of 
 your station in life. That course is the most advantageous, 
 because it is a monopoly. A little success in that line goes far, 
 since the number of competitors is limited ; and of those who 
 are admitted to the contest, the greater part are altogether 
 devoid of talent, or too indolent to exert themselves : so many 
 are excluded, that, of the few who are permitted to enter, it is 
 difficult to find any that are not utterly unfit for the ordinary 
 service of the state. It is not so in the church ; it is not so at 
 the bar : there all may offer themselves. The number of 
 rivals in those professions is far greater, and they are, besides, 
 of a more formidable kind. In letters, your chance of success 
 is still worse. There none can win gold, and all may try to gain 
 reputation : it is a struggle for glory — the competition is 
 infinite — there are no bounds — that is a spacious field, indeed 
 — a sea without shores ! " The Duke talked thus to me many 
 times, and strongly urged me to give myself up to politics 
 without delay ; but he did not persuade me. With how un- 
 conquerable an aversion do I shrink from political articles 
 in newspapers and reviews ! I have heard people talk politics 
 b}'- the hour, and how I hated it and them ! I went with my 
 father several times to the House of Commons, and what 
 creatures did I see there ! What faces ! — ^what an expression of 
 countenance ! — what wretched beings ! ' Here he clasped his 
 hands, and raised his voice to a painful pitch, with fervid 
 dislike.' Good God ! what men did we meet about the House — 
 in the lobbies and passages ! and my father was so civil to all of 
 them — to animals that I regarded with unmitigated disgust ! 
 A friend of mine, an Eton man, told me that his father once 
 invited some corporation to dine at his house, and that he 
 was present. When dinner was over, and the gentlemen nearly 
 drunk, they started up, he said, and swore they would all kiss 
 his sisters. His father laughed, and did not forbid them ; and 
 the wretches would have done it ; but his sisters heard of the 
 infamous proposal, and ran up-stairs, and locked themselves 
 in their bed-rooms. I asked him if he would not have knocked 
 
 K 
 
130 Life of Shelley 
 
 them down if they had attempted such an outrage in his 
 presence. It seems to me that a man of spirit ought to have 
 killed them if they had effected their purpose.' The sceptical 
 philosopher sat for several minutes in silence, his cheeks glow- 
 ing with intense indignation. 
 
 ' Never did a more finished gentleman than Shelley step 
 across a drawing-room ! ' Lord Byron exclaimed ; and on 
 reading the remark in Mr. Moore's Memoirs, I was struck forcibly 
 by its justice, and wondered for a moment that, since it was so 
 obvious, it had never been made before. Perhaps this excel- 
 lence was blended so intimately with his entire nature, that it 
 seemed to constitute a part of his identity, and being essential 
 and necessary was therefore never noticed. I observed his 
 eminence in this respect before I had sat beside him many 
 minutes at our first meeting in the hall of University College. 
 Since that day, I have had the happiness to associate with some 
 of the best specimens of gentlemen ; but with all due deference 
 for those admirable persons (may my candour and my pre- 
 ference be pardoned), I can affirm that Shelley was almost the 
 only example I have yet found that was never wanting, even in 
 the most minute particular, of the infinite and various observ- 
 ances of pure, entire, and perfect gentility. Trifling, indeed, 
 and unimportant, were the aberrations of some whom I could 
 name ; but in him, during a long and most unusual familiarity, 
 I discovered no flaw, no tarnish ; the metal was sterling, and 
 the polish absolute. I have also seen him, although rarely, 
 * stepping across a drawing-room ', and then his deportment, 
 as Lord Byron testifies, was unexceptionable. Such attend- 
 ances, however, were pain and grief to him, and his inward dis- 
 comfort was not hard to be discerned. 
 
 An acute observer, whose experience of life was infinite, and 
 who had been long and largely conversant with the best society 
 in each of the principal capitals of Europe, had met Shelley, of 
 whom he was a sincere admirer, several times in public. He 
 remarked one evening, at a large party where Shelley was pre- 
 sent, his extreme discomfort, and added, ' It is but too plain 
 that there is something radically wrong in the constitution of 
 our assemblies, since such a man finds not pleasure, nor even 
 ease, in them.' His speculations concerning the cause were 
 ingenious, and would possibly be not altogether devoid of inter- 
 est ; but they are wholly unconnected with the object of these 
 scanty reminiscences. 
 
 Whilst Shelley was still a boy, clubs were few in number, 
 
Life of Shelley 131 
 
 of small dimensions, and generally confined to some specific 
 class of persons ; the universal and populous clubs of the pre- 
 sent day were almost unknown. His reputation has increased 
 so much of late, that the honour of including his name in the 
 list of members, were such a distinction happily attainable, 
 would now perhaps be sought by many of these societies ; 
 but it is not less certain, that for a period of nearly twenty 
 years, he would have been black-balled by almost every club 
 in London. Nor would such a fate be peculiar to him. 
 
 When a great man has attained to a certain eminence, his 
 patronage is courted by those who were wont carefully to 
 shun him, whilst he was quietly and steadily pursuing the 
 path that would inevitably lead to advancement. It would 
 be easy to multiply instances, if proofs were needed, and this 
 remarkable peculiarity of our social existence is an additional 
 and irrefragable argument that the constitution of refined 
 society is radically vicious, since it flatters timid, insipid 
 mediocrity, and is opposed to the bold, fearless originality, 
 and to that novelty, which invariably characterise true genius. 
 The first dawnings of talent are instantly hailed and warmly 
 welcomed, as soon as some singularity unequivocally attests 
 its existence amongst nations where hypocrisy and intoler- 
 ance are less absolute. 
 
 If all men were required to name the greatest disappoint- 
 ment they had respectively experienced, the catalogue would 
 be very various ; accordingly as the expectations of each had 
 been elevated respecting the pleasure that would attend the 
 gratification of some favourite wish, would the reality in 
 almost every case have fallen short of the anticipation. The 
 variety would be infinite as to the nature of the first disap- 
 pointment ; but if the same irresistible authority could com- 
 mand that another and another should be added to the list, 
 it is probable that there would be less dissimilarity in the 
 returns of the disappointments which were deemed second 
 and the next in importance to the greatest, and perhaps, in 
 numerous instances, the third would coincide. Many indi- 
 viduals, having exhausted their principal private and peculiar 
 grievances in the first and second examples, would assign the 
 third place to some public and general matter. 
 
 The youth who has formed his conceptions of the power, 
 effects, and aspect of eloquence from the specimens furnished 
 by the orators of Greece and Rome, receives as rude a shock 
 on his first visit to the House of Commons as can possibly be 
 
132 Life of Shelley 
 
 inflicted on his juvenile expectations, where the subject is 
 entirely unconnected with the interests of the individual. A 
 prodigious number of persons would, doubtless, inscribe 
 nearly at the top of the list of disappointments the deplorable 
 and inconceivable inferiority of the actual to the imaginary 
 debate. It is not wonderful, therefore, that the sensitive, 
 the susceptible, the fastidious Shelley, whose lively fancy was 
 easily wound up to a degree of excitement incomprehensible 
 to calmer and more phlegmatic temperaments, felt keenly a 
 mortification that can wound even the most obtuse intellects, 
 and expressed, with contemptuous acrimony, his dissatis- 
 faction at the cheat which his warm imagination had put upon 
 him. Had he resolved to enter the career of politics, it is 
 possible that habit would have reconciled him to many things 
 which at first seemed to be repugnant to his nature ; it is 
 possible that his unwearied industry, his remarkable talents 
 and vast energy, would have led him to renown in that line 
 as well as in another ; but it is most probable that his parlia- 
 mentary success would have been but moderate. Oppor- 
 tunities of advancement were offered to him, and he rejected 
 them, in the opinion of some of his friends unwisely and 
 improperly ; but perhaps he only refused gifts that were 
 unfit for him : he struck out a path for himself, and, by boldly 
 following his own course, greatly as it deviated from that 
 prescribed to him, he became incomparably more illustrious 
 than he would have been had he steadily pursued the beaten 
 track. His memory will be green when the herd of every- 
 day politicians are forgotten. Ordinary rules may guide 
 ordinary men, but the orbit of the child of genius is essentially 
 eccentric. 
 
 Although the mind of Shelley had certainly a strong bias 
 towards democracy, and he embraced with an ardent and 
 youthful fondness the theory of political equality, his feelings 
 and behaviour were in many respects highly aristocratical. 
 The ideal republic, wherein his fancy loved to expatiate, was 
 adorned by all the graces which Plato, Xenophon, and Cicero 
 have thrown around the memory of ancient liberty ; the 
 unbleached web of transatlantic freedom, and the inconsiderate 
 vehemence of such of our domestic patriots as would demon- 
 strate their devotion to the good cause, by treating with irre- 
 verence whatever is most venerable, were equally repugnant 
 to his sensitive and reverential spirit. 
 
 As a politician, Shelley was in theory wholly a republican, 
 
Life of Shelley 133 
 
 but in practice, so far only as it is possible to be one with due 
 regard for the sacred rights of a scholar and a gentleman ; 
 and these being in his eyes always more inviolable than any 
 scheme of polity, or civil institution, although he was upon 
 paper and in discourse a sturdy common-wealth-man, the 
 living, moving, acting individual, had much of the senatorial 
 and conservative, and was, in the main, eminently patrician. 
 The rare assiduity of the young poet in the acquisition of 
 general knowledge has been already described ; he had, 
 moreover, diligently studied the mechanism of his art before 
 he came to Oxford. He composed Latin verses with singular 
 facility. On visiting him soon after his arrival at the accus- 
 tomed hour of one, he was writing the usual exercise which 
 we presented, I believe, once a week — a Latin translation of 
 a paper in the Spectator. He soon finished it, and as he held 
 it before the fire to dry, I offered to take it from him ; he 
 said it was not worth looking at ; but as I persisted, through 
 a certain scholastic curiosity to examine the Latinity of my 
 new acquaintance, he gave it to me. The Latin was suffi- 
 ciently correct, but the version was paraphrastic, which I 
 observed ; he assented, and said that it would pass muster, 
 and he felt no interest in such efforts, and no desire to excel 
 in them. I also noticed many portions of heroic verses, and 
 even several entire verses, and these I pointed out as defects 
 in a prose composition. He smiled archly, and asked, in his 
 piercing whisper — ' Do you think they will observe them ? 
 I inserted them intentionally to try their ears ! I once showed 
 up a theme at Eton to old Keate, in which there were a great 
 many verses ; but he observed them, scanned them, and 
 asked why I had introduced them ? I answered, that I did 
 not know they were there : this was partly true and partly 
 false ; but he believed me, and immediately applied to me 
 the line, in which Ovid says of himself 
 
 Et quod tentabam dicere, versus erat.' 
 
 Shelley then spoke of the facility with which he could com- 
 pose Latin verses ; and, taking the paper out of my hand, 
 he began to put the entire translation into verse. He would 
 some times open at hazard a prose writer, as Livy, or Sallust, 
 and by changing the position of the words, and occasionally 
 substituting others, he would transmute several sentences 
 from prose to verse — to heroic, or more commonly elegiac, 
 
134 Life of Shelley 
 
 verse, for he was peculiarly charmed with the graceful and 
 easy flow of the latter — with surprising rapidity and readiness. 
 He was fond of displaying this accomplishment during his 
 residence at Oxford, but he forgot to bring it away with him 
 when he quitted the University ; or perhaps he left it behind 
 him designedly, as being suitable to academic groves only and 
 to the banks of the Isis. In Ovid the facility of versification 
 in his native tongue was possibly, in some measure, innate, 
 although the extensive and various learning of that poet 
 demonstrate that the power of application was not wanting 
 in him ; but such a command over a dead language can only 
 be acquired through severe study. 
 
 There is much in the poetry of Shelley that seems to 
 encourage the belief, that the inspiration of the Muses was 
 seldom duly hailed by the pious diligence of the recipient. 
 It is true that his compositions were too often unfinished, 
 but his example cannot encourage indolence in the youthful 
 writer, for his carelessness is usually apparent only ; he had 
 really applied himself as strenuously to conquer all the other 
 difficulties of his art, as he patiently laboured to penetrate 
 the mysteries of metre in the state wherein it exists entire 
 and can alone be attained — in one of the classical languages. 
 
 The poet takes his name from the highest effort of his art 
 — creation ; and, being himself a maker, he must, of necessity, 
 feel a strong sympathy with the exercise of the creative 
 energies. Shelley was exceedingly deficient in mechanical 
 ingenuity ; and he was also wanting in spontaneous curiosity 
 respecting the operations of artificers. The wonderful dexterity 
 of well-practised hands, the long tradition of innumerable 
 ages, and the vast accumulation of technical wisdom, that 
 are manifested in the various handicrafts, have always been 
 interesting to me, and I have ever loved to watch the artist at 
 his work. I have often induced Shelley to take part in such 
 observations, and although he never threw himself in the 
 way of professors of the manual erudition of the workshop, 
 his vivid delight in witnessing the marvels of the plastic hand, 
 whenever they were brought before his eyes, was very strik- 
 ing ; and the rude workman was often gratified to find that 
 his merit in one narrow field was, at once and intuitively, so 
 fully appreciated by the young scholar. The instances are 
 innumerable that would attest an unusual sympathy with 
 the arts of construction even in their most simple stages. 
 I led him one summer's evening into a brick-field ; it had 
 
Life of Shelley 135 
 
 never occured to him to ask himself how a brick is formed ; 
 the secret was revealed in a moment ; he was charmed with 
 the simple contrivance, and astonished at the rapidity, facility, 
 and exactness with which it was put in use by so many busy 
 hands. An ordinary observer would have smiled and passed 
 on, but the son of fancy confessed his delight with an energy 
 which roused the attention even of the ragged throng, that 
 seemed to exist only that they might pass successive lumps 
 of clay through a wooden frame. 
 
 I was surprised at the contrast between the general indiffer- 
 ence of Shelley for the mechanical arts, and his intense admir- 
 ation of a particular application of one of them the first time 
 I noticed the latter peculiarity. During our residence at 
 Oxford, I repaired to his rooms one morning at the accustomed 
 hour, and I found a tailor with him. He had expected to 
 receive a new coat on the preceding evening ; it was not sent 
 home, and he was mortified, I know not why, for he was 
 commonly altogether indifferent about dress, and scarcely 
 appeared to distinguish one coat from another. He was now 
 standing erect in the middle of the room in his new blue coat, 
 with all its glittering buttons, and to atone for the delay the 
 tailor was loudly extolling the beauty of the cloth and the 
 felicity of the fit ; his eloquence had not been thrown away 
 upon his customer, for never was man more easily persuaded 
 than the master of persuasion. The man of thimbles applied 
 to me to vouch his eulogies ; I briefly assented to them. 
 He withdrew, after some bows, and Shelley, snatching his 
 hat, cried with shrill impatience : 
 
 ' Let us go ! ' 
 
 ' Do you mean to walk in the fields in your new coat ? ' I 
 asked. 
 
 ' Yes certainly ' , he answered, and we sallied forth. 
 
 We sauntered for a moderate space through lanes and bye- 
 ways, until we reached a spot near to a farm-house, where 
 the frequent trampling of much cattle had rendered the road 
 almost impassable, and deep with black mud ; but by crossing 
 the corner of a stack yard, from one gate to another, we could 
 tread upon clean straw, and could wholly avoid the impure 
 and impracticable slough. 
 
 We had nearly effected the brief and commodious transit, 
 I was stretching forth my hand to open the gate that led us 
 back into the lane, when a lean, brindled, and most ill-favoured 
 mastiff, that had stolen upon us softly over the straw unheard, 
 
136 Life of Shelley 
 
 and without barking, seized Shelley suddenly by the skirts. 
 I instantly kicked the animal in the ribs with so much force, 
 that I felt for some days after the influence of his gaunt bones 
 on my toe. The blow caused him to flinch towards the left, 
 and Shelley, turning round quickly, planted a kick in his 
 throat, which sent him away sprawling, and made him retire 
 hastily among the stacks, and we then entered the lane. The 
 fury of the mastiff, and the rapid turn, had torn the skirts of 
 the new blue coat across the back, just about that part of the 
 human loins which our tailors for some wise, but inscrutable 
 purpose, are wont to adorn with two buttons. They were 
 entirely severed from the body, except a narrow strip of cloth 
 on the left side, and this Shelley presently rent asunder. 
 
 I never saw him so angry either before or since ; he vowed 
 that he would bring his pistols and shoot the dog, and that 
 he would proceed at law against the owner. The fidelity of 
 the dog towards his master is very beautiful in theory, and 
 there is much to admire and to revere in this ancient and 
 venerable alliance ; but, in practice, the most unexception- 
 able dog is a nuisance to all mankind, except his master, at 
 all times, and very often to him also, and a fierce surly dog is 
 the enemy of the whole human race. The farm-yards, in 
 many parts of England, are happily free from a pest that is 
 formidable to everybody but thieves by profession ; in other 
 districts savage dogs abound, and in none so much, according 
 to my experience, as in the vicinity of Oxford. The neigh- 
 bourhood of a still more famous city, of Rome, is likewise 
 infested by dogs, more lowering, more ferocious, and incom- 
 parably more powerful. 
 
 Shelley was proceeding home with rapid strides, bearing 
 the skirts of his new coat on his left arm, to procure his pistols, 
 that he might wreak his vengeance upon the offending dog. 
 I disliked the race, but I did not desire to take an ignoble 
 revenge upon the miserable individual. 
 
 ' Let us try to fancy, Shelley ' , I said to him, as he was 
 posting away in indignant silence, * that we have been at 
 Oxford, and have come back again, and that you have just 
 laid the beast low — and what then ? ' 
 
 He was silent for some time, but I soon perceived, from 
 the relaxation of his pace, that his anger had relaxed 
 also. 
 
 At last he stopped short, and taking the skirts from his 
 arm, spread them upon the hedge, stood gazing at them with 
 
Life of Shelley 137 
 
 a mournful aspect, sighed deeply, and after a few minutes 
 continued his march. 
 
 ' Would it not be better to take the skirts with us ? ' I 
 inquired. 
 
 ' No ', he answered despondingly, ' let them remain as a 
 spectacle for men and gods ! ' 
 
 We returned to Oxford, and made our way by back streets 
 to our College. As we entered the gates, the officious scout 
 remarked with astonishment Shelley's strange spenser, and 
 asked for the skirts, that he might instantly carry the wreck 
 to the tailor. Shelley answered, with his peculiarly pensive 
 air, ' They are upon the hedge.' 
 
 The scout looked up at the clock, at Shelley, and through 
 the gate into the street as it were at the same moment and 
 with one eager glance, and would have run blindly in quest 
 of them, but I drew the skirts from my pocket, and unfolded 
 them, and he followed us to Shelley's rooms. 
 
 We were sitting there in the evening, at tea, when the tailor 
 who had praised the coat so warmly in the morning, brought 
 it back as fresh as ever and apparently uninjured. It had 
 been fine-drawn ; he showed how skilfully the wound had 
 been healed, and he commended, at some length, the artist 
 who had effected the cure. Shelley was astonished and 
 delighted : had the tailor consumed the new blue coat in one 
 of his crucibles, and suddenly raised it, by magical incantation, 
 a fresh and purple Phoenix from the ashes, his admiration 
 could hardly have been more vivid. It might be, in this 
 instance, that his joy at the unexpected restoration of a coat, 
 for which, although he was utterly indifferent to dress, he had, 
 through some unaccountable caprice, conceived a fondness, 
 gave force to his sympathy with art ; but I have remarked in 
 innumerable cases, where no personal motive could exist, 
 that he was animated by all the ardour of a maker in wit- 
 nessing the display of the creative energies. 
 
 Nor was the young poet less interested by imitation, especi- 
 ally the imitation of action, than by the creative arts. Our 
 theatrical representations have long been degraded by a 
 most pernicious monopoly, by vast abuses, and enormous 
 corruptions, and by the prevalence of bad taste ; far from 
 feeling a desire to visit the theatres, Shelley would have 
 esteemed it a cruel infliction to have been compelled to wit- 
 ness performances that less fastidious critics have deemed 
 intolerable. He found delight, however, in reading the best 
 
138 Life of Shelley 
 
 of our English dramas, particularly the masterpieces of Shake- 
 speare, and he was never weary of studying the more perfect 
 compositions of the Attic tragedians. The lineaments of 
 individual character may frequently be traced more certainly, 
 and more distinctly, in trifles than in more important affairs ; 
 for in the former the deportment, even of the boldest and 
 most ingenuous, is more entirely emancipated from every 
 restraint. I recollect many minute traits that display the 
 inborn sympathy of a brother practitioner in the mimetic 
 arts ; one silly tale, because, in truth, it is the most trivial 
 of all, will best illustrate the conformation of his mind ; its 
 childishness, therefore, will be pardoned. 
 
 A young man of studious habits, and of considerable talent, 
 occasionally derived a whimsical amusement, during his 
 residence at Cambridge, from entering the public-houses in 
 the neighbouring villages, whilst the fen-farmers and other 
 rustics were smoking and drinking, and from repeating a short 
 passage of a play, or a portion of an oration, which described 
 the death of a distinguished person, the fatal result of a mighty 
 battle, or other important event, in a forcible manner. He 
 selected a passage of which the language was nearly on a level 
 with vulgar comprehension, or he adapted one by somewhat 
 mitigating its elevation ; and although his appearance did 
 not bespeak histrionic gifts, he was able to utter it impres- 
 sively, i nd what was most effective, not theatrically, but 
 simply, and with the air of a man who was in earnest ; and 
 if he were interrupted or questioned, he could slightly modify 
 the discourse, without materially changing the sense, to give 
 it a further appearance of reality ; and so staid and sober 
 was the gravity of his demeanour as to render it impossible 
 for the clowns to solve the wonder by supposing that he was 
 mad. During his declamation the orator feasted inwardly 
 on the stupid astonishment of his petrified audience, and he 
 further regaled himself afterwards by imagining the strange 
 conjectures that would commence at his departure. 
 
 Shelley was much interested by the account I gave him of 
 this curious fact, from the relation of two persons, who had 
 witnessed the performance. He asked innumerable questions, 
 which I was in general quite unable to answer ; and he spoke 
 of it as something altogether miraculous, that any one should 
 be able to recite extraordinary events in such a manner as to 
 gain credence. As he insisted much upon the difficulty of 
 the exploit, I told him that I thought he greatly over-esti- 
 
Life of Shelley 139 
 
 mated it. I was disposed to believe that it was in truth 
 easy ; that faith and a certain gravity were alone needed. I 
 had been struck by the story, when I first heard it ; and I 
 had often thought of the practicability of imitating the 
 deception, and although I had never proceeded so far myself, 
 I had once or twice found it convenient to attempt some- 
 thing similar. At these words Shelley drew his chair close 
 to mine, and listened with profound silence and intense 
 curiosity. 
 
 I was walking one afternoon, in the summer, on the western 
 side of that short street leading from Long Acre to Covent 
 Garden, wherein the passenger is earnestly invited, as a per- 
 sonal favour to the demandant, to proceed straightway to 
 Highgate or to Kentish Town, and which is called, I think 
 James Street ; I was about to enter Covent Garden, when an 
 Irish labourer, whom I met, bearing an empty hod, accosted 
 me somewhat roughly, and asked why I had run against him ; 
 I told him briefly that he was mistaken. Whether somebody 
 had actually pushed the man, or he sought only to quarrel, 
 and although he doubtless attended a weekly row regularly, 
 and the week was already drawing to a close, he was unable 
 to wait until Sunday for a broken head, I know not, but he 
 discoursed for some time with the vehemence of a man who 
 considers himself injured or insulted, and he concluded, being 
 emboldened by my long silence, with a cordial invitation just 
 to push him again. Several persons not very unlike in costume 
 had gathered round him, and appeared to regard him with 
 sympathy. When he paused, I addressed to him slowly and 
 quietly, and it should seem with great gravity, these words, 
 as nearly as I can recollect them : 
 
 ' I have put my hand into the hamper ; I have looked upon 
 the sacred barley ; I have eaten out of the drum ! I have 
 drunk and was well pleased : I have said, Koy^ ojxTrai, and it 
 is finished ! ' 
 
 ' Have you, Sir ? ' inquired the astonished Irishman, and 
 his ragged friends instantly pressed round him with ' Where 
 is the hamper, Paddy ? ' — ' What barley ? ' and the like. 
 And ladies from his own country, that is to say, the basket- 
 women, suddenly began to interrogate him, ' Now, I say, Pat, 
 where have you been drinking ? What have you had ? ' 
 
 I turned therefore to the right, leaving the astounded 
 neophyte, whom I had thus planted, to expound the mystic 
 words of initiation, as he could, to his inquisitive companions. 
 
140 Life of Shelley 
 
 As I walked slowly under the piazzas, and through the 
 streets and courts, towards the west, I marvelled at the ingen- 
 uity of Orpheus — if he were indeed the inventor of the Eleu- 
 sinian mysteries — that he was able to devise words that, 
 imperfectly as I had repeated them, and in the tattered frag- 
 ment that has reached us, were able to soothe people so savage 
 and barbarous as those to whom I had addressed them, and 
 which, as the apologists for those venerable rites affirm, were 
 manifestly well adapted to incite persons, who hear them for 
 the first time, however rude they may be, to ask questions. 
 Words, that can awaken curiosity, even in the sluggish intellect 
 of a wild man, and can thus open the inlet of knowledge. 
 
 ' Konx ompax, and it is finished ! ' exclaimed Shelley, 
 crowing with enthusiastic delight at my whimsical adventure. 
 A thousand times as he strode about the house, and in his 
 rambles out of doors, would he stop and repeat aloud the 
 mystic words of initiation, but always with an energy of 
 manner, and a vehemence of tone and of gesture, that would 
 have prevented the ready acceptance, which a calm, passionless 
 delivery had once procured for them. How often would he 
 throw down his book, clasp his hands, and starting from his 
 seat, cry suddenly, with a thrilling voice, ' I have said Konx 
 ompax, and it is finished ! ' 
 
 CHAPTER VII 
 
 As our attention is most commonly attracted by those depart- 
 ments of knowledge which are striking and remarkable, rather 
 than by those which are really useful, so, in estimating the 
 character of an individual, we are prone to admire extra- 
 ordinary intellectual powers and uncommon energies of 
 thought, and to overlook that excellence which is, in truth, 
 the most precious — his moral value. Was the subject of 
 biography distinguished by a vast erudition ? Was he con- 
 spicuous for an original genius ; for a warm and fruitful 
 fancy ? Such are the implied questions which we seek to 
 resolve by consulting the memoirs of his life. We may some- 
 times desire to be informed whether he was a man of nice 
 honour and conspicuous integrity ; but how rarely do we feel 
 any curiosity with respect to that quality which is, perhaps, 
 
Life of Shelley 141 
 
 the most important to his fellows — how seldom do we desire 
 to measure his benevolence ! It would be impossible faithfully 
 to describe the course of a single day in the ordinary life of 
 Shelley without showing, incidentally and unintentionally, 
 that his nature was eminently benevolent — and many minute 
 traits, pregnant with proof, have been already scattered by 
 the way ; but it would be an injustice to his memory to forbear 
 to illustrate expressly, but briefly, in leave-taking, the ardent, 
 devoted, and unwearied love he bore his kind. 
 
 A personal intercourse could alone enable the observer to 
 discern in him a soul ready winged for flight, and scarcely 
 detained by the fetters of body : that happiness was, if 
 possible, still more indispensable to open the view of the 
 unbounded expanse of cloudless philanthropy — pure, dis- 
 interested, and unvaried — the aspect of which often filled with 
 mute wonder the minds of simple people, unable to estimate 
 a penetrating genius, a docile sagacity, a tenacious memory, 
 or, indeed, any of the various ornaments of the soul. 
 
 Whenever the intimate friends of Shelley speak of him in 
 general terms, they speedily and unconsciously fall into the 
 language of panegyric — a style of discourse that is barren of 
 instruction, wholly devoid of interest, and justly suspected by 
 the prudent stranger. It becomes them, therefore, on dis- 
 covering the error they have committed, humbly to entreat 
 the forgiveness of the charitable for human infirmity, oppressed 
 and weighed down by the fulness of the subject — carefully to 
 abstain in future from every vague expression of commenda- 
 tion, and faithfully to relate a plain, honest tale of unadorned 
 facts. 
 
 A regard for children, singular and touching, is an unerring 
 and most engaging indication of a benevolent mind. That 
 this characteristic was not wanting in Shelley might be 
 demonstrated by numerous examples which crowd upon the 
 recollection, each of them bearing the strongly impressed 
 stamp of individuality ; for genius renders every surrounding 
 circumstance significant and important. In one of our 
 rambles we were traversing the bare, squalid, ugly, corn- 
 yielding country, that lies, if I remember rightly, to the south- 
 west of Oxford : the hollow road ascended a hill, and near the 
 summit Shelley observed a female child leaning against the 
 bank on the right : it was of a mean, dull, and unattractive 
 aspect, and older than its stunted growth denoted. The 
 morning, as well as the preceding night, had been rainy : it 
 
142 Life of Shelley 
 
 had cleared up at noon with a certain ungenial sunshine, and 
 the afternoon was distinguished by that intense cold which 
 sometimes, in the winter season, terminates such days. The 
 little girl was oppressed by cold, by hunger, and by a vague 
 feeling of abandonment. It was not easy to draw from her 
 blue lips an intelligible history of her condition. Love, how- 
 ever, is at once credulous and apprehensive ; and Shelley 
 immediately decided that she had been deserted, and, with 
 his wonted precipitation (for in the career of humanity his 
 active spirit knew no pause), he proposed different schemes for 
 the permanent relief of the poor foundling, and he hastily 
 inquired which of them was the most expedient. I answered 
 that it was desirable, in the first place, to try to procure some 
 food, for of this the want was manifestly the most urgent. I 
 then climbed the hill to reconnoitre, and observed a cottage 
 close at hand, on the left of the road. With considerable 
 difficulty — with a gentle violence, indeed — Shelley induced the 
 child to accompany him thither. After much delay, we 
 procured from the people of the place, who resembled the 
 dull, uncouth, and perhaps sullen, rustics of that district, some 
 warm milk. 
 
 It was a strange spectacle to watch the young poet, whilst, 
 with the enthusiastic and intensely earnest manner that 
 characterizes the legitimate brethren of the celestial art — the 
 heaven-born and fiercely inspired sons of genuine poesy — 
 holding the wooden bowl in one hand and the wooden spoon in 
 the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he might more 
 certainly attain to her mouth, he urged and encouraged the 
 torpid and timid child to eat. The hot milk was agreeable to 
 the girl, and its effects were salutary ; but she was obviously 
 uneasy at the detention. Her uneasiness increased, and 
 ultimately prevailed : we returned with her to the place 
 where we had found her, Shelley bearing the bowl of milk in 
 his hand. Here we saw some people anxiously looking for the 
 child — a man and, I think, four women, strangers of the 
 poorest class, of a mean, but not disreputable, appearance. 
 As soon as the girl perceived them she was content, and taking 
 the bowl from Shelley, she finished the milk without his 
 help. 
 
 Meanwhile, one of the women explained the apparent 
 desertion with a multitude of rapid words. They had come 
 from a distance, and to spare the weary child the fatigue of 
 walking farther, the day being at that time sunny, they left 
 
Life of Shelley 143 
 
 her to await their return those unforeseen delays, which 
 harass all, and especially the poor, in transacting business, had 
 detained them much longer than they had anticipated. 
 
 Such, in a few words, is the story, which was related in 
 many, and which the little girl, who, it was said, was somewhat 
 deficient in understanding, as well as in stature, was unable to 
 explain. So humble was the condition of these poor wayfaring 
 folks, that they did not presume to offer thanks in words but 
 they often turned back, and with mute wonder gazed at 
 Shelley, who, totally unconscious that he had done anything to 
 excite surprise, returned with huge strides to the cottage, to 
 restore the bowl and to pay for the milk. As the needy 
 travellers pursued their toilsome, and possibly fruitless journey, 
 they had at least the satisfaction to reflect that all above them 
 were not desolated by a dreary apathy, but that some hearts 
 were warm with that angelic benevolence towards inferiors in 
 which still higher natures, as we are taught, largely participate. 
 
 Shelley would often pause, halting suddenly in his swift 
 course, to admire the children of the country-people ; and 
 after gazing on a sweet and intelligent countenance, he would 
 exhibit, in the language and with an aspect of acute anguish, 
 his intense feeling of the future sorrows and sufferings — of all 
 the manifold evils of life — which too often distort, by a mean 
 and most disagreeable expression, the innocent, happy, and 
 engaging lineaments of youth. He sometimes stopped to 
 observe the softness and simplicity that the face and gestures 
 of a gentle girl displayed, and he would surpass her gentleness 
 by his own. 
 
 We were strolling one day in the neighbourhood of Oxford, 
 when Shelley was attracted by a little girl : he turned aside, 
 and stood and observed her in silence. She was about six 
 years of age, small and slight, bare-headed, bare-legged, and 
 her apparel variegated and tattered. She was busily employed 
 in collecting empty snail-shells, so much occupied indeed, that 
 some moments elapsed before she turned her face towards us. 
 When she did so, we perceived that she was evidently a young 
 gipsy ; and Shelley was forcibly struck by the vivid intelli- 
 gence of her wild and swarthy countenance, and especially 
 by the sharp glance of her fierce black eyes. ' How much 
 intellect is here ! ' he exclaimed, ' in how humble a vessel, and 
 what an unworthy occupation for a person who once knew per- 
 fectly the whole circle of the sciences ; who has forgotten 
 them all, it is true, but who could certainly recollect them, 
 
144 Life of Shelley 
 
 although most probably she will never do so ; will never recall 
 a single principle of any one of them ! ' 
 
 As he spoke, he turned aside a bramble with his foot, and 
 discovered a large shell, which the alert child instantly caught 
 up and added to her store ; at the same moment a small stone 
 was thrown from the other side of the road ; it fell in the 
 hedge near us. We turned round and saw on the top of a 
 high bank a boy some three years older than the girl, and in 
 as rude a guise ; he was looking at us over a low hedge with a 
 smile, but plainly not without suspicion. We might be two 
 kidnappers, he seemed to think : he was in charge of his little 
 sister, and did not choose to have her stolen before his face. 
 He gave the signal therefore, and she obeyed it, and had almost 
 joined him before we missed her from our side. They both 
 disappeared, and we continued our walk. 
 
 Shelley was charmed with the intelligence of the two children 
 of nature, and with their marvellous wildness : he talked much 
 about them, and compared them to birds, and to the two wild 
 leverets, which that wild mother, the hare, produces. We 
 sauntered about, and half an hour afterwards, on turning a 
 corner, we suddenly met the two children again full in the face. 
 The meeting was unlooked for, and the air of the boy showed 
 that it was unpleasant to him : he had a large bundle of dry 
 sticks under his arm ; these he gently dropped, and stood 
 motionless with an apprehensive smile — a deprecatory smile. 
 We were perhaps the lords of the soil, and his patience was 
 prepared, for patience was his lot — an inalienable inheritance 
 long entailed upon his line — to hear a severe reproof with 
 heavy threats, possibly even to receive blows with a stick 
 gathered by himself, not altogether unwittingly, for his own 
 back ; or to find mercy and forbearance. Shelley's demeanour 
 soon convinced him that he had nothing to fear : he laid a 
 hand on the round, matted, knotted, bare, and black head of 
 each, viewed their moving, mercurial countenances with 
 renewed pleasure and admiration, and shaking his long locks, 
 suddenly strode away. * That little ragged fellow knows as 
 much as the wisest philosopher ', he presently cried, clapping 
 the wings of his soul, and crowing aloud with shrill triumph at 
 the felicitous union of the true with the ridiculous, — ' but he 
 will not communicate any portion of his knowledge : it is not 
 from churlishness however, for of that his nature is plainly 
 incapable ; but the sophisticated urchin will persist in thinking 
 he has forgotten all that he knows so well. I was about to 
 
Life of Shelley 145 
 
 ask him myself to communicate some of the doctrines Plato 
 unfolds in his Dialogues : but I felt that it would do no 
 good : the rogue would have laughed at me, and so would his 
 little sister. I wonder you did not propose to them some 
 mathematical questions : just a few interrogations in your 
 geometry ; for that being so plain and certain, if it be once 
 thoroughly understood, can never be forgotten ! ' 
 
 A day or two afterwards (or it might be on the morrow) 
 as we were rambling in the favourite region at the foot of 
 Shotover Hill, a gipsy's tent by the roadside caught Shelley's 
 eye : men and women were seated on the ground in front of it, 
 watching a pot suspended over a smoky fire of sticks. He cast 
 a passing glance at the ragged group, but immediately stopped 
 on recognizing the children, who remembered us, and ran 
 laughing into the tent. Shelley laughed also, and waved his 
 hand, and the little girl returned the salutation. 
 
 There were many striking contrasts in the character and 
 behaviour of Shelley, and one of the most remarkable was a 
 mixture, or alternation, of awkwardness with agility — of the 
 clumsy with the graceful. He would stumble in stepping 
 across the floor of a drawing-room ; he would trip himself up 
 on a smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in the 
 most inconceivable manner in ascending the commodious, 
 facile, and well-carpeted staircase of an elegant mansion, so 
 as to bruise his nose or his lip on the upper steps, or to tread 
 upon his hands, and even occasionally to disturb the com- 
 posure of a well-bred footman ; on the contrary, he would 
 often glide without collision through a crowded assembly, 
 thread with unerring dexterity a most intricate path, or securely 
 and rapidly tread the most arduous and uncertain ways. As 
 soon as he saw the children enter the tent, he darted after them 
 with his peculiar agility, followed them into their low, narrow, 
 and fragile tenement, penetrated to the bottom of the tent 
 without removing his hat, or striking against the woven edifice. 
 He placed a hand on each round, rough head, spoke a few kind 
 words to the skulking children, and then returned not less 
 precipitately, and with as much ease and accuracy, as if he 
 had been a dweller in tents from the hour when he first drew 
 air and milk to that day — as if he had been the descendant, not 
 of a gentle house, but of a long line of gipsies. His visit 
 roused the jealousy of a stunted, feeble dog, which followed 
 him and barked with helpless fury : he did not heed it, nor 
 perhaps hear it. The company of gipsies were astonished at 
 
 L 
 
146 Life of Shelley 
 
 the first visit that had ever been made by a member of either 
 University to their humble dwelHng ; but as its object was 
 evidently benevolent, they did not stir or interfere, but greeted 
 him on his return with a silent and unobserved salutation. He 
 seized my arm, and we prosecuted our speculations, as we 
 walked briskly to our college. 
 
 The marvellous gentleness of his demeanour could conciliate 
 the least sociable natures, and it had secretly touched the wild 
 things which he had thus briefly noticed. 
 
 We were wandering through the roads and lanes at a short 
 distance from the tent soon afterwards, and were pursuing our 
 way in silence ; I turned round at a sudden sound ; — the young 
 gipsy had stolen upon us unperceived, and with a long bramble 
 had struck Shelley across the skirts of his coat : he had dropped 
 his rod, and was returning softly to the hedge. 
 
 Certain misguided persons, who, unhappily for themselves, 
 were incapable of understanding the true character of Shelley, 
 have published many false and injurious calumnies respecting 
 him — some for hire, others drawing largely out of the inborn 
 vulgarity of their own minds, or from the necessary malignity 
 of ignorance — but no one ever ventured to say that he was not 
 a good judge of an orange ! At this time, in his nineteenth 
 year, although temperate, he was less abstemious in his diet 
 than he afterwards became, and he was frequently provided 
 with some fine samples. As soon as he understood the rude 
 but friendly welcome to the heaths and lanes, he drew an orange 
 from his pocket, and rolled it after the retreating gipsy along 
 the grass by the side of the wide road. The boy started with 
 surprise as the golden fruit passed him, quickly caught it up, 
 and joyfully bore it away, bending reverently over it, and 
 carrying it with both his hands, as if, together with almost the 
 size, it had also the weight of a cannon-ball. 
 
 His passionate fondness of the Platonic philosophy seemed 
 to sharpen his natural affection for children, and his sympathy 
 with their innocence. Every true Platonist, he used to say, 
 must be a lover of children, for they are our masters and 
 instructors in philosophy : the mind of a new-born infant, so 
 far from being, as Locke affirms, a sheet of blank paper, is a 
 pocket edition, containing every dialogue, a complete Elzevir 
 Plato, if we can fancy such a pleasant volume ; and, moreover, 
 a perfect encyclopedia, comprehending not only the newest 
 discoveries, but all those still more valuable and wonderful 
 inventions that will hereafter be made ! 
 
Life of Shelley 147 
 
 One Sunday we had been reading Plato together so dili- 
 gently, that the usual hour of exercise passed away unper- 
 ceived : we sallied forth hastily to take the air for half an 
 hour before dinner. In the middle of Magdalen Bridge we 
 met a woman with a child in her arms. Shelley was more 
 attentive at that instant to our conduct in a life that was past, 
 or to come, than to a decorous regulation of the present, 
 according to the established usages of society, in that fleeting 
 moment of eternal duration, styled the nineteenth century. 
 With abrupt dexterity he caught hold of the child. The 
 mother, who might well fear that it was about to be thrown 
 over the parapet of the bridge into the sedgy waters below, 
 held it fast by its long train. 
 
 * Will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence. 
 Madam ? ' he asked, in a piercing voice, and with a wistful 
 look 
 
 The mother made no answer, but perceiving that Shelley's 
 object was not murderous, but altogether harmless, she dis- 
 missed her apprehension, and relaxed her hold. 
 
 * Will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence. 
 Madam ? ' he repeated, with unabated earnestness. 
 
 ' He cannot speak, Sir ', said the mother seriously. 
 
 ' Worse and worse ', cried Shelley, with an air of deep 
 disappointment, shaking his long hair most pathetically about 
 his young face ; * but surely the babe can speak if he will, for 
 he is only a few weeks old. He may fancy perhaps that he 
 cannot, but it is only a silly whim ; he cannot have forgotten 
 entirely the use of speech in so short a time ; the thing is 
 absolutely impossible.' 
 
 * It is not for me to dispute with you. Gentlemen ', the 
 woman meekly replied, her eye glancing at our academical 
 garb ; * but I can safely declare that I never heard him speak, 
 nor any child, indeed, of his age '. 
 
 It was a line placid boy ; so far from being disturbed by the 
 interruption, he looked up and smiled. Shelley pressed his 
 fat cheeks with his fingers, we commended his healthy appear- 
 ance and his equanimity, and the mother was permitted to 
 proceed, probably to her satisfaction, for she would doubtless 
 prefer a less speculative nurse. Shelley sighed deeply as we 
 walked on. 
 
 * How provokingly close are those new-born babes ! ' he 
 ejaculated ; ' but it is not the less certain, notwithstanding 
 the cunning attempts to conceal the truth, that all knowledge 
 
148 Life of Shelley 
 
 is reminiscence : the doctrine is far more ancient than the 
 times of Plato, and as old as the venerable allegory that the 
 Muses are the daughters of Memory ; not one of the nine was 
 ever said to be the child of Invention ! ' 
 
 In consequence of this theory, upon which his active imagina- 
 tion loved to dwell, and which he was delighted to maintain in 
 argument with the few persons qualified to dispute with him 
 on the higher metaphysics, his fondness for children — a fond- 
 ness innate in generous minds — was augmented and elevated, 
 and the gentle instinct expanded into a profound and philo- 
 sophical sentiment. The Platonists have been illustrious in 
 all ages, on account of the strength and permanence of their 
 attachments. In Shelley the parental affections were de- 
 veloped at an early period to an unusual extent : it was mani- 
 fest, therefore, that his heart was formed by nature and by 
 cultivation to derive the most exquisite gratification from the 
 society of his own progeny, or the most poignant anguish from 
 a natural or unnatural bereavement. To strike him here was 
 the cruel admonition which a cursory glance would at once 
 convey to him who might seek where to wound him most 
 severely with a single blow, should he ever provoke the ven- 
 geance of an enemy to the active and fearless spirit of liberal 
 investigation and to all solid learning — of a foe to the human 
 race. With respect to the theory of the pre-existence of the 
 soul, it is not wonderful that an ardent votary of the intel- 
 lectual should love to uphold it in strenuous and protracted 
 disputation, as it places the immortality of the soul in an 
 impregnable castle, and not only secures it an existence 
 independent of the body, as it were, by usage and prescrip- 
 tion, but moreover, raising it out of the dirt on tall stilts — 
 elevates it far above the mud of matter. 
 
 It is not wonderful that a subtle sophist, who esteemed above 
 all riches and terrene honours victory in well-fought debate, 
 should be willing to maintain a dogma that is not only of 
 difficult eversion by those, who, struggling as mere metaphy- 
 sicians, use no other weapon than unassisted reason, but which 
 one of the most illustrious Fathers of the Church — a man of 
 amazing powers and stupendous erudition, armed with the 
 prodigious resources of the Christian theology, the renowned 
 Origen — was unable to dismiss ; retaining it as not dissonant 
 from his informed reason, and as aifording a larger scope for 
 justice in the moral government of the universe. 
 
 In addition to his extreme fondness for children, another, 
 
Life of Shelley 149 
 
 and a not less unequivocal, characteristic of a truly philan- 
 thropic mind, was eminently and still more remarkably con- 
 spicuous 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 emotion 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 imme- 
 diately 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 
 light 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 au- 
 thors 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 remun- 
 eration, 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 to Pliny 
 the younger, by testators venerating their abilities and attain- 
 ments — his zeal, enthusiastic in the cause of letters, giving an 
 interest and a novelty to the most trite and familiar instances. 
 
150 Life of Shelley 
 
 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, inade- 
 quate to allow the indulgence of the most ordinary super- 
 fluities, and diminished by various casual but unavoidable in- 
 cumbrances, 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 gener- 
 ation, 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 commend- 
 able 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 demon- 
 strated 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 con- 
 version of alms-giving 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 
 
Life of Shelley 15 1 
 
 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 even- 
 ing 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 button- 
 ing 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 dis- 
 regard 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. 
 
152 Life of Shelley 
 
 There were several women in the shop in brown and gray- 
 cloaks with squalling children ; some of them were attempting 
 to persuade the children to be quiet, or at least to scream with 
 moderation ; the others were enlarging upon and pointing out 
 the beauties of certain coarse and dirty sheets that lay before 
 them to a man on the other side of the counter. 
 
 I bore this substitute for our proposed tea some minutes 
 with tolerable patience, but as the call did not, promise to 
 terminate speedily, I said to Shelley, in a whisper, ' Is not this 
 almost as bad as the Roman virtue ? ' Upon this he ap- 
 proached the pawnbroker : it was long before he could obtain a 
 hearing, and he did not find civility. The man was unwilling 
 to part with a valuable pledge so soon, or perhaps he hoped to 
 retain it eventually ; or it might be, that the obliquity of his 
 nature disqualified him for respectful behaviour. 
 
 A pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal 
 proceedings : it has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to 
 see many specimens of this kind of banker ; they sometimes 
 appeared not less respectable than other tradesman, and some- 
 times I have been forcibly reminded of the first I ever met 
 with, by an equally ill-conditioned fellow. I was so little pleased 
 with the introduction, that I stood aloof in the shop, and did 
 not hear what passed between him and Shelley. 
 
 On our way to Covent-Garden, I expressed my surprise 
 and dissatisfaction at our strange visit, and I learned that when 
 he came to London before, in the course of the summer, some 
 old man had related to him a tale of distress — of a calamity 
 which could only be alleviated by the timely application of ten 
 pounds ; five of them he drew at once from his pocket, and to 
 raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar miscro- 
 scope ! He related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, 
 as if it were a matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. 
 I was ashamed of my impatience, and we strode along in silence. 
 
 It was past ten when we reached the hotel ; some excellent 
 tea and a liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now 
 quiet and solitary, were the more grateful after the wearisome 
 delay and vast deviation. Shelley often turned his head, and 
 cast eager glances towards the door ; and whenever the waiter 
 replenished our teapot, or approached our box, he was inter- 
 rogated whether any one had yet called. 
 
 At last the desired summons was brought ; Shelley drew 
 forth some bank notes, hurried to the bar, and returned as 
 hastily, bearing in triumph under his arm a mahogany box, 
 
Life of Shelley 153 
 
 followed by the officious waiter, with whose assistance he placed 
 it upon the bench by his side. He viewed it often with evident 
 satisfaction and sometimes patted it affectionately in the course 
 of calm conversation. The solar microscope was always a 
 favourite plaything or instrument of scientific inquiry ; when- 
 ever he entered a house his first care was to choose some 
 window of a southern aspect, and, if permission could be 
 obtained by prayer or by purchase, straightway to cut a hole 
 through the shutter to receive it. 
 
 His regard for his solar microscope was as lasting as it was 
 strong ; for he retained it several years after this adventure, 
 and long after he had parted with all the rest of his philosophical 
 apparatus. 
 
 Such is the story of the microscope, and no rightly judging 
 person who hears it will require the further accumulation of 
 proofs of a benevolent heart ; nor can I, perhaps, better close 
 these sketches than with that impression of the pure and 
 genial beauty of Shelley's nature which this simple anecdote 
 will bequeath. 
 
 CHAPTER VIII 
 
 The theory of civil liberty has ever seemed lovely to the eyes 
 of a young man enamoured of moral and intellectual beauty ; 
 Shelley's devotion to freedom, therefore, was ardent and 
 sincere. He would have submitted with cheerful alacrity to 
 the greatest sacrifices, had they been demanded of him, to 
 advance the sacred cause of liberty ; and he would have gal- 
 lantly encountered every peril in the fearless resistance to 
 active oppression. Nevertheless, in ordinary times, although 
 a generous and unhesitating patriot, he was little inclined 
 to consume the pleasant season of youth amidst the intrigues 
 and clamours of elections, and in the dull and selfish cabals 
 of parties. His fancy viewed from a lofty eminence the grand 
 scheme of an ideal republic ; and he could not descend to 
 the humble task of setting out the boundaries of neighbour- 
 ing rights, and to the uninviting duties of actual administra- 
 tion. He was still less disposed to interest himself in the 
 politics of the day, because he observed the pernicious effects of 
 party zeal in a field where it ought not to enter. 
 
 It is no slight evil, but a heavy price paid for popular in- 
 stitutions, that society should be divided into hostile clans to 
 
154 l^ife o^ Shelley 
 
 serve the selfish purposes of a few poUtical adventurers ; and 
 surely to introduce politics within the calm precincts of an 
 university ought to be deemed a capital offence — a felony with- 
 out benefit of clergy. The undue admission (to borrow the 
 language of universities for a moment) is not less fatal to its 
 existence as an institution designed for the advancement of 
 learning, than the reception of the wooden horse within the 
 walls of Troy was to the safety of that renowned city. 
 
 What does it import the interpreters of Pindar and Thucy- 
 dides — the expositors of Plato and Aristotle — if a few interested 
 persons, for the sake of some lucrative posts, affect to believe 
 that it is a matter of vital importance to the state to concede 
 certain privileges to the Roman Catholics ; whilst others, for 
 the same reason, pretend with tears in their eyes that the con- 
 cessions would be dangerous, and, indeed, destructive, and 
 shudder with feigned horror, at the harmless proposal ? Such 
 pretexts may be advantageous, and perhaps even honourable, 
 to the ingenious persons who use them for the purposes of im- 
 mediate advancement ; but of what concernment are they to 
 Apollo and the Muses ? How could the Catholic question 
 augment the calamities of Priam, or diminish the misfortunes 
 of the ill-fated house of Labdacus ? or which of the doubts of 
 the ancient philosophers would the most satisfactory solution 
 of it remove ? Why must the modest student come forth, and 
 dance upon the tight-rope with the mountebanks, since he is to 
 receive no part of the reward, and would not emulate the 
 glory, of those meritorious artists ? Yet did this most inap- 
 plicable question mainly contribute to poison the harmless and 
 stupendous felicity which we enjoyed at Oxford. 
 
 During the whole period of our residence there, the Univer- 
 sity was cruelly disfigured by bitter feuds, arising out of the 
 late election of its Chancellor : in an especial manner was our 
 own most venerable college deformed by them, and by angry 
 and senseless disappointment. 
 
 Lord Grenville had just been chosen. There could be no 
 more comparison between his scholarship and his various 
 qualifications for the honourable and useless office, and the 
 claims of his unsuccessful opponent, than between the attain- 
 ments of the best man of the year and those of the huge porter 
 who, with a stern and solemn civility, kept the gates of Uni- 
 versity College — the arts of muUed-wine and egg-hot being, 
 in the latter case, alone excepted. 
 
 The vanquished competitor, however, most unfortunately 
 
Life of Shelley 155 
 
 for its honour and character, was a member of our college ; and 
 in proportion as the intrinsic merits of our rulers were small, 
 had the vehemence and violence of electioneering been great, 
 that, through the abuse of the patronage of the church, they 
 might attain to those dignities, as the rewards of the activity 
 of partisans, which they could never hope to reach through the 
 legitimate road of superior learning and talents. 
 
 Their vexation at failing was the more sharp and abiding, 
 because the only objection that vulgar bigotry could urge 
 against the victor was his disposition to make concessions to the 
 Roman Catholics ; and every dull lampoon about popes, and 
 cardinals, and the scarlet lady, had accordingly been worn 
 threadbare in vain. Since the learned and the liberal had 
 conquered, learning and liberality were peculiarly odious with 
 us at that epoch. The studious scholar, particularly if he were 
 of an inquiring disposition, and of a bold and free temper, was 
 suspected and disliked : he was one of the enemy's troops. 
 The inert and the subservient were the loyal soldiers of the 
 legitimate army of the faith. The despised and scattered 
 nation of scholars is commonly unfortunate ; but a more severe 
 calamity has seldom befallen the remnant of true Israelites 
 than to be led captive by such a generation ! Youth is happy, 
 because it is blithe and healthful, and exempt from care ; but 
 it is doubly and trebly happy, since it is honest and fearless — 
 honourable and disinterested. 
 
 In the whole body of undergraduates, scarcely one was 
 friendly to the holder of the loaves and the promiser of the 
 fishes. Lord Eldon. All were eager — all one, and all — in be- 
 half of the scholar and the liberal statesman ; and plain and 
 loud was the avowal of their sentiments. A sullen demeanour 
 towards the young rebels displayed the annoyance arising from 
 the want of success, and from our lack of sympathy ; and it 
 would have demonstrated to the least observant, that, where 
 the Muses dwell, the quarrels and intrigues of political parties 
 ought not to come. 
 
 By his family and his connexions, as well as by disposition, 
 Shelley was attached to the successful side ; and although it 
 was manifest that he was a youth of an admirable temper, of 
 rare talents and unwearied industry, and likely, therefore, to 
 shed a lustre upon his college and the University itself ; yet, 
 as he was eminently delighted at that wherewith his superiors 
 were offended, he was regarded from the beginning with a 
 jealous eye. 
 
156 Life of Shelley 
 
 A young man of spirit will despise the mean spite of sordid 
 minds ; nevertheless, the persecution which a generous soul 
 can contemn, through frequent repetition, too often becomes 
 a severe annoyance in the long course of life ; and Shelley 
 frequently and most pathetically lamented the political 
 divisions which then harassed the University, and were a more 
 fertile source of manifold ills in the wider field of active life. 
 For this reason did he appear to cling more closely to our sweet 
 studious seclusion ; and from this cause, perhaps, principally 
 arose his disinclination — I may say, indeed, his intense anti- 
 pathy — for the political career that had been proposed to him. 
 A lurking suspicion would sometimes betray itself that he was 
 to be forced into that path, and impressed into the civil service 
 of the state — to become, as it were, a conscript legislator. 
 
 A newspaper never found its way to his rooms the whole 
 period of his residence at Oxford ; but when waiting in a 
 bookseller's shop, or at an inn, he would sometimes, although 
 rarely, permit his eye to be attracted by a murder or a storm. 
 Having perused the tale of wonder, or of horror, if it chanced 
 to stray to a political article, after reading a few lines he 
 invariably threw it aside to a great distance ; and he started 
 from his seat, his face flushing, and strode about, muttering 
 broken sentences, the purport of which was always the same : 
 his extreme dissatisfaction at the want of candour and fair- 
 ness, and the monstrous disingenuousness, which politicians 
 manifest in speaking of the characters and measures of their 
 rivals. Strangers, who caught imperfectly the sense of his 
 indistinct murmurs, were often astonished at the vehemence 
 of his mysterious displeasure. 
 
 Once, I remember, a bookseller, the master of a very small 
 shop in a little country town, but apparently a sufficiently 
 intelligent man, could not refrain from expressing his surprise 
 that any one should be offended with proceedings that seemed 
 to him as much in the ordinary course of trade, and as necessary 
 to its due exercise, as the red ligature of the bundle of quills, 
 or the thin and pale brown wrapper which enclosed the quire 
 of letter-paper we had just purchased of him. 
 
 A man of talents and learning, who refused to enlist under 
 the banners of any party, and did not deign to inform himself 
 of the politics of the day, or to take the least part or interest 
 in them, would be a noble and a novel spectacle ; but so many 
 persons hope to profit by dissensions, that the merits of such a 
 steady lover of peace would not be duly appreciated, either 
 
Life of Shelley 157 
 
 by the little provincial bookseller or the other inhabitants of 
 our turbulent country. 
 
 The ordinary lectures in our college were of much shorter 
 duration, and decidedly less difficult and less instructive, than 
 the lessons we had received in the higher classes of a public 
 school ; nor were our written exercises more stimulating than 
 the oral. Certain compositions were required at stated 
 periods ; but, however excellent they might be, they were 
 never commended — however deficient, they were never cen- 
 sured ; and, being altogether unnoticed, there was no reason 
 to suppose that they were ever read. 
 
 The University at large was not less remiss than each college 
 in particular : the only incitement proposed was an examina- 
 tion at the end of four years. The young collegian might 
 study in private as diligently as he would at Oxford, as in 
 every other place ; and if he chose to submit his pretensions 
 to the examiners, his name was set down in the first, the 
 second, or the third class — if I mistake not, there were three 
 divisions — according to his advancement. This list was printd 
 precisely at the moment when he quitted the University for 
 ever ; — a new generation of strangers might read the names 
 of the unknown proficients, if they would. 
 
 It was notorious, moreover, that, merely to obtain the 
 academical degrees, every new comer, who had passed through 
 a tolerable grammar-school, brought with him a stock of learn- 
 ing, of which the residuum that had not evaporated during 
 four years of dissipation and idleness, would be more than 
 sufficient. The languid course of chartered laziness was ill- 
 suited to the ardent activity and glowing zeal of Shelley. 
 
 Since those persons, who were hired at an enormous charge 
 by his own family and by the state to find due and beneficial 
 employment for him, thought fit to neglect this, their most 
 sacred duty, he began forthwith to set himself to work. He 
 read diligently — I should rather say he devoured greedily, 
 with the voracious appetite of a famished man — the authors 
 that roused his curiosity : he discoursed and discussed with 
 energy ; he wrote — he began to print — and he designed soon to 
 publish various works. 
 
 He begins betimes who begins to instruct mankind at 
 eighteen. The judicious will probably be of opinion that in 
 eighteen years man can scarcely learn how to learn ; and that 
 for eighteen more years he ought to be content to learn ; and 
 if at the end of the second period he still thinks that he can 
 
iS8 Life of Shelley 
 
 impart anything worthy of attention, it is at least early enough 
 to begin to teach. The fault, however, if it were a fault, was 
 to be imputed to the times, and not to the individual, as the 
 numerous precocious effusions of the day attest. 
 
 Shelley was quick to conceive, and not less quick to execute. 
 When I called one morning at one, I found him busily occupied 
 with some proofs, which he continued to correct and re-correct 
 with anxious care. As he was wholly absorbed in this occupa- 
 tion, I selected a book from the floor, where there was always 
 a good store, and read in silence, for at least an hour. 
 
 My thoughts being as completely abstracted as those of my 
 companion, he startled me by suddenly throwing a paper with 
 some force on the middle of the table, and saying, in a penetrat- 
 ing whisper, as he sprung eagerly from his chair, ' I am going 
 to publish some poems.' 
 
 In answer to my inquiries, he put the proofs into my hands. 
 I read them twice attentively, for the poems were very short ; 
 and I told him there were some good lines, some bright thoughts 
 but there were likewise many irregularities and incongruities. 
 I added, that correctness was important in all compositions, 
 but it constituted the essence of short ones ; and that it surely 
 would be imprudent to bring his little book out so hastily ; 
 and then pointed out the errors and defects. 
 
 He listened in silence with much attention, and did not dis- 
 pute what I said, except that he remarked faintly that it would 
 not be known that he was the author, and therefore the publica- 
 tion could not do him any harm. 
 
 I answered, that although it might not be disadvantageous 
 to be the unknown author of an unread work, it certainly 
 could not be beneficial. 
 
 He made no reply ; and we immediately went out, and 
 strolled about the public walks. 
 
 We dined, and returned to his rooms, where we conversed 
 on indifferent subjects. He did not mention his poems, but 
 they occupied his thoughts ; for he did not fall asleep, as 
 usual. Whilst we were at tea, he said abruptly, * I think you 
 disparage my poems. Tell me what you dislike in them, for I 
 have forgotten.' 
 
 I took the proofs from the place where I had left them, and 
 looking over them, repeated the former objections, and sug- 
 gested others. He acquiesced ; and, after a pause, asked, 
 might they be altered ? I assented. 
 
 ' I will alter them.' 
 
Life of Shelley 159 
 
 ' It will be better to rewrite them ; a short poem should be 
 of the first impression.' 
 
 Some time afterwards he anxiously inquired — * But in their 
 present form you do not think they ought to be published ? ' 
 
 I had been looking over the proofs again, and I answered : 
 ' Only as burlesque poetry ' ; and I read a part, changing it a 
 little here and there. 
 
 He laughed at the parody, and begged I would repeat it. 
 
 I took a pen and altered it ; and he then read it aloud several 
 times in a ridiculous tone, and was amused by it. His mirth 
 consoled him for the condemnation of his verses, and the inten- 
 tion of publishing them was abandoned; 
 
 The proofs lay in his rooms for some days, and we occasionally 
 amused ourselves during an idle moment by making them more 
 and more ridiculous ; by striking out the more sober passages ; 
 by inserting whimsical conceits ; and especially by giving 
 them what we called a dithyrambic character, which was 
 effected by cutting some lines in two, and joining the different 
 parts together that would agree in construction, but were the 
 most discordant in sense. 
 
 Although Shelley was of a grave disposition, he had a certain 
 sly relish for a practical joke, so that it were ingenious and 
 abstruse, and of a literary nature ; he would often exult in the 
 successful forgeries of Chatterton and Ireland ; and he was 
 especially delighted with a trick that had lately been played 
 at Oxford, by a certain noble viceroy, at that time an under- 
 graduate, respecting the fairness of which the University was 
 divided in opinion, all the undergraduates accounting it most 
 just, and all the graduates, and especially the bachelors, 
 extremely iniquitous, and indeed popish and Jesuitical. A 
 reward is offered annually for the best English essay on a 
 subject proposed : the competitors, send their anonymous 
 essays, each being distinguished by a motto ; when the grave 
 arbitrators have selected the most worthy, they burn the 
 vanquished essays, and oj^cn the sealed paper endorsed with 
 a corresponding motto, and containing the name of the victor. 
 
 On the late famous contention, all the ceremonies had been 
 duly performed, but the sealed paper presented the name of an 
 undergraduate, who is not qualified to be a candidate, and all 
 the less meritorious discourses of the bachelors had been burnt, 
 together with their sealed papers — so there was to be no 
 bachelor's prize that year. 
 
 When we had conferred a competent absurdity upon the 
 
l6o Life of Shelley 
 
 proofs, we amused ourselves by proposing, but without the 
 intention of executing our project, divers ludicrous titles for 
 the work. Sometimes we thought of publishing it in the name 
 of some one of the chief living poets, or possibly of one of the 
 graver authorities of the day ; and we regaled ourselves by 
 describing his wrathful renunciations, and his astonishment at 
 findinghimself immortalized, without his knowledge and against 
 his will : the inability to die could not be more disagreeable 
 even to Tithonus himself ; but how were we to handcuff our 
 ungrateful favourite, that he might not tear off the unfading 
 laurel, which we were to place upon his brow ? I hit upon a 
 title at last, to which the pre-eminence was given, and we 
 inscribed it upon the cover. A mad washerwoman, named 
 Peg Nicholson, had attempted to stab the King, George the 
 Third, with a carving-knife ; the story has long been forgotten, 
 but it was then fresh in the recollection of every one ; it was 
 proposed that we should ascribe the poems to her. The poor 
 woman was still living, and in green vigour within the walls 
 of Bedlam ; but since her existence must be uncomfortable, 
 there could be no harm in putting her to death, and in creating 
 a nephew and administrator to be the editor of his aunt's 
 poetical works. 
 
 The idea gave an object and purpose to our burlesque ; to 
 ridicule the strange mixture of sentimentality with the murder- 
 ous fury of revolutionists, that was so prevalent in the com- 
 positions of the day ; and the proofs were altered again to 
 adapt them to this new scheme, but still without any noticn of 
 publication. When the bookseller called to ask for the proof, 
 Shelley told him that he had changed his mind, and showed 
 them to him. 
 
 The man was so much pleased with the whimsical conceit, 
 that he asked to be permitted to publish the book on his own 
 account ; promising inviolable secrecy, and as many copies 
 gratis as might be required : after some hesitation, permission 
 was granted, upon the plighted honour of the trade. 
 
 In a few days, or rather in a few hours, a noble quarto 
 appeared ; it consisted of a small number of pages, it is true, 
 but they were of the largest size, of the thickest, the whitest, 
 and the smoothest drawing-paper ; a large, clear, and hand- 
 some type had impressed a few lines with ink of a. rich glossy 
 black, amidst ample margins. The poor maniac laundress 
 was gravely styled ' the late Mrs. Margaret Nicholson, widow * ; 
 and the sonorous name of Fitzvictor had been culled for her 
 
Life of Shelley i6l 
 
 inconsolable nephew and administrator ; to add to his dignity, 
 the waggish printer had picked up some huge text types, of so 
 unusual a form, that even an antiquary could not spell the 
 words at the first glance. The effect was certainly striking : 
 Shelley had torn open the large square bundle, before the 
 printer's boy quitted the room, and holding out a copy with 
 both his hands, he ran about in an ecstasy of delight, gazing at 
 the superb title-page. 
 
 The first poem was a long one, condemning war in the lump ; 
 puling trash, that might have been written by a quaker, and 
 could only have been published in sober sadness by a society 
 instituted for the diffusion of that kind of knowledge which 
 they deem useful — useful for some end which they have not 
 been pleased to reveal, and which unassisted reason is wholly 
 unable to discover. The MS. had been confided to Shelley by 
 some rhymester of the day, and it was put forth in this shape 
 to astonish a weak mind ; but principally to captivate the 
 admirers of philosophical poetry by the manifest incongruity 
 of disallowing all war, even the most just, and then turning 
 sharp round and recommending the dagger of the assassin as 
 the best cure for all evils, and the sure passport to a lady's 
 favour. 
 
 Our book of useful knowledge — the philosopher's own book 
 — contained sundry odes and other pieces, professing an ardent 
 attachment to freedom, and proposing to stab all who were less 
 enthusiastic than the supposed authoress. The work, how- 
 ever, was altered a little, I believe, before the final impression ; 
 but I never read it afterwards, for when an author once sees 
 his book in print, his task is ended, and he may fairly leave the 
 perusal of it to posterity. I have one copy, if not more, some- 
 where or other, but not at hand. There were some verses, I 
 remember, with a good deal about sucking in them ; to these I 
 objected, as unsuitable to the gravity of an university, but 
 Shelley declared they would be the most impressive of all. 
 There was a poem concerning a young woman, one Charlotte 
 Somebody, who attempted to assassinate Robespierre, or 
 some such person ; and there was to have been a rapturous 
 monologue to the dagger of Brutus. The composition of such 
 a piece was no mean effort of the muse ; it was completed at 
 last, but no't in time — as the dagger itself has probably fallen 
 a prey to rust, so the more pointed and polished monologue, 
 it is to be feared, has also perished through a more culpable 
 neglect, 
 
 M 
 
1 62 Life of Shelley 
 
 A few copies were sent, as a special favour, to trusty and 
 sagacious friends at a distance, whose gravity would not per- 
 mit them to suspect a hoax ; they read and admired, being 
 charmed with the wild notes of liberty ; some, indeed, pre- 
 sumed to censure, mildly, certain passages as having been 
 thrown off in too bold a vein. Nor was a certain success want- 
 ing — the remaining copies were rapidly sold in Oxford at the 
 aristocratical price of half-a-crown for half-a-dozen pages. We 
 used to meet gownsmen in High Street reading the goodly 
 volume as they walked — pensive with a grave and sage delight 
 — some of them, perhaps, more pensive, because it seemed to 
 portend the instant overthrow of all royalty, from a king to a 
 court-card. 
 
 What a strange delusion to admire our stuff — the concen- 
 trated essence of nonsense ! It was indeed a kind of fashion 
 to be seen reading it in public, as a mark of a nice discernment, 
 of a delicate and fastidious taste in poetry, and the very 
 criterion of a choice spirit. 
 
 Nobody suspected or could suspect, who was the author ; 
 the thing passed off as the genuine production of the would-be 
 regicide. It is marvellous, in truth, how little talent of any 
 kind there was in our famous university in those days ; there 
 was no great encouragement, however, to display intellectual 
 gifts. 
 
 The acceptance, as a serious poem, of a work so evidently 
 designed for a burlesque upon the prevailing notion of the 
 day, that revolutionary ruffians were the most fit recipients 
 of the gentlest passions, was a foretaste of the prodigious 
 success, that, a few years later, attended a still more whimsical 
 paradox. Poets had sung already that human ties put Love 
 at once to flight ; that at the sight of civil obligations he 
 spreads his light wings in a moment, and makes default. The 
 position was soon greatly extended, and we were taught, by a 
 noble poet, that even the slightest recognition of the law of 
 nations was fatal to the tender passion ; the very captain of 
 a privateer was pronounced incapable of a pure and ardent 
 attachment ; the feeble control of letters of marque could 
 effectually check the course of affection ; a complete union of 
 souls could only be accomplished under the black flag. Your 
 true lover must necessarily be an enemy of the whole human 
 race — a mere and absolute pirate. It is true, that the tales 
 of the love-sick buccaneers were adorned with no ordinary 
 talent, but the theory is not less extraordinary on that account. 
 
Life of Shellev 163 
 
 The operation of Peg Nicholson was bland and innoxious ; 
 the next work that Shelley printed was highly deleterious, and 
 was destined to shed a baneful influence over his future pro- 
 gress ; in itself it was more harmless than the former, but it 
 was turned to a deadly poison by the unprovoked malice of 
 fortune. 
 
 We had read together attentively several of the metaphysical 
 works that were most in vogue at that time, as Locke Concern- 
 ing Human Understanding, and Hume's Essays, particularly 
 the latter, of which we had made a very careful analysis, as 
 was customary with those who read the Ethics and the other 
 treatises of Aristotle for their degrees. Shelley had the custody 
 of these papers, which were chiefly in his handwriting, although 
 they were the joint production of both in our common daily 
 studies. From these, and from a small part of them only, he 
 made up a little book, and had it printed, I believe, in the 
 country, certainly not at Oxford. His motive was this. He 
 not only read greedily all the controversial writings on sub- 
 jects interesting to him, which he could procure, and disputed 
 vehemently in conversation with his friends, but he had several 
 correspondents with whom he kept up the ball of doubt in 
 letters ; — of these he received many, so that the arrival of the 
 postman was always an anxious moment with him. This 
 practice he had learned of a physician, from whom he had taken 
 instructions in chemistry, and of whose character and talents 
 he often spoke with profound veneration. It was, indeed, the 
 usual course with men of learning formerly, as their bio- 
 graphies and many volumes of such epistles testify. The physi- 
 cian was an old man, and a man of the old school ; he confined 
 his epistolary discussions to matters of science, and so did his 
 disciple for some time ; but when metaphysics usurped the 
 place in his affections that chemistry had before held, the latter 
 gradually fell into disceptations respecting existences still 
 more subtle than gases and the electric fluid. The transition, 
 however, from physics to metaphysics was gradual. Is the 
 electric fluid material ? he would ask his correspondent ; is 
 light — is the vital principle in vegetables — in brutes — is the 
 human soul ? 
 
 His individual character had proved an obstacle to his 
 inquiries, even whilst they were strictly physical ; a refuted or 
 irritated chemist had suddenly concluded a long correspond- 
 ence by telling his youthful opponent that he would write to his 
 master, and have him well flogged. The discipline of a public 
 
164 Life of Shelley 
 
 school, however salutary in other respects, was not favourable 
 to free and fair discussion ; and Shelley began to address 
 inquiries anonymously, or rather, that he might receive an 
 answer, as Philalethes, and the like ; but, even at Eton, the 
 postmen do not ordinarily speak Greek — to prevent mis- 
 carriages, therefore, it was necessary to adopt a more familiar 
 name, as John Short, or Thomas Long. 
 
 When he came to Oxford he retained and extended his former 
 practice without quitting the convenient disguise of an assumed 
 name. His object in printing the short abstract of some of the 
 doctrines of Hume was to facilitate his epistolary disquisitions. 
 It was a small pill, but it worked powerfully ; the mode of 
 operation was this : — He enclosed a copy in a letter, and sent 
 it by the post, stating, with modesty and simplicity, that he 
 had met accidentally with that little tract, which appeared 
 unhappily to be quite unanswerable. Unless the fish was too 
 sluggish to take the bait, an answer of refutation was forwarded 
 to an appointed address in London, and then in a vigorous 
 reply he would fall upon the unwary disputant, and break his 
 bones. The strenuous attack sometimes provoked a rejoinder 
 more carefully prepared, and an animated and protracted 
 debate ensued ; the party cited, having put in his answer, was 
 fairly in court, and he might get out of it as he could. The 
 chief difficulty seemed to be to induce the person addressed to 
 acknowledge the jurisdiction, and to plead ; and this, Shelley 
 supposed, would be removed by sending, in the first instance, 
 a printed syllabus instead of written arguments. An accident 
 greatly facilitated his object. We had been talking some time 
 before about geometrical demonstration ; he was repeating its 
 praises, which he had lately read in some mathematical work, 
 and speaking of its absolute certainty and perfect truth. 
 
 I said that this superiority partly arose from the confidence 
 of mathematicians, who were naturally a confident race, and 
 were seldom acquainted with any other science than their 
 own ; that they always put a good face upon the matter, detail- 
 ing their arguments dogmatically and doggedly, as if there was 
 no room for doubt, and concluded, when weary of talking in 
 their positive strain, with Q.E.D. : in which three letters 
 there was so powerful a charm, that there was no instance of 
 any one having ever disputed any argument, or proposition, to 
 which they were subscribed. He was diverted by this remark 
 and often repeated it, saying, if you ask a friend to dinner, 
 and only put Q.E.D. at the end of the invitation, he cannot 
 
Life of Shelley 1 65 
 
 refuse to come ; and he sometimes wrote these letters at the 
 end of a common note, in order, as he said, to attain to a 
 mathematical certainty. The potent characters were not 
 forgotten when he printed his little syllabus ; and their 
 efficacy in rousing his antagonists was quite astonishing. 
 
 It is certain that the three obnoxious letters had a fertilizing 
 effect, and raised rich crops of controversy ; but it would be 
 unjust to deny, that an honest zeal stimulated divers worthy 
 men to assert the truth against an unknown assailant. The 
 praise of good intention must be conceded ; but it is impos- 
 sible to accord that of powerful execution also to his antagon- 
 ists ; this curious correspondence fully testified the deplor- 
 able condition of education at that time. A youth of eighteen 
 was able to confute men who had numbered thrice as many 
 years ; to vanquish them on their own ground, although he 
 gallantly fought at a disadvantage by taking the wrong side. 
 
 His little pamphlet was never offered for sale ; it was not 
 addressed to an ordinary reader, but to the metaphysician 
 alone ; and it was so short, that it was only designed to point 
 out the line of argument. It was in truth a general issue ; 
 a compendious denial of every allegation, in order to put the 
 whole case in proof ; it was a formal mode of saying, you 
 affirm so and so, then prove it ; and thus was it understood 
 by his more candid and intelligent correspondents. As it 
 was shorter, so was it plainer, and perhaps, in order to provoke 
 discussion, a little bolder, than Hume's Essays, — a book which 
 occupies a conspicuous place in the library of every student. 
 The doctrine, if it deserves the name, was precisely similar ; 
 the necessary and inevitable consequence of Locke's philo- 
 sophy, and of the theory that all knowledge is from without. 
 I will not admit your conclusions, his opponent might answer ; 
 then you must deny those of Hume : I deny them ; but you 
 must deny those of Locke also ; and we will go back together 
 to Plato. Such was the usual course of argument ; sometimes, 
 however, he rested on mere denial, holding his adversary to 
 strict proof, and deriving strength from his weakness. 
 
 The young Platonist argued thus negatively through the 
 love of argument, and because he found a noble joy in the 
 fierce shocks of contending minds ; he loved truth, and sought 
 it everywhere, and at all hazards, frankly and boldly, like a 
 man who deserved to find it ; but he also loved dearly victory 
 in debate, and warm debate for its own sake. Never was 
 there a more unexceptionable disputant ; he was eager beyond 
 
1 66 Life of Shelley 
 
 the most ardent, but never angry and never personal ; he 
 was the only arguer I ever knew who drew every argument from 
 the nature of the thing, and who could never be provoked to 
 descend to personal contentions. He was fully inspired, indeed 
 with the whole spirit of the true logician ; the more obvious 
 and indisputable the proposition which his opponent undertook 
 to maintain, the more complete was the triumph of his art 
 if he could refute and prevent him. 
 
 To one who was acquainted with the history of our Univer- 
 sity, with its ancient reputation as the most famous school of 
 logic, it seemed that the genius of the place, after an absence 
 of several generations, had deigned to return at last ; the visit, 
 however, as it soon appeared, was ill-timed. 
 
 The schoolman of old, who occasionally laboured with 
 technical subtleties to prevent the admission of the first 
 principles of belief, could not have been justly charged with 
 the intention of promoting scepticism ; his was the age of 
 minute and astute disceptation, it is true, but it was also the 
 epoch of the most firm, resolute, and extensive faith. I have 
 seen a dexterous fencing-master, after warning his pupil to 
 hold his weapon fast, by a few turns of his wrist throw it sud- 
 denly on the ground and under his feet ; but it cannot be 
 pretended that he neglected to teach the art of self-defence, 
 because he apparently deprived his scholar of that which is 
 essential to the end proposed. To be disarmed is a step in the 
 science of arms, and whoever has undergone it has already 
 put his foot within the threshold ; so is it likewise with refuta- 
 tion. 
 
 In describing briefly the nature of Shelley's epistolary 
 contentions, the recollection of his youth, his zeal, his activity, 
 and particularly of many individual peculiarities, may have 
 tempted me to speak sometimes with a certain levity, not- 
 withstanding the solemn importance of the topics respecting 
 which they were frequently maintained. The impression, that 
 they were conducted on his part, or considered by him, with 
 frivolity, or any unseemly lightness, would, however, be most 
 erroneous ; his whole frame of mind was grave, earnest, and 
 anxious, and his deportment was reverential, with an edifica- 
 tion reaching beyond the age — an age wanting in reverence ; 
 an unlearned age ; a young age, for the young lack learning. 
 Hume permits no object of respect to remain ; Locke approaches 
 the most awful speculations with the same indifference as if 
 he were about to handle the properties of triangles ; the small 
 
Life of Shelley 167 
 
 deference rendered to the most holy things by the able theo- 
 logian, Paley, is not the least remarkable of his characteristics. 
 
 Wiser and better men displayed anciently, together with a 
 more profound erudition, a superior and touching solemnity ; 
 the meek seriousness of Shelley was redolent of those good 
 old times before mankind had been despoiled of a main in- 
 gredient in the composition of happiness, a well-directed 
 veneration. 
 
 Whether such disputation were decorous or profitable may be 
 perhaps doubtful ; there can be no doubt, however, since the 
 sweet gentleness of Shelley was easily and instantly swayed by 
 the mild influences of friendly admonition, that, had even the 
 least dignified of his elders suggested the propriety of pursuing 
 his metaphysical inquiries with less ardour, his obedience would 
 have been prompt and perfect. 
 
 Not only had all salutary studies been long neglected in 
 Oxford at that time, and all wholesome discipline was decayed, 
 but the splendid endowments of the University were grossly 
 abused ; the resident authorities of the college were too often 
 men of the lowest origin, of mean and sordid souls, destitute of 
 every literary attainment, except that brief and narrow course 
 of reading by which the first degree was attained ; the vulgar 
 sons of vulgar fathers, without Uberality, and wanting the 
 manners and the sympathies of gentlemen. 
 
 A total neglect of all learning, an unseemly turbulence, the 
 most monstrous irregularities, open and habitual drunkenness, 
 vice, and violence, were tolerated or encouraged, with the 
 basest sycophancy, that the prospect of perpetual licentious- 
 ness might fill the colleges with young men of fortune ; when- 
 ever the rarely exercised power of coercion was exerted, it 
 demonstrated the utter incapacity of our unworthy rulers by 
 coarseness, ignorance, and injustice. 
 
 If a few gentlemen were admitted to fellowships, they were 
 always absent ; they were not persons of Hterary pretensions, 
 or distinguished by scholarship ; and they had no more share 
 in the government of the college than the overgrown guards- 
 men, who, in long white gaiters, bravely protect the precious 
 life of the sovereign against such assailants as the tenth Muse, 
 our good friend, Mrs. Nicholson. 
 
 As the term was drawing to a close, and a great part of the 
 books we were reading together still remained unfinished, we 
 had agreed to increase our exertions and to meet at an early 
 hour. 
 
1 68 Life of Shelley 
 
 It was a fine spring morning on Lady-day, in the year 1 8 1 1 , 
 when I went to Shelley's rooms : he was absent ; but before I 
 had collected our books he rushed in. He was terribly agitated. 
 I anxiously inquired what had happened. 
 
 ' I am expelled ', he said, as soon as he had recovered 
 himself a little, * I am expelled ! I was sent for suddenly 
 a few minutes ago ; I went to the common room, where I 
 found our master, and two or three of the fellows. The 
 master produced a copy of the little syllabus, and asked me 
 if I were the author of it. He spoke in a rude, abrupt, and 
 insolent tone. I begged to be informed for what purpose he 
 put the question. No answer was given ; but the master 
 loudly and angrily repeated, " Are you the author of this 
 book ? " If I can judge from your manner, I said, you are 
 resolved to punish me, if I should acknowledge that it is my 
 work. If you can prove that it is, produce your evidence ; 
 it is neither just nor lawful to interrogate me in such a case 
 and for such a purpose. Such proceedings would become a 
 court of inquisitors, but not free men in a free country. " Do 
 you choose to deny that this is your composition ? " the 
 master reiterated in the same rude and angry voice '. Shelley 
 complained much of his violent and ungentlemanlike deport- 
 ment, saying, * I have experienced tyranny and injustice 
 before, and I well know what vulgar violence is ; but I never 
 met with such unworthy treatment. I told him calmly, but 
 firmly, that I was determined not to answer any questions 
 respecting the publication on the table. He immediately 
 repeated his demand ; I persisted in my refusal ; and he said 
 furiously, " Then you are expelled ; and I desire you will quit 
 the college early to-morrow morning at the latest." One of 
 the fellows took up two papers, and handed one of them to 
 me ; here it is '. He produced a regular sentence of expulsion, 
 drawn up in due form, under the seal of the college. 
 
 Shelley was full of spirit and courage, frank and fearless ; 
 but he was likewise shy, unpresuming, and eminently sensitive. 
 I have been with him in many trying situations of his after- 
 life, but I never saw him so deeply shocked and so cruelly 
 agitated as on this occasion. A nice sense of honour shrinks 
 from the most distant touch of disgrace — even from the insults 
 of those men whose contumely can bring no shame. He sat 
 on the sofa, repeating, with convulsive vehemence, the words, 
 " Expelled, expelled ! " his head shaking with emotion, and 
 his whole frame quivering. The atrocious injustice and its 
 
Life of Shelley 169 
 
 cruel consequences roused the indignation, and moved the 
 compassion, of a friend who then stood by Shelley. He has 
 given the following account of his interference : 
 
 ' So monstrous and so illegal did the outrage seem, that I 
 held it to be impossible that any man, or any body of men, 
 would dare to adhere to it ; but, whatever the issue might be, 
 it was a duty to endeavour to the utmost to assist him. I 
 at once stepped forward, therefore, as the advocate of Shelley ; 
 such an advocate, perhaps, with respect to judgment, as might 
 be expected at the age of eighteen, but certainly not inferior 
 to the most practised defenders in good will and devotion. I 
 wrote a short note to the master and fellows, in which, as far 
 as I can remember a very hasty composition after a long inter- 
 val, I briefly expressed my sorrow at the treatment my friend 
 had experienced, and my hope that they would re-consider 
 their sentence ; since, by the same course of proceeding, myself 
 or any other person, might be subjected to the same penalty, 
 and to the imputation of equal guilt. The note was des- 
 patched ; the conclave was still sitting ; and in an instant 
 the porter came to summon me to attend, bearing in his 
 countenance a promise of the reception which I was about to 
 find. The angry and troubled air of men, assembled to commit 
 injustice according to established forms, was then new to 
 me ; but a native instinct told me, as soon as I entered the 
 room, that it was an affair of party ; that whatever could 
 conciliate the favour of patrons was to be done without 
 scruple ; and whatever could tend to impede preferment 
 was to be brushed away without remorse. The glowing 
 master produced my poor note. I acknowledged it ; and 
 he forthwith put into my hand, not less abruptly, the little 
 syllabus. " Did you write this ? " he asked, as fiercely as if 
 I alone stood between him and the rich see of Durham. I 
 attempted, submissively, to point out to him the extreme 
 unfairness of the question ; the injustice of punishing Shelley 
 for refusing to answer it ; that if it were urged upon me I 
 must offer the like refusal, as I had no doubt every man in 
 college would — every gentleman, indeed, in the University ; 
 which, if such a course were adopted with all — and there could 
 not be any reason why it should be used with one and not 
 with the rest — would thus be stripped of every member. I 
 soon perceived that arguments were thrown away upon a 
 man possessing no more intellect or erudition, and far less 
 renown, than that famous ram, since translated to the stars. 
 
I/O Life of Shelley 
 
 through grasping whose tail less firmly than was expedient, 
 the sister of Phryxus formerly found a watery grave, and gave 
 her name to the broad Hellespont. 
 
 * The other persons present took no part in the conversation : 
 they presumed not to speak, scarcely to breathe, but looked 
 mute subserviency. The few resident fellows, indeed, were 
 but so many incarnations of the spirit of the master, whatever 
 that spirit might be. When I was silent, the master told me 
 to retire, and to consider whether I was resolved to persist 
 in my refusal. The proposal was fair enough. The next day, 
 or the next week, I might have given my final answer — a 
 deliberate answer ; having in the mean time consulted with 
 older and more experienced persons, as to what course was best 
 for myself and for others. I had scarcely passed the door, 
 however, when I was recalled. The master again showed me 
 the book and hastily demanded whether I admitted, or denied, 
 that I was the author of it. I answered that I was fully sen- 
 sible of the many and great inconveniences of being dismissed 
 with disgrace from the University, and I specified some of them, 
 and expressed an humble hope that they would not impose 
 such a mark of discredit upon me without any cause. I 
 lamented that it was impossible either to admit, or to deny, the 
 publication — no man of spirit could submit to do so ; — and 
 that a sense of duty compelled me respectfully to refuse to 
 answer the question which had been proposed. " Then you 
 are expelled ", said the master angrily, in a loud, great voice. 
 A formal sentence, duly signed and sealed was instantly put 
 into my hand: in what interval the instrument had been drawn 
 up I cannot imagine. The alleged offence was a contumacious 
 refusal to disavow the imputed publication. My eye glanced 
 over it, and observing the word contumaciously, I said calmly 
 that I did not think that term was justified by my behaviour. 
 Before I had concluded the remark, the master, lifting up the 
 little syllabus, and then dashing it on the table, and looking 
 sternly at me, said, " Am I to understand, sir, that you adopt 
 the principles contained in this work ? " or some such words ; 
 for, like one red with the suffusion of college port and college 
 ale, the intense heat of anger seemed to deprive him of the 
 power of articulation ; by reason of a rude provincial dialect 
 and thickness of utterance, his speech being at all times in- 
 distinct. " The last question is still more improper than the 
 former ", I replied, — for I felt that the imputation was an 
 insult ; ' ' and since, by your own act, you have renounced all 
 
Life of Shelley 171 
 
 authority over me, our communication is at an end". *' I 
 command you to quit my college to-morrow at an early hour.'* 
 I bowed and withdrew. I thank God I have never seen that 
 man since : he is gone to his bed, and there let him sleep. 
 Whilst he lived, he ate freely of the scholar's bread, and drank 
 from his cup ; and he was sustained, throughout the whole 
 term of his existence, wholly and most nobly, by those sacred 
 funds that were consecrated by our pious forefathers to the 
 advancement of learning. If the vengeance of the all-patient 
 and long-contemned gods can ever be roused, it will surely 
 be by some such sacrilege ! The favour which he showed to 
 scholars, and his gratitude, have been made manifest. If he 
 were still alive, he would doubtless be as little desirous that his 
 zeal should now be remembered as those bigots who had been 
 most active in burning Archbishop Cranmer could have been 
 to publish their officiousness, during the reign of Elizabeth.' 
 
 Busy rumour has ascribed, on what foundation I know not, 
 since an active and searching inquiry has not hitherto been 
 made, the infamy of having denounced Shelley to the pert, 
 meddling tutor of a college of inferior note, a man of an insalu- 
 brious and inauspicious aspect. Any paltry fellow can whisper 
 a secret accusation ; but a certain courage, as well as malig- 
 nity, is required by him who undertakes to give evidence 
 openly against another ; to provoke thereby the displeasure of 
 the accused, of his family and friends ; and to submit his own 
 veracity and his motives to public scrutiny. Hence the illegal 
 and inquisitorial mode of proceeding by interrogation, instead 
 of the lawful and recognized course by the production of wit- 
 nesses. The disposal of ecclesiastical preferment has long been 
 so reprehensible — the practice of desecrating institutions that 
 every good man desires to esteem most holy is so inveterate — 
 that it is needless to add that the secret accuser was rapidly 
 enriched with the most splendid benefices, and finally became 
 a dignitary of the church. The modest prelate did not seek 
 publicity in the charitable and dignified act of deserving ; it 
 is not probable, therefore, that he is anxious at present to 
 invite an examination of the precise nature of his deserts. 
 
 The next morning, at eight o'clock, Shelley and his friend 
 set out together for London on the top of a coach ; and with 
 his final departure from the University the reminiscences of his 
 life at Oxford terminate. The narrative of the injurious effects 
 of this cruel, precipitate, unjust, and illegal expulsion upon the 
 entire course of his subsequent life would not be wanting in 
 
172 Life of Shelley 
 
 interest or instruction ; of a period when the scene was changed 
 from the quiet seclusion of academic groves and gardens, and 
 the calm valley of our silvery Isis, to the stormy ocean of 
 that vast and shoreless world, to the utmost violence of which he 
 was, at an early age, suddenly and unnaturally abandoned. 
 
 CHAPTER IX 
 
 Thus not only were we driven rudely and lawlessly from a com- 
 mon table, spread for us by the provident bounty of our pious 
 and prudent forefathers, where we had an undoubted right 
 to be fed and nurtured ; but my incomparable friend and my- 
 self were hunted hastily out of Oxford. The precipitate vio- 
 lence and indecent outrage was the act of our college, not of 
 the University ; the evil-doers seemed to fear that, if we 
 remained among them but a little while, the wrong might be 
 redressed. It is true that I was told, but as it were at the 
 moment of departure, that if it was inconvenient to us to quit 
 the place so suddenly, we might remain for a time ; and that, 
 if Shelley would ask permission of the master to stay for a short 
 period, it would most probably be granted. I immediately 
 informed him of this proposal, but he was far too indignant 
 at the insult which he had received, and at the brutal indignity 
 with which he had been treated, to apply for any favour what- 
 ever, even if his life had depended on the concession. The 
 delicacy of a young high-bred gentleman makes him ever most 
 unwilling to intrude, and more especially to remain in any 
 society, where his presence is not acceptable. Nevertheless, I 
 have sometimes regretted, and more particularly for the sake of 
 my gifted friend, to whom the residence at Oxford was ex- 
 ceedingly delightful, and, on all accounts, most beneficial, 
 that we yielded so readily to these modest, retiring feelings. 
 For if licence to remain for some days would have been form- 
 ally given upon a specific application, no doubt it would have 
 been tacitly allowed ; although no request had been made, 
 permission would have been implied. At any rate it is 
 perfectly certain that force — brute force — would not have been 
 resorted to ; that the police of the University would never have 
 been directed to turn us out of our rooms, and to drive us 
 beyond the gates of our college, roughly casting the poor 
 students' books into the street. The young martyr had never 
 
Life of Shelley 173 
 
 been told — he never received any admonition, not even the 
 slightest hint, that his speculations were improper, or unpleas- 
 ing to any one ; those persons alone had taken notice of, or 
 a part in, them to whom they were agreeable ; persons, who, 
 like himself, relished them, and had a taste for abstruse and, 
 perhaps, unprofitable discussions. 
 
 Shelley was, as Ben Jonson says of Sir Kenelm Digby, ' a 
 gentleman absolute in all numbers '. His disposition was 
 gentle and complying, and his deportment eminently gentle- 
 manlike, and which seemed, on all occasions, in a striking 
 manner to claim, one would think irresistibly, to be treated 
 as a gentleman ought to be treated, with courtesy, considera- 
 tion and kindness : 
 
 In peace was never gentle lamb more mild 
 Than was this young and princely gentleman. 
 
 There can be no reasonable doubt that he would at once 
 have acceded to whatever had been proposed to him by 
 authority ; he would have forborne everything that was 
 deemed objectionable. In the first instance, surely he should 
 have been admonished once and again ; he ought to have 
 been exacted five times at least before the outrageous sentence 
 of outlawry was passed against him. 
 
 If he had disregarded repeated admonition (I am confident 
 that he would have yielded to the first monitor) the milder 
 punishment of rustication should have been first tried. To have 
 been banished from Oxford, for a term or two, would have 
 been a less immoderate chastisement, and it would have been 
 deeply felt by an ingenuous youth to whom a college life was 
 in all respects suitable, and indeed charming ; who seemed 
 to be one of those modest, studious, recluse persons for whose 
 special behalf universities and colleges were founded and are 
 maintained. 
 
 Our college was denominated University College, but 
 Liberty Hall would have been a more correct and significant 
 name. Universal laziness was the order of the day, except 
 so far as half-a-dozen scholars were concerned, who subsisted, 
 in some measure, on eleemosynary foundations, and were no 
 acquisition to the society ; such people being usually the 
 vulgar relatives or friends of the vulgar authorities of the 
 place. In the evening unceasing drunkenness and continual 
 uproar prevailed. 
 
 The observation, therefore, was not less just than happy. 
 
174 Life of Shelley 
 
 that our college must have been founded, not by King Alfred* 
 as was asserted, but by his foes, the Danes ; by barbarians, 
 who quaffed mead to furious intoxication out of the skulls of 
 their enemies ; all men being accounted such who would read 
 and write, or who had an inclination for such pursuits. The 
 disorder was, in truth, intolerable. The perpetual intoxi- 
 cation doubtless was profitable, if not to the interests of 
 learning and education, to the Oxford vintners ; to vintagers, 
 that from the fruit of the white blossomed sloe, 
 
 Crushed the black poison of misused wine. 
 
 ' To ascribe a college to a particular county, or district, is to 
 devote it at once to vulgarity and barbarism ; and fellow- 
 ships, and other foundations, confined to some particular 
 county or school, are invariably ill-bestowed, wasted, and 
 thrown away. 
 
 This was our unfortunate position, and to a striking degree 
 —in an excess — the milk of bounty had turned sour, our ali- 
 ment was corrupted, our natural nutriment most unnaturally 
 had become poison ! In such a state of things nothing seemed 
 to be forbidden ; the notion that every one might follow his 
 own devices, and do whatever he pleased, was perhaps a mis- 
 take ; but it was a natural and surely a pardonable one. It 
 ought to have been corrected by salutary precept and admoni- 
 tion, not blindly and fiercely chastised and overwhelmed by 
 injustice, indignity, and insult. But it was necessary that the 
 divine poet should fulfil his destinies ; his high vocation was 
 to be before and above his age. It was inevitable, and he 
 could not but pursue it ! 
 
 One thing, at least, is certain, that I bear them no ill-will ; 
 on the contrary, I earnestly desire to return good for evil — 
 and indeed the greatest of all good — viz., to reform their 
 famous and admirable university ; to reform it effectually 
 and thoroughly, so that it may be a credit to themselves and 
 a blessing to the country and to posterity ; and I feel strongly 
 that it is my vocation to do this. 
 
 I heard an anecdote which may be repeated now, for it can 
 never be out of place, respecting the University of Oxford, 
 from a venerable friend who had resided many years in Italy ; 
 at Venice and Padua. The greater part of his time he had 
 spent at the latter remarkable and interesting city, and he 
 had long been intimate with the professors of its celebrated 
 university. Some of them he had found to be truly learned 
 
Life of Shelley 175 
 
 and liberal-minded men ; of one professor in particular — -I 
 regret that I have forgotten his name — he often spoke with 
 admiration, and related many things concerning him highly 
 to his credit. 
 
 This gentleman had long been animated by an honourable 
 curiosity to inform himself touching the condition of the other 
 universities of Europe, and for several years had employed 
 his leisure and vacations in visiting the most renowned 
 of these institutions. He obtained introductions to the 
 principal authorities at each seat of learning, and had been 
 passed, duly furnished with letters of recommendation, from 
 one university to another. 
 
 The Paduan professor had remained some weeks at Oxford, 
 and had conversed with the principal persons. He said that 
 he had been forcibly struck there with two very remarkable 
 peculiarities, neither of which he had ever met with in any 
 other university. The first was this : wherever he went it 
 had been his practice to inquire. Whom do you consider as 
 the first man among you in learning and talent ? Who is 
 the second ? And who is your third ? In every other uni- 
 versity he had received a prompt and decided answer to these 
 questions ; here and there he had met with some difference 
 of opinion as to the name which ought to rank as the third — 
 but as to the first and second, they had been everywhere 
 unanimous ; and certainly his three questions had everywhere 
 received an immediate and unhesitating answer. But at 
 Oxford, and at Oxford only, as if they were all in a conspiracy 
 together — the phrase is the professor's — to keep it a profound 
 secret, nobody would ever even tell him who stood first. In 
 what way, in what walk of science, in what department, in 
 what branch of knowledge ? Pray, tell me who is the first 
 among you in any way ? There was no answer ; they all 
 stood mute. Why was this ? 
 
 »,.The second remarkable peculiarity was this, — and, the 
 professor added, it made the first peculiarity still more striking 
 and peculiar. At every other mart of learning he had often 
 heard the answer ' I do not know ' ; but at Oxford, never. 
 Elsewhere I have asked a professor of astronomy some ques- 
 tion regarding anatomy, or botany, and he had the courage 
 and honesty at once frankly to answer, ' I do not know '. 
 But at Oxford it really seemed as if everybody considered 
 himself equally bound to be universal, to know everything, 
 and to be able to give some sort of afi&rmative answer to every 
 
176 Life of Shelley 
 
 question, however foreign it might be to his ordinary and 
 proper pursuits. There is so much wisdom in answering 
 seasonably, ' I do not know ', that in an university which 
 has been celebrated, and accounted most wise for nine or ten 
 centuries, I thought, for the credit of the place, I ought to 
 get it once, at least, before I went away ; so I tried hard, but 
 I could never obtain it. Why was this ? 
 
 I had called Oxford ' a seat of learning '. ' Why do you 
 call it so ? ' Shelley asked warmly ; * you have no right to 
 call it so ; such a place cannot be a seat of learning ! ' ' Yes, 
 it is a seat of learning, and I have a right to call it so. It is 
 a seat in which learning sits very comfortably, well thrown 
 back, as in an easy chair, and sleeps so soundly, that neither 
 you, nor I, nor anybody else, can wake her'. 
 
 It has been affirmed by ardent spirits — and not, perhaps, 
 altogether without some show of reason — that if any of the 
 scholars be suffered to quit Eton without a moderate, but 
 lively feeling of religion, the authorities of that famous semin- 
 ary ought to be scourged to death. And, moreover, that 
 if a single student be permitted to depart from the Univer- 
 sities of Oxford or Cambridge, unimbued with genuine piety, 
 the appliances of both universities, and especially of the 
 former, being duly estimated, the heads of houses, the pro- 
 fessors and tutors, deserve to be impaled alive, with their cold 
 Bampton Lectures, tame unedifying discourses, evidences, 
 probabilities, credibilities, and the whole farrago of frigid 
 rationalism, suspended round their necks. The Oxford Tracts, 
 however, have of late years somewhat redeemed the char- 
 acter of this ancient and renowned school of orthodox theo- 
 logy ; had it been the fate of my incomparable friend to have 
 met with these, or rather with some of them, with how much 
 delight and instruction would he not have perused and pro- 
 fited by them. 
 
 Some slight advances have unquestionably been recently 
 made towards removing the stigma of utter uselessness with 
 which the University of Oxford has been branded ; until 
 lately it seemed to exist only for the discouragement of learn- 
 ing. For many years I desired, I trust, with no illiberal 
 curiosity, and for a long time I desired it eagerly, to consult 
 certain Greek and other MSS., deposited in the Bodleian and 
 other libraries. I ventured sometimes to hint my wish to 
 persons who were in a position to have granted it very easily ; 
 but I found no encouragement. At the best I was told, that 
 
Life of Shelley 177 
 
 if I went to Oxford, and procured the recommendation of 
 some Master of Arts, I might enter those well-closed deposi- 
 tories, as others might, and could do as they did ; what this 
 was, I could never discover ; probably to return as wise as 
 they came. The scanty information, costively imparted, 
 tempted me only to postpone indefinitely the gratification of 
 my wishes. 
 
 We had determined to quit Oxford immediately (this prob- 
 ably was a mistake), being under the ban of an absurd and 
 illegal sentence. Having breakfasted together, the next 
 morning, March 26, 181 1, we took our places on the outside 
 of a coach, and proceeded to London. 
 
 We put up for the night at some coffee-house near Piccadilly, 
 and dined ; and then we went to take tea in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields with Shelley's cousins. Here we passed a very silent 
 evening ; the cousins were taciturn people — the maxim of 
 the family appeared to be, that a man should hold his tongue 
 and save his money. I was a stranger ; Bysshe (I heard him 
 called by that name then for the first time ; he was always 
 called so by his family, probably to propitiate the old baronet) 
 — Bysshe attempted to talk, but the cousins held their peace, 
 and so conversation remained cousin-bound. At a coffee- 
 house one can read nothing but a newspaper ; this did not 
 suit us ; we went out after breakfast to look for lodgings. 
 
 We found several sets which seemed to me sufficiently com- 
 fortable, but in this matter Bysshe was rather fanciful. We 
 entered a pleasant parlour — a man in the street vociferated, 
 ' Mackerel, fresh macheral ! ' or * Muscles ! lilywhite muscles ! * 
 Shelley was convulsed with horror, and, clapping his hands 
 on his ears, rushed wildly out of doors. At the next house 
 we were introduced to a cheerful little first floor, the window 
 was open, a cart was grinding leisurely along, the driver sud- 
 denly cracked his whip, and Shelley started ; so that would 
 not do. At one place he fell in dudgeon with the maid's 
 nose ; at another he took umbrage at the voice of the mistress. 
 Never was a young beauty so hard to please, so capricious ! 
 I began to grow tired of the vain pursuit. However, we came 
 to Poland Street ; it reminded him of Thaddeus of Warsaw 
 and of freedom. We must lodge there, should we sleep even 
 on the step of a door. A paper in a window announced lodg- 
 ings ; Shelley took some objection to the exterior of the house, 
 but we went in, and this time auspiciously. 
 
 There was a back sitting-room on the first floor, somewhat 
 
 N 
 
178 Life of Shelley 
 
 dark, but quiet ; yet quietness was not the principal attrac- 
 tion. The walls of the room had lately been covered with 
 trellised paper ; in those days it was not common. There 
 were trellises, vine leaves with their tendrils, and huge clusters 
 of grapes, green and purple, all represented in lively colours. 
 This was delightful ; he went close up to the wall, and touched 
 it : ' We must stay here ; stay for ever ! ' There was some 
 debate about a second bedroom, and the authorities were 
 consulted below ; he was quite uneasy, and eyed the cheerful 
 paper wistfully during the consultation. We might have 
 another bedroom ; it was upstairs. That room, of course, 
 was to be mine. Shelley had the bedroom opening out of 
 the sitting-room ; this also was overspread with the trellised 
 paper. He touched the wall and admired it. 
 
 * Do grapes really grow in that manner anywhere ? ' 
 
 * Yes, I believe they do ! ' 
 
 * We will go and see them then, soon ; we will go to- 
 gether ! ' 
 
 ' Then we shall not stay here for ever ! ' 
 
 When could we have the lodgings ? Now, immediately. 
 We brought our luggage in a hackney-coach. I had ordered 
 a fire ; to this he rather objected in a plaintive voice, staring 
 piteously at the ripe clusters, and seeming actually to feel the 
 genial warmth of the sweet South ; but we were still in March, 
 and had the grapes been real grapes, a cheerful fire was in- 
 dispensable. The weather was fine ; we took long walks 
 together as before, and we dined at some coffee-house, wherever 
 we might chance to find ourselves at dinner time, and returned 
 to the trellised room to tea. 
 
 We walked one day to Wandsworth, where some of his 
 younger sisters were at school. At that time Bysshe had a 
 warm affection for his mother, and was passionately fond of 
 his sisters. I remained outside, whilst he went into the house 
 for a little while. When we stopped at the gate, a little girl, 
 eight or ten years old, with long, light locks streaming over 
 her shoulders, was scampering about. ' Oh ! there is little 
 Helen ! ' the young poet screamed out with rapturous delight. 
 On our return he informed me, that the pretty child was his 
 third sister, and he then first told me the object of our walk ; 
 for he took a pocketful of cakes to a school-girl with as much 
 mystery as Pierre and Jaffier plotted against the government 
 of Venice. We read much together, and often read aloud to 
 each other, leading a quiet, happy life. But Shelley was not 
 
Life of Shelley 179 
 
 so comfortable as he had been at Oxford ; a college life, with 
 its manifold conveniences and all its appliances and aptitudes 
 for study, exactly suited him. 
 
 As far as concerned myself, who have always been, to a 
 great extent, a citizen of the world, it mattered little. I have 
 long since forgiven them, if I had anything to forgive ; but 
 I can never pardon ' the heavy -gaited toads ' for the slights 
 which they put upon my incomparable friend, and for the 
 injuries and insults which they had so basely heaped on his 
 unoffending head. 
 
 At that time English Bards and Scotch Reviewers attracted 
 much attention. We had not yet seen" it. Shelley bought 
 the poem one morning — a pretty little volume — at a book- 
 seller's shop in Oxford Street. He put it under his arm, and 
 we walked into the country ; when we were sufficiently re- 
 moved from observation, he began to read it aloud. He read 
 the whole poem aloud to me with fervid and exulting energy, 
 and all the notes. He was greatly delighted with the bitter, 
 wrathful satire. There are good things in it — some strong 
 and striking passages — but it did not much please me ; it is 
 full of pride, of hot, weak impatient indignation. I never 
 read it myself, I only heard it read once during this country 
 walk, and I never saw the volume again. When he had 
 finished it, he put it into his pocket hastily, or perhaps rather 
 intended to do so, and missed his pocket, or — and it was no 
 uncommon case with him — his pocket had been torn out, or 
 there was a hole at the bottom, for, when we got home, the 
 book had disappeared. The poem afterwards became exceed- 
 ingly scarce, so that a large price was often given for a copy, 
 and some curious persons even took the trouble to transcribe 
 it. I have met with such MSS, Such was his first intro- 
 duction to Byron ; such his first acquaintance with his brother 
 poet, for he had never read those early attempts which were 
 the moving cause of the furious onslaught. 
 
 Notwithstanding his admiration of the poem, he did not 
 express, as was his course whenever he was pleased with any 
 work, a desire or determination to become personally acquainted 
 with the author. He did not foresee that their lives would 
 be blended and bound up together, as they were subsequently ; 
 still less did he anticipate that the irate satirist would be his 
 executor, and as such, at the expiration of a few short years, 
 would preside at obsequies, so strange, so mournful ! To us, 
 blind mortals, ignorant of the future, this present life is hardly 
 
i8o Life of Shelley 
 
 to be borne. If we knew what is to come, it would be 
 absolutely intolerable ! 
 
 We occasionally visited the cousins in Lincoln's Inn Fields 
 again, to tea, or to dinner. They were mute as before, and 
 we met other cousins, not less reserved and retiring. 
 
 John G took us one Sunday morning into Kensington 
 
 Gardens. We had never been there before. Bysshe was 
 charmed with the sylvan — and in those days somewhat neg- 
 lected — aspect of the place. It soon became, and always 
 continued to be, a favourite resort. In the more retired 
 parts of the gardens he especially delighted, and particularly 
 in one dark nook where there were many old yew-trees. 
 
 One day we were invited to dine in Garden Court. Shelley, 
 J. G., and myself, repaired thither. On our way I stepped 
 to look at an object, which, so to say, I have seen every day 
 of my life since, that is, for some fifty years, but which was 
 then new to me. I had seen fountains represented in books, 
 in views of old-fashioned mansions, but, I think, I had never 
 actually set my eyes on one before. 
 
 * How many dukes shall we have to-day, Bysshe ? ' John 
 G asked. 
 
 * Several, no doubt.' 
 
 I quitted the fountain, and considered much within myself 
 what this question could mean. Having ascended pretty 
 high, we arrived at the chambers of our host, and were wel- 
 comed. Two or three persons were there already. We were 
 introduced to them, but of these none were dukes — not one. 
 We had a comfortable dinner 
 
 Of steaks, and other Temple messes. 
 Which some neat-handed Phillis dresses. 
 
 We heard them hissing in a small kitchen adjoining our dining- 
 room, and Phillis brought them in, hot and hot. I still 
 thought about the dukes, but I soon discovered what John 
 G meant. No dukes were mentioned, but several marchion- 
 esses, countesses, and baronesses were named, at whose parties 
 Tom had figured lately, and who were excessively flattered 
 and gratified when they were assured of the satisfaction with 
 their arrangements which he had condescendingly expressed. 
 After dinner there was some port wine, and much conversa- 
 tion ; it rolled chiefly on the superiority of women. Bysshe 
 spoke with great animation of their purity, disinterestedness, 
 
Life of Shelley l8l 
 
 generosity, kindness, and the like. I supported him humbly 
 and feebly, by affirming, that girls, as far as my observation 
 went, learned more readily than boys, especially the mathe 
 matical sciences ; that they had not the same repugnance to 
 receive instruction — not the same antipathy to learning, but 
 were happy to be taught. 
 
 John G , a surgeon, said, the female sex had been unfairly 
 
 treated ; they had an undue share of pain, and sickness, and 
 suffering, which they bore with an amount of patience and 
 fortitude, of which men were incapable. 
 
 Most of these assertions met with warm opposition ; one 
 fierce little man in particular got wonderfully angry. ' When 
 I take to myself a wife, do you suppose I shall allow her to 
 set herself up, as being cleverer than myself ? No, indeed, 
 I will just get a horsewhip, and I will soon beat her conceit 
 out of her ! You may take my word for it ! ' 
 
 His word was taken, but his arguments, if such they might 
 be called, did not go for much. 
 
 Bysshe was disgusted with him, and in walking home, 
 remarked : * Since mild expostulations were unavailing, the 
 fellow ' (so he termed the choleric little gentleman) * ought 
 to have been thrown out of the window. What do you think, 
 John ? ' 
 
 * I think, if that had been done, we should probably have 
 had some very pretty cases of compound fractures ! ' 
 
 Shelley took me one Sunday to dine with his father, by 
 invitation, at Miller's hotel, over Westminster Bridge. We 
 breakfasted early, and sallied forth, taking, as usual, a long 
 walk. He told me that his father would behave strangely, 
 and that I must be prepared for him ; and he described his 
 ordinary behaviour on such occasions. I thought the portrait 
 was exaggerated, and I told him so ; he assured me that it 
 was not. 
 
 Shelley had, generally, one volume at least in his pocket, 
 whenever he went out to walk. He produced a little book, 
 and read various passages from it aloud. It was an unfavour- 
 able and unfair criticism on the Old Testament, some work 
 of Voltaire's if I mistake not, which he had lately picked up 
 on a stall. He found it amusing, and read many pages aloud 
 to me, laughing heartily at the excessive and extravagant 
 ridicule of the Jewish nation, their theocracy, laws, and 
 pecuUar usages. 
 
 We arrived at the appointed hour of five at the hotel, but 
 
1 82 Life of Shelley 
 
 dinner had been postponed until six. Mr. Graham, whom I 
 had seen before, was there. Mr. Timothy Shelley received 
 me kindly ; but he presently began to talk in an odd, uncon- 
 nected manner ; scolding, crying, swearing, and then weep- 
 ing again : no doubt, he went on strangely. 
 
 ' What do you think of my father ? ' Shelley whispered to 
 me. 
 
 I had my head filled with the book which I had heard read 
 aloud all the morning, and I whispered in answer : ' Oh, he 
 is not your father. It is the God of the Jews ; the Jehovah 
 you have been reading about ! ' 
 
 Shelley was sitting at the moment, as he often used to sit, 
 quite on the edge of his chair. Not only did he laugh aloud, 
 with a wild, demoniacal burst of laughter, but he slipped from 
 his seat, and fell on his back at full length on the floor. 
 
 ' What is the matter, Bysshe ? Are you ill ? are you 
 dead ? are you mad ? Why do you laugh ? ' 
 
 It was not easy to return a satisfactory answer to his father, 
 or to Mr. Graham, who came to raise him from the ground ; 
 but the announcement of dinner put an end to the con- 
 fusion. 
 
 We dined comfortably. Some time after dinner, Bysshe 
 had gone out on an errand for his father, — I think, to order 
 post-horses for the next morning. The father addressed me 
 thus : 
 
 ' You are a very different person, sir, from what I expected 
 to find ; you are a nice, moderate, reasonable, pleasant gentle- 
 man. Tell me what you think I ought to do with my poor 
 boy ? He is rather wild, is he not ? * 
 
 ' Yes, rather '. 
 
 ' Then, what am I to do ? ' 
 
 * If he had married his cousin, he would perhaps have been 
 less so. He would have been steadier '. 
 
 * It is very probable that he would '. 
 
 * He wants somebody to take care of him : a good wife. 
 What if he were married ? ' 
 
 * But how can I do that ? It is impossible ; if I were to 
 tell Bysshe to marry a girl, he would refuse directly. I am sure 
 he would ; I know him so well '. 
 
 ' I have no doubt that he would refuse, if you were to order 
 him to marry ; and I should not blame him. But if you were 
 to bring him in contact with some young lady, who, you 
 believed, would make liim a suitable wife, without saying 
 
Life of Shelley i8j 
 
 anything about marriage, perhaps he would take a fancy to 
 her ; and if he did not hke her, you could try another '. 
 
 Mr. Graham then interposed, and said that was an excellent 
 plan, and Mr. Shelley conversed with him for some time in a 
 low voice. They went over a list of young women of their 
 acquaintance. I did not know these ladies even by name, so 
 I paid little attention to their conversation, which terminated 
 suddenly when Bysshe returned. 
 
 Another bottle of port was proposed, for the honourable 
 member, whatever his merits or defects might be, was jolly 
 and hospitable. 
 
 * They have older wine in this house,' than any they have 
 brought us yet ; let us have a bottle of that ! ' 
 
 Nobody was inclined to drink more wine, and therefore 
 we had tea. Mr. Graham made tea ; he was Mr. Shelley's 
 factotum, and he was always civil and attentive. 
 
 After tea our jovial host became characteristic again ; he 
 discoursed of himself and his own affairs ; he cried, laughed, 
 scolded, swore, and praised himself at great length. He was 
 so highly respected in the House of Commons : he was re- 
 spected by the whole House, and by the Speaker in particular, 
 who told him that they could not get on without him. He 
 assured us that he was greatly beloved in Sussex. Mr. 
 Graham assented to all this. He was such an excellent 
 magistrate. He told a very long story, how he had lately 
 committed two poachers : ' You know the fellows, Graham, 
 you know who they are '. 
 
 Mr. Graham assented. 
 
 ' And when they got out of prison, one of them came and 
 thanked me'. 
 
 Why the poacher was so grateful the worthy magistrate did 
 not inform us. 
 
 ' There is certainly a God ', he then said ; ' there can be no 
 doubt of the existence of a Deity ; none whatever '. 
 
 Nobody present expressed any doubt. 
 
 ' You have no doubt on the subject, sir, have you ? ' he 
 inquired, addressing himself particularly to me. 
 
 * None whatever.' 
 
 ' If you have, I can prove it to you in a moment *. 
 
 ' I have no doubt.' 
 
 ' But perhaps you would like to hear my argument ? * 
 
 * Very much '. 
 
 ' I will read it to you, then '. 
 
184 Life of Sheliey 
 
 He felt in several pockets, and at last drew out a sheet of 
 letter-paper, and began to read. 
 
 Bysshe, leaning forward, listened with profound attention. 
 ' I have heard this argument before ', he said ; and, by-and-bye 
 turning to me, he said again, * I have heard this argument 
 bsfore '. 
 
 ' They are Paley's arguments *, I said. 
 
 * Yes ! ' the reader observed, with much complacency, 
 turning towards me, * you are right, sir ', and he folded up the 
 paper, and put it into his pocket ; * they are Palley's argu- 
 ments ; I copied them out of Palley's book this morning 
 myself : but Palley had them originally from me ; almost 
 everything in Palley's book he had from me '. 
 
 When we parted, Mr. Shelley shook hands with me in a very 
 friendly manner. * I am very sorry you would not have any 
 more wine. I should have liked much to have drunk a bottle 
 of the old wine with you. Tell me the truth, I am not such a 
 bad fellow after all, am I ? ' 
 
 * By no means '. 
 
 ' Well, when you come to see me at Field Place, you will 
 find that I am not'. 
 
 We parted thus ; he lived just thirty-three years longer, 
 but we never met again. I have sometimes thought that if he 
 had been taken the right way, things might have gone better ; 
 but this his son, Bysshe, could never do, for his course, like that 
 of true love, was not to run smooth. 
 
 ' Palley's arguments ! Palley's books ! ' I said to my 
 friend, as we walked home. 
 
 * Yes ; my father always will call him Palley ; why does he 
 call him so ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know, unless it be to rhyme to Sally '. 
 
 After a deep, long-drawn sigh he exclaimed : ' Oh, how I 
 wish you would come to Field Place ! How I wish my father 
 would invite you again, and you would come ! You would set 
 us all to rights, for you know how to put everybody in good 
 humour '. 
 
 The real author of the meagre and inconclusive treatises, 
 which had been published under the name of Paley, and had 
 been erroneously received, as being the compositions of the 
 Archdeacon of Carhsle, was manifestly fond of making a fuss, 
 of attracting attention to himself and his concerns, and of 
 filling a space in the eyes of so much of the public as could be 
 induced to attend to his manifestations. 
 
Life of Shelley 185 
 
 As a senator, an integral portion of the collective wisdom, 
 he loved, if not in the honourable house, at least out of doors, 
 to move standing orders, to carry resolutions, by which 
 nothing was resolved, to give notices, to record protests, and, 
 in one word, to give full play to the whole machinery of pom- 
 pous folly. To draw up protocols, like an accomplished 
 statesman, as he was, to pen diplomatic notes, to sketch the 
 outline of treaties, and to submit propositions and articles of 
 capitulation provisionally ; all these devices and many more, 
 he tried on with my family. But his success was small ; for, 
 although Mr. Speaker, as he said, could not get through the 
 business of the Session without his powerful aid, he appeared 
 to us all to be a bore of the first magnitude, and a serious 
 impediment to the carrying into effect any ordinary arrange- 
 ments. His talents and proficiency, in this line, will be best 
 shown by a few specimens of his letters which I found 
 amongst my father's papers after his death. The epistles 
 of the beloved Timothy will speak for themselves. 
 
 To take umbrage at the poor man's noise and nonsense 
 certainly appears to be no common weakness ; to drink a 
 bottle or two of the old port with him, to suffer him to go on in 
 his own way and to talk himself to sleep, and then to take one's 
 own course, would seem to be the easiest thing in the world ; 
 but, to a young man of genius, of transcendent talents, and 
 of a fancy divinely poetic, nothing is difficult, except to keep 
 in the well-worn ruts and beaten road of civil life. It is only 
 fair to the poor old governor to add, that he was the kind 
 master of old and attached servants, and that his surviving 
 children speak of him at this hour with affection. 
 
 Field Place, March 27, 181 1. 
 Sir, 
 
 The invitation, my son wrote me word, that you would 
 accept to spend the Easter vacation at Field Place, — I am 
 sorry to say the late occurrence at University College must 
 of necessity preclude me that pleasure, as I shall have to bear 
 up against the affliction that such a business has occasioned. 
 I am your very humble servant, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 House of Commons, April 5, 181 1. 
 Sir, 
 
 I have the honour to address you upon the subject of 
 
1 86 Life of Shelley 
 
 the unfortunate affair that has happened to my son and yours, 
 at University College, Oxford. I have endeavoured to part 
 them by directing my son to return home, and also giving the 
 same advice to your son ; and backed by that opinion by men 
 of rank and influence, . therefore I would suggest to you to 
 come to London, and try our joint endeavours for that purpose. 
 
 I have not seen your son, nor have I as yet seen my own, 
 but I must do so very soon. 
 
 They are at No. 15, Poland Street, Oxford Road. Have the 
 goodness to address me Miller's Hotel, Westminster Bridge. I 
 am at a loss now to know whom I address, not being able to 
 get the direction. These youngsters must be parted, and the 
 fathers must exert themselves. The favour of your answer 
 will oblige. Should I be in the country when you come up, I 
 can very soon be here. 
 
 I have the honour to be, sir. 
 
 Your very obedient, humble servant, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 
 Sir James Graham tells me there are several of the name, 
 therefore into whosever's hands this comes, will have the 
 goodness to find out the right person. 
 
 To — Hogg, Esq., Stockton-on-Tees. 
 
 Miller's Hotel, April 5, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Boy, 
 
 I am unwilling to receive and act on the information 
 you gave me on Sunday, as the ultimate determination of 
 your mind. The disgrace which hangs over you is most 
 serious, and though I have felt as a father, and sympathized 
 in the misfortune which your criminal opinions and improper 
 acts have begot ; yet, you must know, that I have a duty to 
 perform to my own character, as well as to your young brother 
 and sisters. Above all, my feelings as a Christian require 
 from me a decided and firm conduct towards you. 
 
 If you shall require aid or assistance from me — or any 
 protection — you must please yourself to me : 
 
 I St. To go immediately to Field Place, and to abstain from 
 all communication with Mr. Hogg, for some considerable time. 
 
 2nd. That you shall place yourself under the care and 
 society of such gentleman as I shall appoint, and attend to his 
 instructions and directions he shall give. 
 
 These terms are so necessary to your well-being, and to the 
 
Life of Shelley 187 
 
 value which I cannot but entertain, that you may abandon 
 your errors and present unjustifiable and wicked opinions, 
 that I am resolved to withdraw myself from you, and leave 
 you to the punishment and misery that belongs to the wicked 
 pursuit of an opinion so diabolical and wicked as that which 
 you have dared to declare, if you shall not accept the pro- 
 posals. I shall go home on Thursday. 
 I am your affectionate 
 
 \nd most afflicted Father, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 To P. B. S. 
 
 Miller's Hotel, April 6, 181 1. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Since I wrote yesterday, I find that I did not address 
 the letter right, yet it may reach you. However, as I am just 
 come from Mr. Wharton, who told me that you lived at Norton, 
 near Stockton, I have only to urge you to get your young man 
 home. They want to get into professions together. If 
 possible they must be parted, for such monstrous opinions that 
 occupy their thoughts are by no means in their favour. 
 
 I hope you have received my letter of yesterday, and will 
 take immediate means of acting as you think proper. This is 
 a most deplorable case, and I fear we shall have much trouble 
 to root it out. 
 
 Paley's Natural Theology I shall recommend my young 
 man to read, it is extremely applicable. I shall read it with 
 him. A father so employed, must impress his mind more sen- 
 sibly than a stranger. I shall exhort him to divest himself 
 of all prejudice already imbibed from his false reasoning, and 
 to bring a willing mind to a work so essential to his own and 
 his family's happiness. 
 
 I understand you have more children. God grant they 
 may turn out well, and this young man see his error. 
 I remain your obedient 
 
 And afflicted Fellow-sufferer, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 
 To John Hogg, Esq., Norton. 
 
 Field Place, April 14, 181 1. 
 Sir, 
 
 This morning I received a letter from my son, who 
 said, he and Mr. Hogg junior had submitted proposals to Mr. 
 
1 88 Life of Shelley 
 
 Hogg, who had done them the honour of expressing his appro- 
 bation of them, with the condition of mine. 
 
 I found I could do no more with either of them, and as the 
 letter came from the Rev. Mr. F., whose character must be 
 mild and benevolent indeed ; yet I consider it right to give 
 my business into Mr. W.'s hands, to guard my honour and 
 character in case of any prosecutions in the Courts, and to 
 direct my son to do what was right in the first instance, so he 
 will now. 
 
 Mr. Hogg must be deceived, if he agrees to the proposals. 
 Indeed, what right have these opinionated youngsters to do 
 any such thing ? Undutiful and disrespectful to a degree ! 
 viz. : 
 
 The parties think it their duty to demand an unrestrained 
 correspondence. 
 
 When Mr. T. J. H. enters at the inns of Court, or commences 
 any other profession, that Mr. P. B. Shelley may be permitted 
 to select that intention in life, which may be consonant with 
 his intentions, to which he may judge his abilities adequate. 
 
 Surely, sir, Mr. Hogg never could agree to such insolence. 
 
 I beg my compliments to Mr. Hogg, and hope he will be firm 
 and decided with these misguided youngsters. 
 
 I amj sir, your very humble servant, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 
 Desire Mr. Hogg junior to inform you of our conversation, 
 etc., last Sunday. You say the person's name is Clarke, 
 where you lodge. 
 
 To Mr. R. C. 
 
 (On the part of John Hogg, Esq.) 
 
 Such were our venerable friend's letters of business. With 
 regard to his literary correspondence, a few words may be 
 said. He was not * an illiterate country gentleman ', as he 
 has been styled, most incorrectly ; he certainly was not a man 
 of letters or of learning, but he was not without literary tastes 
 and dispositions. In his frequent letters to my friend, and 
 in discourse with him, he constantly urged his son to acquire 
 knowledge, to read hard, and particularly to distinguish him- 
 self at the University. He proposed to him to enter into 
 competition for a prize poem ; and, to enable him the better 
 to make the attempt, he induced a distinguished scholar, a 
 considerable antiquary and an eminent man, the Rev. Edward 
 Dallaway, vicar of Leatherhead, secretary to the Earl Marshal, 
 
Life of Shelley 189 
 
 and the historian of the county of Sussex, to furnish in a long 
 letter, accompanied with sketches, much valuable information, 
 relative to a subject which had been offered by the University. 
 Shelley actually began to compose the poem, but he did not 
 complete it, because he was sent away from Oxford before the 
 time arrived for submitting his attempt to the judges of poetic 
 superiority. 
 
 His father's epistles to Shelley invariably commenced with, 
 ' My dear boy ', like the celebrated Letters of the Earl of 
 Chesterfield to his Son, and indeed the writer hinted pretty 
 plainly, that he closely resembled the noble Earl in elegance 
 and accomplishments, as well as in worldly wisdom. The 
 letters were very peculiar : he began with one subject, and 
 always suddenly broke off, sometimes even in the middle of a 
 sentence, and entered upon, or rather went on with, a totally 
 different topic ; as if he had laid aside the letter, and on taking 
 it up again after an interval, had fmished it, without recollect- 
 ing at all, or referring to, what he had previously written. 
 They were exactly like letters that had been cut in two, and 
 the pieces afterwards joined at hazard ; cross readings, as it 
 were, cross questions and crooked answers. Shelley gave me 
 some samples as epistolary curiosities ; I regret that I have mis- 
 laid them, so that I cannot, at present, exhibit — ' disjecti 
 membra poetae ' — the members of sentences of the ' tattered 
 and torn ' father of a poet. Not unfrequently did these 
 instructive missives scold the ' dear boy ', — scold him nobly, 
 gloriously, royally, for Bysshe provoked his somewhat irritable 
 parent, and often unintentionally : 
 
 Where furious Frank and fiery Hun. 
 
 Furious letters, franked by the fiery Hun himself, came to 
 us from Horsham. This silly verse from silly Tom Campbell's 
 silly poem, Hohenlinden, was applied to them, and it some- 
 what consoled the scolded one. He affirmed, that the applica- 
 tion was in Ciceronian phrase, * hand illepidum ', not unfunny ; 
 thereby meaning exceedingly droll. 
 
 It is certain, however, that ' the late occurrence at University 
 College ', as Mr. Shelley mildly terms the stupid outrage 
 perpetrated upon his son, because an innocent and insignifi- 
 cant thesis had been propounded for the delectation of lovers 
 of logomachy, of logical quirks, and of subtle, metaphysical 
 quibbles, annoyed him greatly ; and it is equally certain that, 
 in his political position, as a constitutional whig, there was 
 
190 Life of Shelley 
 
 some foundation for his annoyance. As to my own family, 
 and my immediate connections, we were all persons whose 
 first toast after dinner was, invariably, ' Church and State ! * 
 — warm partisans of William Pitt, of the highest Church, and 
 of the high Tory party ; consequently, we were anything but 
 intolerant — we were above suspicion, above ordinances. I 
 speak of the Tories of the good old times — of fine old English 
 gentlemen of the old school — of men who wore the Windsor 
 uniform before Peel and his Manchester men had mixed their 
 shoddy with the sound, home-grown wool of honest Yorkshire 
 broadcloth ! My relatives felt that they had margin enough — 
 plenty of sea-room, that whatever might be said or done, 
 their good principles could not be doubted, but would always 
 carry them through. With the buff and blue folks it was far 
 otherwise ; they had already gone to what they conceived to 
 be the extreme verge of free opinions and practices, yet with- 
 out having gone far enough to satisfy the demands of many of 
 their adherents ; and they were obliged to stand trembling 
 and shivering at the farthest point of liberality, and were 
 apparently in constant dread of having actually ventured to 
 take a position in which they might have done themselves 
 and their followers some real service. These people feared 
 lest they should, peradventure, be accounted Republicans, 
 Jacobins, Levellers, Atheists. 
 
 If the Age of Reason had been re-published by myself or by 
 one of my earliest friends, the world would have supposed that 
 it was put forth merely to show the utter futility and impo- 
 tence, and vanity of the author's arguments ; or in order to 
 invite a more complete and conclusive refutation than Bishop 
 Watson and the other feeble champions of the faith had 
 hitherto produced. Whereas, if the heroes of Whiggery — 
 Grey and Grenville — and the small wits of Holland House, had 
 sent the decried work into general circulation, men would 
 have exclaimed with one voice — they have thrown off the 
 mask at last, and have come forward, openly professing to be 
 such as we always thought they were. 
 
 The good old adage says, and says truly — One man may 
 steal a horse with impunity, whilst another must not even 
 look over the hedge. It was not wonderful that the clients of 
 the poor Duke of Norfolk, who, it was currently reported, had 
 gotten woefully into the wrong box, and into sad disgrace, by 
 proposing, as a toast at a public dinner, * The Majesty of the 
 People ! ' — should be nervously apprehensive, lest another 
 
Life of Shelley 191 
 
 decisive step should be taken in the same wrong and dangerous 
 direction. 
 
 Much has been said and written about the intolerance and 
 persecution of Priests, and if the word Priest be used to denote 
 those gentry who presided over the Spanish Inquisition and 
 other similar establishments, the complaint, if there be any 
 truth in history, would seem to be but too well founded. But 
 with regard to clergymen of the established church, in justice 
 to them, I am bound by gratitude to declare, that I never met 
 with anything at their hands but kindness, hospitality, and 
 liberality, and not merely towards myself alone ; and, I believe, 
 I never merited any other treatment from them ; but with 
 reference also to my illustrious friend, who was doubtless 
 represented sometimes — for the most part falsely — as having 
 evinced a certain hostility towards their order. It is only 
 right, therefore, to add, that no individual of the English 
 clergy ever spoke of him to me save in terms of respect ; fully 
 and freely acknowledging his remarkable talents, and readily 
 conceding, that young men of genius, and of active and inquir- 
 ing minds, frequently encounter serious doubts and difficulties 
 at the comrnencement of their studies, which farther progress 
 and perseverance in learning, and a more mature judgment, 
 finally solve and gradually dissipate. If I have ever heard 
 my friend treated unhandsomely and contemptuously, it has 
 been by ignorant and bigoted sectaries, these being, in matters 
 of faith and religious doctrine, commonly of the lowest denomi- 
 nation. 
 
 I am constrained, however, to except, from this honourable 
 testimony, the paltry and pitiful persecution which he suffered 
 at Oxford ; which, paltry and pitiful as it unquestionably was, 
 must, nevertheless, be duly expiated. The narrow society of 
 our small college was degraded and brutalized by habitual 
 drunkenness, or by the habitual toleration of it in others ; if 
 a hungry young soul had been led forth to pasture upon less 
 barren lands, and under the guidance of truer shepherds, than 
 were those who brought eternal infamy upon the foundations 
 of the great and good Alfred, the result, at least to ordinary 
 apprehensions, would have been most probably less unsatis- 
 factory. 
 
 Shelley was caught one day at Oxford by a violent shower, 
 and a furious and sudden storm of wind ; he took shelter under 
 some of the buildings of a college — if I mistake not, Wadham. 
 A gentleman saw him from a window, and invited him to come 
 
192 Life of Shelley 
 
 and sit in his rooms until the rain should cease. He did so ; 
 and they had a long and interesting conversation. The 
 stranger spoke of metaphysical and religious subjects, acknow- 
 ledging frankly that there are many perplexities, difficulties, 
 and obscurities, and that any man, who thought at all — more 
 especially a young man — must feel these sensibly ; that 
 Locke and Paley, and the ordinary routine of instructors, 
 could not resolve these ; on the contrary, their much vaunted 
 volumes only augmented and increased them ; for entire 
 satisfaction and full solution it was quite indispensable to 
 apply to other and different, to more profound and higher 
 authorities. 
 
 After a very long conversation and much discussion, and 
 many learned doubts, the weather having cleared up, Shelley 
 quitted the dialectician, being invited to call again, to come 
 and renew their discourse, and to improve their acquaintance. 
 This he did several times, and paid many visits to Wadham, 
 if indeed that college was the scene of the friendly disputa- 
 tions. He generally gave me an account of what was said, 
 expressing always in warm terms his sense of the candour, 
 intelligence, learning, and liberality of his new friend. If he 
 ever told me the name, I have forgotten it ; as also whether 
 he was a tutor, one of the fellows, or only an inmate of the col- 
 lege ; whether he was a layman or a clergyman. I have often 
 thought that if his good star had led him to a college where he 
 would have been treated frankly, kindly, and handsomely, the 
 result of his academical residence would have been altogether 
 different and more beneficial ; however, it was pre-ordained, 
 and no doubt for the wisest purposes, that his lofty, daring 
 spirit should undergo the baptism, not of water, but of fire. 
 
 A student was seldom expelled from either of the Univer- 
 sities, rarely indeed from Oxford, for any serious and dis- 
 creditable cause. It commonly occurred because the pom- 
 pous folly and preposterous self-importance of some vulgar 
 upstart — some Jack-in-office, some beggar on horseback, some 
 servitor or chapel-clerk, who had been most improperly lifted 
 up and exalted into a little brief, local authority, had been 
 wounded in his silly pride by what he was pleased to consider 
 insubordination and a breach of discipline. Consequently, 
 there was little disgrace in the infliction, and the mark of paltry, 
 petty, pitiful vengeance was universally and utterly despised. 
 Although this is certainly the case, and the stigma is dis- 
 regarded, the outrage against my incomparable friend was not 
 
Life of Shelley 193 
 
 the less abominable. The opprobrium under which the 
 University fell on that account is not the less crying and 
 flagrant. 
 
 Many zealous and ardent worshippers of genius maintain 
 that the execrable crime demands solemn and public expiation, 
 by conspicuous atonement, by some striking and lasting tri- 
 bute to the memory of the highly gifted and insulted party. 
 They contend that inasmuch as the duration of a body cor- 
 porate is eternal, and through perpetual succession the indivi- 
 duality and personality are unchanged, the present authorities 
 of the University are not less amenable or liable to disgrace, 
 censure, and punishment, to condign punishment, than were 
 those wretched men whose hands actually struck the base and 
 cowardly blow. In strict justice, therefore, they urge that, 
 unless honourable amends be forthwith made, the Vice- 
 Chancellor and Proctors of the University, and the Master of 
 University College ought to be scourged, openly and severely, 
 throughout the whole length of High Street. 
 
 The same strictness of the highest justice also peremptorily 
 demands, as they, nothing doubting, do assert, that bare- 
 headed and barefooted, with no other garment than their 
 shirts, and with halters round their necks, having received the 
 prescribed number of stripes, they should ask pardon humbly 
 on their knees, of God, and of His holy angels, for the tyranny 
 and insolence of those whom they at present represent, towards 
 an angelic spirit ; in order that, being thus admonished, they 
 may learn justice, and not again to contemn god-like men, the 
 heroes of the earth, and its salt. 
 
 I repeat modestly what I have often heard from the lips of 
 hero-worshippers ; neither then nor now presuming to afiirm, 
 or to deny, the correctness of their conclusions, because I am 
 myself, in some slight degree, interested and implicated in the 
 matters in question ; and that a man should be judge in his 
 own cause is never expedient. 
 
 CHAPTER X 
 
 I HAD been invited to spend the Easter Vacation at Field 
 Place. I have been reminded very lately of a trifling circum- 
 stance, which I had entirely forgotten, but of which I instantly 
 became reminiscent. In accepting the invitation three or 
 
 O 
 
19 f Life of Shelley 
 
 four months before the time to which it related, I had expressed 
 a doubt whether it was prudent to look so far into the future : 
 this pretended scruple caused much amusement in the family, 
 and seemed extremely grotesque and ludicrous ; so much so 
 that it was always borne in mind. Events proved painfully 
 that my doubt was but too well founded, although I felt no 
 reason at the time for doubting ; and without intending to 
 prophesy, I was a true prophet. 
 
 It is possible that the Muses may not be less prone to tittle- 
 tattle than other mature virgins, for there is gossip even in an 
 University. I found amongst my father's papers a gossiping 
 letter, * a foolish performance ' enough ; but, as it is a con- 
 temporary narrative of ' the late occurrence at University 
 College ', I will extract a portion of it ; it is partly true, and 
 partly false, as such narratives usually are. 
 
 There was no desire to be singular, or even to be dual, for 
 two singulars would make a dual. The two young men 
 associated chiefly with each other, but they kept company 
 with others also ; but little, in truth, with men of their own 
 college, because their society was not congenial. They often 
 took long walks together into the country, a recreation which 
 was highly approved of ; the lectures and other duties detained 
 them until one or two, the public dinner was at four ; there 
 was no obligation to dine in hall, and it is obvious that it was 
 impossible to walk for five or six hours without giving up the 
 college dinner. Shelley was always dressed like a gentleman, 
 handsomely indeed ; but there was something of singularity in 
 his appearance, it must be admitted. His throat was often 
 bare, the collar of his shirt open, in days when a huge neck- 
 cloth was the mode ; other men's heads, like those of private 
 soldiers, were then clipped quite close, the poet's locks were 
 long, which certainly was a singular phenomenon, and stream- 
 ing like a meteor ; and the air of his little round hat upon his 
 little round head was troubled and peculiar. 
 ' We are charged with seeming to say, * We are superior to 
 everybody ! * I acknowledge the truth of the charge, I accept 
 the challenge ; and I now say boldly, confidently, and without 
 fear of contradiction, of my incomparable friend, ' He was 
 superior to everybody ! ' 
 
 I found also a letter, of which I knew nothing, and which I 
 had never seen before, from Shelley to my father, amongst his 
 papers, after the death of my father and of Shelley. It has no 
 date, but was written in the trellised room, with the kindest 
 
Life of Shelley 195 
 
 and most honourable feelings, and plainly under strong 
 emotion, being confused and inaccurate, a thing unusual, and 
 almost unprecedented with my true yoke-fellow. 
 
 I do not believe, that Mr. T. Shelley ever let fall the expres- 
 sions which were imputed to him. It is my duty to speak the 
 truth, the whole truth, and therefore I cannot but confess that 
 the poor fellow had many underhand ways ; these I found out, 
 sometimes long subsequent to the event. I discovered them 
 casually after an absence from him, and more particularly after 
 his last long sad absence ; but the obligation to tell the whole 
 truth requires, that I should add, that his underhand ways 
 differed in one very important respect from those of other 
 people. The latter were concealed, because they were mean, 
 selfish, sordid, too bad, in one word to be told ; his secrets, on 
 the contrary, were hidden through modesty, deUcacy, gener- 
 osity, refinement of soul, through a disUke to be praised and 
 thanked for noble, disinterested, high-minded deeds, for 
 incredible liberality and self-sacrifice. 
 
 I did not know of the existence of his letter to my father 
 until I found it, when he was no more, after the hand that 
 wrote it had been rapidly reduced to ashes in a funeral fire, 
 kindled on the coast of Italy in obedience to the strict laws 
 and regulations of quarantine. 
 
 Of these tragic scenes I must discourse at length hereafter, 
 painful as the task will be ; for the present it suffices to say that, 
 like every other memorial of the Divine Poet which I possess, 
 and in due season will freely produce, it reminded me forcibly, 
 yet needlessly, of the greatness of my loss. What answer was 
 returned to the letter does not appear, and can never appear ; 
 without doubt, a courteous and a becoming one 
 
 6th April, 181 1. 
 B. J. came to me this morning from Oxford. I have had 
 the whole history from him ; and the reason of all this strange 
 conduct in your son and Shelley is what I supposed, a desire to 
 be singular. There is no striking impiety in the pamphlet ; 
 but it goes to show, that, because a'supreme power cannot be 
 be seen, such power may be doubted to exist. It is a foolish 
 performance, so far as argument goes ; but written in good 
 language. These two young men gave up associating with 
 any body else some months since ; never dined in College ; 
 dressed differently from all others, and did everything in their 
 power to show singularity, as much as to say, ' We are superior 
 
196 Life of Shelley 
 
 to everybody '. They have been writing Novels. Shelley has 
 published his, and your son has not. Shelley is son to the 
 Member for Shore ham. He has always been odd, I find, and 
 suspected of insanity, but of great acquirements ; so is your 
 son ; I mean, as to the latter, he is of high repute in College. 
 
 C. R. 
 To J. H. Norton. 
 
 15, Poland Street. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 I accompanied (at his desire) Mr. Jefferson Hogg to 
 Mr. C, who was intrusted with certain propositions to be 
 offered to my friend. I was there extremely surprised ; no 
 less hurt than surprised, to find, my father in his interview 
 with Mr. C. had, either unadvisedly or intentionally, let fall 
 expressions, which conveyed an idea, that Mr. J. H. was the 
 ' original corruptor ' of my principles. That on this subject 
 (notwithstanding his long experience) Mr. T. Shelley must 
 know less than his son, will be conceded ; and I feel it but 
 justice, in consequence of your feelings, so natural, what Mr. 
 C. communicated, positively to deny the assertion ; I feel 
 this tribute, which I have paid to the just sense of horror you 
 entertain, to be due to you, as a gentleman. I hope, my 
 motives stand excused to your candour. 
 
 Myself and my friend have offered concessions ; painful, 
 indeed, they are to myself, but such as on mature considera- 
 tion we find due to our high sense of filial duty. 
 
 Permit me to request your indulgence for the liberty I have 
 taken in thus addressing you. 
 
 I remain your obedient humble servant, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To John Hogg, Esq. 
 
 February, 1857. 
 Dear H. 
 
 You know he was fond of chemistry, and in one of his 
 experiments he set fire to the butler, Laker, and then soused 
 him with a pail of cold water. On another occasion, in the 
 spring of 1 8 1 1 , he went with C. to the British Forum, in the 
 vicinity of Covent Garden. It was then a spouting club, in 
 which Gale Jones and other Radicals abused all existing 
 governments. Bysshe made so good a speech, complimenting 
 and differing from the previous orators, that when he left the 
 
Life of Shelley 197 
 
 room, there was a rush to find out who he was, and to induce 
 him to attend there again. He gave them a false name and 
 address, not caring a farthing about the meeting, or the sub- 
 jects there discussed. C. may know some anecdotes about 
 him ; he was more with him than I was, as at that time I was 
 engaged in professional pursuits. 
 
 I am sorry for the loss of all Bysshe's letters, which, with 
 others, were destroyed when I left London for Edinburgh. I 
 never saw him after his second marriage. 
 
 I remain your affectionate cousin, 
 
 J. G. 
 
 To H. S. 
 
 Dear J. 
 
 This chemical anecdote may, I think, be placed with 
 my recollections on the same subject. I forget whether I 
 mentioned the dreadful state he was in by careless manipula- 
 tion of combustibles ; his hands and face being burned and 
 blackened by some badly managed experiment, either at 
 Eton or Oxford. He had caustic to play with, I fancy, for 
 our white frocks used, in a mysterious manner, to be found 
 stained with black marks, pronounced by the learned lunar 
 caustic ; and we poor little ignoramuses were accused of 
 knowing how it came there ; and I can feel now my stupid, 
 childish silence, and wonder at the irremoveable stain. Now 
 I can imagine, our frequent visits to the Hall Chamber, 
 Bysshe's room, were the certain means of getting marked. 
 
 H. S. 
 
 We had lived together in London nearly a month, and not- 
 withstanding occasional interruptions by disturbing forces, 
 on the whole very happily ; we were now to part, but only, it 
 was believed, for a short time : in less than a month our 
 pleasant student life was to recommence at York, and to be 
 continued there as agreeably as ever, without let or hindrance, 
 for a year. At the expiration of the year it was to be calmly 
 enjoyed in London for an indefinite period, during the remain- 
 der of our lives. So was it that man proposed — of the actual 
 disposition, hereafter. 
 
 I quitted Shelley with mutual regret, leaving him alone in 
 the trellised chamber, where he was to remain, a bright-eyed, 
 restless fox amidst sour grapes, not, as his poetic imagination 
 
198 Life of Shelley 
 
 at first suggested, for ever, but a little while longer. I left 
 London at nine o'clock in the evening by the Holyhead mail, 
 having dined with the grave companion of my journey at a 
 coffee-house in Bond Street. In the morning we found our- 
 selves at Birmingham, and breakfasted at the Hen and Chick- 
 ens, which at that time was one of the worst and dirtiest of the 
 many bad and dirty inns which made the recollections of 
 former days too often bitter. The third person c.t breakfast 
 was an outside passenger, an Irishman, who informed us, that 
 on a^former occasion, when he was at Birmingham, he happened 
 to be short of money, the rents of his estates not having been 
 duly remitted to him, so that he was obliged to raise a sum on 
 his watch, a gold watch, which he produced. My cautious 
 companion began to look rather alarmed at this opening, as if he 
 feared our new friend from the outside was about to require of 
 him a loan on the security of the gold watch. He answered 
 him shortly, but the narration was not to be broken off so 
 easily : * Accordingly, I asked the waiter at this hotel to 
 recommend a respectable pawnbroker to me ; he did so. I 
 went to his shop, and was treated very handsomely ; he at 
 once advanced on the watch, without any difficulty, more 
 than I had expected ; and, indeed, I found him to be a liberal, 
 intelligent, and high-minded man, and a most perfect gentle- 
 man. I have recommended him to many of my friends, and 
 as you, sir, may probably have occasion to raise money in 
 that way, I will point out his shop to you before you quit 
 Birmingham, if you will give me leave '. My companion, a 
 prudent, precise, scrupulous, exact, and thriving man, shrank 
 back at the proposal. He felt that it was just as probable 
 that he should murder the landlord, rob the inn, and then 
 set fire to the filthy Hen and Chickens, as that he should ever 
 be under the necessity of pledging his watch. 
 
 ' No ! no ! sir, I thank you, it is unnecessary ; that is quite 
 out of my way ; pray, do not trouble yourself ! ' 
 
 * It is no trouble at all ; you can see the shop from the door 
 of the inn. You may not want money yourself, but some of 
 your friends very likely will.' 
 
 The more the Irishman pressed, the more my companion 
 held back : the former seemed quite uneasy that his obliging 
 offer was declined ; so to soothe his wounded feelings, I inter- 
 posed : ' If the place can be seen from the door of the inn, you 
 may show it me ; that will do as well '. I went to the door 
 with him, and he pointed out a pawnbroker's shop, and begged 
 
Life of Shelley 199 
 
 me to remember the situation and the name : I promised to 
 remember them. 
 
 We had remained in Birmingham already longer than it is 
 usual for a mail coach to remain, and we suddenly resumed 
 our seats at the sound of the horn. My companion, as I 
 fancied, seemed unhappy, when I went out of the room with 
 the Irishman. To relieve his mind, I said, ' As the man was 
 getting so uneasy, to comfort him I just allowed him to show 
 me the shop.' 
 
 ' Yes, it was very good-natured of you ! That was char- 
 acteristic ; was it not ? altogether Irish ! For my part, I never 
 like to trust myself alone with an Irishman ; I am always 
 afraid lest the fellow should take it into his head to cut my 
 throat ! ' 
 
 When we were changing horses, the son of Erin came to 
 the window, ' Do you recollect the shop and the name ? Are 
 you sure ? I can give you the address ! ' 
 
 * Thank you ; I recollect them ! ' 
 
 He disappeared, we saw no more of him, and my cautious 
 companion seemed to be relieved. 
 
 We left the mail, or rather the mail left us behind at Shrews- 
 bury. We ordered a post-chaise and chops, and went forth 
 to take a look at the picturesque old town, and the beautiful 
 river Severn, which were new to me, and then returned to our 
 inn. We dined in the same room with a venerable old clergy- 
 man, and a pretty young female who had a baby in her arms. 
 They were taking tea. 
 
 ' Wife, or daughter ? ' We mooted the question, as we 
 were jolted along to EUesmere. I opined that she was his 
 wife. 
 
 ' No ', said my companion indignantly, although an old 
 man himself. ' That is impossible ; that old fellow can never 
 have such a pretty young wife ! ' 
 
 * Not impossible, by any means ; only he is a very fortunate 
 old fellow, if he really has so young — so charming a wife ! ' 
 
 The discussion became animated, my companion let down 
 the front window, and asked the post-boy who they were. 
 A post-boy knows nothing beyond his horses' heads ; he could 
 not tell us. 
 
 ' The next time I go to Shrewsbury, I will ask the landlady ; 
 she will inform me.' 
 
 I never heard what the decision was, and therefore it is not 
 improbable that it was in my favour ; that she was his wife. 
 
200 Life of Shelley 
 
 Oh ! happy divine ! A divine for a husband, and a divine 
 wife ! 
 
 The Wrekin was pointed out to me, and some other remark- 
 able objects by the way ; and after a rough ride we arrived 
 at Ellesmere. It is a sweet spot, in a pleasant country, seated 
 on the margin of a pretty mere, or lake, of clear water. We 
 had a most delightful supper ; it was called a Welsh rabbit, 
 and was said to be the true genuine and native form of that 
 engaging little creature. There was bright, pale amber ale, 
 sweetened with loaf sugar, and flavoured with nutmeg, in a 
 large silver bowl ; slices of toasted bread floated in this nectar. 
 Some excellent toasted cheese was brought in, smoking, 
 hissing hot. A slice of toast was transferred from the bowl 
 to the plate, and the melted cheese was spread upon it ; the 
 golden liquor was ladled out into glasses. Thus we supped, 
 not only on the first evening, but on every other during my 
 stay at Ellesmere. I never fed on nectar and ambrosia before, 
 and I regret to add that I have never partaken of the banquets 
 of the immortal gods since. No substance, solid or fluid, 
 differs so much in quality as the ale or beer in various parts 
 of England. In the northern counties it is peculiarly detest- 
 able. If it were clear, which it never is there, it would be a 
 liquor as generous as the water that drains from a peat-bog. 
 It must be a guilty land indeed, which the angry gods have 
 visited with the tremendous visitation of bad beer ! I found 
 at Ellesmere a young college friend ; he was visiting, during 
 the Easter vacation, in the same bachelor's house as myself ; 
 we walked, or rode on horseback, all the morning, about this 
 singularly pleasant land, and after dinner we rowed a hand- 
 some barge, with some assistance, round the pretty mere, 
 and across its still, pellucid waters ; our exploits in this line 
 were long remembered ; the tradition of them came to my 
 ears many years after. We visited several of the neighbouring 
 squires, and partook of their free hospitality, tasting that 
 fine old port wine, which is not the least striking of the many 
 romantic beauties of North Wales. Their society was not 
 the less agreeable and amusing, because it was somewhat 
 peculiar and characteristic ; the conversation, for example, 
 would often become eminently Celtic after dinner, particularly 
 when the excellent port began to operate, and the warm 
 Cambrian blood had grown still warmer. They then talked 
 of their quarrels ; of horsewhipping and knocking down ; 
 of breaking the neck, beating out the brains, and cutting out 
 
Life of Shelley 201 
 
 a rascal's liver. The weather was charming. I was always 
 in the open air ; for reading there was little leisure : the tales 
 of La Fontaine, two or three of the minor works of Xenophon, 
 as his discourse on Hunting ; and a cursory survey of a news- 
 paper, comprehended my course of study in the county of 
 Salop. We made several agreeable excursions. Of these, 
 the chief was our expedition to Llangollen. I first entered 
 the Principality in a post-chaise ; we came upon the wonderful 
 bridge of junction, Pont Cysylte, and we walked across it, 
 along the towing-path of the canal, of which the bridge is the 
 aqueduct, and then into the tunnel at the farther end, by the 
 same path. On our return, we descended to the lovely river 
 Dee, which the lofty bridge so proudly bestrides. On the 
 banks of the river, a great crowd of country people was 
 assembled to witness the rites of a congregation of Anabaptists. 
 We joined them just in time to see an old man in a loose 
 flannel gown seize an old woman, dressed in the same manner, 
 by the arm, and wade with her into the middle of the stream, 
 which reached up to their waists. She then gave him her 
 hands, and throwing herself backwards, baptism by total 
 immersion was achieved by the old minister, precisely as 
 bathing in the sea is effected by old bathing women. Some 
 prayers, doubtless, were repeated, but we could not hear 
 them. Whilst the dripping pair came slowly out of the river, 
 the bystanders sang hymns in Welsh, and their loud cry filled 
 the valley. We ordered dinner at Llangollen, and walked to 
 Yalle Crucis, a sweet religious seclusion, and to some other 
 very striking points of view. Our exercise during the morn- 
 ing, and the glad sound of the Welsh harp during dinner, made 
 a poor meal less unpalatable. After dinner, we visited the 
 residence of the two lady-friends. Lady Eleanor Butler and 
 Miss Ponsonby, whose strong mutual attachment was esteemed 
 still more remarkable and romantic than their abode. 
 
 The church was open, and we entered it. We had assisted 
 at the ceremony of adult baptism before ; we now were 
 witnesses of infant baptism. The tones of the Welsh language 
 were solemn and sonorous, and the water — by means of which 
 the young soldier of Christ was to be initiated — was not the 
 noble stream of Dee, but only so much of the saving fluid as 
 a broken pie-dish, standing in the font, could contain. The 
 broken pie-dish amused us greatly, not because it was a vessel 
 of dishonour, ill-suited for a staid occasion, but as being a 
 symbol. 
 
202 Life of Shelley 
 
 Our kind host was familiar with Wales, with its usages — 
 warlike and convivial : he said to us, when our chaise entered 
 the Principality in the morning, ' Now, keep a sharp look- 
 out, young gentlemen, and see if you can find a whole man. 
 I never could ! ' 
 
 He informed us that whenever a Welshman goes to market, 
 to a fair, or indeed from home, on any mission, he has a drink, 
 and, if possible, a fight also. If the latter cannot be had, he 
 remains drinking until he is quite drunk and it is quite dark, 
 and then, returning homewards, by steep, rugged, and devious 
 paths, he falls down — up, over, or into some perilous place, 
 and so sustains as much damage as he could have found in 
 battle. We looked out, as we were directed, both in going 
 and in returning : one man had his arm in a sling, another 
 walked with a crutch ; on this eye there was a patch ; that 
 head was bound up ; something or other had been mended, 
 and was still out of repair, — in every male on the road. The 
 women were quite sound, in their blue cloth jackets and round 
 black felt hats — they seemed brisk and entire ; but their 
 mates were all fractured, more or less. The broken pie-dish 
 in the font, therefore, was an emblem, a type, a pledge, that 
 the young Christian would always fight manfully, although 
 not always perhaps under those banners to which his fidelity 
 had been promised. 
 
 The Welsh rabbit, our usual supper, was still dearer to us 
 than ever, after the greasy, blackened chops and tough steaks 
 of Llangollen. 
 
 Whilst I, like a mere matter-of-fact man, was taking the 
 world easily, and prosaically enjoying life as it came, my poor 
 absent friend, as his letters too plainly testify, was paying 
 the penalty of his poetic temperament, and suffering severely 
 from the cruel aches and pains of imagination. 
 
 Poland Street, April i8, 1811. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Certainly this place is a little solitary, but as a person 
 cannot be quite alone when he has even got himself with him, 
 I get on pretty well. I have employed myself in writing 
 poetry, and as I go to bed at eight o'clock, time passes quicker 
 than it otherwise might. 
 
 Yesterday I had a letter from Whitton to invite me to his 
 house ; of course, the answer was negative. I wrote to say, 
 that I would resign all claim to the entail, if he would allow me 
 
Life of Shelley 203 
 
 two hundred pounds a year, and divide the rest among my 
 sisters. Of course he will not refuse the offer. You remarked 
 that, in Lord Mount Edgecombe's hermitage, I should have 
 nothing to talk of but myself ; nor have I anything here, 
 except I should transcribe the jeux-d' esprit of the maid. 
 
 Mr. Pilfold has written a very civil letter ; my mother in- 
 tercepted that — sent to my father, and wrote to me to come, 
 inclosing the money. I, of course, returned it. 
 
 Miss Westbrook has this moment called on me, with her 
 sister. It certainly was very kind of her. Adieu ! 
 
 The post goes. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 To T. J. H., EUesmere. 
 
 London, April 24, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You have, with wonderful sagacity, no doubt, refuted 
 an argument of mine, the very existence of which I had for- 
 gotten. Something singularly conceited, no doubt, by the 
 remarks you make on it. Fine flowery language, you say ; 
 well, I cannot help it ; you see me in my weakest moments. 
 All I can tell you of it is, that I certainly was not laughing, as 
 you conjecture. This circumstance may go against me. I 
 do not know that it will, however, as I have by no means 
 a precise idea of what the subject of this composition was. 
 
 * The Galilean is not a favourite of mine ', a French author 
 writes. The French write audaciously — rashly. ' So far 
 from owing him any thanks for his favours, I cannot avoid 
 confessing that I owe a secret grudge to his carpentership — 
 charpenterie. The reflecting part of the community — that 
 part in whose happiness we philosophers have so strong an 
 interest — certainly do not require his morality, which, where 
 there is no vice, fetters vertue. Here we all agree. Let this 
 horrid Galilean rule the Canaille then ! I give them up '. 
 And I give them up ; I will no more mix politics and virtue, 
 they are incompatible. 
 
 My little friend Harriet W. is gone to her prison-house. She 
 is quite well in health ; at least so she says, though she looks 
 very much otherwise. I saw her yesterday. I went with her 
 sister to Miss H.'s, and walked about Clapham Common with 
 them for two hours. The youngest is a most amiable girl ; 
 the eldest is really conceited, but very condescending. I took 
 
204 Life of Shelley 
 
 the sacrament with her on Sunday. You say I talk philo- 
 sophically of her kindness in calling on me. She is very charit- 
 able and good. I shall always think of it with gratitude, 
 because I certainly did not deserve it, and she exposed herself 
 to much possible odium. It is perhaps scarcely doing her a 
 kindness — it is perhaps inducing positive unhappiness — to 
 point out to her a road which leads to perfection, the attain- 
 ment of which, perhaps, does not repay the difficulties of the 
 progress. What do you think of this ? If trains of thought, 
 development of mental energies influence in any degree a future 
 state ; if this is even possible — if it stands on at all securer 
 ground than mere hypothesis ; then is it not a service ? Where 
 am I gotten ? perhaps into another ridiculous argument. I 
 will not proceed, for I shall forget all I have said, and cannot, 
 in justice, animadvert upon any of your critiques. 
 
 I called on John Grove this morning. I met my father in 
 the passage, and politely inquired after his health. He looked 
 as black as a thunder-cloud, and said, ' Your most humble 
 servant ! ' I made him a low bow, and wishing him a very 
 good morning — passed on. He is very irate about my pro- 
 posals. I cannot resign anything till I am twenty-one. I 
 cannot do anything, therefore I have three more years to con- 
 sider of the matter you mentioned. I shall go down to Field 
 Place soon. I wait for Mr. Pilfold's arrival, with whom I 
 shall depart. He is resolved (the old fellow) that I shall not 
 stay at Field Place. If I please — as I shall do for some time — 
 I will. This resolution of mine was hinted to him : * Oh ! then 
 I shall take his sister away before he comes '. But I shall 
 follow her, as her retirement cannot be a secret. This will 
 probably lead me to wander about for some time. You 
 will hear from me, however, wherever I am. If all these 
 things are useless, you will see me at York, or at Ellesmere, 
 if you still remain there. The scenery excites mournful 
 ideas. I am sorry to hear it ; I hoped that it would have had 
 a contrary effect. May I indulge the idea that York is as 
 stupid as Oxford. And yet you did not wander alone amid the 
 mountains ? I think I shall live at the foot of Snowdon. Sup- 
 pose we both go there directly ? Do not be surprised if you see 
 me at Ellesmere. Yes, you would, for it would be a strange 
 thing. I am now nearly recovered. Strange that Florian 
 could not see the conclusions from his own reasoning. How 
 can the hope of a higher reward stimulating an action make 
 it virtuous, if the essence of virtue is disinterested, as all, who 
 
Life of Shelley 205 
 
 know anything of virtue, must allow, as he does allow. How 
 inconsistent is this religion ! How apt to pervert the judge- 
 ment, and finally the heart of the most amiably-intentioned 
 who confide in it ! I wish I was with you in the mountains ; 
 could not we live there ? 
 
 Direct to 15, Poland Street. I write to-morrow to York. 
 
 Your affectionate Friend, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 Your B is worse than stupid ; he is provoking. Have 
 
 you really no one to associate with — not even a peasant, a 
 child of nature, a spider ? And this from the hermit, the 
 philosopher ? Oh, you are right to laugh at me. I finished 
 the little poem, one stanza of which you said was pretty ; it is, 
 on the whole, a most stupid thing, as you will confess, when 
 I some day inflict a perusal of it on your innocent ears. Yet I 
 have nothing to amuse myself with, and if it does not injure 
 others and you cannot avoid it, I do not see much harm in 
 being mad. 
 
 You even vindicate it in some almost inspired stanzas, which 
 I found among my transcriptions to-day. 
 
 Adieu ! I am going to Miss W.'s to dinner. Her father is 
 out. I will write to-morrow. 
 
 To T. J. H., Ellesmere. 
 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields, April 28, 181 1. 
 
 I AM now at Grove's. I don't know where I am, where I 
 will be. Future, present, past, is all a mist ; it seems as if 
 I had begun existence anew, under auspices so unfavourable. 
 Yet no ! That is stupid ! My poor little friend has been ill, 
 her sister sent for me the other night. I found her on a couch 
 pale ; her father is civil to me, very strangely ; the sister is 
 too civil by half. She began talking about VA mour. I philo- 
 sophized, and the youngest said, she had such a headache, 
 that she could not bear conversation. Her sister then went 
 away, and I stayed till half-past twelve. Her father had a 
 large party below, he invited me ; I refused. Yes ! The fiend, 
 the wretch, shall fall ! Harriet will do for one of the crushers, 
 and the eldest (Emily), with some taming, will do, too. They 
 are both very clever, and the youngest (my friend) is amiable. 
 Yesterday she was better, to-day her father compelled her 
 to go to Clapham, whither I have conducted her, and I am 
 now returned. Why is it, that the moment we two are separ- 
 
2o6 Life of Shelley 
 
 ated, I can scarcely set bounds to my hatred of intolerance ; 
 is it feeling ? is it passion ? I would willingly persuade myself 
 that it is neither ; willingly would I persuade myself that all 
 that is amiable, all that is good, falls by its prevalence, and 
 that / ought unceasingly to attempt its destruction. Yet, 
 you say that millions of bad are necessary for the existence of 
 a few pre-eminent in excellence. Is not this a despotism of 
 virtue, which is inconsistent with its nature ? Is it not the 
 Asiatic tyrant, who renders his territory wretched to fill his 
 seraglio ? the shark, who must glut his maw with millions 
 of fish, in order that he may exist ? I have often said, that 
 I doubted your divinities, and if this inference follows the 
 established hypothesis of their existence, I do not merely 
 doubt, but hope that my doubts are founded on truth. 
 
 I think, then, that the term ' superior ' is bad, as it involves 
 this horrible consequence. Let the word * perfect ', then, be 
 offered as a substitute ; to which each who aspires, may 
 indulge a hope of arriving ; or rather every one (speaking of 
 men) may hope to contribute to woman's arrival, which, in fact, 
 is themselves advancing ; although, like the shadow preceding 
 the figure, or the spiral, it always may advance, and never 
 touch. 
 
 My sister does not come to town, nor will she ever, at least 
 I can see no chance of it. I will not deceive myself ; she is 
 lost, lost to everything ; Intolerance has tainted her — she 
 talks cant and twaddle. I would not venture thus to prophesy 
 without being most perfectly convinced in my own mind of 
 the truth of what I say. It may not be irretrievable ; but, yes, 
 it is ! A young female, who only once, only for a short time, 
 asserted her claim to an unfettered use of reason, bred up with 
 bigots, having before her eyes examples of the consequences 
 of scepticism, or even of philosophy, which she must now see 
 to lead directly to the former. A mother, who is mild and 
 tolerant, yet narrow-minded ; how, I ask, is she to be rescued 
 from its influence ? 
 
 I tell you, my dear friend, openly, the feelings of my mind, 
 the state of its convictions on every subject ; this, then, is 
 one, and I do not expect that you will say, * It must be so 
 painful to your feelings, that I hope you will never again mention 
 it'. I do not expect you to say, ' I had rather you were under 
 a pleasing error ; it is not a friendly act to dissipate the mists, 
 which hide a frightful prospect *. On other subjects you have 
 soared above prejudices, you have investigated them, terrible 
 
Life of Shelley 207 
 
 as they may have appeared, and resolved to abide by the re- 
 sult of that investigation. And you have abided by it. Why 
 then should there yet remain a subject on which you 
 profess yourself fearful to inquire ? I will not" allow you to 
 say incompetent. Error cannot in any of its shapes be good, 
 I cannot conceive the possibility. 
 
 You talk of the credulity of mankind, its proneness to super- 
 stition, that it ever has been a slave to the vilest of errors. Is 
 your inference necessary, or direct, that it ever will continue 
 so ? You say that ' I have no idea how society could be freed 
 from false notions on almost every subject '. No ; nor would 
 the first man in the world, supposing that there ever was one, 
 at the moment of his arriving to his estate, have any concep- 
 tion how a fertile piece of land would look without weeds ; 
 he stares at it, and thinks it is least of all fitted for his con- 
 veniences, when a stricter searching into its nature would 
 convince him that it was calculated to contribute to them 
 with a sufficient proportion of labour, more than the barer 
 land, which appeared clear. 
 
 Dares the lama, most fleet of the sons of the wind, 
 
 The lion to rouse from his skull-covered lair ? 
 When the tiger approaches can the fast-fleeting hind 
 
 Repose trust in his footsteps of air ? 
 No ! Abandon' d he sinks in a trance of despair. 
 
 The monster transfixes his prey, 
 
 On the sand flows his life-blood away ; 
 Whilst India's rocks to his death-yells reply, 
 Protracting the horrible harmony. 
 
 Yet the fowl of the desert, when danger encroaches, 
 
 Dares fearless to perish defending her brood. 
 Though the fiercest of cloud-piercing tyrants approaches, 
 
 Thirsting — aye, thirsting for blood ; 
 And demands, like mankind, his brother for food ; 
 
 Yet more lenient, more gentle than they ; 
 
 For hunger, not glory, the prey 
 Must perish. Revenge does not howl in the dead, 
 Nor ambition with fame crown the murderer's head. 
 
 Though weak, as the lama, that bounds on the mountains. 
 
 And endued not with fast-fleeting footsteps of air, 
 Yet, yet will I draw from the purest of fountains. 
 
 Though a fiercer than tiger is there. 
 Though more dreadful than death, it scatters despair, 
 
 Though its shadow echpses the day. 
 
 And the darkness of deepest dismay 
 Spreads the influence of soul-chilHng terror around, 
 And lowers on the corpses, that rot on the ground. 
 
2o8 Life of Shelley 
 
 They came to the fountain to draw from its stream, 
 
 Waves too pure, too celestial, for mortals to see ; 
 They bathed for a while in its silvery beam. 
 
 Then perish' d, and perish' d hke me. 
 For in vain from the grasp of the Bigot I flee ; 
 
 The most tenderly loved of my soul 
 
 Are slaves to his hated control. 
 He pursues me, he blasts me ! 'Tis in vain that I fly : 
 What remains, but to curse him, — to curse him and die ? 
 
 There it is — a mad effusion of this morning ! I had resolved 
 not to mortgage before you left London ; I told you, that I 
 should divide it with my sisters, and leave everything else to 
 fate. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 To T. J. H., Ellesmere. 
 
 CHAPTER XI 
 
 The pleasant passages in this life come to an end, as well as 
 its painful incidents, with this difference, however, that the 
 former always seem to terminate more speedily. My young 
 college friend had returned to Oxford, my older and original 
 companion and myself were to travel together to York. We 
 reached Chester, if I remember rightly, in a post-chaise. Some 
 twenty years later I had occasion to become very familiar 
 with that venerable city, and, from the peculiar circumstances 
 of my position, with its decayed and dilapidated, but ancient 
 and remarkable institutions also ; but this was my first visit 
 to the renowned Roman camp and city of West Chester. I 
 was surprised by its Rows, its gates, and walls, delighted 
 with its beautiful site and noble river ; and the walk round 
 its walls, which I have enjoyed many times since before break- 
 fast — has left a recollection so charming that I would gladly 
 lay down my pen, and go forth, and make the pleasant circuit 
 at once, and once more. 
 
 The journey from one Roman city to the other — from Chester 
 to York — was tedious and abominable ; a slow, heavy, uneasy 
 coach, rough roads, steep interminable hills, and filthy inns, 
 and barbarous and disgusting fellow-travellers. The inhabit- 
 ants of the borders of Yorkshire and Lancashire entertain 
 
Life of Shelley 209 
 
 mutually an intense dislike for each other, and in this dislike, 
 certainly, both parties are fully justified. 
 
 The Yorkshireman has a profound contempt for the under- 
 standing of the Lancastrian, he accounts him a simpleton — 
 a poor fool, and calls him such. The Lancashireman views 
 his neighbour precisely in the same light, and treats him in the 
 same manner. Whilst each utterly despises the other, each 
 has a most exaggerated opinion of his own acuteness, and 
 this he is perpetually endeavouring to demonstrate by over- 
 reaching him in a bargain. As soon as the rivals meet, one 
 of them instantly proposes an exchange-^a swap, is their 
 phrase — to barter watches, knives, handkerchiefs, hats ; article 
 against article of the same or of a different description, of 
 equal value, or with a balance to be adjusted by money. 
 This traffic was kept up whilst we were on the frontiers, and 
 indeed during the greater part of our journey. It was carried 
 on invariably in a loud, angry voice, in an uncouth dialect, 
 with contemptuous menacing gestures, and sometimes an 
 inside passenger bawling out through the window, or standing 
 up with his head thrust out, would haggle in rude clamorous 
 wrath with some brother Vandal on the top of the coach, touch- 
 ing an exchange of waistcoast. 
 
 I had never assisted at a swap before, or fallen in with these 
 borderers ; the trafficking savages seemed to be the most 
 odious of mankind. I have since learned that the savage is 
 still more offensive when he is half-civilized, when he has 
 grown into a Manchesterman, a cotton lord ; and more 
 especially when he is unhappily in a position to swap, as a 
 mischievous minister, on an extensive scale, basely and 
 perniciously. 
 
 To see Leeds again, it is said, is to like it less than before. 
 I had already seen that town more than once, and I have seen 
 it since so often, that I can revisit it now without any increased 
 aversion. We passed a night very uncomfortably, of course, 
 at Leeds, and the next morning — I believe it was Sunday— 
 a two-horse coach took us to York — to York, with which city 
 I was then tolerably well acquainted, and with which I have 
 since had so many opportunities to become perfectly familiar : 
 and here the race-horse was at once put into the dung-cart. 
 I was introduced the same day to the conveyancer, at whose 
 chambers my professional studies were to commence. He was 
 a worthy, good-natured, friendly man — a right good fellow, 
 indeed ; a provincial barrister with a fair share of business ; 
 
 P 
 
210 Life of Shelley 
 
 and sufficiently well acquainted with the routine of practice. 
 This was all ; the learned gentleman had as much of human 
 learning as his horse, — just as much erudition as his saddle, 
 and his attainments were graced by a Yorkshire dialect so 
 excessively broad, that if Oxberry had spoken so broadly on 
 the stage, he would have been censured for gross exaggeration ; 
 no Yorkshire tike, it would have been affirmed, ever spoke 
 such a lingo. Some feeble — very feeble — and impotent 
 attempts have been lately made to remedy and correct the 
 ignorance and vulgarity by which a liberal profession is op- 
 pressed and weighed down, or rather the pretence and affec- 
 tation of reform are kept up ; a false pretence to supply a 
 genuine article, but in reality to substitute and palm upon 
 the public, a counterfeit — a base counterfeit, and as such 
 pledged to uphold the vested and sacred interests of im- 
 posture. But of these matters hereafter. 
 
 York was the residence of many genteel families of competent 
 fortunes, and much hospitality was exercised there. It was 
 hardly possible to dine out without meeting the great diner- 
 out of the district, and without observing his more than 
 clerical enjoyment of a good dinner ; for if he was less than a 
 parson in some respects, he was more than one in a very es- 
 sential particular, the love of eating and drinking. His 
 hearty, cordial, genial laugh was of itself exhilarating, and his 
 incessant joking of jokes passed off very well in a provincial 
 city ; in society of a higher description it was often in the way, 
 and one soon grew weary of the noisy, impudent, shallow, cler- 
 ical jester, Sidney Smith. Alone engrossing the whole of the 
 conversation, he must have all the talk to himself, speaking 
 always of little else than himself. He shot out cart-loads of 
 rubbish with an overpowering din, sometimes producing a 
 good thing, no doubt, which a man of moderate parts can 
 hardly fail to do, who boldly brings out whatever comes 
 uppermost, with very little regard for his own dignity, and 
 none for the feelings of others. There was, moreover, some- 
 thing cowardly in his facetiousness, his buffoonery ; he ran 
 the rig mercilessly upon the weak and helpless, carefully 
 avoiding all contact with every person who might prove to 
 be his match, or more than his match. 
 
 I walked one Sunday morning to a village a few miles from 
 York, of which he had the living, to hear him preach, soon 
 after I came to reside there, and before I had seen him ; for 
 he was already a person of some notoriety ; he had been a 
 
Life of Shelley 21 1 
 
 popular preacher in London, and he had taken part in the 
 controversy between the University of Oxford and the Edin- 
 burgh Review. The church was mean and small, and small 
 was the congregation ; it was composed of a few farmers, 
 their families and servants, and labourers in husbandry. His 
 voice would have filled a cathedral, his appearance was adapted 
 to be seen from a distance ; there was nothing remarkable 
 or valuable in his discourse. I cannot believe that he could 
 have written a good sermon ; the matter was not in him. He 
 might have borrowed the composition of some eminent divine, 
 it is true, and his delivery would have been distinct and agree- 
 able, but not effective. He could never have appeared 
 sufficiently in earnest ; he wanted that deep, moving. Chris- 
 tian earnestness which is indispensable for edification. There 
 was a certain pulpit display, which his hearers admired and 
 praised, but nothing more. 
 
 I met Sidney Smith afterwards at intervals, for evidently 
 disliking his own cloth, he affected the society of lawyers. I 
 compared him in my own mind with old Sam Parr. They 
 both toiled unceasingly, and laboured hard and very success- 
 fully to demonstrate to all the world how utterly unfit they 
 were to be what each of them so vehemently strove to be, a 
 bishop. The one rendered learning, the other wit, contemp- 
 tible and ridiculous. 
 
 15, Poland Street, April 26, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I indulge despair. Why do I so ? I will not philoso- 
 phize ; it is, perhaps, a poor way of administering comfort 
 to myself to say that I ought not to be in need of it. I fear 
 the despair which springs from disappointed love, is a passion — 
 a passion, too, which is least of all reducible to reason. But 
 it is a passion, it is independent of volition ; it is the necessary 
 effect of a cause, which must, I feel, continue to operate. 
 Wherefore, then, do you ask, Why I indulge despair ? And 
 what shall I tell you, which can make you happier, which 
 can alleviate even solitude and regret. Shall I tell you the 
 truth ? Oh, you are too well aware of that, or you would 
 not talk of despair. Shall I say that the time may come when 
 happiness shall down upon a night of wretchedness ? Why 
 should I be a false prophet, if I said this ? I do not know, 
 except on the general principle that the evils in this world 
 powerfully overbalance its pleasures ; how, then, could I be 
 
212 Life of Shelley 
 
 justified in saying this ? You will tell me to cease to think, to 
 cease to feel ; you will tell me to be anything but what I am ; 
 and I fear I must obey the command before I can talk of hope. 
 
 I find there can be bigots in philosophy as well as in religion ; 
 I, perhaps, may be classed with the former. I have read your 
 letter attentively. Yet all religionists do judge of philoso- 
 phers in the way which you reprehend ; faith is one of the 
 highest moral virtues — the foundation, indeed, upon which 
 all others must rest ; and religionists think, that he who has 
 neglected to cultivate this, has not performed one-third of the 
 moral duties, as Bishop Warburton dogmatically asserts. The 
 religionists, then, by this very Faith, without which they could 
 not be religionists, think the most virtuous philosopher must 
 have neglected one-third of the moral duties. 
 
 If, then, a religionist, the most amiable of them, regards the 
 best philosopher as far from being virtuous, has not a philos- 
 opher reason to suspect the amiability of a system which 
 inculcates so glaringly uncharitable opinions ? Can a being, 
 amiable to a high degree, possessed, of course, of judgment, 
 without which amiability would be in a poor way, hold such 
 opinions as these ? Supposing even, they were supported 
 by reason, they ought to be suspected as leading to a conclu- 
 sion ad absurdum ; since, however, they combine irrationality 
 and absurdity with effects on the mind most opposite to 
 retiring amiability, are they not to be more than suspected ? 
 Take any system of religion, lop off all the disgusting excres- 
 cences, or rather adjuncts, retain virtuous precepts, qualify 
 selfish dogmas (I would even allow as much irrationality 
 as amiability could swallow, but uncombined with immorality 
 and self-conceitedness) ; do all this, and / will say, it is a system 
 which can do no harm, and, indeed, is highly requisite for the 
 vulgar. But perhaps it is best for the latter that they should 
 have it as their fathers gave it them ; that the amiable, the in- 
 quiring should reject it altogether. 
 
 Yet I will allow that it may be consistent with amiability, 
 when amiability does not know the deformity of the wretched 
 errors, and that they really are as we behold them. I cannot 
 judge of a system by the flowers which are scattered here and 
 there ; you omit the mention of the weeds, which grow so high 
 that few botanists can see the flowers ; and those who do 
 gather the latter are frequently, I fear, tainted with the pes- 
 tilential vapour of the former. 
 
 The argument of supremacy is really amiable, without that 
 
Life of Shelley 213 
 
 I should give up the remotest possibility of success. Yet 
 that appUes but to the existence of a Creator, that is inconse- 
 quential : the inquirer here, the amiable inquirer, does not 
 pause at the world, lest she should be left supreme ; she ad- 
 vances one step higher, not being aware, or not caring to be 
 aware, of the infinity of the staircase which she ascends. This 
 is irrational, but it is not unamiable — it does not involve the 
 hateful consequences of selfishness, self-conceitedness, and 
 the subserviency of faith to the volition of the believer, which 
 are necessary to the existence of ' a spurious system of theo- 
 logy.' 
 
 A religionist, I will allow, may be more amiable than a 
 philosopher, although in one instance reason is allowed to 
 sleep, that amiability may watch. Yet, my dear friend, this 
 is not Intolerance, nor can that odious system stand excused 
 on this ground, as its very principle revolts against the dear 
 modesty which suggests a dereliction of reason in the other 
 instance. I again assert — nor, perhaps, are you prepared to 
 deny, much as your amiable motive might prompt you to wish 
 it — that religion is too often the child of cold prejudice and 
 selfish fear. Love of a Deity, of Allah, Bramah (it is all the 
 same), certainly springs from the latter motive ; is this love ? 
 You know too well, it is not. Here I appeal to your own heart, 
 your own feelings. At that tribunal I feel that I am secure. 
 I once could sXmost tolerate intolerance — it then merely injured 
 me once ; it merely deprived me of all that I cared for, touching 
 myself, on earth ; but now it has done more, and I cannot 
 forgive. 
 
 Eloisa said, ' I have hated myself, that I might love thee, 
 Abelard '. When I hear a religionist prepared to say so, as her 
 sincere sentiments, I then will allow that in a few instances 
 the virtue of religion is separable from the vice. 
 
 She is not lost for ever ! How I hope that may be true ; 
 but I fear / can never 'ascertain, I can never influence an 
 amelioration, as she does not any longer permit a * philoso- 
 pher ' to correspond with her. She talks of duty to her 
 Father. And this is your amiable religion ! 
 
 You will excuse my raving, my dear friend ; you will not 
 be severe upon my hatred of a cause which can produce such an 
 effect as this. You talk of the dead ; do we not exist after 
 the tomb ? It is a natural question, my friend, when there is 
 nothing in life : yet it is one on which you have never told 
 me any solid grounds for your opinions. 
 
214 Life of Shelley 
 
 You shall hear from me again soon. I send some verses. 
 I heard from F. yesterday. All that he said was : My letters 
 are arrived. — G. S. F. 
 
 My dear friend, your affectionate 
 
 P. B. Shelley. • 
 ^ To T. J. H., Post Office, York. 
 
 15, Poland Street, April 29, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Father is as fierce as a lion, again. The other day he 
 was in town. John Grove saw him and succeeded in flattering 
 him into a promise, that he would allow me ;^200 per annum, 
 and leave me alone. 
 
 The Misery ; for now he has left town, and written to dis- 
 annul all that he before promised. Gelidum Nemus is flat- 
 tering like a courtier, and will, I conjecture, bring him about 
 again. He wants me to go to Oxford to apologize to the 
 Master, etc. No, of course ! 
 
 I suppose you are now at York. I wish I could come and 
 join you, particularly as I fear you think too much on subjects 
 which are better for oblivion than memory. 
 
 Write something — will you make a novel ? — engage in 
 some pursuit which can interest you. I wish you would allow 
 me to be your Dr. Willis. I would not, as I threatened in the 
 Piazza, confine you in a dark room — no, I would advise a 
 regimen the very opposite to that which I then recommended. 
 You say the scenery of Wales is too beautiful. Yet, 
 why not allow that to interest you ? why not cultivate the 
 taste for poetry, which it is useless to deny that you possess ? 
 
 Indeed, I wish to come to York. I shall as soon as I can, 
 not that I mean the strain detains me, as I am nearly well, but 
 I want to settle pecuniary matters. I am quite well off in 
 that 'now. Remember it is idle to talk of money between us, 
 and little as it may do for polities, with us, you must allow 
 that possession of bullion, chattels, etc., is common. Tell 
 me, then, if you want cash, as I have nearly drained you, and 
 all delicacy, like sisters stripping before each other, is out of 
 the question. 
 
 Our beautiful lady tells me that ' the post is ready '. So 
 adieu ! 
 
 Your affectionate. 
 
 I will write when I hear from you. This goes to York. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
Life of Shelley 215 
 
 [Post-mark, May 2, 181 1.] 
 
 I FOUND this moment all your letters. They were in Great 
 Portland Street. I blush when I write the direction to you. 
 How salacious a street ! 
 
 So you are in solitude. I wish I could be with you. I wish 
 you could manage to come to town. 
 
 ;^20o per annum is really enough — more than I can want — 
 besides, what is money to me ? What does it matter if I 
 cannot even purchase sufficient genteel clothes ? I still have a 
 shabby great-coat, and those, whose good opinion constitutes 
 my happiness, would not regard me the better, or the worse, 
 for this, or any other consequence of poverty. ;^50 per annum 
 would be quite enough. 
 
 Why, you wish to be a Grandee ! When heaven takes your 
 father you will probably be in possession — as his eldest son — 
 of some ;^3,ooo per annum, that perhaps convertible from 3 
 into 5 per cent, property. I should not know how to act with 
 such a store ; but — no, I would not possess about half of it ! 
 Yet well do I see why you would not reject it ; you think it 
 would possibly add to the happiness of some being, to whom 
 you cherish a remote hope of approximative union — the in- 
 dissoluble, sacred union of Love : 
 
 Why is it said thou canst not live 
 
 In a youthful breast and fair. 
 Since thou eternal life canst give, 
 
 Canst bloom for ever there ? 
 Since withering pain no power possest, 
 
 Nor age, to blanch thy vermeil hue, 
 Nor time's dread victor, death, confess'd. 
 
 Though bathed with his poison dew, 
 Still thou retain'st unchanging bloom, 
 
 Fix'd tranquil, even in the tomb. 
 And oh ! when on the blest reviving 
 
 The day-star dawns of love. 
 Each energy of soul surviving 
 
 More vivid, soars above. 
 Hast thou- ne'er felt a rapturous thrill. 
 
 Like June's warm breath, athwart thee fly. 
 O'er each idea then to steal. 
 
 When other passions die ? 
 Felt it in some wild noonday dream. 
 
 When sitting by the lonely stream, 
 Where Silence says. Mine is the dell ; 
 
 And not a murmur from the plain, 
 And not an echo from the fell. 
 
 Disputes her silent reign. 
 
21 6 Life of Shelley 
 
 Excuse this strange momentary mania ! I am now at 
 Miss Westbrook's. She is reading Voltaire's Dictionnaire 
 Philosophique. I am writing to you, but I broke off a page 
 ago. Have you hope ? Can you have hope ? Then, indeed, 
 are you fitted for an Orlando Speroso — if there is such an 
 Italian word. I have faint hopes : I have some, it is true — 
 
 just enough to keep body and soul together ; but you . 
 
 I almost despair. I have not only to conquer all the hateful 
 prejudices of superstition, not only to conquer duty to a father 
 — duty, indeed, of all kinds — but I see in the background a 
 monster more terrific. Have you forgotten the tremend- 
 ous Gregory — the opinion of the world, its myriads of hateful 
 champions, its ten thousands of votaries who deserved a better 
 
 fate, yet compulsatorily were plunged into this . I tremble 
 
 when I think of it. 
 
 Yet marriage, Godwin says, is hateful, detestable. A kind 
 of ineffable, sickening disgust seizes my mind when I think 
 of this most despotic, most unrequired fetter which prejudice 
 has forged to confine its energies. Yes ! This is the fruit of 
 superstition, and superstition must perish before this can fall ! 
 For men never speak of the author of religion as of what he 
 really was, but as being what the world have made him. Anti- 
 matrimonialism is as necessarily connected with scepticism 
 as if religion and marriage began their course together. How 
 can we think well of the world ? Surely these moralists sup- 
 pose young men are like young puppies (as, perhaps, gener- 
 aliter they are), not endowed with vision until a certain age. 
 Adieu ! 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 6, South Build., Uh May, i8ii. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Again I write to you from S. B. I have received very 
 few of your letters ; they have been sent to Portland Street, 
 and I cannot recover them. There is one to-day from Yox- 
 ford ; are you there ? You have reason — you have a right 
 to be surprised that I am not at Field Place, that I did not 
 instantly fly thither in spite of everything. I will explain as 
 soon as possible. You will hear that I am there in the course 
 of a few days. 
 
 The estate is entirely entailed on me, — totally out of the 
 power of the enemy. He is yet angry beyond measure — 
 pacification is remote ; but I will be at peace, vi et armis. I 
 
Life of Shelley 217 
 
 will enter his dominions, preserving a Quaker-like carelessness 
 of opposition. I shall manage a 1' Amerique, and seat myself 
 quietly in his mansion, turning a deaf ear to any declamatory 
 objections. 
 
 A few days ago I had a polite note from a man of letters, 
 to whom I had been named, to invite me to breakfast. I com- 
 plied, and dined with him on Sunday. He is a Deist, despising 
 superstition, etc., etc., yet having a high veneration for the 
 Deity, as he affirmed. And, in consequence, a long argument 
 arose between him and some of his acquaintance ; that a 
 Deist certain means the same as an Atheist ; they differ but 
 in name. He would not allow this, with him the Deity is 
 neither omnipotent, omnipresent, nor identical. He destroys, 
 too, all those predicates in non, against which they entered 
 their protest. He says, that God is comprehensible, not 
 doubting but an adequate exertion of reason (which, he says, 
 is by no means to be despaired of) would lead us from a con- 
 templation of his works to a definite knowledge of his attributes, 
 which are not unlimited. Now, here is a new kind of God for 
 you ! 
 
 In practice, such a Deist as this, is, as they told him, an 
 Atheist ; for he believes that the Creator is by no means 
 perfect, but composed of good and evil, like man, and pro- 
 ducing that mixture of these principles which is evident every- 
 where. He is a man of cultivated mind, and certainly exalted 
 notions, and his friends do not entirely despair of rescuing him 
 out of this damnable heresy from reason. His wife is a most 
 sensible woman ; she is by no means a bigot, but rather 
 Deistically given. It is a curious fact that they were married 
 when they were both Wesleyan Methodists, and subsequently 
 converted each other. 
 
 Solitude is most horrible, in despite of the a<j>iKavTLa, which, 
 perhaps, vanity has a great share in ; but certainly not with 
 my own good will. I cannot endure the horror, the evil, 
 which comes to self in solitude. 
 
 I spend most of my time at Miss Westbrook's. I was a 
 great deal too hasty in criticizing her character. How often 
 have we to alter the impressions which first sight, or first any- 
 thing, produces. I really now consider her as amiable, not 
 perhaps in a high degree, but perhaps she is. I most probably 
 now am prejudiced, for you cannot breathe, you cannot exist 
 if no traits of loveliness appear in co-existent beings. I think, 
 were I compelled to associate with Shakespeare's Caliban, with 
 
2i8 Life of Shelley 
 
 any wretch — with the exception of Lord Courtney, my father, 
 Bishop Warburton, or the vile female, who destroyed Mary — 
 that I should find something to admire. 
 
 What a strange being I am ; how inconsistent, in spite of all 
 my boasted hatred of self : this moment thinking I could sd far 
 overcome Nature's law, as to exist in complete seclusion, the 
 next starting from a moment of solitude — starting from my 
 own company, as if it were that of a fiend — seeking anything 
 rather than a continued communion with self. Unravel this 
 mystery, but — no, I telL you to find the clue which even the 
 bewildered explorer of the cavern cannot reach. 
 
 I long for the moment to see my sisters ; you shall then hear 
 from me even oftener. -: 
 
 I lost three letters, which I had written to you, in my care- 
 lessness. Adieu ! My dear friend, believe me ever attentive 
 to your happiness. 
 
 I wish that vile family despotism, and the viler despotism 
 of society, could never stand between the happiness of two 
 beings. Excuse the (fnXavTca, it would constitute mine, 
 Adieu ! 
 
 Your eternal friend. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place, May, 15, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I now write to you from hence. I have at last reached 
 the place of my destination. I know you will anxiously await 
 this. On my arrival I found my sister ill. She has been 
 confined with a scarlet fever. The ignorance of these country 
 physicians has, I think, prolonged her confinement. She is 
 now much better, but scarcely able to articulate from a sore 
 throat. You shall hear more when I write again. I must 
 acknowledge that some emotions of pleasure were mingled 
 with those of pain, when I found that illness had prevented her 
 writing to me. 
 
 I have come to terms with my father. / call them very good 
 ones. I am to possess /200 per annum. I shall live very well 
 upon it, even after the legal opinion which you inclosed. I am 
 also to do as I please with respect to the choice of abode. I 
 need not mention what it will be. When do you come to 
 London ? at what time ? — a year ; six months ; four 
 months ? 
 
 F will be written to to-day ; you may depend upon the 
 
Life of Shelley 219 
 
 execution of my palavering energies. It would be a strange — I 
 do not know a stranger composition than would be the melange, 
 which you spoke of. Try — compose it. I am sure / could 
 not. The ' Confessions of Rousseau ' are the only things of 
 the kind that have appeared, and they are either a disgrace to 
 the confessor, or a string of falsehoods, probably the latter. 
 But the world would say that ours were the latter. Nor could 
 I blame them for such an opinion, as probable truth is to be the 
 judge of testimony, and singularity must be improbable, or it 
 would not be singularity ; nor do I think that it has often come 
 under the observation of the world, that two young men should 
 hold such arguments, come to such conclusions, and take such 
 singular criterions for reasoning. Is not the last strangest ? 
 How goes on your tale } I have heard nothing of it. As for 
 
 mine I cannot get an answer from L . Do they tremble ? 
 
 I thought the A printer was too stupid ; and I defy a zea- 
 lot to say it does not support orthodoxy. If an author's own 
 assertion in his own book may be taken as an avowal of his 
 intentions, it does support orthodoxy. I could not do more, 
 and yet they say Mine is not printable ; it is as bad as Rous- 
 seau, and would certainly be prosecuted. All danger about 
 prosecution is over ; it was never more than a hum. 
 
 I will tell you a piece of the most consummate hypocrisy I 
 ever heard of. A relation of mine was walking with my uncle 
 (who, by the bye, has settled matters admirably for me), says 
 this Wiseacre, ' to tell you the truth, / am a Sceptic* 
 
 * Ah ! eh ! ' thought the Captain, * old birds are not to be 
 caught with chaff. ' 
 
 * Are you, indeed ? ' was the cold reply, and no more was got 
 out of him. 
 
 I tell you this as the Captain told it me. Is this irrational 
 being really convinced of what men have attained by the use of 
 reason ? If he is, he is a disgrace to reason, and I am sorry that 
 the cause has gained weakness by the accession of weakness. 
 But he is nothing — no-/s/, professes no-ism, but superbism and 
 irrationalism. He has forbidden my intercourse with my 
 sister, but the Captain brought him to reason ; he prevents it, 
 however, as much as possible, which is very little. 
 
 My mother is quite rational ; she says, * I think prayer and 
 thanksgiving are of no use. If a man is a gODd man, philoso- 
 pher, or Christian, he will do very well in whatever future state 
 awaits us '. This I call liberality ! 
 
 You shall hear from me soon again. I write to F . I 
 
220 Life of Shelley 
 
 know you will excuse a longer letter, as I am going to read to 
 Elizabeth. 
 
 Your ever affectionate friend. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Inclose to T. Shelley, Esq., M.P. 
 
 Sunday, lyth May, 1811. 
 
 Captain Pilfold's, Cuckfield. 
 Your letter found me here this morning. Strange ! you 
 have not received one of mine, and I have written almost 
 every day during my stay in London. 
 
 I go to Field-place to-morrow, whence you will hear from me 
 again. I will write to F . Poor fool ! His Christian mild- 
 ness, his consistent forgiveness of injuries amuses me ; he is 
 * le vrai esprit de Christianisme ', which Helvetius talks of ; 
 he would call this a Christian. 
 
 I am now with my uncle ; he is a very hearty fellow, and 
 has behaved very nobly to me, in return for which I have 
 
 illuminated him. A physician named Dr. J dined with us 
 
 last night, who is a red-hot saint ; the Captain attacked him, 
 warm from The Necessity, and the Doctor went away very 
 much shocked. 
 
 You have before this certes received some of my letters. I 
 expect to hear from you often ; you will constantly receive 
 accounts from Field-place, whither direct in future. I received 
 a beautiful little poem of yours ; I did not acknowledge it, I 
 believe, but I was not the less pleased. It is a melancholy sub- 
 ject, why will you continue to think on it ? But you say 
 ' Melancholy is as necessary in poetry as breath to life, the 
 Muses being the daughters of Memory, and consequently of 
 Sadness '. Miss Westbrook, the elder, I have heard from to- 
 day ; she improves upon acquaintance ; or is it only when 
 contrasted with surrounding indifference and degradation ? 
 But all excellence is comparative — exists by comparison ; I 
 have therefore a right. The younger is in prison ; there 
 is something in her more noble, yet not so cultivated as 
 the elder — a larger diamond, yet not so highly polished. Her 
 indifference to, her contempt of surrounding prejudice, are 
 certainly fine. But perhaps the other wants opportunity. I 
 confess that I cannot mark female excellence, or its degrees, by 
 a print of the foot, a waving of vesture, etc., as you can ; but 
 perhaps this criterion only holds good where an angel, not a 
 mortal, is in the case. 
 
Life of Shelley 221 
 
 Why will you compliment St. Irvyn ? I never saw Delisle's, 
 but mine must have been pla 
 
 Adieu ! My dear friend, believe me eternally yours. You 
 shall hear to-morrow. 
 
 In haste. Yours affectionately, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place, May 17, 181 1. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 Your letters have never reached me. These sallies of 
 imagination are not noticed by vulgar postmen ! but you know 
 my direction now. Elizabeth is quite recovered in health. 
 
 It is most true that the mass of mankind are Christians only 
 in name ; their religion has no reality. So little, indeed, that 
 they almost confess the world to be the only reason for their yet 
 retaining their mummeries. Christ is not the Son of God : 
 the world is eternal, their practice would seem to declare. 
 There almost all are agreed, and in the speculative points of 
 religion they seem to be as Atheistical as the most determined 
 Materialist could desire. But what is this speculation — a dry 
 inactive knowledge of what really is, not influencing the con- 
 duct ? One would suppose that the annihilation of super- 
 stition would involve the fall of the world's opinion ; but if the 
 world's opinion were destroyed, superstition would be of little 
 consequence, even if it did exist, which is indeed not very 
 probable, as there would then be no temptations to self- 
 deception. The opinion of the world, the loss of which is 
 attended with much inconvenience, with the loss of reputation, 
 which is by some considered as synonymous with virtue ; — 
 this is the support of many prejudices. Certain members of my 
 family are no more Christians than Epicurus himself was ; but 
 they regard as a sacred criterion the opinion of the world : the 
 discanonization of this saint of theirs is impossible until some- 
 thing more worthy of devotion is pointed out ; but where eyes 
 are shut, nothing can be seen ! They would ask, are we wrong 
 to regard the opinion of the world ; what would compensate 
 us for the loss of it ? Good heavens ! What a question ? It 
 it not to be answered by a word ! So I have but little of their 
 confidence : the confidence of my sister even is diminished, 
 that confidence once so unbounded : but it is to be regained 
 But enough of this ! " In letters, behold me enthusiastic. 
 Quixotic, resolved, convinced, that things shall be as I order 
 
222 Life of Shelley 
 
 them, — that all my plans shall succeed. But I shall anticipate 
 all your castle-buildings, so adieu to this subject also ! 
 
 Why will you not send me some poetry ? I wish to see it 
 directly. 
 
 TO THE MOONBEAM. 
 
 Moonbeam, leave the shadowy vale. 
 
 To bathe this burning brow. 
 Moonbeam, why art thou so pale. 
 As thou walkest o'er the dewy dale, 
 Where humble wild flowers grow ? 
 Is it to mimic me ? 
 But that can never be ; 
 For thine orb is bright, 
 And the clouds are light. 
 That at intervals shadow the star-studded night. 
 
 Now all is deathy still on earth. 
 Nature's tired frame reposes. 
 And ere the golden morning's birtfi 
 Its radiant hues discloses. 
 
 Flies forth its balmy breath. 
 But mine is the midnight of Death, 
 And Nature's morn, 
 To my bosom forlorn. 
 Brings but a gloomier night, implants a deadlier thorn. 
 
 Wretch ! Suppress the glare of madness 
 
 Struggling in thine haggard eye. 
 For the keenest throb of sadness. 
 Pale Despair's most sickening sigh, 
 Is but to mimic me ; 
 And this must ever be. 
 When the twilight of care, 
 And the night of despair. 
 Seem in my breast but joys to the pangs, that wake there. 
 
 There is rhapsody ! Now, I think, after this, you ought to 
 send me some poetry. Pray which of the Miss WestbroDks do 
 you like ? They are both very amiable, I do not know which 
 is favoured with your preference. As to your manner, call it 
 manner, if you will ; perhaps it is proper thus to express a thing, 
 which I thought was inexpressible. Call it so, then, for I 
 know no other name. 
 
 How gets on your onion-loving Deist ? Pray, what is there 
 in onions and red herrings, which can make her less amiable ? 
 She is not very handsome either : Oh ! that is all imagination. 
 
 I have written to F ; I wrote the moment your letter 
 
Life of Shelley 223 
 
 came, and make no doubt but he will think me a very good young 
 man. I cannot so deeply see into the inferences of actions, as 
 to come to the odd conclusion, which you observed in the matter 
 of Miss Westbrook. Where we have facts, they are superior to 
 all the reasoning in the world. I should like to see your letter 
 
 to F . 
 
 Your ever affectionate. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place, May 21, 181 1. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 She is quite well ; she is perfect in .health ! Now, that 
 is enough ; we have ho fever to sympathize in : but who can 
 minister to a mind diseased ? She is very gay, very lively. I 
 did not show her your last letter ; it was too grave ; and I 
 think it is barbarous to diminish what the possessor considers 
 a pleasure, although I have always considered that volatility of 
 character evinces no capabilities for great affections. It is a 
 kind of self-satisfaction in trivial things that is constantly 
 exerting itself ; it is a species of continually awakened pride ; 
 but it is not constitutional ; it used not, however, to be the 
 character of my sister — serious, contemplative, affectionate ; 
 enthusiastically alive to the wildest schemes ; despising the 
 world. 
 
 Now, apathetic to all things, except the trivial amusements 
 and despicable intercourse of restrained conversation ; bowing 
 before that hellish idol, the world ; appealing to its unjust 
 decisions, in cases which demand a trial at the higher tribunal 
 of conscience. Yet I do not despair ; what she once was she 
 has a power to be again ; but will that power ever be exerted ? 
 I do not hesitate to say, that I think she is not worthy of us ; 
 once she was : once the fondest, warmest wish which ever I 
 cherished was to witness the eternal perfectibility of a being, 
 who appeared to me made for perfection. But she is now not 
 what she was ; she is not the singular, angelic being, whom I 
 loved, whom I adored : I mourn her as no more. I consider 
 the sister, whose happiness is mine, as dead. 
 
 Yet have I not hopes of a resuscitation ? Certainly, or I 
 would not tear my heart with the narration. But it is necessay 
 that you should be informed of the real state of the case. 
 
 I will think no more of her, for she has murdered thought. 
 Yes ; I will think, and devote myself with ardour ! On me, — 
 yes, on me, descends the whole weight of my affliction ! What 
 
224 Life of Shelley 
 
 right had I, day after day, to expatiate upon to another, to 
 magnify to myself the excellence of a being who might change, 
 who has changed ? What right had I to seek to introduce you 
 to the destroyer ? 
 
 I leave Field-place to-night ; but return on Friday. 
 Your eternally affectionate, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date], Rhayader. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 I do not accuse you of temporizing, or if I did, I retract 
 that accusation. I have not read A deline, but shall, as soon as I 
 can get it. Here one is as remote from the communications of 
 friendship as the business of stupidity ; it is a very high price to 
 pay for the exemption from the latter, for which reason, it is 
 my intention, as soon as financial strength will permit me to 
 evacuate these solitudes, to come to York. 
 
 When I come, I will not come under my own name, it were to 
 irritate my father needlessly ; this is entirely a philautian 
 argument, but without the stream, of which he is the fountain 
 head, I could not get on. We must live, if we intend to live ; 
 that is, we must eat, drink, and sleep, and money is the neces- 
 sary procurer of these things. 
 
 Your letter was sent to my mother last post-day ; she feels 
 a warm interest in you, as every woman must, and I am well 
 assured that she will do nothing prejudicial to our interests. 
 She is a good, worthy, woman ; and although she may in some 
 cases resemble the fish and pheasant ladies, honoured with your 
 animadversions of this morning, yet there is one altitude which 
 they have attained, to which, I think, she cannot soar — In- 
 tolerance. I have heard frequently from her since my arrival 
 here ; she is of opinion that my father could not, by ordinary 
 means have become acquainted with the proposed visit. I 
 regard the whole as a finesse, to which I had supposed the 
 Honourable Member's head-piece unequal. But the servants 
 may — No, they do not even know your name. 
 
 I have heard from my sister since I came here ; but her letter 
 merely contains an account of a thunderstorm, which de- 
 molished a cottage of my father's, I will not, therefore, send it 
 you. Adieu ! Each post-day, till we meet, will carry a 
 letter. 
 
 Yours sincerely. 
 
Life of Shelley 225 
 
 The progress of our novel is but slow ; however, I have 
 written one more letter ; it is for you to answer it : 
 
 ' I find you still obstinate in what / call your error, as I am 
 in what you must consider a damnable heterodoxy. I am 
 truly surprised ! The peep at church cannot have influenced 
 you one way or the other ; but it may ; for it is the only sensual 
 intelligence that you have received of this fair one. I cannot 
 call it intellectual, as even in the short view of her face which 
 you had, you cannot pretend to guess her moral qualities ; 
 unless you intend to support, that the countenance is the index 
 of the soul, which I cannot suppose you admit. Will you now, 
 coolly, if possible, dispassionately, examine your own soul, 
 and that which now seems almost necessarily annexed to its 
 essence, your love for Sophia. Trace the grounds on which you 
 love her, the origin of this passion ; the things which strength- 
 ened, and the things which have weakened it. If you will do 
 this, without either ridiculing my difference of opinion from 
 yours, or employing any kind of declamation, overslurring, or 
 sophistry, you will then, perhaps, convince me of what you re- 
 gard as truth founded on proofs of resistless cogency, or, you 
 will come to a knowledge of the incorrectness of your own ideas. 
 Either of these is to be desired, since, if you, or I, be wrong, 
 this error, wherever it lies, will necessarily terminate in disap- 
 pointment.' 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 {Post-mark, Rhayader]. 
 I AM just arrived. I have only time to say that I am 
 most sincerely yours, and I will explain on Wednesday why I 
 could not come to York. No post here but three times a-week. 
 
 P. B. S. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date], Cwm Elan, Rhayader. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 John Grove has sent one of your letters ; I fancy the 
 last. I am now at Rhayader. The post comes in here but 
 three times a-week, and goes out two hours after its arrival. 
 Cwm Elan is five miles thence, and I have ridden to Rhayader, 
 and now write in the post-office. Pray write. Confide in me. 
 Believe that I am yours most sincerely. What have you to 
 say ? What, have you no secret ? Write ; you know that 
 everything which you confide will be for ever held in the 
 inviolable confidence of friendship. It would be a great in- 
 
 Q 
 
226 Life of Shelley 
 
 justice to suppose that my own will detained me from York. 
 Nothing but absolute and positive necessity could have super- 
 seded my determined intention. 
 
 You will hear from me on Thursday, at least, I shall write 
 then. Adieu ! 
 
 Your eternally faithful, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 Miss Westbrook, Harriet, has advised me to read Mrs. Opie's 
 Mother and Daughter. She has sent it hither, and has desired 
 my opinion with earnestness. What is this tale ? But I shall 
 read it to-night. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 \No date], Cwm Elan, Rhayader, Radnorshire. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 I had a letter from my father ; all is found out about 
 my inviting you to Horsham, and my proposed journey to 
 York, which is thereby for a while prevented. God send he 
 does not write to your father ; it would annoy him. I threw 
 cold water on the rage of the old buck. I question whether 
 he has let the family into the secret of his discovery, which 
 must have been magically effected. 
 
 I had, previously to my intention of coming to York, 
 accepted an invitation of a cousin of mine here to stay a week 
 or two ; whence I intended to proceed to Aberystwith, about 
 thirty miles off. I then changed my mind, in order to accom- 
 pany you to York. As you made no secret of this, I mentioned 
 in a letter to my father from London that such was my inten- 
 tion. He returned for answer, on the Thursday, that I might 
 go, but that I should have no money from him if I did. The 
 case therefore became one of extreme necessity ; I was forced 
 to submit, and now I am here. Do not think, however, but 
 that I shall come to see you long before you come to reside in 
 London ; but open warfare will never do, and Mr. Peyton, 
 which will be my nom de guerre, will easily swallow up Mr. 
 Shelley. I shall keep quiet here for a few weeks. 
 
 I have heard of the miscarriage of one of my letters to you, 
 by the pillage of the Rhayader mail. I shall write very often, 
 and enclose EUzabeth's letters, when I have them. 
 
 This is most divine scenery ; but all very dull, stale, flat, 
 and unprofitable : indeed, this place is a very great bore. 
 
 I shall see the Miss Westbrooks again soon ; they were very 
 
Life of Shelley 227 
 
 well, in Condowell, when I heard last ; they then proceed to 
 Aberystwith, where I shall meet them. 
 
 The post here is only three times a week, and that very 
 uncertain, irregular and unsafe. 
 
 Let me hear soon from you. I will write every post-day. 
 Your most affectionate, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Only two hours elapse between the exit and entrance of 
 the post. Your letter to me was sent to my mother, who is 
 very much interested in you. 
 
 I have at this moment no money, as Philipp's and the other 
 debt have drained me ; you will see me when I can get some. 
 Although I am not so degraded as to talk to you of pecuniary 
 obligations, yet is it not almost too bad to subsist on you ? 
 No ! I must stay here for a short time, because to contend 
 against impossibilities may do for a lover, but will not for a 
 mortal. 
 
 In the meantime, believe that I am not inattentive to my 
 own interests. As things have been so quiet, I rather acquiesce 
 in your opinion, that artifice may have been resorted to. As 
 I returned no answer, my indiscretion, of which I have given 
 two or three specimens, cannot either substantiate or annihilate 
 his guesses. 
 
 I am all solitude, as I cannot call the society here an alter- 
 native of it. I must stay here, however, to recruit my finances, 
 compelled now to acknowledge poverty an evil. 
 
 Your jokes on Harriet Westbrook amuse me : it is a common 
 error for people to fancy others in their own situation, but if 
 I know anything about love, I am not in love. I have heard 
 from the Westbrooks, both of whom I highly esteem. 
 
 Adieu ! I am going to ride with Mrs. Grove to Rhayader. 
 I will write on Thursday. 
 
 Yours sincerely. 
 
 To H. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date. Postmark, Rhayader.] 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You will perhaps see me before you can answer this ; 
 perhaps not ; Heaven knows ! I shall certainly come to 
 
228 Life of Shelley 
 
 York, but Harriet Westhrook will decide whether now or in 
 three weeks. Her father has persecuted her in a most horrible 
 way, by endeavouring to compel her to go to school. She 
 asked my advice : resistance was the answer, at the same 
 time that I essayed to mollify Mr. W. in vain ! And in con- 
 sequence of my advice she has thrown herself upon my pro- 
 tection. 
 
 I set off for London on Monday. How flattering a distinc- 
 tion ! — I am thinking of ten million things at once. 
 
 What have I said ? I declare, quite ludicrous. I advised her 
 to resist. She wrote to say that resistance was useless, but 
 that she would fly with me, and threw herself upon my pro- 
 tection. We shall have ;^200 a year : when we find it run 
 short, we must live, I suppose, upon love ! Gratitude and 
 admiration, all demand, that I should love her for ever. We 
 shall see you at York. I will hear your arguments for matri- 
 monialism, by which I am now almost convinced. I can get 
 lodgings at York, I suppose. Direct to me at Graham's, 
 1 8, Sackville Street, Piccadilly. 
 
 Your inclosure oi £io has arrived ; I am now indebted to 
 you £T)0. In spite of philosophy, I am rather ashamed of 
 this unceremonious exsiccation of your financial river. But 
 indeed, my dear friend, the gratitude which I owe you for your 
 society and attachment ought so far to over-balance this 
 consideration as to leave me nothing but that. I must, 
 however, pay you when I can. 
 
 I suspect that the strain is gone for ever. This letter will 
 convince you that I am not under the influence of a strain. 
 
 I am thinking at once of ten million things. I shall come 
 to^ live near you, as Mr. Peyton. 
 
 Ever your most faithful friend, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 I shall be at i8, Sackville Street; at least direct there. 
 Do not send more cash ; I shall raise supplies in London. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date], Cwm Elan, Rhayader, Radnorshire. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 To-morrow I shall hear from you, but cannot be able 
 to answer your letter. The post is here what the waves in 
 hell were to Tantalus. 
 
 I have heard from the Westbrooks, and from my mother : 
 the latter cannot yet have received your last letter to mc, as 
 
Life of Shelley 229 
 
 epistolary communications take some time in going to Sussex 
 from York, via Rhayader. 
 
 I have been to church to-day ; they preach partly in Welsh, 
 which sounds most singularly. A christening was performed 
 out of an old broken slop-basin. This country is highly 
 romantic ; here are rocks of uncommon height, and picturesque 
 waterfalls. I am more astonished at the grandeur of the 
 scenery than I expected. I do not now much regard it ; I 
 have 6ther things to think of. 
 
 I have had no cause to alter my opinion ; I do not think 
 that I am at liberty to entertain any hopes. I suppose, 
 whilst York Minster exists, that you will indulge them yourself 
 on my account. 
 
 Now, there is JNIiss F. D. Browne (certainly a tigress), yet 
 she surpasses my sister in poetical talents — tliis every dis- 
 passionate criticism must allow : that lovely extract of her 
 poems certainly surpasses any of Elizabeth's, and it was 
 Elizabeth's poetry that first so strongly attracted my atten- 
 tion, charmed, and, as you were pleased to say, bewitched 
 me ; and which you admired, unless you were influenced by 
 the vague, unconnected, prejudiced praises with which / 
 would at times speak of Elizabeth. 
 
 For the rest, it is now far from being my wish that you should 
 think more of the past. I foresee that all regrets cherished on 
 that head will end in aggravating disappointment ; I do not 
 say despair, for I have too good an opinion of my firmness to 
 suppose that I would yield to despair. Besides, wherefore 
 should I love her ? A disinterested appreciation of what is in 
 itself excellent ; this is good, if it is so — but what I felt was a 
 passion. It was, I suppose, involuntary ; passion can evi- 
 dently be neither disinterested, or its opposite. Is it not, 
 then, the business of reason to conquer passion, particularly 
 when I received all the evidences of her loveliness from the 
 latter, and none from the former. Ought I not to doubt the 
 worthiness of what depends on the mere impulses of the latter, 
 for what could reason have to do with it any more than with 
 peeping at a lady through a window. I do not know, on con- 
 sidering, however, if the lover would not display more reason 
 then than at any other period of his passion, since for once he 
 consented to refer to the evidence of his senses. Let me hope 
 that I shall be dispassionate ; I did execrate my existence 
 once, when I first discovered that there was no chance of our 
 being united. To enjoy your society and that of my sister 
 
230 Life of Shelley 
 
 has now for some months been my aim. She is not what she 
 was ; you continue the same, and ever may you be so ! 
 
 I am here for the present, absolutely because I have no 
 money to come to York, and because I must come there incog. 
 I am what the sailors call banyaning. T do not see a soul ; 
 all is gloomy and desolate. I amuse myself, however, with 
 reading Darwin, climbing rocks, and exploring this scenery. 
 Amusement ! 
 
 I have seen the papers, and Burdon's poem. It is certainly 
 admirable as an architectural poem ; but do not let me be 
 considered envious when I say, that it appears to me to want 
 energy, since the very idea of my being able to write like it 
 
 is eminently ludicrous. I wonder whether B is a fool or a 
 
 hypocrite ; he must be the latter. 
 
 Have you read the Missionary ? It is a beautiful thing. 
 It is here, and I could not help reading it again ; or do you not 
 read novels ? Adieu ! 
 
 Your sincere friend. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 CucKFiELD, May 26, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Inclosed is F.'s letter. Why have I not heard from you 
 for a week, or more ? 
 
 I take the opportunity of the Old Boy's absence in London 
 to persuade my mother and Elizabeth, who is now quite well, 
 to come to Cuckfield ; because there they will be tluree, or 
 more, days absent from this Killjoy, as I name him. I 
 anxiously expect to hear from you to-morrow. Adieu. 
 Keep up your spirits ! 
 
 Your's most affectionately, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Cuckfield, June 2, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I have nothing to tell you, which you will like to hear. 
 The affected contempt of narrowed intellects for the exertion 
 of mental powers, which they either will not, or cannot 
 comprehend, is always a tale of disgust. What must it be, 
 when involving a keen disappointment ? I have hesitated for 
 three days on what I should do, what I should say. I am 
 your friend, you acknowledge it. You have chosen me, and 
 
Life of Shelley 231 
 
 we are inseparable ; not the little tyranny of idiots can effect 
 it ; not the misrepresentations of the interested. You are 
 then my friend. I am sensible, and you must be sensible, 
 that it is in conformity to the most rigid duty that I would 
 advise you how I have combated with myself 
 
 What is Passion ? The very word implies an incapacity 
 for action, otherwise than in unison with its dictates. What 
 is reason ? It is a thing independent, inflexible ; it adapts 
 thoughts and actions to the varying circumstances, which for 
 ever change — adapts them so as to produce the greatest over- 
 balance of happiness. And to whom do you now give happi- 
 ness ? Not to others, for you associate with but few : those 
 few regard you with the highest feelings of admiration and 
 friendship ; but perhaps there is but one ; — and here is self 
 again — not to yourself ; for the truth of this I choose yourself, 
 as a testimony against you. I think ; reason ; listen ; cast off 
 prejudice ; hear the dictates of plain common sense — surely is it 
 not evident ? I loved a being, an idea in my own mind, which 
 had no real existence. I concreted this abstract of perfection, 
 I annexed this fictitious quality to the idea presented by a 
 name ; the being, whom that name signified, was by no 
 means worthy of this. This is the truth : Unless I am deter- 
 minedly bUnd — unless I am resolved causelessly and selfishly 
 to seek destruction, I must see it. Plain ! is it not plain ? 
 I loved a being ; the being, whom I loved, is not what she was ; 
 consequently, as love appertains to mind, and not body, she 
 exists no longer. I regret when I find that she never existed, 
 but in my mind ; yet does it not border on wilful deception, 
 deliberate, intentional self-deceit, to continue to love the body, 
 when the soul is no more ? As well might I court the worms 
 which the soulless body of a beloved being generates — be lost 
 to myself, and to those who love me for what is really amiable 
 in me — in the damp, unintelligent vaults of a charnel-house. 
 Surely, when it is carried to the dung-heap as a mass of putre- 
 faction, the loveliness of the flower ceases to charm. Surely 
 it would be irrational to annex to this inertness the properties 
 which the flower in its state of beauty possessed, which now 
 cease to exist, and then did merely exist, because adjoined to 
 it. Yet you will call this cold reasoning ? No ; you will not ! 
 this would be the exclamation of the uninformed Werter, not 
 of my noble friend. But, indeed, it is not cold reasoning, if 
 you saw me at this moment. I wish I could reason coldly, 
 I should then stand more chance of success. But let me 
 
232 Life of Shelley 
 
 reconsider it myself — exert my own reasoning powers ; let 
 
 me entreat myself to awake. This I do not know what 
 
 I say. I go to Field-place ; to-morrow you shall hear again. 
 I go to Field-place now : this moment, I have rung the bell 
 for the horse. 
 
 Your eternal Friend. 
 
 I wrote to her to entreat that she would receive my letter 
 kindly ; I wrote very long. This is the answer. Are you 
 deaf, are you dead ? I am cold and icy, but I cannot refrain. 
 Stay, I will come soon. — Adieu ! 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 My arguments have been yours. They have been urged 
 by the force of the gratitude which this occasion excited. 
 But I yet remain in London ; I remain embarrassed and 
 melancholy. I am now dining at Grove's. Your letter has 
 just been brought in ; I cannot forbear just writing this. 
 Your noble and exalted friendship, the prosecution of your 
 happiness, can alone engross my impassioned interest. I 
 never was so fit for calm argument, as now. This, I fear, 
 more resembles exerted action than inspired passion. I shall 
 take another opportunity to-morrow of answering your long, 
 interesting, and conclusive letter of yesterday. 
 
 Your Friend. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 I wrote to you on Sunday. Reason have you to say that I 
 was unreasonable. I was mad ! You know that very little 
 sets my horrid spirits in motion. I drank a glass or two of 
 wine at my mother's instigation, then began raving. She, to 
 quiet me, gave me pens, ink, and paper, and I wrote to you. 
 Elizabeth is, indeed, an unworthy companion of the Muses. 
 I do not rest much on her poetry now. Miss Philipps betrayed 
 twice the genius : greater amiability, if to affect the feeling is 
 a proof of an excess of the latter. I am*sure you cannot deny 
 that you are unprejudiced on this head. 
 
 I am a perfect hermit : not a being to speak with ! I some- 
 times exchange a word with my mother on the subject of the 
 weather, upon which she is irresistibly eloquent ; otherwise all 
 is deep silence ! 1 wander about this place, walking all over the 
 grounds, with no particular object in view. I cannot write. 
 
Life of Shelley 233 
 
 except now and then to you — sometimes to Miss Westbrooks. 
 My hand begins to hurry, and I am tired and ennuied. The 
 only thing that has interested me, if I except your letters, has 
 been one novel. It is Miss Owenson's Missionary, an Indian 
 tale ; will you read it ? It is really a divine thing ; Luxima, 
 the Indian, is an angel. What a pity that we cannot incor- 
 porate these creations of fancy ; the very thoughts of them 
 thrill the soul ! Since I have read this book, I have read no 
 other. But I have thought strangely ! I transcribe for you a 
 strange melange of maddened stuff, which I wrote by the mid 
 
 Sweet star, which gleaming o'er the darksome scene 
 
 Through fleecy clouds of silvery radiance flyest, 
 
 Spanglet of light on evening's shadowy veil, 
 
 Which shrouds the day-beam from the waveless lake. 
 
 Lighting the hour of sacred love ; more sweet 
 
 Than the expiring morn-star's paly fires. 
 
 Sweet star ! When wearied Nature sinks to sleep. 
 
 And all is hushed, — all, save the voice of Love, 
 
 Whose broken murmurings swell the balmy blast 
 
 Of soft Favonius, which at intervals 
 
 Sighs in the ear of stillness, art thou aught but 
 
 Lulling the slaves of interest to repose 
 
 With that mild, pitying gaze ! Oh, I would look 
 
 In thy dear beam till every bond of sense 
 
 Became enamoured 
 
 Hopes, that swell in youthful breasts, 
 
 Live they this, the waste of time ? 
 Love's rose a host of thorns invests ; 
 
 Cold, ungenial is the clime, 
 
 Where its honours blow. 
 Youth says, The purple flowers are mine 
 
 Which die the while they glow. 
 
 Dear the boon to Fancy given. 
 
 Retracted whilst it's granted : 
 Sweet the rose which lives in heaven. 
 
 Although on earth 'tis planted. 
 
 Where its honours blow. 
 While by earth's slaves the leaves are riven 
 
 Which die the while they glow. 
 
 Age cannot Love destroy, 
 
 But perfidy can blast the flower. 
 Even when in most unwary hour 
 
 It blooms in Fancy's bower. 
 
 Age cannot Love destroy, 
 But perfidy can rend the shrine 
 
 In which its vermeil splendours shine. 
 
234 Life of Shelley 
 
 Ohe ! jam satis dementice ! I hear you exclaim. 
 
 I have been thinking of Death and Heaven for four days. 
 What is the latter ? Shall we set off ? Is there a future 
 life ? Whom should we injure by departing ? Should we 
 not benefit some ? I was thinking last night, when from the 
 summer-house I saw the moon just behind one of the chimneys, 
 if she alone were to witness our departure ? But I do not talk 
 thus, or even think thus, when we are together. How is 
 that ? I scarce dare then, but now I dare ? 
 
 I shall see you in three weeks. I am coming to York, in my 
 way to Wales ; where possibly I shall not go. Be that as it 
 may, you shall see me. I intend to pedestrianize. The post- 
 fellow wants the letter. 
 
 Believe me your most affectionate. 
 
 You will hear on Monday. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 [No date.] 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your two letters were delivered to me. Believe me 
 that I will not so soon give up a being whom I considered so 
 amiable. I will not yet decide ; but your conclusion is to the 
 point, and terribly just. Unequivocal traces of her having 
 yielded to the guidance of the first motives can be found. Are 
 we then to despair ? 
 
 But I quit the subject ; the experiment shall be made, and 
 I will abide by the result. I anxiously, eagerly anticipate the 
 moment of trial. Moment ! Ought it not rather to be years ; 
 or rather ought years even to decide a question so important ? 
 
 You sent me some beautiful verses ; but I am not accus- 
 tomed to be flattered, and you will make me either vain past 
 bearing, or confused past recovery, if you talk so of my weak 
 essays of procedure on ' the steep ascent ' of perfectibility. 
 Why, how dare I attempt to climb a mountain, when I have 
 no guide to point out the path, but a few faint sparks, which 
 at intervals illumine the gloom ? For these even am I not 
 more indebted to you than to myself ? 
 
 Certainly a saint may be amiable ; she may be so, but then 
 she does not understand — has neglected to investigate — the 
 religion which retiring, modest prejudice leads her to profess. 
 But one who certainly never has investigated the matter — seen 
 the slight grounds upon which these dogmas rest, — surely the 
 glaring inconsistencies of every system of mythology must 
 
Life of Shelley 235 
 
 strike her ? Surely she can find benefits enough to return 
 thanks to her Creator for, without having recourse to the 
 mythological personages of superstition ? Otherwise, by your 
 criterion of amiability, that woman would deserve our most 
 fervent attachment who worshipped all the Roman Pantheon, 
 old or new. 
 
 I will write to-morrow. I am now called to Miss West- 
 brook ; I was too hasty in telling my first unfavourable 
 impression : she is a very clever girl, though rather affected. 
 No ! I do not know that she is. ' I have been with her to 
 Clapham. I will tell you an anecdote. Harriet Westbrook 
 has returned thither, as I mentioned. They will not speak 
 to her ; her schoolfellows will not even reply to her questions ; 
 she is called an abandoned wretch, and universally hated, 
 which she remunerates with the calmest contempt. My third 
 sister, Hellen, is the only exception. She, in spite of the 
 infamy, will speak to Miss Westbrook, because she cannot 
 see how she has done wrong. There are some hopes of this 
 dear little girl ; she would be a divine little scion of infidelity, 
 if I could get hold of her. I think my lessons here must have 
 taken effect. I write to-morrow. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I wish I thought as you do ; but I cannot ; it is all in vain 
 Unwilling as I am, conviction stares me in my face, and mocks 
 my lingering credulity. Oh ! that you were here ! That 
 artifice the most subtle, of which degraded beings are capable, 
 has been used, I doubt not ; but although this tallies with 
 the wishes of the artificers, a very different cause from their 
 machinations effected it. A change, a great and important 
 change, has taken place in my sister. Every little action, 
 which formerly used to be so eloquent ; every look, which 
 was wont to be so expressive of openness, are enlisted in the 
 service of prejudice. All is studied art \ it has superseded, 
 not combined with, nature. It is in vain that you try to 
 persuade me to deceive myself longer. Your letter came 
 this morning ; I burnt that one of mine. I shuddered even 
 to look at a page of it ; the flames destroyed it. Your letter 
 came ; the experiment you recommend has been tried within 
 these few days, repeatedly, but without the slightest effect. 
 Scorn the most virulent, neglect and affected pity for my 
 
236 Life of Shelley 
 
 madness, are all that I can obtain in reply. ' You and your 
 mad friend ! Those, whom I have seen, and who have seen 
 me, make but little excuse for your folly ' . This is all that 
 I could hear ; nothing else she would say. Then, far from 
 being in the least affected by all I can say of my vexation, her 
 spirits are uncommonly lively. I sometimes attempt the 
 same liveliness, to see if congeniality even in folly would 
 effect anything. No ; even this is in vain ; she is then, and 
 then only, constantly silent. Oh ! my friend, who is likeliest 
 to be right ? he who muses at a distance on the abstract idea 
 of perfection, that I once dreamed, annexing it to a being 
 whom one present cannot attribute it to ? — one, too, who is, 
 I may add, passionately prejudiced to that side of the ques- 
 tion, the truth of which he has not admitted, or rather rejected 
 deliberately. 
 
 I shall see you in July. I am invited to Wales, but I shall 
 go to York : what shall we do ? How I long again for your 
 conversation ! The ideas here rise in solitude ; they pass 
 through a mind as solitary ; unheeded, gloomy retrospection 
 introduces them — anticipation even gloomier bids them 
 depart to make way for others ; these will on ; still, still will 
 they urge their course, till Death closes all. Wherefore should 
 we linger ? Unhappiness, disappointment, enthusiasm, and 
 subsequent apathy follow our steps. Would it not be a 
 general good to all human beings that I should make haste 
 away ? So you stay, stay, to make thousands happy : one 
 is unworthy of you ; and all my wishes are closed, since I 
 have seen that union impossible and unjust, which once was 
 my fondest vision. For myself, I know what an unstable, 
 deceitful thing Love is ; but still did I wish to involve myself 
 in the pleasing delusion. The mist dissipates, the light is 
 strong and clear ; I am not blind, nor are you ; — shall I be ? 
 It is neither to my own, nor to the being's happiness which I 
 desired, that I should longer continue so ! Where is she 
 whom I adored ? Alas ! Where is virtue ? Where is per- 
 fection ? Where I cannot reach. Is there another existence ? 
 No ! Then I can never reach it. Is there another existence ? 
 Yes ! Then I shall Hve there, rendering and rendered happy. 
 
 Perhaps the flowers think like this ; perhaps they moraUze 
 upon their state, have their attachments, their pursuits of 
 virtue ; adote, despond, hope, despise. Alas ! then do wc, 
 like them, perish ; or do they, likewise, live for ever ? 
 
 But am I not a philosopher ? Do I not pursue virtue, for 
 
Life of Shelley 237 
 
 virtue's sake ? Why, then, do I wander wildly ? Why do 
 I write madly ? Why has sleep forsaken me ? Why are 
 you and my sister for ever present to my mind ? Except 
 when selfishness bids me start at what I am now — at what I 
 once was — Adieu ! 
 
 I am going to take the sacrament. In spite of my melan- 
 choly reflections, the idea rather amuses and soothes me. 
 You shall hear from me soon again. I write very often, but 
 have not always courage to send my letters — Believe me, 
 
 Your's ever affectionately, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 Horsham, June Sixteen, 181 1. 
 T. J. Hogg, Esq., 
 
 Mrs. Doughty's, 
 Coney Street, 
 
 York. 
 T. Shelley. 
 
 In an age of penny letter stamps, a frank seems as strange, 
 as in an era of Bath letter paper would an epistle written with 
 a style on waxed tablets ! 
 
 Would that some benevolent fairy, some kind genius, were 
 able to recover the lost letters which the ardent young poet 
 wrote to his friend, but * had not courage to send ! ' 
 
 Field Place, June 21, 181 1. 
 
 Dearest Friend, 
 
 I shall be with you in three weeks ; possibly less. Take 
 lodgings for me at York ; if possible at Mrs. Doughty's. It 
 is best to be beforehand, as lodgings may be scarce. What 
 pleasure is even the anticipation of an unrestrained converse ! 
 I shall leave Field-place in a fortnight. Old Westbrook has 
 invited me to accompany him and his daughters to a house 
 they have at Aberystwith, in Wales. I shall stay about a 
 week with him in town ; then I shall come to see you, and 
 get lodgings. 
 
 How I wish that I could think exactly like you ; that I 
 could effectually imitate your sentiments — sentiments which 
 inspire language that acts almost like magic. When I read 
 your letters, I think exactly, completely like you ; I wonder, 
 I am shocked at my own depravity, in doubting what then 
 appears so evident — yet how evident ! 
 
 I lay down your letter, I look around me, I consider, I behold 
 
238 Life of Shelley 
 
 the true state of the case. Machinations have indeed suc- 
 ceeded, but they are the machinations of worldly interest. 
 It is true ; it is true, I am on the spot, I observe it ; I am not 
 only cool, but most violently prejudiced to that opinion, 
 against which now conviction presses. 
 
 Yet how is this ? Fallen as she is, I almost think that I 
 could participate in her views ; that I could adjust the glitter- 
 ing tinsel ornament of anticipated matrimoniali&m ; that / 
 could, like a fashionable brother, act as a jackal for husbands. 
 Yet no ; this were too much. Anything but this last, this only 
 severe trial of prejudiced attachment ! But yet, I could watch 
 her steps ; and even in this degraded state could I essay to 
 minister to her happiness, even when she became bound to 
 some fool in a bond fit only for a Jewess ; even then I could rack 
 my phiz into a smile to please her. But this must not be. I 
 am not thus to be sacrificed ; and much as I wish to think 
 like you, yet I think it were imbecile to model my opinion upon 
 yours in that only point, where there are many chances for 
 my being right, were I the least enlightened of men — many 
 chances for your being wrong, although being what you are. 
 On every other point, I believe that my opinion is yours ; 
 wholly, unreservedly yours. It is a sacrifice which I acknow- 
 edge is due to your superiority, where we have opportunities 
 of having an equal view of the contested subject. But here ! 
 Do you not see you are under the influence of a tyrannical 
 preconception, which you acknowledge increases somewhat 
 under all these disadvantages ? 
 
 Surely a man under a misguiding preconception is not a 
 judge of the merits of its object, particularly when these 
 merits are principally founded on two, or three, poems, con- 
 fessedly not the subjects of universal approbation, founded 
 on the testimony of a brother ardently prejudiced : he then 
 the sport of unreflecting sensation, alive to enthusiasm the most 
 irrational ; he, than whom the gale that blows was not more 
 variable in anything, but friendship ; — on the testimony of 
 one who seized on some detached, noble sentiments, and then 
 ascribed to her, whose they were, perfection, divinity — all the 
 properties which the wildest religious devotee ascribes to the 
 Deity, whom he adores. Had I then been sacrificing at the 
 altar of the Indian Camdeo, the God of mystic love ; you, I 
 am sure, will never become an unreflecting votary at its shrine. 
 But I consider, I remember : there is one point of sympathy 
 between you. Matrimony y I know, is a word dear to you ; — 
 
Life of Shelley 239 
 
 does it vibrate in unison with the hidden strings of rapture — 
 awaken divine anticipation ? Is it not the most horrible of 
 all the means which the world has had recourse to, to bind the 
 noble to itself ? Yet this is the subject of her constant and 
 pointed panegyric. It is in vain that I seek to talk to her. 
 It is in vain that I represent, or rather endeavour to represent, 
 the futility of the world's opinion. 
 
 ' This then, is the honourable advice of a brother ! ' 'It 
 is the disinterested representation of a friend ! ' To which 
 unanswered, followed a sneer, and an affected sportiveness of 
 gaiety that admitted of no reply.' 
 
 Have you read a new novel. The Missionary, by Miss Owen- 
 son ? It is a divine thing ; — Luxima, the Indian priestess, 
 were it possible to embody such a character, is perfect. The 
 Missionary has been my companion for some time ; I advise 
 you to read it. How much I admire the sentiments in your 
 tale ! You give up the world ; you resign it, and all its 
 vanities. You are right, and so do it ! Political, or literary, 
 ambition is vice. Nothing but one thing is virtue. — Adieu ! 
 
 Your eternal Friend. 
 
 Yet I should almost regret your tale ! How I wish you 
 could send me the MSS. ; but perhaps it would not be pru- 
 dent ; it might miscarry. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place, Sunday, June 23, 1811. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 You appear at last rational. I can find an excuse for 
 madness, because I myself am often mad ; but I am better 
 pleased when I can pay the tribute of merited applause to 
 reason, exerted, too, under discouraging circumstances. Your 
 letter this morning betrays very much of the latter. You 
 no longer blindly consider scepticism as blasphemy ; you are 
 sensible that what is human may be imperfect. From the 
 vivid nature of the feelings which human beings excited, you 
 are unwilling to admit it. You do right then ; you act 
 reasonably. I rejoice that you are resolved to think for your- 
 self. I rejoice that you have at length fixed a criterion by 
 which you may be decided on this interminable subject. 
 
 Come, then, my dear friend : happy, most happy, shall I 
 be if you will share my little study ; happy that you come on 
 an errand so likely to soothe me, and restore my peace. There 
 are two rooms in this house, which I have taken exclusively 
 
240 Life of Shelley 
 
 to myself ; my sister will not enter them, and no one else 
 shall : these you shall inhabit with me. You must content 
 yourself to sleep upon a mattress ; and you will be like a 
 State prisoner. You must only walk with me at midnight, 
 for fear of discovery. My window commands a view of the 
 lawn, where you will frequently see an object that will amply 
 repay your journey — the object of my fond affections. 
 Time and opportunity must effect that in my favour with 
 him, which entreaties cannot ; indeed, I do not think it advis- 
 able to say too much on the subject ; but more when we meet. 
 
 Do not trouble yourself with any baggage ; I have plenty 
 of clean things for you. 
 
 The mail will convey you from York to London, whence 
 the Horsham coach will bring you to Horsham ; (news !) 
 there I will meet you at midnight, whence you shall be con- 
 veyed to your apartment. 
 
 Come, then, I intreat you ; I will return with you to York. 
 / almost insist on your coming. I shall fully expect you. 
 
 Yours most affectionately. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 CUCKFIELD, July I, 181 I. 
 
 My dear Friend 
 
 I have dispatched a letter to my sister, inclosing your 
 last letter to me. I shall be there on Sunday. I hope I 
 shall have a favourable answer. 
 
 If her interest in me has weight ; if she yet regards me as 
 a friend and brother, she cannot refuse. But no ! This 
 coercion ! You shall hear on Sunday. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Field Place, July 4, 181 1. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I am surprised ! For the sake of everything for which 
 we live, listen to reason. If you will not listen to me, see the 
 chapter in Locke, which F ought to have read, and pro- 
 fited by. 
 
 What is Enthusiasm, whether in religion, politics, or 
 morality ? all equally, inextricably fatuous ; yours is in the 
 last. You seek the happiness of another, under an idea that 
 she is most amiable. Even admitting the last, is it not wrong 
 when you see that you cannot contribute to her happiness, to 
 render yourself unfit to do so to another ? But do I not 
 admit this ? And yet it seems false. Who, surely, is the 
 
Life of Shelley 241 
 
 better judge ? you — who never beheld her, never heard her 
 converse, and, in addition to this — or /, who — still I am con- 
 fessedly strongly prejudiced — prejudiced like religious votaries, 
 who reason, whilst they can, and when that ceases to be 
 possible, they feel. From this last there is no appeal. Certainly 
 I do not mean to imitate these. And I still ask, who is the 
 better judge ? I, as I must be like one of these, or you, dispas- 
 sionate, cool ; — cool you cannot but be, and probably dispas- 
 sionate. Little as you may be disposed to credit my feelings 
 concerning dcfuXavTca, I have here no interest to act other- 
 wise than I say. How, then, do I still persist in . I own 
 
 it ; it was the fondest wish of my heart, and bitterly was 
 I disappointed at its annihilation. I own it : I desired, 
 eagerly desired to see myself and her irrevocably united by 
 the rites of the Church, but where the high priest would have 
 been Love ; I pictured to myself Elysium in beholding my 
 only perfect one daring the vain world, smiling at its silly 
 forms, setting an example of perfection to an universe. I do 
 not estimate, as you know, from relationship : I am cool, I 
 hope. I should now grieve to see myself sacrificed, when 
 there may exist a less imperfect being, and I might be per- 
 haps considered as not wholly unworthy of her. 
 
 You do not flatter ; you do not temporise ; you are as 
 severe with me as you can be. I own I cannot bear, you tell 
 me, to see you sacrificing yourself, and every one who really 
 esteems you. I write to-morrow. 
 
 Your ever affectionate. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 CUCKFIELD, August 9, 181I. 
 
 Have you forgotten it ? Have you forgotten that ' laws 
 were not made for men of honour ' ? Your memory may 
 fail ; it is human ; but the infernal conclusions you have 
 drawn, which I see you cannot, will not admit it too much. 
 There are some points on which reasoning is inefficient to 
 convince the mind. No one could persuade me of the tortoise 
 and Achilles business, even although they might say that I 
 must believe it, because they had proved it, and I could find 
 no flaw in their reasoning. I could not endure the bare idea 
 of marriage, even if I had no arguments in favour of my dis- 
 like ; but I think that I have. I shall begin d la Faber ; how 
 far I proceed thus, you have to judge. 
 
 Your first assertion, on which stands all the rest, does not 
 
 R 
 
242 Life of Shelley 
 
 profess to be founded on proof ; but the long-established 
 opinion — uncontroverted, undisputed, except by occasional 
 characters of brilliancy, or darkness — that it is a duty to 
 comply with the established laws of your country — this I 
 deny. Then virtue does not exist ; or if it does, exists in 
 so indefinite a manner — Proteus-like so changes its appear- 
 ances with every varying climate, that what is a crime in 
 England becomes not merely venial, perhaps praiseworthy 
 at Algiers ; that each petty river, each chain of mountains, 
 an arm of the sea constitutes a line of distinction between 
 two different kinds of duties, to both of which it is requisite 
 that virtue should adapt itself. What constitutes real virtue ? 
 — motive, or consequence ? Surely the former. In propor- 
 tion as a man is selfish, so far has he receded from the motive 
 which constitutes virtue. I have left the proof to Aristotle. 
 Shall we take Godwin's criterion : Expediency ? Oh ! surely 
 not. Any very satisfactory general reform is, I fear, impractic- 
 able : human nature, taken in the mass, if we compare it with 
 instances of individual virtue, is corrupt beyond all hope ; — 
 for these laws are necessary : these are not men of honour ; 
 they are not beings capable of exalted notions of virtue ; they 
 cannot feel the passions of soft tenderness, the object of whose 
 regard is distinct from selfish desire. Is it right that 6f these 
 the world should be composed ? Certainly not, were the evil 
 to be obviated ; but it is not to be obviated : all essays of 
 benevolent reformers have failed. Any step, however small, 
 towards such obviation, is, however, good, as it tends to pro- 
 duce that which,though impossible, yet were it possible, would 
 be desirable. On this plan, then, do I recommend anti- 
 matrimonialism. It is a feeling which (as we take it, and as 
 it is now the subject of discussion) can at once be experienced 
 by minds which at least adore virtue. It is, then, of general 
 application ; and if every one loved, then every one would be 
 happy. This is impossible ; but certain it is that the more 
 that love the more are blest. Shall, then, the world step for- 
 ward — that world which wallows in selfishness and every 
 hateful passion, the consequence of an absence of reason ; 
 shall that world give laws to souls, who smile superior to its 
 palsying influence, who let the tempest of prejudice rave 
 unheeded, happy in the consciousness of the d^tXaurta of 
 motive. Oh ! no. Can you compare Eloisa and a ruffian ? 
 Eloisa, who sacrificed all self for another ! Macheath, who 
 sacrificed every other for himself ! These motives are wid^ 
 
Life of Shelley 243 
 
 apart as the antipodes — wide as the characters themselves — 
 wide as virtue and vice. Take, then, your criterion, and 
 measure by that. For God's sake, if you want more argu- 
 ment, read the Marriage Service before you think of allowing 
 an amiable, beloved female to submit to such degradation. 
 But you are convinced by force ; but I do not admire the 
 source of conviction ; it is knightlike. I am no admirer of 
 knights ; their obedience was not founded on reason : and 
 if we were errants, you should have the tilting all to yourself. 
 Now, my friend, what can you want with six hundred pounds 
 per annum ? Surely you, with any amiable being, could 
 easily live on half. Believe me, these are very secondary 
 considerations. There ! stay ! I am wandering. But is the 
 Antigone immoral ? Did she wrong, when she acted in- 
 direct, in noble violation of the laws of a prejudiced society ? 
 You will, I know, have candour to acknowledge that your 
 premises will not stand ; and I now most perfectly agree with 
 you that political affairs are quite distinct from morality — 
 that they cannot be united. 
 
 To-morrow I go to Field-place. Direct henceforward there, 
 till you hear again ; as, if they have removed Elizabeth, I 
 shall follow her. My letters will then be more interesting, 
 as they will be filled with what is equally so to both. Heaven 
 defend me from a disappointment ! 
 
 Misses Westbrook are now very well. I have arranged a 
 correspondence with them, when I will impart more of the 
 character of the eldest. 
 
 Believe me, your most affectionate, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 
 Direct, until farther orders, to Captain Pilfold, Cuckfield, 
 
 Sussex. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 London, August 15, 181 1. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 The late perplexing occurrence which called me to 
 town, occupies my time, engrosses my thoughts. I shall tell 
 you more of it when we meet, which I hope will be soon. It 
 does not, however, so wholly occupy my thoughts, but that 
 you and your interests still are predominant. 
 
 I have a rival in my sister's affections ; do not tremble, for 
 it is not one whom I have occasion to dread, if I fear merely 
 
244 Life of Shelley 
 
 those who are Hkely to be successful. His chances of success 
 are equal to my own. He has the opportunity of frequently 
 seeing and conversing with Elizabeth ; yet his conversation 
 is not such as is likely to produce any alteration in the resolve 
 which she has taken, not to encourage his addresses. It is 
 J. G. ; she knows him well, and has known him long. Charles 
 informed me of it, and I left London yesterday, though now 
 returned purposely to converse with my sister on the subject. 
 J. G. is certainly not a favoured lover, nor ever will be. I 
 thought she appeared rather chagrined at the intelligence : 
 she fears that she will lose an entertaining acquaintance, who 
 sometimes enlivens her solitude, by his conversion into the 
 more serious character of a lover. I do not think she will, 
 as his attachment is that of a cool, unimpassioned selector of 
 a companion for life. I do not think the better of my cousin 
 for this unexpected affair. 
 
 I could tell you something, and will ; you will then coin- 
 cide with me. This, however, is an object of secondary impor- 
 tance. I know, from what I tell you, that others might be 
 elevated by hope ; but I would say to them — Beware ; for 
 although her rejection of the bare idea of G. was full and 
 unequivocal, I have no reason to suppose that it proceeded 
 from any augmented leniency for another. I know how deep is 
 the gulf of despair, and I will not therefore increase any one's 
 height ; but must still think how unfortunate it is for any 
 wooer that he ever heard her very name ; he must long for 
 the time when he will forget her, but which he now will say 
 can never come ! 
 
 I am now returned to London ; direct to me as usual, at 
 Graham's. My father is here, wondering, possibly, at my 
 London business. He will be more surprised soon, possibly ! 
 
 My unfortunate friend, Harriet, is yet undecided ; not 
 with respect to me, but herself. How much, my dear friend, 
 have I to tell you ! In my leisure moments for thought, which 
 since I wrote have been few, I have considered the important 
 point on which you reprobated my hasty decision. The ties 
 of love and honour are doubtless of sufficient strength to bind 
 congenial souls — they are doubtless indissoluble, but by the 
 brutish force of power ; they are delicate and satisfactory. 
 Yet the arguments of impracticability, and what is even worse, 
 the disproportionate sacrifice which the female is called upon 
 to make — these arguments, which you have urged in a manner 
 immediately irresistible, I cannot withstand. Not that I 
 
Life of Shelley 245 
 
 suppose it to be likely that / shall directly be called upon to 
 evince my attachment to either theory. I am become a per- 
 fect convert to matrimony, not from temporizing, but from 
 your arguments ; nor, much as I wish to emulate your virtues 
 and liken myself to you, do I regret the prejudices of anti- 
 matrimonialism from your example or assertion. No. The 
 one argument, which you have urged so often with so much 
 energy : the sacrifice made by the woman, so disproportioned 
 to any which the man can give, — this alone may exculpate me, 
 were it a fault, from uninquiring submission to your superior 
 intellect. 
 
 Write to Graham's : you will hear from me again soon. All 
 that I have told you here is in confidence. Adieu ! 
 
 Yours eternally affectionate, 
 
 PERCY B. S. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 CHAPTER XII 
 
 I HAD spent several months at York agreeably, leading a 
 studious and quiet life, but by no means a dull one. York, in 
 fact, is not a dull place ; it appears such to a traveller passing 
 through its still, narrow streets, and to a cursory observer ; 
 but there is much pleasant, cheerful society, much gentle 
 hospitality, and it is occasionally diversified and lighted up by 
 various public solemnities, or amusements. For instance, we 
 had races twice, I think ; once on a very grand scale. There 
 were assizes, continuing for a fortnight ; and this recreation 
 occurs twice in the year. 
 
 The superb Minster is a permanent gratification, of which 
 one can never tire ; and the musical services are well performed 
 there. 
 
 There was no end of pretty girls of all ranks to be found in 
 the streets, for the ancient city was always celebrated as the 
 abode of beauty. It was at once pleasing and painful to meet 
 them ; delightful and dangerous. 
 
 There was a nice little theatre, with a sufficiently good com- 
 pany of actors ; in the summer it has frequently the additional 
 illumination of stars from the southern hemisphere. I saw 
 Mrs. Jordan there, and to the greatest advantage, every night 
 
246 Life of Shelley 
 
 for three weeks. Moreover, I saw there, and there only, a most 
 astonishing sight : two men, in theatrical costume, walked 
 across the proscenium with their feet treading on the ceiling 
 and their heads downwards, after the manner of flies. A 
 surprising but uncomfortable spectacle ; the danger of a fall, 
 the risk of a broken neck, are too imminent and threatening. 
 In what manner the feat was effected, nobody could discover ; 
 each man had a thick staff in his hand, and used it as a walking 
 stick — what support or assistance this might render was not 
 apparent. Their progress was slow, but it was sure, and 
 without any visible effort. 
 
 Whilst I was stationary and tranquil, my friend was restless 
 and uneasy ; at one time he was in London, then at Field 
 Place, now at Cuckfield, backwards and forwards ; he even 
 paid a visit to a cousin in Radnorshire. I received many 
 letters from him, as I have shown, which I answered with 
 tolerable punctuality ; but having less leisure, my letters were 
 not so long, or so numerous, as his. He too often omitted, in 
 his overwhelming, everlasting hurry, to date his letters. Not 
 one of those sent to me from South Wales has a date, the 
 post-mark being only ' Rhayader ' . Unless a letter passed 
 through London and the General Post Of&ce, the date was 
 not impressed upon it. Now it is otherwise, and through the 
 mild expostulations of Lord Campbell, postmasters have 
 been induced to adopt a neat legible stamp. If the rule of a 
 single sheet still prevailed, this modern practice, an unques- 
 tionable improvement, would be truly useful ; but it is 
 rendered nugatory by the covers, which notwithstanding are, 
 in some respects, a convenient arrangement. There is no 
 necessary and abiding connection between the inclosure and 
 its envelope ; the latter is commonly destroyed, and then the 
 letter is not only without a date, but it does not even appear 
 to whom the letter is addressed. Formerly a letter was a 
 single sheet of respectable dimensions, with the address, at 
 least, and the post-mark, such as it was, upon the back ; but 
 at present a smart cover, like a smart outer garment, serves 
 to hide and gloss over the rags beneath it : thus, a modern 
 letter consists too often of several small scraps of paper thrust 
 into a well-glazed envelope. 
 
 The correspondence of Dr. Johnson and Mrs. Thrale, Piozzi, 
 shows how he often urged dear Hetty to date her letters, and 
 how steadily she persisted all the more in sending him billets 
 without dates. Our great moralist might have learned, that 
 
Life of Shelley 24/^ 
 
 since the obstinate little Welsh woman was so intractable in 
 trifles, it was vain to strive to make her anything better than 
 a foreign fiddler's wife. 
 
 Shelley's epistles show the progress of his courtship, and 
 that his marriage was not quite so hasty an affair as it is com- 
 monly represented to have been. The wooing continued for 
 half a year at least, and this is a long time in the Ufe, in the 
 Ufe of love, of such young persons. Harriet Westbrook appears 
 to have been dissatisfied with her school, but without any 
 adequate cause, for she was kindly treated and well educated 
 there. It is not impossible that this discontent was prompted 
 and suggested to her, and that she was put up to it, and to 
 much besides, by somebody, who conducted the whole affair 
 — who had assumed and steadily persisted in keeping the 
 complete direction of her. 
 
 When a young man finds a young woman discontented with 
 her school, or convent, and with her own family and friends, 
 without much reason, a pretty face and soft manners too 
 often make him forget that she is very probably a girl of 
 a discontented disposition, and is likely to be dissatisfied 
 wherever she may afterwards be placed. 
 
 The advocates of divorce, legal or illegal, formal or informal, 
 would do well to remember, that a wife, who quarrels with 
 her present husband is perhaps a person of a nature very apt 
 to disagree with her next also, and with all future husbands. 
 Thus, a man who cannot make himself comfortable in the 
 dwelling which he now inhabits, is commonly of a restless, 
 roving disposition, a rolling stone, and he will never find a 
 house that will suit him long. * A man ought to be able to 
 live with any woman ' ; Shelley told me his friend Robert 
 Southey once said to him, ' You see that I can, and so ought 
 you. It comes to pretty much the same thing, I apprehend. 
 There is no great choice, or difference ! ' But we anticipate. 
 
 The long vacation had commenced, my excellent and 
 unlearned instructor in tautology — in tautology the most 
 prolix and barbarous — had already taken wing to Northum- 
 berland, to enjoy for six weeks the healthy and agreeable 
 diversion of grouse shooting. The artist had left behind him 
 in his studio an attorney-pupil of some standing, and a clerk, 
 who transacted his business during his absence ; keeping up 
 with him, however, a constant and animated correspondence 
 of coach-parcels. My proficiency was as yet so small, that I 
 
248 Life of Shelley 
 
 could not be of any service to him, except under his personal 
 superintendence. As I could no longer mould living mort- 
 gages out of reams of draft paper, or study breathing abstracts 
 — abstracts of title breathing doubts and difficulties, for these 
 were dispatched to the master-mind as soon as they arrived, 
 — I soon felt that I was a mere incumbrance in a convey- 
 ancer's chambers, and therefore, that the sooner I was dis- 
 charged the better. Thereupon, to adopt a term of art, I 
 changed my original purpose, and determined to take a 
 vacation. The alternative was either to go home for a little 
 partridge shooting, or to plan a tour ; the latter was the more 
 attractive, and it possessed the additional recommendation, 
 that if my friend chose, he might join me and share in my 
 excursion. As to the important question of costs and charges, 
 a pedestrian could live as cheaply at inns as I lived at York, 
 the only actual expense was a trifle ; to go to one's ground 
 on the outside of a coach, and to return in the same manner. 
 
 The Lakes of Cumberland, or Scotland ? By the assistance 
 of maps and guide-books I was trying to decide the question, 
 when Shelley's letter announcing his marriage came, and at 
 once carried the point in favour of Scotland. Book and map 
 concurred in this, that making Edinburgh our temporary 
 home, and the centre of our operations, we might in virtue 
 of long walks, with the aid possibly of an occasional lift, visit 
 many remarkable and interesting localities. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 Direct to the Edinburgh Post-Office — my own name. 
 I passed to-night with the Mail. Harriet is with me. We 
 are in a slight pecuniary distress. We shall have seventy- 
 five pounds on Sunday, until when can you send £10 ? Divide 
 it in two. 
 
 Yours, 
 
 Percy Shelley. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 This letter was written by my friend at York, in passing 
 through at midnight ; it did not come to me by the post, but 
 was brought to my lodgings the next morning from the inn. I 
 wrote immediately to Shelley detailing my projects, and 
 promising to be with him almost as soon as my letter. I took 
 my seat on the outside of a stage-coach, a front seat — carpet 
 bags were not yet discovered, but I saw my small leathern 
 portmanteau placed in front boot. 
 
Life of Shelley 249 
 
 Prudence prescribes as little luggage as possible on a journey ; 
 in genteel society an excuse serves a traveller quite as well as 
 the most fashionable dresscoat ; with vulgar people tawdry 
 finery is indispensable, but the immortal gods hate the man 
 who trusts himself under the same roof with them. The day 
 was in the first week of September, the time of day was the 
 afternoon ; the weather was dry and fine. 
 
 We pursued our way northwards at a moderate pace, 
 along a dusty road and between dusty hedges, over the great 
 plain of York. It became dark, and we had supper, whether 
 at Northallerton, or Darlington, I forget ; I only remember, 
 that it was tolerable, and that all our other meals were abomin- 
 able. 
 
 From smoky, dirty, half-savage, but conceited Newcastle, 
 the country was new to me ; the night was fine, but quite 
 dark, and probably cold, but I did not feel it. In those days 
 cloaks were unknown, and great coats but little in use ; I 
 had no great coat then, nor for several years after. To my 
 warm young blood, perfect, irreproachable health, and 
 untiring energy of mind and body, food, sleep and clothes 
 seemed to be superfluities, not necessaries. At what point 
 of the road it became light I cannot remember ; it was quite 
 light, perhaps even rather late, when we reached Alnwick. 
 Here we found a filthy and utterly useless breakfast at an 
 odious little inn in a very narrow street. Our stay was short ; 
 there appeared to be no temptation to prolong it, if it had 
 been permitted. I resumed my lofty, airy seat ; the coach 
 drove on, and in a moment we emerged from the narrow street 
 and came suddenly in sight of the Castle. Its magnificent 
 aspect delighted me, especially when I saw it from the bridge 
 below. I have often seen it since ; the first view of its feudal 
 grandeur is most impressive, but the impression soon wears 
 ojff, one presently discovers faults ; in one word, that it is a 
 take-in. It is commonly asserted that there is nothing strik- 
 ing in the interior ; this is not true ; it is strikingly ugly, 
 uncomfortable, ungenial, and inhospitable. The coachman, 
 behind whom I sat, was rather wooden, like the folks of that 
 region, but not uncivil ; and perceiving that I was a curious 
 traveller, he pointed out a few objects to me. For example ; 
 after climbing out of Belford up a steep, straight hill, he 
 showed me the Fame Islands, and particularly the largest of 
 them, Lindisfarne, the Holy Island : as a boy I had been 
 familiar with the legendary history of St. Cuthbert, and I felt 
 
250 Life of Shelley 
 
 a strange desire to descend from the top of the coach to walk 
 down to the shore, which appeared to be close at hand — but 
 it is not — to hail a boat, and at once to be ferried over. 
 
 I have done this, but not until thirty years afterwards, and 
 I had then the satisfaction of seeing, that there is nothing to 
 ■be seen. How often is this the case with those objects which 
 we most eagerly desire to see ; and yet somehow they are not 
 the less interesting on that account ! From a hill, a mile or 
 two before we came to Berwick, there was a noble prospect 
 of the sea, the mouth of the Tweed, and much besides ; and 
 I beheld for the first time the hills of Scotland, behind which 
 I was to find my incomparable friend again. We descended 
 to the river Tweed, and passed it by a very long bridge, upon 
 which then stood an ancient gateway, with a picturesque 
 and remarkable effect. Thirty years later, when I came again 
 to this old town to grow very familiar with it, the old gateway 
 had vanished. Our coach drew up at an inn not very far 
 from the bridge ; here we were to remain some time, and to 
 dine. The inn was superlatively nasty, and the dinner 
 impracticable, impregnable. I was glad to escape from the 
 smell of stale fish, and from the other noisome smells, and to 
 take a turn upon the walls ; the scene was sparkling and 
 pleasant. We continued our journey, and after riding a few 
 miles farther I was informed that we had entered Scotland. 
 The evening was delightful ; at some points of the road we 
 had fine sea views, and a bold, rocky coast ; at one spot the 
 guard made us get down and look from a bridge into a deep, 
 woody ravine ; he called the place, I think. Pease Bridge. 
 There were open uninclosed fields, with excellent crops of corn 
 in some places, very clean and promising, and a surprising 
 breath of flourishing turnips, as well Swedes as the common 
 kind. I remarked at many of the farms small windmills ; 
 these, I was informed, were used to turn winnowing and 
 threshing machines ; they were new to me. At other por- 
 tions of the road we crossed extensive moors ; and we passed 
 through Dunbar, a dirty, stinking, fishing town. We saw 
 for some time the Bass Rock, over the summit of which 
 hovered prodigious flocks of sea birds. On the whole, I found 
 much of pleasure and interest in what I saw of Scotland 
 this afternoon. 
 
 Nor did I want for information and instruction. At the 
 back of the coach sat a little, serious, middle-aged man, 
 whom we picked up somewhere after entering Scotland ; he, 
 
Life of Shelley 251 
 
 learning that I was a stranger, and that this was my first visit 
 to a region which he assured us was the finest, happiest, most 
 refined and civiUzed country in the known world, kindly took 
 upon himself the trouble of informing, and indeed of forming 
 my mind. He stood up at his place, behind a stack of luggage, 
 and continually addressed me across the roof of the coach. He 
 discoursed, or rather, I may say, lectured concerning the excel- 
 lence of the district and of its inhabitants ; of the agriculture 
 of the Lothians, and its vast and infinite superiority to all 
 other farming. Having discovered that I was going to Edin- 
 burgh, he expounded the admirable nature and character of 
 that city, and told me all that I ought to see, and to believe 
 on his authority. 
 
 * You will find it a most remarkable city ; by far the most 
 remarkable under the heavens, without any exception ! ' 
 
 * Yes ! And it has a Review, as remarkable as itself ! ' 
 At that time, the Edinburgh Review had attracted general 
 
 attention. The quarrel with Byron, and other persons of 
 more or less distinction, and the protracted controversy 
 with the University of Oxford, which was in full vigour whilst 
 I resided there — sundry pedantic performances redolent of 
 heavy pleasantry having been published by certain slow-witted 
 dullards of that place — had brought the Review into notice. I 
 was tempted, therefore, to try my loquacious little instructor 
 on that popular theme. I had sounded the key-note. The 
 Review, during the rest of the journey, wholly engrossed 
 his organs of speech in one unceasing peroration concerning 
 the critical journal, which soon became exceedingly tiresome ; 
 and not only tiresome, but painful — physically painful ; 
 for I could not show my back with any decency to so 
 powerful an orator ; and I was obliged, in courtesy, to 
 bend my neck and to try to look the petulant little haranguer 
 in the face. 
 
 Mr. Pennant, with all the gravity of a Welshman and a 
 naturalist, writes in perfect seriousness : * Asses are very rare 
 in Scotland ; there are none in the north '. But a greater 
 and a graver than Pennant was there ; and he asseverated 
 that Oxford was for ever silenced : that University was 
 totally annihilated ; she could never show her face again, — 
 never hold up her head ; she was extinguished ; she must at 
 once retire ; she must leave the work of education to abler 
 hands than her own. Shoals of students would come flocking 
 thence by thousands to Edinburgh, to Aberdeen, to St. 
 
252 Life of Shelley 
 
 Andrews, and to the other renowned Scottish Universities. He 
 spoke much about the Oxford Stra&6o, without appearing at 
 all to know what he meant. I longed to ask him, what he 
 supposed the Oxford Strabbo really was ; but I did not 
 venture. He talked very largely of ' Mr. Francis Jeffrey, of 
 Edinburgh, advocate ' ; but he did not seem to be personally 
 acquainted with him ; and indeed he admitted, in answer to 
 my question, that he was not. ' Mr. Francis Jeffrey, of 
 Edinburgh, advocate ' — for he always gave the name of the 
 learned editor in full, with the additions — ' is a little man, 
 and a very clever man '. Both these facts are undoubted. 
 I had afterwards abundant opportunity to verify them my- 
 self. * He very wisely holds that ridicule is the real and 
 genuine, and indeed the sole test of truth : that it is still more 
 necessary than even the laws themselves for the due mainten- 
 ance of order in a state of high civilisation. And, accordingly, 
 he has used it most unsparingly, as you will yourself allow, 
 in his critical journal ; and he purposes to continue so to use 
 it.' 
 
 It began to grow dark ; and at the approach of night all 
 creatures feel fatigue, even the most persevering, and grow 
 weary at last, even of wearying others. The little prig him- 
 self got tired of lecturing ; he became silent, and at some 
 place, where we changed horses, quietly withdrew. 
 
 It was the first time I ever underwent this sort of thing ; I 
 have suffered it often since, God knows how often ; so often, 
 in truth, that being once told that it was impossible accurately 
 to define a philosopher, I was provoked to answer : 'Oh 
 no ! A philosopher is a Scotch clerk in a public office in 
 England ! ' 
 
 We entered Edinburgh in the dark, through mean, narrow 
 streets, the aspect of which, by the faint light of dim lamps, 
 ill accorded with the magnificent promises of the splendour of 
 the proud metropolis of the whole earth — of the capital of 
 social elegance, and of perfect refinement. 
 
 I remained for the night at the wretched inn where the 
 coach stopped, for I knew of no other, although it was a dis- 
 gusting place. Nobody appeared to regard me. I didn't 
 understand what they said ; neither could I make the people 
 understand me. In truth, they did not care to know what 
 I wanted. However, I succeeded, with some difficulty, in 
 catching hold of a stupid, red-haired, bare-necked, bare- 
 footed, dirty girl, by the arm ; I held her fast, and made her 
 
Life of Shelley 253 
 
 conduct me up stairs to a squalid little bed-room. When we 
 got there, she found out what I required : another light, 
 besides that which she held in her hand, of a sudden broke 
 upon her, and she exclaimed with vivacity, ' Oh ! you will 
 want a chamber '. I observed the impressions of naked and 
 muddy feet, of bare toes and heels, on the hearth and on the 
 floor, but no other traces of social elegance : the young wench 
 was half naked, as it was ; had she been stark, most assuredly 
 I should not have taken her for one of the three Graces, what- 
 ever the little lecturer might have affirmed. I took the candle 
 from her, and she withdrew, muttering some words of her 
 sweet northern Doric, which probably signified, ' Good night ! ' 
 The bed was less distasteful than the chamber. I had passed 
 thirty hours, or more, in the open air, on the top of the coach, 
 and had travelled two hundred miles : this was a powerful 
 opiate. 
 
 If such be, in very deed, the beauteous city of Minerva, the 
 chosen residence of Apollo and the Muses, the true abode of 
 Beauty, of the Loves and Graces, I wish I were back again at 
 my lodgings in York, or at one of the inns near the Lakes, which 
 tourists report as comfortable ! But a sound refreshing 
 sleep soon put an end to all reflections, wishes, and regrets : I 
 made one sleep. 
 
 When I awoke in the morning, it was quite light : bell 
 there was none ; calling out, however loud, was disregarded, 
 my little sylph would not come, nor would any of her fairy 
 sisters, if she had any. I put on my clothes, and went down 
 stairs into a common room, an uncommonly dirty, dingy hole; 
 here I procured some breakfast, which was not so much amiss. 
 I then sallied forth to discover if the rest of the New Jerusalem 
 was as mean and shabby as what I had already seen ; I more 
 than half suspected that it was. I soon emerged from the 
 narrow streets ; and then, O ! glorious spectacle, by force of 
 contrast made still more noble, more glorious ; I wandered 
 about, lost in admiration. I ascended the Castle-hill, the 
 Calton-hill, my delight still increasing. Yet it was a meeting 
 of extremes : I beheld magnificence — triumphs of art and of 
 nature ; yet I saw many odious and revolting objects, which 
 I had never met with, even in the poorest places in England, 
 and which I forbear to describe. 
 
 Having at once satisfied and inflamed my curiosity, I began 
 to think of the main purpose of my long journey — my college 
 friend. I had written to him that I would join him here, but 
 
254 Life of Shelley 
 
 I had not given him any address, for I did not know any, 
 neither had I received a direction from him. Was there a 
 better, a speedier course, than the hope of a chance meeting 
 in the streets of a large city ? I bethought me of the post- 
 office ; he might have sent a letter for me thither. I was 
 standing musing on the bridge which connects the New Town 
 with the Old : a grave, white, middle-aged man was passing. 
 I inquired of him for the post-office. 
 
 ' Come with me, I am going there myself. You are a 
 stranger ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 * You never saw so fine a bridge before, as this is, I am very 
 sure. It is the finest in the known world ! ' 
 
 ' I have seen a finer river ; one with more water in it.' 
 
 He seemed much disconcerted. I told him how I was 
 situated. 
 
 ' They will give you the address you require at the post- 
 office, they are sure to have it ; we will go to the post-office 
 together ; but you must first see our new University, as you 
 are a stranger.' 
 
 We passed the post-office and came to a large building, not 
 only unfinished, but not in progress. It appeared that the 
 work had ceased for want of funds. 
 
 ' What do you think of that, sir ? ' 
 
 ' When it is completed it will be a very handsome building, 
 and, I dare say, very commodious.' 
 
 ' Not only that, but if all the buildings at Oxford and Cam- 
 bridge were moulded and amalgamated together into one 
 edifice, the effect would not be the same ; it would be far 
 inferior ! * 
 
 I had learned that it was most discreet to be silent. We 
 returned to the post-office. There was no letter for me, but 
 they gave me my friend's address in George Street. Whether 
 he had left it there for me, or for his own letters, I did not 
 ask. 
 
 ' I am going in that direction, myself. I will point out 
 George Street to you.' 
 
 We returned on our steps. 
 
 ' That is the Register-Office ', said my kind, grave guide ; 
 * it is the finest building on the habitable earth.' 
 
 I looked him in the face ; I had wounded his feelings about 
 the bridge, without at all diminishing his obliging good-nature, 
 so I held my peace. 
 
Life of Shelley 255 
 
 * It is universally acknowledged to be so ! But you must 
 see the interior ! ' 
 
 We entered it ; it was a handsome structure, certainly ; 
 perhaps needlessly large. We walked along Princes Street 
 together ; at the corner of a cross street he took leave of me 
 with sundry profound and solemn bows, having previously 
 pointed out George Street. I soon set foot in George Street, a 
 spacious, noble, well-built street ; but a deserted street, or 
 rather a street which people had not yet come fully to inhabit. 
 I soon found the number indicated at the post-office ; I have 
 forgotten it, but it was on the left side — the side next to 
 Princes Street. I knocked at the door of a handsome house ; 
 it was all right ; and in a handsome front-parlour I was 
 presently received rapturously by my friend. He looked just 
 as he used to look at Oxford, and as he looked when I saw him 
 last in April, in our trellised apartment ; but now joyous at 
 meeting again, not as then sad at parting. I also saw — and 
 for the first time — his lovely young bride, bright as the morn- 
 ing — as the morning of that bright day on which we first met ; 
 bright, blooming, radiant with youth, health, and beauty. T 
 was hailed triumphantly by the new-married pair ; my arrival 
 was more than welcome ; they had got my letter and expected 
 to rejoice at my coming every moment. ' We have met at 
 last once more ! ' Shelley exclaimed, ' and we will never part 
 again ! You must have a bed in the house ! ' It was deemed 
 necessary, indispensable. At that time of life a bed a mile or 
 two off, as far as I was concerned, would have done as well ; 
 but I must have a bed in the house. The landlord was 
 summoned, he came instantly ; a bed in the house ; the 
 necessity was so urgent that they did not give him time to 
 speak. When the poor man was permitted to answer, he said, 
 ' I have a spare bedroom, but it is at the top of the house. It 
 may not be quite so pleasant '. He conducted me up a 
 handsome stone staircase of easiest ascent ; the way was not 
 difficult, but very long. It appeared well nigh interminable. 
 We came at length to an airy, spacious bedroom. ' This will 
 do very well '. A stone staircase is handsome and commo- 
 dious, and, in case of fire, it must be a valuable security ; but 
 whenever a door was shut it thundered ; the thunder rolled 
 pealing for some seconds. I was to lodge with Jupiter Tonans 
 at the top of Olympus. Of all the houses in London, with 
 which I am acquainted, those in Fitzroy Square alone remind 
 jne, by their sonorous powers, of Edinburgh, and of the happy 
 
256 Life of Shelley 
 
 days which I passed in that beautiful city. On returning to 
 my friends our mutual greetings were repeated ; each had a 
 thousand things to tell and to ask of the rest. Our joy being 
 a little calmed, we agreed to walk. * We are in the capital of 
 the unfortunate Queen Mary ', said Harriet ; ' we must see 
 her palace first of all '. We soon found Holyrood House ; a 
 beggarly palace, in truth. We saw the long line of Scottish 
 monarchs, from Fergus the First downwards, disposed in two 
 rows, being evidently the productions of some very inferior 
 artist, who could not get employment as a sign-painter. We 
 saw Mary's bedroom, the stains of Rizzio's blood, and all the 
 other relics. These objects, intrinsically mean and paltry, 
 greatly interested my companions, especially Harriet, who 
 was well-read in the sorrowful history of the unhappy queen. 
 Bysshe must go home and write letters, I was to ascend 
 Arthur's Seat with the lady. We marched up the steep hill 
 boldly, and reached the summit. The view may be easily seen, 
 it is impossible to describe it. It was a thousand pities 
 Bysshe was not with us, and then we might remain there ; one 
 ought never to quit so lovely a scene. 
 
 ' Let us sit down ; probably when he has finished writing 
 he will come to us.' 
 
 We sat a long time, at first gazing around, afterwards we 
 looked out for the young bridegroom, but he did not appear. 
 It was fine while we ascended ; it was fine, sunny, clear, and 
 still, whilst we remained on the top ; but when we began to 
 descend, the wind commenced blowing. Harriet refused to 
 proceed ; she sat down again on the rock, and declared that 
 we would remain there for ever ! For ever is rather a long 
 time ; to sit until the wind abated would have been to sit 
 there quite long enough. Entreaties were in vain. I was 
 hungry, for I had not dined on either of the two preceding 
 days. The sentence — never to dine again — was a severe one, 
 and although it was pronounced by the lips of beauty, I 
 ventured to appeal against it ; so I left her and proceeded 
 slowly down the hill, the wind blowing fresh. She sat for 
 some time longer, but finding that I was in earnest, she came 
 running down after me. Harriet was always most unwilling to 
 show her ankles, or even her feet, hence her reluctance to move 
 in the presence of a rude, indelicate wind, which did not 
 respect her modest scrupulousness. If there was not much to 
 admire about these carefully-concealed ankles, certainly there 
 was nothing to blame. 
 
Life of Shelley 257 
 
 The accommodations at our lodgings in George Street were 
 good, and the charges reasonable ; the food was abundant 
 and excellent ; everything was good, the wine included : in 
 one particular only was there a deficiency, the attendance was 
 insufficient, except at meals, when our landlord officiated in 
 person. One dirty little nymph, by name Christie, was the 
 servant of the house — the domestic, she was termed ; she 
 spoke a dialect which we could not comprehend, and she was, 
 for the most part, unable to understand what we southerns 
 said to her, or indeed anything else, save only perchance 
 political economy and metaphysics. After ringing the well- 
 hung bells many times in vain, she would suddenly open the 
 door, and exclaiming, ' Oh ! The kittle ! * darted off to be 
 brought back again, after a long delay, by the like exertions 
 and with the like result. Her sagacity had discovered that 
 we drank much tea, and therefore often required the services 
 of the tea-kettle. However, if she was of no great use to 
 us, the poor little girl at least afforded us some amusement. 
 
 Shelley was of an extreme sensibility — of a morbid sensi- 
 bility — and strange, discordant sounds he could not bear to 
 hear ; he shrank from the unmusical voice of the Caledonian 
 maiden. Whenever she entered the room, or even came to the 
 door, he rushed wildly into a corner and covered his ears with 
 his hands. We had, to our shame be it spoken, a childish 
 mischievous delight in tormenting him ; in catching the shy 
 virgin and making her speak in his presence. The favourite 
 interrogatory so often administered was, * Have you had your 
 dinner to-day, Christie ? ' ' Yes *. ' And what did you get ? ' 
 ' Sengit heed and bonnocks *, was the unvarying answer, and 
 its efficacy was instantaneous and sovereign. Our poor 
 sensitive poet assumed the air of the Distracted Musician, 
 became nearly frantic, and, had we been on the promontory, 
 he would certainly have taken the Leucadian leap for Christie's 
 sake, and to escape for ever from the rare music of her voice. 
 
 ' Oh ! Bysshe, how can you be so absurd ? What harm does 
 the poor girl do you ? ' 
 
 ' Send her away, Harriet ! Oh ! send her away ; for God's 
 sake, send her away ! ' 
 
 On the whole, nothing could be better than our position in 
 George Street ; yet few things are absolutely perfect even in 
 Scotland, even in Edinburgh itself. It is allowable to discern 
 spots in the sun ; science, it is believed, derives benefit from 
 such discoveries. 
 
 S 
 
258 Life of Shellev 
 
 At my first breakfast our landlord kindly inquired, how 
 I had slept. — Not very well. — How so ? — The bed was so 
 intolerably hard, and therefore so cold. — Oh ! There was no 
 bed ; you had no bed ; I would not have put you to sleep upon 
 a feather-bed ; you could never sleep upon a feather-bed ; you 
 have a nice wholesome mattress, a straw mattress ! — I should 
 like to lie upon something softer. — Oh ! You cannot have it ! 
 You must lie upon a mattress, a straw mattress ; health enjoins 
 it. — But it is as hard as this table ! — ^Very well ! Very like ; 
 and so it ought to be. You cannot lie too hard. You might 
 lie very well upon this table ; it would be very highly salu- 
 brious ! — I thought otherwise ; but it was quite plain that 
 there was no redress. I had got into the land of absolute 
 wisdom, and I must make the best of it : I had come there to 
 learn, and not to teach. I lay very hard and very cold, and 
 for two or three nights I slept little, but I got accustomed to it 
 in time, and slept as well as if I had the Lincolnshire feather- 
 bed, upon which I reposed for a year whilst I was preparing 
 most comfortably for college in the snug old vicarage of a 
 worthy Fen parson. 
 
 One more mote in my neighbour's eye, and then I will 
 return to consider the beam in my own. We occupied, as has 
 been stated, the ground-floor in George Street : when I took up 
 my abode there, I hung up my hat in the handsome hall, or 
 passage, of the very handsome house. In a day or two it 
 disappeared ; I asked about it, but I could only learn what 
 I knew already, that it was gone. Who could have taken it ? 
 I do not know, I am sure ; there is nobody in the house except 
 yourselves and the people who occupy the first floor, and they 
 are high people — very high indeed ! However high they 
 might be, it should seem that the grandees of Scotland of the 
 first class were not so high as to be above prigging a hat. In 
 those days a hat was a hat, which, in a strict sense, it has long 
 ceased to be, costing then thirty-five shillings at least. I was 
 much censured for leaving my new hat in the passage : all 
 I could say in excuse was, that when I first suspended it there, 
 I asked the landlord himself, a most respectable man, if it 
 would be safe there ? He answered — and being a Scotchman, 
 as such, of course, he was infallible — * Oh ! Perfectly ! ' To 
 be sure he added what was said to be a considerable qualifica- 
 tion, and which ought to have put me on my guard, ' It will 
 be quite as safe there as anywhere else in Scotland '. I ought 
 to have been more cautious, I was told, in a country where 
 
Life of Shelley 259 
 
 nothing is too hot or too heavy ; where every man takes 
 whatever he can get, from the Senator of the College of Justice 
 down to the most profound and beggarly metaphysician. 
 However this may be, in those days, as I have said, a hat was 
 certainly a hat ; not only was it very dear, but, what was still 
 worse, very hard and very heavy, making itself felt as well by 
 the head, as by the pocket. It is right to add, that our liberal 
 landlord made a very liberal offer — it was of course declined — - 
 to pay the price of a very nice hat which I bought in Princes 
 Street, and in future always prudently brought with me into 
 our sitting-room. 
 
 Amongst the many delicacies of the place, and they were 
 many, short bread, to which we were then first introduced, 
 appeared to be a very nice thing — I must now add, for a young 
 stomach. 
 
 Shelley went every morning himself, before breakfast, to 
 the post-office for his letters, of which he received a prodigious 
 number ; and he used to bring back with him splendid plates 
 of virgin honey. I never saw such fine honeycombs before or 
 since, and it was delicious. Shelley was for the most part 
 indifferent to food, to all meats and drinks, but he relished 
 this honey surprisingly : so much did he enjoy it, that he was 
 almost offended when I said, exquisite though it was, it was a 
 shame to eat it ; wantonly to destroy, merely to flatter the 
 palate, so beautiful and so wonderful a structure, was as 
 barbarous as it would be to devour roses and lilies. It was far 
 too great a marvel to be eaten ; it should only be looked at, 
 kept entire, to be admired. It approaches cannibalism to 
 feed on it ; indeed, it is too like eating Harriet ! I think you 
 would eat Harriet herself ! 
 
 ' So I would, if she were as good to eat, and I could replace 
 her as easily ! * 
 
 ' Oh ! fie, Bysshe ! ' the young lady exclaimed, who inclined 
 somewhat to my heresy, feasting her eyes with the honeycomb, 
 and declaring it was quite a pity to eat it : this the greedy poet 
 said was tiresome. 
 
 The sound of the church-going bell 
 These valleys and rocks never heard. 
 
 Since the Reformation they had never heard it ; and in this 
 particular Presbyterian Edinburgh, so far advanced in en- 
 lightened wisdom, secular and ecclesiastical, afforded us a 
 strong contrast to our poor, ignorant, benighted Popish Oxford. 
 
26o Life of Shelley 
 
 After breakfast on Sunday, a verbal announcement was 
 made to us by our landlord himself : ' They are drawing nigh 
 unto the kirk ! ' 
 
 On looking from the windows, we saw the grave Presby- 
 terians, with downcast looks, like conscience-stricken sinners, 
 slowly crawling towards their place of gathering. We were 
 admonished — for Shelley said, one Sunday, ' Let us go and 
 take a walk ' — that it was not lawful to go forth to walk pur- 
 posely and avowedly on the Sabbath, a day of rest and wor- 
 ship ; but if a man happen to find himself in the streets 
 casually, he may walk a little with perfect innocence, only it is 
 altogether unlawful to go out from his door with the mind of 
 taking a walk of pure pleasure. 
 
 After this serious and edifying warning we sometimes 
 casually found ourselves without the house on a Sunday, and 
 walked about a little, as we believed, innocently. 
 
 We were taking such a harmless stroll, by mere accident, 
 in Princes Street ; Bysshe laughed aloud, with a fiendish 
 laugh, at some remark of mine. 
 
 ' You must not laugh openly, in that fashion, young man ', 
 an ill-looking, ill-conditioned fellow said to him. ' If you do, 
 you will most certainly be convened ! ' 
 
 ' What is that ? ' asked Shelley, rather displeased, at the 
 rude interpellation. 
 
 ' Why ; if you laugh aloud in the public streets and ways 
 on the Christian Sabbath, you will be cast into prison, and 
 eventually banished from Scotland '. 
 
 The observance of the Sabbath in North Britain, as I have 
 been credibly informed, has been, since the year of the comet, 
 like the manufacture of hats in England, decidedly improved, 
 both articles being now much lighter, and less oppressive. 
 
 I once asked the way to some place in Edinburgh of a staid 
 old gentlewoman : ' I am going the same road in part, and I 
 will attend you '. 
 
 We proceeded leisurely along together ; she conversed 
 gravely, but affably : How do you like this ; how that ; 
 ' How do you like our public worship ? ' 
 
 ' I have not assisted at it yet.' 
 
 * Oh ! but you must ; you must go and hear Dr. MacQuis- 
 quis ; he is a fine preacher ; an accomplished divine ; he 
 wrestles most powerfully with Satan, every Sabbath morn ! ' 
 
 I promised my obliging conductress to go and witness these 
 spiritual struggles with a ghostly enemy ; but I could not 
 
Life of Shelley 261 
 
 redeem a pledge somewhat rashly given, for I did not know 
 in what arena this powerful gymnast fought. I did not even 
 catch the name of the accomplished divine. One Sabbath 
 morn, however, when we were again advised that they were 
 drawing nigh unto the Kirk, Shelley and myself boldly resolved 
 to draw nigh also ; the lovely Harriet would not accompany 
 us, alleging, and with some probability, that the wearisome 
 performances would give her a headache. We joined the 
 scattered bands, which increased in number as we advanced, 
 creeping with them for a considerable distance. We reached a 
 place of worship, and entered it with the rest ; it was plain, 
 spacious, and gloomy. We suffered ourselves rather incau- 
 tiously to be planted side by side, on a bench in the middle of 
 the devout assembly, so that escape was impossible. There 
 was singing, in which all, or almost all, the congregation 
 joined ; it was loud, and discordant, and protracted. There 
 was praying, there was preaching — both extemporaneous. We 
 prayed for all sorts and conditions of men, more particularly 
 for our enemies. The preacher discoursed at a prodigious 
 length, repeating many times things that were not worthy to 
 be said once, and threatening us much with the everlasting 
 punishments, which, solemnly and confidently, he declared 
 were in store for us. I never saw Shelley so dejected, so 
 desponding, so despairing ; he looked like the picture of perfect 
 wretchedness ; the poor fellow sighed piteously, as if his heart 
 would break. If they thought that he was conscience-stricken, 
 and that his vast sorrow was for his sins, all, who observed 
 him, must have been delighted with him, as with one filled 
 with the comfortable assurance of eternal perdition. No one 
 present could possibly have comprehended the real nature of 
 his acute sufferings — could have sympathized in the anguish 
 and agony of a creature of the most poetic temperament that 
 ever was bestowed, for his weal or his woe, upon any humai] 
 being, at feeling himself in the most unpoetic position in which 
 he could possibly be placed. At last, after expectations many 
 times disappointed of an approaching deliverance, and having 
 been repeatedly deceived by glimpses of an impending dis- 
 charge, and having long endured that sickness of heart caused 
 by hopes deferred, the tedious worship actually termin- 
 ated. 
 
 We were eagerly pressing forward to get out of our prisrm, 
 and out of the devout crowd, but a man in authority pushed 
 us aside : 
 
262 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' Make way for the Lord Provost and the Bellies ! ' 
 
 We stood on one side for a while, that the civic dignitaries 
 might pass. My friend asked, in a whisper, what in the world 
 the man meant ? I informed him that a Provost is a Mayor, 
 and that a Belly (Baillie) is Scotch for an Alderman. 
 
 It was a consolation to the poor sufferer to laugh once more. 
 It had seemed to him in his captivity that his healthful func- 
 tion had ceased for ever. 
 
 We made the best of our way homewards, and at a brisker 
 pace than the rude apostle of the north, John Knox, would 
 have approved of, discussing the wonderful advantages of a 
 ritual, and their comfortless, inhuman church music. 
 
 Acknowledging the superiority of our chapels, churches, 
 and cathedral in Oxford, and the vast benefits of written 
 sermons, after having just had painful experience how tedious 
 a thing it was to listen to an extemporaneous discourse ; and, 
 moreover, how distressing for the hearer to have to sit and 
 wonder what monstrous extravagance, what stupid and pre- 
 posterous absurdity the heavy orator, with no succour at 
 hand, would utter next. 
 
 The malicious Harriet laughed at our sufferings, and made 
 herself merry with the deep dejection of her husband. 
 
 We were never tempted to enter the Kirk again. Satan 
 must very shortly prevail, if he could only be kept under, by 
 our presence, at such powerful wrestlings ! 
 
 Yet were we, poor Oxford scholars, predestined to undergo 
 another trial of the same kind, but less severe, and far more 
 brief — sharp, though short. It was notified to us one Sunday 
 evening, as we were sitting together after dinner, that ' They 
 are drawing nigh unto the Catechist — children and domestics 
 must attend '. 
 
 We had discovered that little Christie was going, and as we 
 already knew something of her temporal concerns, ('oh ! the 
 kittle ! ') we were curious to learn a little about her spiritual 
 condition. Accordingly, wc followed her at a distance. 
 
 At the first notification, Bysshe, to my surprise, exclaimed, 
 * Let us go ! ' 
 
 Harriet sought to dissuade him, and earnestly, as if she 
 thought we were going to a place where he would probably 
 have his throat cut. But persuasion availed not. We fol- 
 lowed the slow advance of children and domestics still more 
 slowly, and entered a roomy building, gloomy and unadorned 
 like a Kirk. A man in rusty black apparel, of a mean and 
 
Life of Shelley 263 
 
 somewhat sinister aspect, was standing in the middle of the 
 floor ; children and domestics were standing round him ; we 
 remained in a corner. 
 
 ' Wha was Adam ? ' he suddenly and loudly asked. 
 
 Nobody answered. He appeared to be much displeased at 
 their silence ; and after a while he repeated the question, in a 
 louder voice, 
 
 ' Wha was Adam ? ' 
 
 Still no answer. The name is so common in these anti- 
 episcopahan regions. Did he ask after Adam Black, Willie 
 Adam, or Adam, late of Eden, the protoplast ; he did not 
 limit his question, but put it in the most general terms. No- 
 body answered it. 
 
 The indignation of the Catechist waxing hot, in a still louder 
 and very angry tone he broke forth with : 
 
 ' Wha's the Deel ? ' 
 
 This was too much ; Shelley burst into a shrieking laugh, 
 and rushed wildly out of doors. I slowly followed him, think- 
 ing seriously of Elders, Presbyteries, and Kirk Synods. How- 
 ever, nothing came of it ; we were not cast into prison. 
 
 Shelley and his future wife had travelled from London to 
 Edinburgh by the mail, without stopping. A young Scotch 
 advocate was their companion in the coach for part of the 
 way ; he was an agreeable, obliging person. Shelley confided 
 to him the object of his journey, and asked his advice. 
 
 The young lawyer told the young poet how to get married. 
 They followed his directions, and were married on their arrival 
 in Edinburgh — how, or where, I never heard. Harriet had 
 some marriage lines, which she sent to her father. I never 
 saw them. 
 
 This young man lived in Edinburgh with his family, but at 
 that time they were all in the country : he was alone in the 
 empty house ; he expressed much regret that it was not in 
 his power, therefore, to show the bride and bridegroom hospi- 
 tahty. Shelley saw him several times afterwards ; I never 
 did. 
 
 I was curious to see something of the courts of justice ; 
 I told Bysshe to ask his friend, how this could be effected. 
 
 His answer was, ' It was impossible ; it was vacation, and 
 all the courts were closed '. 
 
 Being one day alone in the ParUament Close, I observed 
 that the ParUament House was open. I entered it, as others 
 did. I saw one very old man on the bench ; his head was 
 
264 Life of Shelley 
 
 shaking, and he shook the papers, which he held in his tremb- 
 ling hands ; with a feeble, broken, quivering voice, he was 
 prattling something in broad Scotch. Very few persons were 
 present. It was interlocutory, they said — merely inter- 
 locutory. 
 
 I asked a man, who appeared to be an usher, or door-keeper, 
 who the judge was. 
 
 * Oh ! he is an old man ; a poor, old creature ; a poor, 
 wretched, old creature ; a miserable, old creature ! ' 
 
 In England, such an answer, spoken aloud, would have 
 appeared indecorous ; but we are a less wise — a less civilized 
 people. Probably the superannuated Rhadamanthus was 
 deaf, as well as feeble, for he heeded it not. I still persisted 
 in asking his name. 
 
 ' It is just the Lord Ordinary.* 
 
 * But what is his name ? * 
 
 ' It is just the Lord Ordinary. He will have a name. It is 
 
 very like Oh ! he will have a name ! It is very hke, 
 
 indeed — but I do not rightly ken what it is. I dare say he 
 will have a name. It is just the Lord Ordinary — poor old 
 creature ! ' And in this the bystanders unanimously con- 
 curred. 
 
 I read afterwards with pleasure, and with profit, the Institu- 
 tions of Lord Stair, and those of Erskine ; the writings of 
 Lord Kames, of Sir George Mackenzie, and others. 
 
 The bright lights of Scottish Jurisprudence are not lightly 
 to be contemned. There have been some truly great men in 
 their College of Justice. We cannot boast such names in 
 England among our judges — by no means. Lord Monboddo 
 — some whimsical fancies, such as spring up in inventive minds, 
 like weeds in a rich soil, alone excepted — was a star of the 
 first magnitude. So profound a scholar as James Burnet — a 
 genius so original, so splendid ; a man so learned, so liberal- 
 minded — our English Bench could never show. 
 
 It is true that the Lords of Session have more leisure than 
 is conceded to our over-worked functionaries ; but it is even 
 more true that all men ought to have leisure, and plenty of 
 leisure, otherwise they inevitably become technical and narrow- 
 minded, every day and every hour growing continually more 
 ignorant, and more incapable of enlarged, enlightened, and 
 comprehensive views. 
 
 From the able and elegant authors of Scottish Jurisprudence 
 I have learned much theoretically ; but practically, and by 
 
Life of Shelley 265 
 
 my own personal experience, all that I could myself discover 
 was — that the Lord Ordinary very probably has a name ; 
 but what it is, nobody knows, and nobody cares. 
 
 Shelley got lots of good books whilst we were in Edinburgh ; 
 where he got them, I know not : there they were. He brought 
 them in himself, as he wanted them, and took them away again 
 under his arm. Whether they belonged to a circulating 
 library, he did not inform me ; or to some pubhc library ; 
 from the nature of the works, most likely to the latter. Pos- 
 sibly he obtained access to it through the introduction of his 
 fellow passenger, the young advocate. , If there was any 
 stamp, or name of ownership, or distinguishing mark in these 
 volumes, I did not observe it. There were several French 
 books ; some works of the modern French philosophers, and 
 some of the immortal Buffon. 
 
 With one treatise of the writer last-named Shelley was 
 charmed ; he translated it carefully, and, as I thought, ele- 
 gantly and eloquently. We went over it patiently together, 
 and he consulted me as to the meaning of certain passages. 
 He designed to publish it, but what became of the MSS. I 
 cannot say. I never saw it after we quitted Edinburgh. 
 Claire d'Albe was one of our books. It is a moral tale, by 
 Madame Cottin, several of whose works — as Elizabeth and 
 The Saracen — are extensively popular, especially in ladies' 
 schools. Harriet was well versed in these, knowing them 
 almost by heart. She took very kindly to the sorrows of 
 Clara, the heroine, a married lady, young and beautiful. She 
 had a lover ; their attachment was mutual, and for some 
 time innocent : eventually the poor young lady falls ; and 
 then, having ceased to be estimable, she forthwith ceased 
 to exist — ceased spontaneously, as a lamp goes out of itself, 
 when the pure spirit, by which the bright flame was fled, fails. 
 Clara was the lamp, conjugal fideUty was the spirits of wine 
 which kept her burning ; when the latter is gone, the former, 
 of necessity, is extinguished. 
 
 The tale is prettily told, in the same simple, graceful, touch- 
 ing style, as the other novels of the fair author. The principal 
 incident, no doubt, is of a warm character, as it is in many 
 other works of imagination which are very generally read ; 
 but it is handled with delicacy, and with modesty in language 
 and sentiments. The gentle Harriet considered the final 
 catastrophe — the death of Clara — quite as a matter of course 
 — an inevitable necessity ; that the termination of the unfor- 
 
266 Life of Shelley 
 
 tunate affair was indeed exquisitely natural ; and, moreover, 
 that it was fit this should be known, particularly by her own 
 sex, wherever the English language is spoken. Accordingly, 
 she translated the tale from the original French. She rendered 
 the two volumes exactly and correctly ; and wrote the whole 
 out fairly, without blot or blemish, upon the smoothest, whitest, 
 finest paper, in a small, neat, flowing and legible feminine 
 hand. She employed her mornings thus, whilst Bysshc was 
 engaged with his version of Buffon's treatise. Her elegant 
 MS. disappeared also ; I never saw it after we left Scotland. 
 I think I was informed that an English translation had already 
 been published. It has been represented by reckless or ill- 
 informed biographers that Harriet was illiterate, and there- 
 fore she was not a fit companion for Shelley. This repre- 
 sentation is not correct ; she had been well educated ; and as 
 the coffee-house people could not have taught her more than 
 they knew themselves, which was little or nothing, she must 
 have received her education at school ; and she was unques- 
 tionably a credit to the establishment. 
 
 Drawing she had never learned, at least she gave no indica- 
 tions of taste or skill in that department ; her proficiency in 
 music was moderate, and she seemed to have no very decided 
 natural talent for it ; her accomplishments were slight, but 
 with regard to acquirements of higher importance, for her 
 years, she was exceedingly well read. I have seldom, if ever, 
 met with a girl who had read so much as she had, or who had 
 so strong an inclination for reading. I never once saw a 
 Bible, a prayer book, or any devotional wo;:k, in her hand ; I 
 never heard her utter a syllable on the subject of religion, either 
 to signify assent or dissent, approbation, or censure, or doubt ; 
 Eucharis, or Egeria, or Antiope, could not have appeared more 
 entirely uninstructed than herself in such matters. I never 
 heard her say that she had been at church, or ever once visited 
 any place of worship ; never, in my hearing, did she criticise 
 any sermon, as is so common with the generality of young 
 ladies, or exj^ress admiration of, or curiosity concerning, a 
 popular preacher. Her music was wholly secular ; of the 
 existence of sacred music she seemed to be unconscious, and 
 never to have heard the illustrious name of Handel. Her read- 
 ing was not of a frivolous description ; she did not like light, 
 still less trifling, ephemeral productions. Morality was her 
 favourite theme ; she found most pleasure in works of a high 
 ethical tone. Telemachus and Belisarius were her chosen 
 
Life of Shelley 267 
 
 companions, and other compositions of the same leaven, but 
 of less celebrity. 
 
 She was fond of reading aloud ; and she read remarkably 
 well, very correctly, and with a clear, distinct, agreeable 
 voice, and often emphatically. She was never weary of this 
 exercise, never fatigued ; she never ceased of her own accord, 
 and left off reading only on some interruption. She has read 
 to me for hours and hours ; whenever we were alone together, 
 she took up a book and began to read, or more commonly read 
 aloud from the work, whatever it might be, which she was 
 reading to herself. If anybody entered the room she ceased to 
 read aloud, but recommenced the moment he retired. I was 
 grateful for her kindness ; she has read to me grave and excellent 
 books innumerable. If some few of these were a Httle weari- 
 some, on the whole I profited greatly by her lectures. I have 
 sometimes certainly wished for rather less of the trite moral 
 discourses of Idomeneus and Justinian, which are so abundant 
 in her two favourite authors, and a Uttle more of something 
 less in the nature of truisms ; but I never showed any signs of 
 impatience. In truth, the good girl hked a piece of resistance, 
 a soUd tome, where a hungry reader might read and come 
 again. I have sometimes presumed to ask her to read some 
 particular work, but never to object to anything which she 
 herself proposed. If it was agreeable to listen to her, it was not 
 less agreeable to look at her : she was always pretty, always 
 bright, always blooming ; smart, usually plain in her neatness ; 
 without a spot, without a wrinkle, not a hair out of its place. 
 The ladies said of her, that she always looked as if she had 
 just that moment stepped out of a glass-case ; and so indeed 
 she did. And they inquired, how that could be ? The answer 
 was obvious ; she passed her whole life in reading aloud, and 
 when that was not permitted, in reading to herself, and invari- 
 ably works of a calm, soothing, tranquilHzing, sedative ten- 
 dency ; and in such an existence there could be nothing to 
 stain, to spot, to heat, to tumble, to cause any the slightest 
 disorder of the hair or dress. Hers was the most distinct 
 utterance I ever heard ; I do not beUeve that I lost a single 
 word of the thousands of pages which she read to me. Of 
 course I never dared to yield to sleep, even when the virtuous 
 Idomeneus was giving wise laws to Crete, and therefore I am 
 now aUve to write our simple story. 
 
 The more drowsy Bysshe would sometimes drop off : his 
 innocent slumbers gave serious offence, and his neglect was 
 
2(58 Life of Shelley 
 
 fiercely resented ; he was stigmatized as an inattentive wretch. 
 A distinct articulation is pleasing, but by no means common. 
 Another young lady was so good as to read to me for several 
 years ; but I never heard a single word she said. However, I 
 cherished the hope, that some day or other I might at least 
 hear one word, as a reward for my patience ; but I was dis- 
 appointed, and the poor girl has long ceased to read and to 
 breathe. 
 
 CHAPTER XIII 
 
 It was the year of the famous comet, and of the still more 
 famous vintage, the year 1 8 1 1 ; the weather was fine, and often 
 hot ; not one drop of rain fell all the time I was in Edinburgh. 
 The nights were clear and bright ; we often contemplated the 
 stranger comet from Princes Street ; and not only the comet, 
 but the ordinary array of the shining hosts of heaven. The 
 heavens are the home of a divine poet ; the stars are his 
 nearest kindred : Shelley frequently turned his wild, wander- 
 ing eyes homewards ; he was fond of looking at the stars, and 
 of speculating about the heavenly bodies, and of reading and 
 hearing the speculations of astronomers. He had, however, a 
 leaning, as became a poet, towards the systems, hypotheses, 
 and figments of the first and ancient star-gazers ; moreover, 
 his attention had been first called towards celestial matters 
 by his beloved Pliny, the greater part of whose vast and ines- 
 timable work on Natural History he had translated at Eton ; 
 he dearly loved to ponder over that author's inexplicable 
 doctrines, and to endeavour to comprehend and expound 
 them. 
 
 The modern system of Astronomy is suited to dull fellows 
 only — to mere matter-of-fact men, calculators, mathemati- 
 cians ; not to poets by any means. The human imagination 
 cannot deal with their millions of millions of miles ; it cannot 
 conceive, cannot form any notion, idea, or image of a quin- 
 tillion, or even of a trillion : these mighty reckonings may be, 
 and doubtless are, mathematically correct and true ; but they 
 are poetically monstrous and false. 
 
 A pretty little milk-white goat, sitting quietly in the shady 
 nook of a galaxy, with two golden horns, one of them broken 
 off and filled with fruits and flowers, will supply a charming 
 
Life of Shellev 269 
 
 mjrthic fable, which the lunar parallax will never yield. Con- 
 sequently, a Quaker Globe Celestial, devoid of ornament, 
 dreading paganism, shunning idolatry, not allowing free 
 play to that heathenish faculty, the fancy, and with which 
 William Penn or George Fox might have surveyed the heavens ; 
 a celestial globe, not of a drab or slate colour, it is true, but 
 wanting the figures of the constellations, merely dotted over 
 with stars of different magnitudes, was odious and execrable to 
 the young poet. A globe robbed of all the men and women, of 
 the ships, scales, cups, crowns, of the various birds, beasts, 
 and fishes, that had been assigned to each hemisphere by a 
 prudent antiquity, seemed, and with reason, unsatisfactory 
 and fraudulent. 
 
 ' Instead of omitting these mythological pictures on our 
 globes, how much better it would be, were it possible ; how 
 pretty, how indescribably pleasing ', he would sometimes 
 exclaim, peering upwards into boundless space, * to vary the 
 uniform blue ground by delicately tinting above us all the 
 signs of the zodiac, and all the other principal asterisms ; 
 Orion in full glory, with his bright-eyed dog, Hercules on his 
 knees, both the Bears with their keeper, " Prince Memmon's 
 sister ", and all the rest of that goodly company ! ' 
 
 I soon found, to my sorrow, that my project of making 
 pedestrian excursions from Edinburgh was quite impracticable ; 
 my friend could not possibly leave his young bride alone : to 
 have gone by myself, which I would wilUngly have done, if I 
 might, would have been unpopular, being accounted unkind : 
 the scheme therefore was entirely relinquished, although not 
 without regret ; and I never could find another opportunity of 
 executing the design, consequently I know nothing more of 
 Scotland than the little which I could learn during my first and 
 only visit to its majestic and picturesque capital. 
 
 I cannot say that I never set foot in Scotland since the year 
 1 8 1 1 ; for the last twenty years it has been my fortune to pay 
 an annual visit in the autumn to Berwick-upon-Tweed, and 
 then I have several times walked far enough, and it was 
 not very far, beyond Lamberton Toll-Bar, or the Starch-House 
 Gate, to be able to pluck a thistle on Scottish ground ; and 
 fixing the national emblem and flower in my button-hole, as 
 an appropriate tribute of respect to * the very focus of 
 elegance ', I walked back to Berwick and to dinner. 
 
 On one occasion, returning with St. Andrew's chosen flower 
 in my breast, I met a brave Scot, and related to him asking. 
 
270 Life of Shelley 
 
 where I had been and what I had done ; ' Oh ! That is a 
 very poor memento ', he said, ' you should have proceeded 
 onwards to some house of entertainment, and just tasted our 
 whisky ! ' 
 
 Our mornings were passed in study ; after dinner, we all 
 went forth together, to take as long a walk as could be brought 
 within the compass of an afternoon. We returned at dusk, 
 to draw refreshment from ' the kittle ', brewing, not punch, 
 but the sober beverage of tea ; and we listened to Harriet 
 reading aloud until bed-time. I often stole out alone, generally 
 before breakfast, to inspect such objects as were not interesting 
 to my young friends. Our time wore away thus very agree- 
 ably, and not without improvement. 
 
 At the end of six weeks, it was necessary that I should return 
 to York. It was agreed that we should travel thither together, 
 in order that they might remain with me there, according to 
 Bysshe's favourite phrase, ' for ever ', or in ordinary, unpoetic 
 language, during the year which I was to spend in that city ; 
 and at the conclusion of that period we were all to remove to 
 London, and to dwell there together * for ever ', writing, 
 reading, and being read to. 
 
 A dispensation was reluctantly granted to me, but without 
 absolution, by the philosophers to pursue, to my inevitable 
 destruction, the vile and degrading study of the law. It was 
 granted, I believe, because it was considered that my own 
 sagacity, and their arguments and persuasions, would in a very 
 short time induce me to abandon it. 
 
 At Edinburgh, as elsewhere, Bysshe received many letters.- 
 His uncle. Captain Pilfold, was the most useful of his corre- 
 spondents at that time, for not only did he write cheerful, 
 friendly, hearty letters, some of which I read, but he kindly 
 supplied his peccant nephew with money. The cloud-com- 
 pelling son of Sir Bysshe was fulminating and furious, darting 
 his franked lightenings on all sides. His letter to my father 
 is a good specimen of a mild thunderbolt. 
 
 Field Place, S/A September, 181 1. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I wrote to you from London by the advice of a gentle- 
 man in the law, who I had advised with respecting my son 
 having withdrawn himself from my protection, and set off for 
 Scotland with a young female, though at that time it was 
 conjectured he might make York in his way. 
 
Life of Shelley 271 
 
 This morning I have a letter from a gentleman, who had 
 heard from him, that he was at Edinburgh, and that H. had 
 joined him there. I think it right to give you the information, 
 as from one parent to another, both of whom have experienced 
 so much affliction and anxiety. God only knows what can be 
 the end of all this disobedience. 
 
 I am. Sir, 
 Your very obedient servant, 
 
 T. Shelley. 
 To J. H., Norton. 
 
 The old ex-coffeehouse keeper was bound in decency to 
 affect to be very angry ; to tie his purse-strings tight, and 
 tightly to button up his breeches pockets, as a mode of display- 
 ing virtuous indignation, which is rather palatable than pain- 
 ful to a parsimonious person. He felt no pangs, therefore, and 
 found no difficulty in being exceedingly angry with his dis- 
 obedient daughter and rebellious son-in-law after this thrifty 
 fashion. And indeed his careful habits, not less than his 
 Israelitish aspect, had won for him, as his daughter Harriet 
 informed me, the designation of ' Jew Westbrook '. 
 
 The hero of the Nile, the conqueror of Aboukir Bay, the 
 gallant Captain, was more genial and considerate than the 
 parUament-man and the vintner : * To be confoundedly 
 angry ', he wrote, * is all very well ; but to stop the supplies is 
 a great deal too bad ! ' Our journey was to be performed by 
 post-chaise, in compliment to the lady, and for her particular 
 convenience. There was nothing, as far as I remember, 
 pleasing or curious in my return to York. We endeavoured to 
 dine at the Press Inn, where we were execrably entertained : 
 we passed the first night at Belford comfortably. I pointed 
 out to Shelley the fine crops of turnips, to which the priggish 
 lecturer on the top of the coach had called my attention, on my 
 way to Edinburgh, and I spoke of the noble fields of barley. 
 
 Poor Harriet was not much of a farmer. Idomeneus had 
 taught her many valuable things, but not agriculture, which, 
 however, in his sage laws, he highly honoured. 
 
 * Pray tell me, Bysshe ', she asked, ' which are the turnips, 
 and which is the barley ? ' 
 
 ' Why, you little Cockney ', Shelley, the heir of entail 
 to broad lands, exclaimed, ' surely you know turnips from 
 barley ! ' 
 
 It was the end of October : the fine weather had come to an 
 
2/2 Life of Shelley 
 
 end at last ; rain was brewing after the long drought ; and 
 indeed it rained a little at intervals. Travelling by post-chaise 
 was always disagreeable to me ; the necessity of changing the 
 chaise every post was troublesome and unpleasant. Shelley 
 could not bear restraint of any kind ; he hated the confine- 
 ment excessively ; and besides the ordinary trouble of chang- 
 ing, paying, looking after the luggage, and the innumerable 
 worthless, but inestimable and indispensable, articles which a 
 lady must carry with her on a journey, on this occasion there 
 was the extraordinary trouble, and a very great one it was, of 
 looking after Shelley himself, lest perchance he should suddenly 
 vanish, and by his disappearance delay our farther progress for 
 an indefinite period. 
 
 Once, at Berwick, when Harriet had taken her seat, and all 
 was ready, Bysshe was missing ; but he was retaken on fresh 
 pursuit, being captured by myself, as he was standing on the 
 Walls in a drizzling rain, gazing mournfully at the wild and 
 dreary sea, with looks not less wild and dreary. 
 
 The next day we reached Darlington, and were lodged and 
 treated there sufficiently well. Shelley had been much struck 
 in the morning by the majestic exterior of Alnwick Castle, and 
 diverted by the strange stone figures on the battlements, 
 savouring less of the Middle Ages than of Sadler's Wells. The 
 next and third day completed our journey, and brought us to 
 York. The weather was gloomy, misty, rainy, and altogether 
 dispiriting, and the young travellers met with nothing to amuse* 
 or rouse them. Harriet read aloud in the chaise, almost 
 incessantly, Holcroft's Novels. The rigid. Spartan, iron tone 
 of that stern author was not encouraging. Bysshe sometimes 
 sighed deeply. 
 
 * Is it necessary to read all that, Harriet dear ? ' he inq aired 
 pathetically 
 
 ' Yes ! absolutely.' 
 
 * Cannot you skip some part ? ' 
 
 * No ! it is impossible ! * 
 
 A poet is a creature of first impressions. The greater the 
 poet, the more completely is he subjugated by this law of 
 poetic temperament. The aspect of the narrow, crooked old 
 streets of York may be remarkable, peculiar, to an antiquary 
 even pleasing, but is never cheerful, not in the brightest 
 weather. At the close of a dull, autumnal day, in rain and in 
 mud, it was oppressive. For weeks, for months, the imagina- 
 tive Bysshe had set his heart upon joining me at York, which 
 
Life of Shelley 273 
 
 place, no doubt, his warm, creative fancy had painted as a 
 bower of beauty and of bUss ; the reaUty, seen, moreover, to 
 great disadvantage, at once disenchanted him. 
 
 For the convenience of my friends, I had delayed my return 
 for a few days — for a very few days only ; the woman with 
 whom I had lodged took advantage of the delay, as such people 
 invariably do when anything is to be gotten — even Methodists, 
 saints. Babes of Grace, their superior sanctity notwithstanding, 
 readily give in to such mundane tricks — and she had let the 
 whole of her house very advantageously to a family for the 
 winter. Instead of going straight to my most comfortable 
 lodgings, as we had anticipated, it was necessary to undertake 
 the very unpoetic task — for Shelley positively refused to pass 
 the night at an inn — of seeking for lodgings in a provincial 
 town, in the dim twilight, and in mizzling rain. I engaged 
 apartments, not because I liked their appearance, but by 
 reason of the extreme impatience of my friend, at the dingy 
 dwelling of certain dingy old milliners. 
 
 On circuit and other dull errands, it has been my hard fate 
 too often to lodge with dress-makers, or mantua-makers, and I 
 have often wondered when and where the dresses, which these 
 females professed to make, were really made, since no trace of 
 them ever appeared. Still more have I wondered by what 
 persons such secret mantuas and mantles were worn ; whether 
 by sister spectres in churchyards, or by grim hags, Uke them- 
 selves, at witches' Sabbaths. 
 
 We entered upon our dim abode immediately — immediately, 
 that was indispensable ; and we procured dinner from an inn ; 
 for the weird sisters were above doing anything useful, or in- 
 deed anything at all, that I could ever discover. The house 
 was dismal and poverty-stricken, and the mistresses of the 
 house were disobliging : I did not make them less so by an 
 ill-timed joke. It was doubtless improper to joke in the pre- 
 sence of two ancient damsels, with whom the sole business of a 
 long life had been to disprove the assertion that life is a jest, 
 and to demonstrate that it is something exquisitely serious and 
 tiresome. I had occasion to go into their private room, a back 
 parlour, and to wait there a while. It seemed proper to say 
 something to them. 
 
 ' You are dress-makers, I believe ? * 
 
 Both in unison responded : * We are.' 
 
 ' But where, dear ladies, are the dresses which you 
 make ? ' 
 
274 Life of Shelley 
 
 They seemed disconcerted at the question, and displeased, 
 and returned no answer. 
 
 ' I suppose you make dresses for " the Invisible Lady " ! — 
 invisible dresses ! ' 
 
 A little before that time there had been an exhibition, which 
 was very popular everywhere, and particularly so at York. It 
 has long been discontinued, but it was very attractive in its 
 day, and very remarkable ; and it has never been distinctly 
 explained how it was managed. The visitor entered a room ; 
 from the middle of the ceiling hung by a silken cord, a balloon 
 of silk about a yard in diameter ; it was open at the bottom, 
 and was seen to be quite empty. There were two tubes of 
 brass terminating in the balloon. Through one of them the 
 question was proposed in a whisper ; by the other the answer 
 of the ' Invisible Lady ' was returned. 
 
 I once went to see the ' Invisible Lady ', as the phrase was ; 
 and having convinced myself by looking into the balloon, and 
 moving it about, that she was really invisible, I had the temer- 
 ity to whisper, very gently, ' Were you ever in love, my 
 dear ? * 
 
 I then placed my ear close to the other tube, and a feminine 
 voice softly whispered back, ' Never, till I saw you * 
 
 The answer, containing such an avowal, I had the discretion, 
 notwithstanding the importunities of my companions, to keep 
 to myself. 
 
 The next morning, after my return to York, I went betimes 
 to Chambers, where I was cordially received by my Convey- 
 ancer ; he told me that he was very full of business, but he 
 found time to laugh heartily at some of my adventures in 
 Scotland, and to express a wish that he had been with me. 
 I remained at Chambers until dinner time ; and I had the 
 satisfaction to surrender an out-standing term to attend upon 
 the Inheritance. 
 
 The next morning also, Bysshe announced that he must go 
 to London that night by the mail, to see Whitton. 
 
 * What, so soon ? Put it off for a few days ! ' 
 
 ' It is absolutely necessary to see him immediately ; I must 
 
 go-' 
 
 For any good the poor fellow got by seeing Whitton, he 
 might just as well have postponed his visit indefinitely, even 
 until this hour. However, Bysshe departed, as he had re- 
 solved to do. 
 
 I was obliged — morally obliged — to attend my Convey- 
 
Life of Shelley 275 
 
 ancer ; consequently, I went to his Chambers every morning, 
 immediately after breakfast, at nine o'clock, and I remained 
 there until the hour of dinner, five. Poor Harriet was very 
 lonely ; the weather was rainy ; and when it was fair she did 
 not go out, having unfortunately transplanted her London 
 notions of propriety to York : she considered it incorrect to 
 walk in the streets of that quiet city by herself. In the even- 
 ing, she read aloud to me Holcrof t's A nna St. Ives, some of Dr. 
 Robertson's historical works, and other staid and instructive 
 books. Whenever she conversed, after duly and dutifully 
 wondering what Bysshe was about at that moment, she spoke 
 in the style of an inspired prophetess of a glorious advent ; of 
 the impending commencement of a new millennium of happi- 
 ness ; of the instant return of the golden age ; of the coming of 
 Eliza, who was to accompany Bysshe when he returned. This 
 harbinger of all felicity was her sister ; she had no brothers, 
 and only one sister, an elder sister ; old enough, indeed, to have 
 been her mother. She bore her sister great love, or perhaps 
 she had entire faith in her ; she worshipped her, not so much 
 through a feeling of veneration, but a strong sense of para- 
 mount duty, and yielded her implicit, unreasoning obedience. 
 Her mother was as dignified as silk and satin could make her, 
 and was fully capable of sitting all day long with her hands 
 before her, but utterly incapable of aught besides, good, or bad, 
 except possibly of hearing herself addressed occasionally as. 
 Mamma. Eliza had tended, guided, and ruled Harriet from 
 her earliest infancy ; she doubtless had married her, had made 
 the match, had put her up to everything that was to be said, 
 or done, as Shelley's letters plainly show ; and she was now 
 about to come on board again, after a short absence on shore, 
 to hoist her flag at the mast head, to take the entire command, 
 and for ever to regulate and direct the whole course of her 
 married life. Eliza, I was told, was beautiful, exquisitely 
 beautiful ; an elegant figure, full of grace ; her face was lovely, 
 — dark bright eyes ; jet black hair, glossy ; a crop upon which 
 she bestowed the care it merited — almost all her time ; and 
 she was so sensible, so amiable, so good ! 
 
 Bysshe's return was ardently desired ; partly for his own 
 sake, but principally on account of the lost treasure, which he 
 was to restore, and whose protracted absence began to be 
 severely felt, on account of the rich freight of beauty and virtue 
 which the homeward-bound vessel would surely bring back. 
 
 One evening, I returned to our lodgings from a stroll after 
 
276 Life of Shelley 
 
 dinner, and found to my surprise that the peerless Eliza had 
 arrived. 
 
 Harriet was seated on the sofa by the side of her good genius, 
 her guardian angel, her familiar demon : — ' Eliza has come ; 
 was it not good of her ; so kind ? ' I was presented to her. 
 She hardly deigned to notice me. 
 
 Such neglect on the part of so superior a being, although a 
 barmaid by origin, or at best a daughter of the house, appeared 
 reasonable enough. 
 
 ' I thought Bysshe was to have brought you with him.' 
 
 ' Oh dear, no ! ' 
 
 The tea things were on the table ; the new comer was of too 
 sublime a nature to endure the contact of a tea-pot, and poor 
 Harriet's being was too highly sublimated by the august 
 presence to attend, as usual, to the vulgar requisitions of the 
 tea-table. The case was important and urgent. 
 
 ' Shall I make tea ? ' 
 
 This was not forbidden, and it was made. Eliza looked 
 contemptuously at the cup of tea, which I placed before her. 
 Harriet descended from the seventh heaven so far as to stir, and 
 even to sip her tea. I helped myself freely, like a good Philis- 
 tine as I was, whilst the music of the spheres held its thrilling 
 course. Poor little Harriet was wrapt in ecstasy ; she whis- 
 pered inaudibly to Eliza : Eliza sighed, and returned a still 
 lower whisper. 
 
 I had ample leisure to contemplate the acquisition to our 
 domestic circle. She was older than I had expected, and she 
 looked much older than she was. The lovely face was seamed 
 with smallpox, and of a dead white, as faces so much marked 
 andscarred commonly are ; as white indeed, as a mass of boiled 
 rice, but of a dingy hue, like rice boiled in dirty water. The 
 eyes were dark, but dull, and without meaning ; the hair was 
 black and glossy, but coarse ; and there was the admired 
 crop — a long crop, much like the tail of a horse — a switch tail. 
 The fine figure was meagre, prim, and constrained. The 
 beauty, the grace, and the elegance existed, no doubt, in 
 their utmost perfection, but only in the imagination of her 
 partial young sister. Her father, as Harriet told me, was 
 familiarly called ' Jew Westbrook ', and Eliza greatly re- 
 sembled one of the dark-eyed daughters of Judah. 
 
 On the day after the auspicuous arrival of the amiable 
 stranger, Bysshe returned from London ; his negotiations had 
 been unsuccessful ; his long, fatiguing, and expensive journey 
 
Life of Shelley 277 
 
 had been undertaken in vain. Diplomatic notes without 
 stint ; protocols, deuterocols, and chiliostocols innumerable ; 
 articles of honourable capitulation, projects of treaties of 
 aUiance, offensive and defensive, claims and counter-claims ; 
 rigmarole, solemn, stupid, barbarous, and ungrammatical ; 
 such were the fruits of these conferences. The whole history 
 of diplomacy, public or secret, can supply nothing more empty 
 and effete than the negotiations with his Excellency the Great 
 Plenipotentiary, Whitton : an impartial posterity, however, 
 will ascribe the failure in these transactions rather to the 
 Emperor and Autocrat, than to his accredited minister. The 
 State Papers which were transmitted on the present occasion, 
 will show, once for all, in how ungenial and unsatisfactory a 
 manner they wasted their time and strength in vain bickerings, 
 without the sinews of war, or the sure bond of peace — money. 
 
 [Copy.] 
 Great James Street, 2srd October, 181 1. 
 Sir, 
 
 Your letter of the 20th instant came to my hands after 
 the post of yesterday. Your father's communications to me 
 have been of a very painful nature, resulting from the manner 
 in which you have treated and written to and of him. He 
 stated to me his determination not to supply you with any 
 money until he shall be satisfied that your future conduct will 
 be directed by a judgment more consonant to your duty to him 
 as your parent, and his and your situation. As, therefore, it 
 remains with you to seek a restoration of confidence in your 
 father towards you, and as the question is to his injured feelings 
 a matter of serious consideration, I beg to say, that it is my 
 wish you should not take the proposed journey to London, but 
 that your communication may be in writing, for by so doing I 
 shall avoid the inconvenience which may result from my 
 reporting to your father the import of what you might think 
 proper to say. 
 
 I am. Sir, your humble servant, 
 
 Wm. Whitton. 
 To P. B. Shelley, Esq., Captain Pilfold's, R.N., 
 Cuckfield, Sussex. 
 
 Great James Street, z^rd October, 181 1. 
 Mr. Whitton sends Mr. P. B. Shelley a copy of the letter he 
 addressed to him by the post of yesterday, and which Mr. Whit- 
 
i^" 
 
 278 Life of Shelley 
 
 ton considers to be a direct reply to the note which Mr. P. B. 
 Shelley sent to him last night at Camberwell. 
 
 Please to direct any further communications to Great James 
 Street, with Mr. Whitton's compliments. 
 
 To P. B. S., Turk's Coffee House, Strand. 
 
 CHAPTER XIV 
 
 The arrival of Bysshe was acknowledged by Harriet, but it 
 *j was plain that he had been superseded ; Eliza once or twice 
 betrayed a faint consciousness of his presence, as if the lamp 
 of her life had been faintly glimmering in its socket, which 
 fortunately it was not ; that was all the notice she took of 
 her sister's husband. His course, therefore, was plain ; his 
 peace might have been assured ; whether his happiness would 
 ever have been great, may wdll be doubted. It was absolutely 
 necessary to declare peremptorily, * Either Eliza goes, or I 
 go ' ; and instantly to act upon the declaration. This so 
 necessary course the poor fellow did not take ; and it is cer- 
 tain that the Divine Poet could not have taken it, for with 
 superhuman strength weakness less than human was strangely 
 blended ; accordingly, from the days of the blessed advent, 
 our destinies were entirely changed. The house lay, as it 
 were, under an interdict ; all our accustomed occupations 
 were suspended ; study was forbidden ; reading was injuri- 
 ous — to read aloud might terminate fatally ; to go abroad 
 was death, to stay at home the grave ! Bysshe became 
 nothing ; I, of course, very much less than nothing — a nega- 
 tive quantity of a very high figure. 
 
 Harriet still existed, it was true ; but her existence was to 
 be in future a seraphic life, a beatific vision, to be passed 
 exclusively in the assiduous contemplation of Eliza's infinite 
 perfections. 
 
 That all this was very well meant, very disinterested, kind, 
 benevolent, sisterly, it would be unjust to deny, or even to 
 doubt ; but it was all the more pernicious on that account. 
 
 Before the angelic visit we had never heard of Harriet's 
 nerves, we had never once suspected that such organs existed ; 
 now we heard of little else. ' Dearest Harriet, you must not 
 do that ; think of your nerves ; only consider, dearest, the 
 state of your nerves ; Harriet, dear, you must not eat tliis ; 
 
Life of Shelley ^79 
 
 you are not going to drink that, surely ; whatever will become 
 of your poor nerves ? Gracious heaven ! What would Misis 
 Warne say ? ' 
 
 Miss Warne was the highest sanction ; her name was often 
 invoked, and her judgment appealed to. * What will Miss 
 Warne say ? ' That single, simple, but momentous question 
 set every other question at rest. 
 
 Who was Miss Warne ? I inquired of the now nervous 
 Harriet. She informed me, that she stood in the same rela- 
 tion to some coffee-house or hotel in London, as the lovely 
 Eliza ; she was a daughter of the house ; a mature virgin 
 also, quite ripe, perhaps rather too mellow ; a prim old maid 
 indeed, an old frump, she said ; there was nothing particular 
 about her in any way ; but Eliza had the highest opinion of 
 Miss Warne ; she had been long her bosom friend ! 
 
 Eliza was vigilant, keeping a sharp look-out after the 
 nerves ; yet was she frequently off duty ; her time was chiefly 
 spent in her bed-room. What does that dear Eliza do alone 
 in her bed-room ? Does she read ? No. — Does she work ? 
 Never. — Does she write ? No. — What does she do, then ? 
 
 Harriet came quite close to me, and answered in a whisper, 
 lest peradventure her sister should hear her, with the serious 
 air of one who communicates some profound and weighty 
 secret. ' She brushes her hair ! ' The coarse black hair was 
 glossy, no doubt ; but to give daily sixteen hours out of four- 
 and-twenty to it, was certainly to bestow much time on a 
 crop. Yet it was by no means impossible, that whilst she 
 plied her hair-brush, she was revolving in her mind dearest 
 Harriet's best interests ; or seriously reflecting upon what 
 Miss Warne would say. 
 
 The poor Poet was overwhelmed by the affectionate inva- 
 sion ; he lay prostrated and helpless, under the insupportable 
 pressure of our domiciliary visit ; but the good Harriet knew 
 how, school-girl like, and contrary to her sisterly allegiance, 
 sometimes to take advantage, by stealth, of dear Eliza's 
 absence. ' Come quite close to me, and I will read to you. 
 I must not speak loud, lest I should disturb poor Eliza.' 
 
 Sometimes she could escape for a short walk before dinner. 
 One day, whilst the guardian angel kept on brushing, we 
 brushed off, and wandered to the river. We stood on the 
 high centre of the old Roman bridge ; there was a mighty 
 flood ; father Ouse had overflowed his banks, carrying away 
 with him timber and what not. 
 
28o Life of Shelley 
 
 ' Is it not an interesting, a surprising sight ? ' 
 ' Yes, it is very wonderful. But, dear Harriet, how nicely 
 that dearest Eliza would spin down the river ! How sweetly 
 she would turn round and round, like that log of wood ! And, 
 gracious heaven, what would Miss Warne say ? ' 
 
 She turned her pretty face away, and laughed — as a slave 
 laughs, who is beginning to grow weary of an intolerable yoke. 
 
 In York, an old English city, Harriet's beauty attracted 
 the eyes of all beholders, in walking through its narrow streets ; 
 her cheeks were suffused with the blush of modesty, which 
 made her still more engaging, more bright and radiant ; and 
 then the good girl bashfully drew down her veil. Her charms 
 did not appear to be equally captivating in the Northern metro- 
 poUs : I went abroad with her there more frequently, but 
 nobody ever noticed her ; she was short, and slightly and 
 delicately formed ; not raw-boned enough for the Scottish 
 market. 
 
 When I first knew Shelley, he was alike indifferent to all 
 works of art. He learned afterwards to admire statues, and 
 then, at a still later period, pictures ; but he never had any 
 feeling for the wonders of architecture ; even our majestic 
 cathedrals were viewed with indifference. I took him into 
 York Minster several times, but to no purpose ; it was thrown 
 away, entirely lost upon him. The insensible Harriet ap- 
 peared to feel its beauty, until her admiration of the sublime 
 structure was proscribed and forbidden by authority. 
 
 One day, when we were going together to the Minster, Eliza 
 intervened, and instead of interdicting our walk, to our sur- 
 prise said, that she would go with us, and inflicted upon us 
 her comfortless company. She had heard of the celebrated 
 window at the end of the north transept, called * The Five 
 Sisters ', because five ladies had given it to the church : the 
 stained glass in each of the five bays had been copied from a 
 pattern in needlework embroidered by one of the five lady 
 sisters. On entering the Minster, she at once inquired for 
 ' The Five Sisters ' ; the window was pointed out to her. 
 ' Lord ! What stiff, ugly, old-fashioned, formal patterns ! 
 Gracious heaven ! What would Miss Warne say ? Harriet ! ' 
 After this solemn censure and condemnation, inasmuch as 
 the two irrefragable tapsters disapproved of the tapestry, as 
 being ill suited for an urn-rug, the docile and obedient Hsirriet 
 dutifully forbore to admire the glorious edifice. 
 
 * What is your opinion of suicide ? Did you never think 
 
Life of Shelley 281 
 
 of destroying yourself ? ' It was a puzzling question indeed 
 for the thought had never entered my head. 
 
 ' What do you think of matricide ; of high treason ; of 
 rick-burning ? Did you never think of killing any one ; of 
 murdering your mother ; of setting stack-yards on fire ? ' 
 I had never contemplated the commission of any of these 
 crimes, and I should scarcely have been more astonished if 
 I had been interrogated concerning my dispositions and 
 inclinations with respect to them, than I was when, early in 
 our acquaintance, the good Harriet asked me, ' What do you 
 think of suicide ? ' 
 
 She often discoursed of her purpose of killing herself some 
 day or other, and at great length, in a calm, resolute manner. 
 She told me that at school, where she was very unhappy, as 
 she said, but I could never discover why she was so, for she 
 was treated with much kindness and exceedingly well in- 
 structed, she had conceived and contrived sundry attempts 
 and purposes of destroying herself. It is possible that her 
 sister had assured her that she was very unhappy, and had 
 supported the assurance by the incontrovertible opinion of 
 Miss Warne, and of course Harriet became firmly convinced 
 of her utter wretchedness. She got up in the night, she said, 
 sometimes with a fixed intention of making away with her- 
 self — in what manner she did not unfold — and bade a long 
 farewell to the world, looked out of the window, taking leave 
 of the bright moon and all sublunary things, and then, it 
 should seem, got into bed again and went quietly to sleep, 
 and rose in the morning and wrote neatly upon her slate, in 
 the school-room at Clapham, the admirable ordinances of 
 Idomeneus and Numa Pompilius as sedately as before. 
 
 She spoke of self-murder serenely before strangers ; and 
 at a dinner party I have heard her describe her feelings, 
 opinions, and intentions with respect to suicide with prolix 
 earnestness ; and she looked so calm, so tranquil, so blooming, 
 and so handsome, that the astonished guests smiled. She 
 once, in particular — I well remember the strange scene and 
 the astonishment of the harmless company — at a Pytha- 
 gorean dinner in the house of a medical philosopher, scattered 
 dismay amongst a quiet party of vegetable-eaters, persons 
 who would not slay a shrimp, or extinguish animal life in 
 embryo by eating an egg, by asking, whether they did not 
 feel sometimes strongly inclined to kill themselves. 
 
 The poor girl's monomania of self-destruction, which we 
 
282 Life of Shelley 
 
 long looked upon as a vain fancy, abaseless delusion, an incon- 
 sequent hallucination of the mind, amused us occasionally for 
 some years ; eventually it proved a sad reahty, and drew 
 forth many bitter tears. 
 
 We have sometimes consoled ourselves by cherishing belief, 
 that if none of those contingencies had happened, to the 
 influence of which a rash act has, with mistaken confidence, 
 been ascribed, the morbid predisposition might have produced 
 the same melancholy result. But he who anticipates ill dis- 
 charges the duty of a faithful biographer. 
 
 When Bysshe returned from London we changed our lodg- 
 ings, perhaps somewhat hastily, under the impulse of the 
 same impatience which had presided at taking them ; for 
 throughout the whole course of his perturbed and restless 
 life, the poor Poet was uniformly in a hurry ; his life indeed 
 was one hurry ; he appeared to be ever impelled by a wild 
 terror, lest he should lose, or even delay for one moment, any 
 opportunity of placing himself in a disadvantageous position. 
 Accordingly we removed, but with little benefit, with scarcely 
 any visible improvement ; however, we quitted the ValkyriaB, 
 two of the Fatal Sisters ; dressmakers are not unworthy of a 
 place in the Edda, who were manifestly designed to sew 
 shrouds, to hem winding-sheets, to make mouldering dresses 
 for the mouldering dead. 
 
 Nevertheless, York was in those days, in many respects at 
 least, a poor, poverty-stricken city, rich only in pride, ecclesi- 
 astical and civil, and it was not easy to find good lodgings 
 there : during a year's residence I shifted my quarters more 
 than once, but I was never at all comfortable, save with the 
 most Christian woman with whom I was at first located. 
 
 I had spoken sometimes of my intention of paying a visit 
 to the English lakes, which visit had been exchanged for the 
 matrimonial trip to Edinburgh. The image of the lakes, 
 mountains rocks, and waterfalls, and of the like picturesque 
 and romantic objects which those districts present, at once 
 took entire possession of light minds. The young couple 
 became in an instant, as to their whole souls, demoniacally 
 possessed by the Genius of the Lakes ; and it was impossible 
 to exorcise them, to cast out the mischievous spirit, either by 
 prayer or fasting, or in any other manner — not even by bell, 
 book, and candle ; more especially since their Guardian 
 Angel, smirking in silence, no doubt, favoured the sudden 
 fancy. 
 
Life of Shelley 283 
 
 Nothing would please but an immediate journey to Kes- 
 wick ; and our flight must be in the winter ; I was requested, 
 strongly urged, to join in it. To quit my professional duties, 
 in which I had engaged, was impossible ; besides, the imprac- 
 ticable month of November was ill suited for such an excursion. 
 Next summer, during the long vacation, I should have leisure ; 
 it would be the most proper season for tourists, and we would 
 all go together. 
 
 To a poetic temperament, so long a delay was intolerable ; 
 the young Poet's imagination could conceive anything in 
 earth or in heaven, but not the possibility of waiting for several 
 months before seeing some mountain stream ; of living at 
 peace with himself and all mankind, in great personal comfort 
 for whole weeks, without having as yet heard by moonlight 
 the sound of a remote waterfall. Neither could they be 
 brought to comprehend that one period of the year was better 
 adapted than another for their cherished purposes. Skiddaw 
 was there surely, and Helvellyn ; Derwentwater Lake was 
 always there ; what more could they require ? Moreover, 
 Southey and Wordsworth, not less than the donkeys which 
 they had so finely apostrophized and so sweetly sung, remain 
 there all the year ; and why cannot we ? On the shortest 
 day, as well as the longest, although for a shorter time, the 
 parish pauper, Harry Gill, the theme of many sounding verse, 
 wakes the echoes by cracking stones with his pick in some 
 sequestered mountain glen, without respecting seasons or 
 persons, except perchance the parish beadle ; and we are 
 more than many paupers ! To go at once to Keswick ; to 
 go to Keswick instantly, and to remain there ' for ever ', 
 was practicable and necessary. * You will soon be sensible 
 of the absurdity, the wickedness, of lingering longer in a spot 
 so unpoetic and uninspiring as York ; you will speedily re- 
 unite yourself with your friends at Keswick, and remain with 
 them there "for ever"'. 
 
 A day was fixed for their departure ; their trunks were 
 packed ; they would take a part of their baggage, the rest 
 was to be left behind for me to bring, when I came after them : 
 I gave no hopes that I would soon follow, but they knew 
 better than I did ; and they were confident I should not tarry. 
 Harriet's nerves, it was added, would be braced by the pure 
 mountain air ; the fisc was rather empty, but the funds 
 required for an expensive journey were supplied, I apprehend, 
 by Eliza, who, although she had a laughable way of showing 
 
284 Life of Shelley 
 
 it, appeared to feel a lively interest in her sister's welfare, and 
 in the prosperity of her nervous system, according to her own 
 view of it, and in which, notwithstanding the appearance of 
 rude health, there might, in truth, be something peculiar. 
 
 To be always in a hurry was Bysshe's grand and first rule 
 of conduct ; his second canon of practical wisdom, and this 
 he esteemed hardly less important than the former, was to 
 make a mystery of everything ; to treat as a profound secret 
 matters manifest, patent, and fully known to everybody. 
 A lively fancy, which imagined difficulties, and created 
 obstacles where none existed, was the true cause of a course 
 of dealing that was troublesome and injurious to himself and 
 to all connected with him. 
 
 ' How many great poets, like yourself ', I have asked him, 
 ' could the world bear to have in it at once, without being 
 altogether ruined ; how many of you — three or four — might 
 co-exist in the universe, and yet not induce a rapid and utter 
 annihilation of all things ? * 
 
 The morning of departure had been fixed ; on the afternoon 
 preceding it, when I returned to dinner, such was the precipi- 
 tation of the young votaries of the Muses, that the birds were 
 flown ; a short, illegible, unintelligible note, scrawled with a 
 pencil on a scrap of paper, informed me, so far as I could make 
 it out, that it had occurred to them during my absence at 
 Chambers, that it would be expedient to start at once, and to 
 proceed to Richmond, where they should pass the night, and 
 if I chose to follow them, I should find them there, and we 
 would travel the next morning all together towards the goal, 
 Keswick. 
 
 This proposal it was alike my duty and my inclination to 
 decline ; whenever circumstances brought us together again, 
 I should enjoy once more the society of my incomparable 
 friend ; and should they continue until the summer to inhabit 
 the shores of Derwentwater Lake, it would be easy and agree- 
 able to visit them. 
 
 My materials for composing a connected narrative of the 
 proceeding of my friends during their stay at Keswick, which 
 did not last for ever, as they had projected, but only 
 for a few weeks or months, are scanty. I have eight letters, 
 not one of which is dated, either by the writer, or by a post- 
 mark : in those days, unless a letter passed thi-ough London, 
 and came into the General Post Office, the stamp bears no 
 date, merely the name of the post town. These give little 
 
Life of Shelley 285 
 
 information respecting their external world, their creature 
 comforts, or discomforts ; as to their internal life, it must 
 have been truly distressing, on account of ill-health and low 
 spirits, caused chiefly by fatigue, inclement weather, incom- 
 modious abodes, and the want of all needful appliances and 
 resources, especially of money. The purse of their Guardian 
 Angel, it seems, was just long enough to enable her fairly to 
 plant her wards, but not to furnish permanent succour. 
 
 ' If you dislike York, and the neighbourhood of York, so 
 much, do not remain there ; quit it at once ; but go to the 
 South, to a part of the world with which you are acquainted, 
 and where you are known ; to a milder and more genial 
 climate, and where you will be nearer your supplies. Do 
 not on any account expose yourselves to the bleak North 
 at this unkindly season, out of the way of everybody and of 
 everything — out of the reach of money, and buried alive 
 amongst rude and uncivilized barbarians '. But counsel was 
 offered in vain ; the Muses are not to be advised : we shall 
 see Derwentwater Lake, into which the cascade of Lodore 
 falls, and that will suffice ; it will be all in all. 
 
 They had several residences, one more disagreeable than 
 the other, in the town of Keswick ; and one at a place called 
 Chestnut Cottage, at some little distance from the town, which, 
 it may be supposed, had its additional and peculiar inconveni- 
 ences. 
 
 Bysshe's letters will speak for themselves, in a tone of vague 
 and mysterious despondency. 
 
 Keswick, Wednesday night. 
 
 You were surprised at our sudden departure ; I have no 
 time, however, now, either to account for it or enter into the 
 investigation which we agreed upon. I have arrived at this 
 place after some days of incessant travelling, which has left 
 me no leisure to write to you at length. To-morrow you will 
 hear more. 
 
 With real, true interest, I constantly think of you, believe 
 me, my friend, so sincerely am I attached to you. I can never 
 forget you. 
 
 Yours, Percy S. 
 
 Will you send my box per coach to Mr. D. Crosthwaite's, 
 Town Head, Keswick, Cumberland. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
286 Life of Shelley 
 
 Post Office, Keswick, Cumberland ; 
 not Mr. D. Crosthwaite's. 
 
 I promised to write to you to-day, my dear friend, but 
 again another day has elapsed in the occupation of preparing 
 our residence, and night has come on, when the post leaves 
 us. 
 
 We all greatly regret that ' your own interests, your own 
 real interests ', should compel you to remain at present at 
 York. But pray, write often ; your last letter I have read, 
 as I would read your soul. 
 
 We remain at Keswick. We settle here, at least for some 
 time. I will never go to the South again. Adieu. 
 
 Yours most aifectionately, most unalterably. 
 
 Percy Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Keswick, Cumberland. 
 
 Your letters are arrived. You did right in anticipating 
 that Richmond was only a resting place, and Keswick is our 
 residence, to which place I wish you could follow us immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 I stand alone. I feel that I am nothing : a speck in an 
 universe ! 
 
 All this is true : yet have I not been wretched, and was my 
 wretchedness less keen, because it was undeserved ? Was 
 it undeserved ? What is desert ? Are you not he whom I 
 love, whom I deem capable of exciting the emulation, and 
 attracting the admiration of thousands. I have ever esteemed 
 you as a superior being, and taken you for one who was to 
 give laws to us poor beings, who grovel beneath. We shall 
 meet again soon ; but I must live some little time, I fear, by 
 myself ; and if my firmness is not sufficient to bear pain with- 
 out hope of reward, I know that soon we meet again. 
 
 Your letters are kind and sincere. I had no time when I 
 wrote last. If I thought we were to be long parted, I should 
 be wretchedly miserable — half mad ! I look on Harriet : 
 she is before me ; she is somewhat better. Has she convinced 
 you that she is ? 
 
 Oh ! what a spot is this ! Here nature has exhausted the 
 profusion of her loveliness ! Will you come ; will you share 
 my fortunes, enter into my schemes, love me as I love you, 
 be inseparable, as once I fondly hoped we were ? 
 
 This is not all past, like a dream of the sick man, which 
 
Life of Shelley 287 
 
 leaves but bitterness — a fleeting vision. Oh ! how I have loved 
 you ! I was even ashamed to tell you how ! 
 
 And now to leave you for a long time ! No ; not for a 
 long time ! Night comes ; Death comes ! Cold, calm Death. 
 Almost I would it were to-morrow. There is another life — 
 are you not to be the first there ? Assuredly, dearest, dearest 
 friend. Reason with me still ; I am like a child in weakness. 
 
 Your letters came directly after dinner ; — how could any one 
 read them unmoved ? Calm, wise ; are you then with me, 
 and I forbear wishing that Death would yawn. — Adieu ! 
 
 Cannot you follow us ? — why not ? But I will dare to be 
 good — dare to be virtuous ; and I will soon seize once more 
 what I have for a while relinquished, never, never again to 
 resign it. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Keswick. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I have just finished reading your long letter to Harriet. 
 It is late, or the post is so ; therefore I may not say all I wish ; 
 indeed, that is not possible : words cannot express half my 
 reasonings, the thousandth part of my feelings. Can I not 
 feel ; do we not sympathize ? Cannot I read your soul, as 
 I have read your letter, which I beheve I have generally con- 
 sidered to be a copy of the former. My letters have always 
 been, as well as my conversations with you, transcripts of my 
 thoughts. 
 
 I did not concert my departure from Richmond, nor that 
 from York. Why did I leave you ? I have never doubted 
 you — you, the brother of my soul, the object of my vivid 
 interest ; the theme of my impassioned panegyric. But, for 
 the present. Adieu ! 
 
 It is nine ; it is ten. Expect to hear to-morrow. I will then 
 answer your letter. 
 
 Ever your Friend, 
 
 Percy Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Chesnut Hill, Keswick. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 What you say of my superiority is perfectly erroneous. 
 Consider a little, and you will discover this. The great ap- 
 parent cause of it is my insensibility ; perhaps you arc not 
 prepared to boast of yours : I am sure you are not. 
 
288 Life of Shelley 
 
 If Harriet's state of health did not intervene between our 
 meeting again immediately, to-morrow willingly would I 
 return to York ; aye, willingly, and be happy thus to prove 
 and to indulge my friendship. 
 
 ' Absence extinguishes small passions, and kindles great 
 ones '. It is so in love, and so it is with friendship. 
 
 My friend, you say I ought always to set you an example of 
 firmness. What ! I, the weakest, the most slavish of beings 
 that crawl on the earth's face, to you ? 
 
 This is a sweet spot ! But, oh heavens, my soul is half sick 
 at this terrible world, where nature seems to own no monster 
 in her works, but man. They quarrel for straws ; they part 
 on these quarrels ; and two lovers, whose existences seemed 
 entwined, separate because — you can complete the portraiture 
 yourself from my history. 
 
 Harriet has written to you ; what she has said, I know not. 
 I have not been able to write for a day or two to you, owing 
 to having been ill from the poison of laurel leaves — I have now. 
 
 Your letters of to-day have arrived ; I have read that to 
 Harriet ; she showed it me. I know how much I owe you ; 
 I feel it all. Believe me, your letter has delighted and affected 
 me. I will write again to-morrow. 
 
 Your real, true, sincere Friend, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 s bill ? 
 
 U ^'^''' lijL'" yvm you send us Mr. S 
 L^ To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Chestnut Cottage, Cumberland. 
 
 We returned to Keswick last night. All your letters I have 
 found here, which have arrived in my absence. To think of 
 returning again to York at present is impossible. I could not 
 consent to the injury of Harriet's health — to the destruction 
 of her nerves. You must know what you yourself are. Mock 
 modesty can never have concealed from you the fascination 
 which your society spreads. It were impossible to think of 
 the friendship of such a being, and not to say that were worthier 
 of attainment than fame, or pleasure, or the attachment of all 
 other beings. To give up this, even for a few weeks, must be 
 a sacrifice — how great an one my heart alone can testify. 
 Yet this I now resign for a while. I resign it for Harriet's 
 health ; possibly for my own (though / think not). I need 
 only tranquillity. 
 
 If I were free, I were unceasingly yours, though I do not 
 
Life of Shelley 289 
 
 think you infallible. I think you capable of great things, and 
 in such, as well as in the stores of such a mind as yours, can I 
 conceive no pleasure equal to the participation. 
 
 I returned to Keswick yesterday. Your letters in the mean- 
 time were not forwarded to me. 
 
 Our stay here is so uncertain, that I know not one day where 
 we may be the next. 
 
 Your real Friend, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Keswick. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Our letters are delayed terribly — two of yours together ! 
 The thing is, we are not in, but near, Keswick. You will hear 
 from me to-morrow. 
 
 I do not know that absence will certainly cure love ; but 
 this I know, that it fearfully augments the intensity of 
 friendship. 
 
 I do not know where the passage exists of which you speak 
 in the latter part of your letter. But this will not do ; I must 
 look for it. 
 
 Believe me yours, till you hear again. 
 
 I write in Keswick, just as the post is going out. 
 
 Your true, sincere 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 Pray, take care of your friend. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
 Keswick, Thursday. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 We live now at Keswick. You do not come to us ; 
 but pray, write. You may send my trunk. Open all my 
 letters that come to York. 
 
 I have obeyed what you say in your letter of to-day : I 
 have not told you that I am miserable ; indeed I cannot be 
 so miserable as I was when I wrote those letters. If you were 
 to see me now, you would see me very calm ; as I am sure you 
 are. Your long letter of advice has been my companion, my 
 study, since I received it. 
 
 Adieu ! Be happy ! My dear friend, adieu ! 
 
 Ever yours, with sincerity, 
 
 Percy Shelley. 
 To T. J. H., York. 
 
29Q Life of Shelley 
 
 Other and longer letters were written to me from Keswick 
 by Harriet, as well as by Bysshe, containing, doubtless, some 
 details of their mode of life, and probably of their studies 
 also, when they had become sufficiently reconciled to their 
 delightfully romantic position to find solace in study — and 
 indited most probably in a clearer, calmer, and less perturbed 
 spirit. These, unfortunately, I never received ; why I know 
 not. I can only conjecture that, possibly, when they resided 
 out of the town the letters, which would have been so welcome 
 at York, was confided to some artless, simple-souled messen- 
 ger — to some Peter Bell, or other immortal hero of Lakist 
 minstrelsy, in order to be put by him into the letter-box at 
 Keswick, whither he was enjoined to hasten, through the 
 pouring rain, and that a shilling was given as a reward for his 
 faithful service. That the single-hearted Peter habitually 
 repaired to the nearest public-house, spent his shilling in an 
 agreeable manner, and then, to make himself thoroughly com- 
 fortable, quietly lighted his pipe with the voluminous epistle, 
 the pretty Harriet's pretty phrases imparting a more delicate 
 flavour to the bird's-eye. 
 
 My instructions with regard to Shelley's correspondence 
 were, to open all letters that should come to York for him, and 
 to dispatch such only as appeared to me worth the postage. 
 Many letters arrived daily, but few of them merited to be sent 
 farther. One of the few was an invitation, kindly and cordi- 
 ally worded, from the Duke of Norfolk, to visit him at Gray- 
 stoke : it was franked by his Grace, and dated November 7th, 
 181 1. The letter was transmitted to Keswick, and the visit 
 was paid. I was informed subsequently that it gave much 
 satisfaction to all three of them, more especially to the ladies : 
 and Harriet assured me, most probably on the authority 
 of her sister, that the Duke was quite charmed with Eliza ; 
 and, if his Grace admired black hair well brushed, it could 
 hardly have been otherwise. In what terms or in what man- 
 ner his declaration was made, I was not told. Unfortu- 
 nately, the noble admirer was married already, although only 
 to an insane Scudamore, yet still married ; otherwise it might 
 have been inferred that the charming Eliza would have been 
 a Duchess ; and then, gracious heaven ! what would Miss 
 Warne have said ? 
 
 How Bysshe made the acquaintance of Southey, whether 
 by personal or epistolary introduction, or through poetic 
 sympathy, I never knew. 
 
Life of Shelley 291 
 
 Concerning the intercourse of these two remarkable persons, 
 I have heard from Shelley, and from others, several anecdotes. 
 
 ' Southey had a large collection of books, very many of them 
 old books, some rare books, — books in many languages, more 
 particularly in Spanish. The shelves extended over the walls 
 of every room in his large, dismal house in Keswick ; they 
 were in the bed-rooms, and even down the stairs. This I 
 never saw elsewhere. I took out some volume one day, as I 
 was going downstairs with him. Southey looked at me, as if 
 he was displeased, so I put it back again instantly, and I never 
 ventured to take down one of his books another time. I 
 used to glance my eye eagerly over the backs of the books, and 
 read their titles, as I went up or down stairs. I could not 
 help doing so, but I think he did not quite approve of it '. 
 
 ' Do you know that Southey did not like to have his books 
 touched. Do you know why ? ' 
 
 * No ! I do not know '. 
 
 * You do not know ? How I hate that there should be any 
 thing which you do not know ! For who will tell me if you 
 will not ? ' 
 
 * I know only that persons who have large Ubraries sometimes 
 have the same feeling '. 
 
 * How strange that a man should have many thousands of 
 books, and should have a secret in every book, which he cannot 
 bear that anybody should know but himself. How rare and 
 grim ! Do you beUeve, then, that Southey really had a 
 secret in every one of his books ? " 
 
 ' No ! I do not, indeed, Bysshe.' 
 
 After musing for some minutes, he added : ' There were not 
 secrets in all his books, certainly, for he often took one down 
 himself and showed me some remarkable passage ; and then 
 he would let me keep it as long as I pleased, and turn over 
 the leaves, if he had taken it down himself ; so there could be 
 no secret there. And yet ', he continued, after further reflec- 
 tion, * perhaps there was a secret ; but he thought that I could 
 not find it out.' 
 
 * Were the passages which he showed you really remarkable?' 
 
 * They might be, sometimes ; but for the most part they 
 were not ; at least, I did not think them so. They usually 
 appeared trifling. He never discussed any subject ; he gave 
 his own opinion, commonly, in a very absolute manner ; he 
 used to lay down the law, to dogmatize. What he said was 
 seldom his own — it seldom came from himself. He repeated 
 
292 Life of Shelley 
 
 long quotations, read extracts which he had made, or took 
 down books and read from them aloud, or pointed out some- 
 thing for me to read, which would settle the matter at once 
 without appeal. His conversation was rather interesting, and 
 only moderately instructive ; he was not so much a man as a 
 living common-place book, a talking album filled with long 
 extracts from long-forgotten authors on unimportant subjects. 
 Still his intercourse was very agreeable. I liked much to be 
 with him ; besides, he was a good man and exceedingly 
 kind'. 
 
 When Southey died his books were brought to the hammer 
 — as the phrase is. I picked up a few of them, rather as memo- 
 rials than for their intrinsic value. Several of these were 
 bound in the Chinese fashion, as I had heard that many of 
 his books were, that is to say, in silk, cloth, velvet, and not in 
 leather. 
 
 Mrs. Southey had been a milliner at Bath, a certain Miss ; 
 
 a lovely creature, as I have been told, as every Bath milliner 
 ought to be ; and no doubt a very estimable person. After 
 her marriage she used up her remnants in a truly conjugal and 
 most beneficial manner, in binding strongly and very neatly 
 such of her husband's books as required it. I possess one of 
 these bound with a bit of modest gingham, and another in a 
 pretty piece of Irish poplin ; both volumes are likewise adorned 
 by the autograph of the author of Madoc ; they are therefore, 
 on all accounts, to be cherished. 
 
 In associating with Southey, not only was it necessary to 
 salvation to refrain from touching his books, but various 
 rites, ceremonies, and usages must be rigidly observed. At 
 certain appointed hours only was he open to conversation ; 
 at the seasons which had been predestined from all eternity 
 for holding intercourse with his friends. Every hour of the 
 day had its commission — every half-hour was assigned to its 
 own peculiar, undcviating function. The indefatigable student 
 gave a detailed account of his most painstaking Ufe, every 
 moment of which was fully employed and strictly pre-arranged, 
 to a certain literary Quaker lady. 
 
 * I rise at five throughout the year ; from six till eight I 
 read Spanish ; then French, for one hour ; Portuguese, next, 
 for half an hour — my watch lying on the table ; I give two 
 hours to jx)etry ; I write prose for two hours ; I translate 
 so long ; I make extracts so long ' ; and so of the rest, until 
 the poor fellow had fairly fagged himself into his bed again. 
 
Life of Shelley 293 
 
 * And, pray, when dost thou think, friend ? * she asked, 
 drily, tc the great discomfiture of the future Laureate. 
 
 From morn till night, from the cradle to the grave, the hard 
 reading, hard writing pansophist had never once found a single 
 spare moment for such a purpose. The fable, if it be a fable, 
 is told of thee, too, dearest Bysshe. Shelley also was always 
 reading ; at his meals a book lay by his side, on the table, 
 open. Tea and toast were often neglected, his author seldom ; 
 his mutton and potatoes might grow cold ; his interest in a 
 work never cooled. He invariably sallied forth, book in hand, 
 reading to himself, if he was alone, if he had a companion 
 reading aloud. He took a volume to bed with him, and read 
 as long as his candle lasted ; he then slept — impatiently, no 
 doubt — until it was light, and he recommenced reading at the 
 early dawn. One day we were walking together, arm-in-arm, 
 under the gate of the Middle Temple, in Fleet Street ; Shelley, 
 with open book, was reading aloud ; a man with an apron 
 said to a brother operative, ' See, there are two of your dam- 
 nation lawyers ; they are always reading ! ' The tolerant 
 philosopher did not choose to be reminded that he had once 
 been taken for a lawyer ; he declared the fellow was an ignorant 
 wretch ! He was loth to leave his books to go to bed, and 
 frequently sat up late reading ; sometimes indeed he remained 
 at his studies all night. In consequence of this great watching, 
 and of almost incessant reading, he would often fall asleep in 
 the daytime — dropping off in a moment — Hke an infant. He 
 often quietly transferred himself from his chair to the floor, 
 and slept soundly on. the carpet, and in the winter upon the 
 rug, basking in the warmth like a cat ; and like a cat his little 
 round head was roasted before a blazing fire. If any one 
 humanely covered the poor head to shield it from the heat, 
 the covering was impatiently put aside in his sleep. * You 
 make your brains boil, Bysshe. I have seen and heard the 
 steam rushing out violently at your nostrils and ears ! ' 
 
 Southey was addicted to reading his terrible epics — before 
 they were printed — to any one, who seemed to be a fit subject 
 for the cruel experiment. He soon set his eyes on the new 
 comer, and one day having effected the caption of Shelley, 
 he immediately lodged him securely in a little study upstairs, 
 carefully locking the door upon himself and his prisoner and 
 putting the key in his waistcoat pocket. There was a window 
 in the room, it is true, but it was so high above the ground 
 that Baron Trenck himself would not have attempted it. 
 
294 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' Now you shall be delighted ', Southey said ; ' but sit down *. 
 Poor Bysshe sighed, and took his seat at the table. The 
 author seated himself opposite, and placing his MS. on the 
 table before him, began to read slowly and distinctly. The 
 poem, if I mistake not, was The Curse of Kehamah. Charmed 
 with his own composition the admiring author read on, varying 
 his voice occasionally, to point out the finer passages and invite 
 applause. There was no commendation ; no criticism ; all 
 was hushed. This was strange. Southey raised his eyes from 
 the neatly-written MS. ; Shelley had disappeared. This 
 was still more strange. Escape was impossible ; every pre- 
 caution had been taken, yet he had vanished. Shelley had 
 glided noiselessly from his chair to the floor, and the insensible 
 young Vandal lay buried in profound sleep underneath the 
 table. No wonder the Indignant and injured bard afterwards 
 enrolled the sleeper as a member of the Satanic school, and 
 inscribed his name, together with that of Byron, on a gibbet ! 
 I have been told on his own authority, that wherever Southey 
 passed the night in travelUng, he bought some book, if it were 
 possible to pick one up on a stall, or in a shop, and wrote his 
 own name and the name of the place at the bottom of the title- 
 page, and the date, including the day of the week. This 
 inscription, he found, served in some measure the purpose of 
 a journal, for when he looked at such a date it reminded him, 
 through the association of ideas, of many particulars of his 
 journey. I have a small volume in the German language, thus 
 inscribed by Southey, at the foot of the title-page ; the place 
 is some town in France. 
 
 Bysshe chanced to call, one afternoon, during his residence 
 at Keswick, on his new acquaintance, a man eminent, and of 
 rare epic fertility. It was at four o'clock ; Southey and his 
 wife were sitting together at their tea after an early dinner, for 
 it was washing day. A cup of tea was offered, which was ac- 
 cepted, and a plate piled high with tea-cakes was handed to 
 the illustrious visitor ; of these he refused to partake, with signs 
 of strong aversion. He was always libstemious in his diet, at 
 this period, of his life peculiarly so ; a thick hunch of dry 
 bread, possibly a slice of brown bread and butter, might have 
 been welcome to the Spartan youth ; but hot tea-cakes heaped 
 up, in scandalous profusion, well buttered, blushing with 
 currants or sprinkled thickly with carraway-seeds, and reeking 
 with allspice, shocked him grievously. It was a Persian appar- 
 atus, which he detested — a display of excessive and unmanly 
 
Life of Slielle7 295 
 
 luxury by which the most powerful empires have been over- 
 thrown, that threatened destruction to all social order, and 
 would have rendered abortive even the divine Plato's scheme 
 of a frugal and perfect repubhc. A poet's dinner is never a 
 very heavy meal ; on a washing-day, we may readily believe, 
 that it is as Hght as his own fancy. So far in the day Southey, 
 no doubt, had fared sparingly ; he was a hale, healthy, hearty 
 man, breathing the keen mountain air, and working hard, too 
 hard, poor fellow ; he was hungry, and did not shrink from the 
 tea-cakes which had been furnished to make up for his scanty 
 mid-day repast. Shelley watched his unworthy proceedings, 
 eying him with pain and pity. Southey had not noticed his 
 distress, but he held his way, clearing the plates of buttered 
 currant-cakes, and buttered seed-cakes, with an equal relish. 
 
 * Why ! good God, Southey ! ' Bysshe suddenly exclaimed, 
 for he could no longer contain his boiling indignation. * I 
 am ashamed of you ! It is awful, horrible, to see such a man 
 as you are greedily devouring this nasty stuff ! ' 
 
 * Nasty stuff, indeed ! How dare you call my tea-cakes 
 nasty stuff, sir ? ' 
 
 Mrs. Southey was charming, but it is credibly reported that 
 she was also rather sharp. 
 
 ' Nasty stuff ! What right have you, pray, Mr. Shelley, 
 to come into my house, and to tell me to my face that my tea- 
 cakes, which I made myself, are nasty ; and to blame my hus- 
 band for eating them ? How in the world can they be nasty ? 
 I washed my hands well before I made them, and I sprinkled 
 them with flour. The board and the rolling-pin were quite 
 clean ; they had been well scraped and sprinkled with flour. 
 The flour was taken out of the meal-tub, which is always kept 
 locked ; here is the key ! There was nothing nasty in the 
 ingredients, I am sure ; we have a very good grocer in Kes- 
 wick. Do you suppose, that I would put anything nasty 
 into them ? What right have you to call them nasty ; you 
 ought to be ashamed of yourself, and not Mr. Southey ; 
 he surely has a right to eat what his wife puts before him ! 
 Nasty stuff ! I like your impertinence ! ' 
 
 In the course of this animated invective, Bysshe put his 
 face close to the plate, and curiously scanned the cakes. He 
 then took up a piece and ventured to taste it, and, finding it 
 very good, he began to eat as greedily as Southey himself. 
 The servant, a neat, stout, little, ruddy Cumberland girl, with 
 a very white apron, brought in a fresh supply, these also the 
 
296 Life of Shelley 
 
 brother philosophers soon dispatched, eating one against the 
 other in generous rivalry. Shelley then asked for more, but 
 no more were to be had ; the whole batch had been consumed. 
 The lovely Edith was pacified on seeing that her cakes were 
 relished by the two hungry poets, and she expressed her regret 
 that she did not know that Mr. Shelley was coming to take 
 tea with her, or she would have made a larger provision. 
 Harriet, who told me the tale, added : * We were to have hot 
 tea-cakes every evening " for ever ". I was to make them 
 myself, and Mrs. Southey was to teach me '. 
 
 The Divine Poet, like many other wiser men, used to pass 
 very readily and suddenly from one extreme to the other. I 
 myself witnessed, some years later, a like rapid transition. 
 When he resided at Bishopsgate, I usually walked down from 
 London, and spent Sunday with him. One frosty Saturday, 
 in the middle of the winter, being overcome by hunger, I 
 halted by the way — it was a rare occurrence — for refreshment, 
 at a humble inn on Hounslow Heath. I had just taken my 
 seat on a Windsor chair, at a small round beechen table in a 
 little dark room with a well-sanded floor, when I saw Bysshe 
 striding past the window. He was coming to meet me ; I 
 went to the door, and hailed him. 
 
 ' Come along ! It is dusk ; tea will be ready ; we shall be 
 late ! ' 
 
 * No ! I must have something to eat first ; come in ! ' 
 He walked about the room impatiently. 
 
 ' When will your dinner be ready ; what have you ordered ? ' 
 ' I asked for eggs and bacon, but they have no eggs ; I am 
 to have some fried bacon '. 
 
 He was struck with horror, and his agony was increased at 
 the appearance of my dinner. Bacon was proscribed by 
 him ; it was gross and abominable. It distressed him greatly 
 at first to see me eat the bacon ; but he gradually approached 
 the dish, and, studying the bacon attentively, said, ' So this 
 is bacon ! ' He then ate a small piece. * It is not so bad 
 cither I ' More was ordered ; he devoured it voraciously. 
 
 * Bring more bacon ! ' It was brought, and eaten. 
 ' Let us have another plate '. 
 
 ' I am very sorry, gentlemen ', said the old woman, ' but 
 indeed I have no more in the house '. 
 
 The Poet was angry at the disappointment, and rated 
 her. 
 
 ' What business has a woman to keep an inn, who has not 
 
Life of Shelley 297 
 
 enough bacon in the house for her guests ? She ought to be 
 killed ! ' 
 
 ' Really, gentlemen, I am very sorry to be out of bacon ; 
 but I only keep by me as much as I think will be wanted. I 
 can easily get more from Staines ; they have very good bacon 
 always in Staines ! * 
 
 ' As there is nothing more to be had, come along, Bysshe ; 
 let us go home to tea ! ' 
 
 * No ! Not yet ; she is going to Staines, to get us some 
 more bacon '. 
 
 * She cannot go to-night ; come along ! ' 
 
 He departed with reluctance, grumbling as we walked 
 homewards at the scanty store of bacon, lately condemned as 
 gross and abominable. The dainty rustic food made a strong 
 impression upon his Uvely fancy, for when we arrived the first 
 words he uttered were, * We have been eating bacon together 
 on Hounslow Heath, and do you know it was very nice. Can- 
 not we have bacon here, Mary ? * 
 
 ' Yes, you can, if you please ; but not to-night. Here is 
 your tea ; take that ! ' 
 
 * I had rather have some more bacon ! ' sighed the Poet. 
 Shelley's family always called him Bysshe ; as many of 
 
 them, as now survive, whenever they speak of their bereave- 
 ment — of the bright, but lost star of their honourable house — 
 still call him so. Harriet and her sister, chiefly the latter, soon 
 interdicted that name, which Eliza affirmed was too shock- 
 ing ; and they substituted Percy, as being prettier and more 
 romantic. It may be so, but it was less peculiar ; and I con- 
 tinued to address my friend as Bysshe, whenever I could style 
 him thus without flagrant offence and open scandal. There 
 is a Percy in Chevy Chace ; a Percy in Shakspeare ; there is 
 many a Percy to be found elsewhere ; good men and true ; it 
 is a very good name, no doubt ; but I never knew any other 
 Bysshe ; there is an individuahty in that name which pleases 
 me. His grandfather, old Sir Bysshe, after whom he was 
 called, and who probably was his godfather, I never saw ; by 
 general consent it was admitted that he was tall, handsome, 
 clever, and eccentric ; of a noble presence and good address, 
 and with the formal politeness of a gentleman of the old school. 
 
 Sir Bysshe Shelley was born in 1731 ; he was a younger 
 branch of his family, and therefore not wealthy. I have heard 
 various tales concerning him, some of them extraordinary ; 
 these, it would seem, are partly true, and partly false, as is 
 
29B Life of Shelley 
 
 commonly the case with all private histories ; but none of them 
 are entirely unfounded. I have heard, for example, that he 
 was at one time a miller. The legend has been thus explained. 
 He was always frugal, and he saved his money early in life ; 
 he had invested his first savings on the security of a mill, and 
 the mortgage being foreclosed, he became the owner of the 
 mill ; so far, but not farther, he was a miller. He married a 
 rich heiress, when he was only twenty-one years of age, in 
 1752, the only daughter of the Rev. Theobald Mitchell. This 
 lady was the mother of Timothy Shelley, and the grandmother 
 of Percy Bysshe Shelley. Some seventeen years afterwards he 
 found another and a richer heiress, whom he married in 1769 ; 
 of his second marriage it would be superfluous to say more 
 at present. 
 
 His personal habits were economical, even penurious, and 
 he had married two rich wives ; it is not surprising, therefore, 
 that at the termination of a long life of eighty-four years, he 
 had amassed a considerable sum of money, and died at the 
 commencement of the year 18 15 very rich. Nevertheless he 
 had spent money, it is said, at elections ; and it is certain that 
 he had lavished large sums very foolishly in building a vast 
 edifice, Castle Goring, which he never completed. The whim- 
 sical and parsimonious old gentleman was created a Baronet 
 in 1 806. His habits were retired and peculiar, but little known ; 
 for many years before his death he was confined by ill health, 
 or chose to confine himself, to his room in a small house in the 
 town of Horsham, and to the society of an old servant, who 
 was as great a curiosity as his master ; as the fine, handsome 
 man, of polished and elegant manners, of great natural talents, 
 and of vast wealth, who by his own caprice was thus buried 
 alive 
 
 I have heard that at one time Sir Bysshe actually practised 
 medicine in London, in partnership with Dr. Graham, who 
 was formerly notorious for his earth-baths and celestial beds. 
 This tale is apocryphal ; but Bysshe, his grandson and name- 
 sake, assured me that he had heard from good authority that 
 his grandfather lent money to the doctor, with whom he was 
 acquainted, in order to set up a purple chariot, in which the 
 renowned physician drove about town ; and to carry on other 
 professional objects. When I was a boy, people still talked 
 about Dr. Graham ; I remember hearing a clergyman, a 
 middle-aged man, give a detailed account of him to ladies and 
 gentlemen assembled in the drawing-room at home : 
 
Life of Shelley 299 
 
 * My uncle, an old clergyman, had lived many years in a 
 damp parsonage in the New Forest, and he was sorely afflicted 
 with rheumatism. He was advised to consult Dr. Graham, 
 v/ho was then all the fashion. He did so, and was persuaded 
 by him to take an earth-bath : he actually took one, and he 
 thought it did him good, and was hkely to be of great service. 
 My uncle often regretted that he had not resolution enough to 
 persevere ; but it was exceedingly unpleasant. The patient 
 was led into the doctor's garden, there he took off his clothes 
 behind a screen, stripping himself stark naked. He was then 
 placed in a hole in the ground, just large enough to contain 
 him ; in what posture, I do not recollect, but I think standing. 
 Earth, finely sifted vegetable mould, was gently filled in quite 
 up to the collar bone, the head and neck being free, and remain- 
 ing out of the ground ; the arms were buried, being placed 
 close to his side. The patient being fairly in the bath, the 
 screen was removed, and he commonly saw other persons 
 around him in a Uke situation with himself ; and he passed the 
 time, as well as he could, in conversing with them ; for it was 
 necessary to remain three or four hours in the earth '. 
 
 ' How cold he must have been ! ' a lady remarked. 
 
 * On the contrary, the sensation of heat was most oppressive ; 
 there was an unpleasant feehng of suffocation, and the perspira- 
 tion was profuse. When the time prescribed had expired, the 
 screen was placed round him, the bather was taken out of his 
 grave and well rubbed, and he was allowed to put on his clothes 
 and to depart. It was so disagreeable, that my uncle could 
 never summon courage to undergo the operation a second 
 time ; but several of his friends had taken an earth-bath 
 frequently, and they thought that the process was of great use 
 to them'. 
 
 ' I have seen persons in the earth-bath myself. I well 
 remember going with my uncle the first time he consulted 
 Dr. Graham. A man servant, in a splendid Hvery, received 
 us, and conducted us into the garden, and we saw there what 
 seemed to be a bed of cauHfiowers. It was the age of wigs, of 
 powdered wigs ; and there were several old gentlemen buried 
 up to the neck in the ground, with the head only to be seen 
 above the earth, and a well whitened wig upon it. The foot- 
 man led my uncle up to one of the most considerable of the 
 wigs, and introduced him to his physician : " This, sir, is Dr. 
 Graham ". For the doctor took a bath every morning himself, 
 to encourage his patients, and shone forth on the surface of 
 
300 Life of Shelley 
 
 mother earth as the biggest of the big wigs. He could not 
 feel my uncle's pulse, for his arms were interred as well as his 
 body ; but he looked at his tongue, and asked him very many 
 questions, in exact accordance with the practice of the Col- 
 lege ; and finally he prescribed an earth-bath, which shortly 
 afterwards my uncle took '. 
 
 * How dreadful ! ' all the ladies exclaimed with one voice ; 
 * it must be just like being buried alive ! Were there any 
 women there ? ' 
 
 ' Not when I was present, certainly ; and I rather think 
 that females did not take these baths ; and yet I recollect 
 that the advertisements strongly recommended them to ladies 
 as an unfailing remedy for sterility, inasmuch as the earth 
 would surely impart to them some portion of its fruitfulness, 
 the earth being the fertile mother of all things*. 
 
 * Did you ever see Dr. Graham's celestial bed ? ' my father 
 asked. 
 
 ' Never ! I never saw it. That was sometime afterwards. 
 The Doctor quite lost himself eventually. My uncle knew 
 nothing of him then ; we were obliged to drop his acquaint- 
 ance ! ' 
 
 Whatever a celestial bed might be, an earth-bath must 
 unquestionably be a most unpleasant remedy : the resurrec- 
 tion, the taking up the body and removing the earth, however 
 managed, must be disagreeable, and even perilous. It is not 
 easy to take up a large and vigorous plant without injury — 
 without breaking its roots ; but to dig up a portly, ponderous 
 parson, must be a process in medical horticulture requiring 
 extreme nicety of manipulation, lest unhappily a sharp spade 
 should cut off unawares some portion of his radical fibres. 
 No wonder * My Uncle ', his rheumatism notwithstanding, so 
 soon had enough of it ! 
 
 What security Sir Bysshe had to cover his advances to 
 Dr. Graham, I was never informed. The celestial bed could 
 hardly be a subject for mortgage and foreclosure ; however, 
 the bathing-place might be a real security. 
 
 The descendant Bysshe used to speak of his ancestor, Sir 
 Bysshe, without love and without hate ; with contemptuous 
 indifference. Nevertheless, a certain indistinct sympathy 
 might be traced as actually existing between natures so 
 opposite and antagonistic, and arising out of a strong common 
 feeling. Bysshe disliked his father, and Sir Bysshe disliked 
 his son ; according to the profound observation of Lord Bacon, 
 
Life of Shelley 301 
 
 that every grandfather loves his grandson because he is his 
 enemy's enemy, the basis of a treaty of mutual alliance already 
 existed. Had this favourable disposition been cultivated, it 
 would probably have borne fruit ; but the poor poet could 
 never cultivate any soil less ungrateful than the two arid 
 summits of the most sterile mountain on earth — Parnassus. 
 
 The Baronet grandfather received the rare visits of his 
 philosophic grandchild with politeness ; kindness he had none ; 
 he conversed with him civilly, heard whatever was addressed 
 to him with urbanity, was never shocked or offended at any 
 proposition, be it what it might ; never swore at him — his 
 son he cursed bitterly ; he thanked him for his company, and 
 hoped to see him again soon. 
 
 For speculative opinions the old gentleman cared as much 
 as his old cat did ; neither of them was ever offended at any 
 sally, however bold : the toleration of Sir Bysshe was perfect, 
 and very commendable ; his indifference to everything, even 
 to human progress and perfectibility, was most reprehensible : 
 
 ' They may found Plato's Republic as soon as they please, 
 at Reigate, at Cuckfield, or even at Horsham ; I have no 
 objection to it whatever ; but I would not take my leg off this 
 stool, either to promote, or to prevent it'. 
 
 * Men may believe what they will ', thought the cat, * but 
 be human belief what it may, it will never bring another 
 mouse into our house, or make the mice which are here already 
 more easy to be caught '. 
 
 To return to Elizabeth and the Exiles of Siberia ; to Eliza 
 and the exiles, who for poetical, not political offences, had 
 voluntarily banished themselves to the ungenial cHmate of 
 Keswick. Madame Cottin has not made them the subject of 
 a moral tale, and they kept but few records, or reports, of 
 their proceedings ; little, therefore, can be told of them. 
 
 An extract from a letter written by Coleridge affirms, and 
 no doubt truly, that the writer, had he fortunately been at 
 Keswick when Shelley visited it, would have treated him less 
 Uke a prig than Southey did ; it is, moreover, in spirit candid, 
 tolerant, and judicious : 
 
 EXTRACT FROM A LETTER OF COLERIDGE 
 
 ' I think as highly of Shelley's genius — yea, and of his heart 
 — as you can do. Soon after he left Oxford, he went to the 
 Lakes, poor fellow ! and with some wish, I have understood 
 
302 Life of Shelley 
 
 to see me ; but I was absent, and Southey received him 
 instead. Now — the very reverse of what would have been the 
 case in ninety-nine instances of a hundred — I might have been 
 of use to him, and Southey could not ; for I should have 
 sympathized with his poetics, metaphysical reveries, and the 
 very word metaphysics is an abomination to Southey, and 
 Shelley would have felt that I understood him. His discus- 
 sions — tending towards Atheism of a certain sort — would 
 not have scared me ; for me it would have been a semi-trans- 
 parent Larva, soon to be sloughed, and through which I should 
 have seen the true image — the final metamorphosis. Besides, I 
 have ever thought that sort of Atheism the next best religion 
 to Christianity ; nor does the better faith I have learnt from 
 Paul and John interfere with the cordial reverence I feel for 
 Benedict Spinoza. As far as Robert Southey was concerned 
 with him, I am quite certain that his harshness arose entirely 
 from the frightful reports that had been made to him respecting 
 Shelley's moral character and conduct — reports essentially 
 false ; but, for a man of Southey's strict regularity and habitual 
 self-government, rendered plausible by Shelley's own wild 
 words, and horror of hypocrisy.* 
 
 CHAPTER XV 
 
 Shelley was fugitive, volatile ; he evaporated like ether, 
 his nature being ethereal ; he suddenly escaped, like some 
 fragrant essence ; evanescent as a quintessence. He was a 
 lovely, a graceful image, but fading, vanishing speedily from 
 our sight, being portrayed in flying colours. He was a climber, 
 a creeper, an elegant, beautiful, odoriferous parasitical plant ; 
 he could not support himself ; he must be tied up fast to 
 something of a firmer texture, harder and more rigid than 
 his own, pliant, yielding structure ; to some person of a less 
 flexible formation : he always required a prop. In order to 
 write the history of his fragile, unconnected, interrupted life, 
 it is necessary to describe that of some ordinary every-day 
 person with whom he was familiar, and to introduce the real 
 subject of the history, whenever a transitory glimpse of him 
 can be caught. 
 
 In exhibiting a phantasmagoria, a magic lantern, a spectrum 
 of prismatic colours, a solar microscope ; the white sheet, the 
 
Life of Shelley 303 
 
 screen of blank paper, the whitened wall claim no merit, no 
 share in the beauty of the exhibition, yet are these indispensable 
 adjuncts in order to display wonderful, beauteous, or striking 
 phenomena. 
 
 It is not easy — it is often impossible, indeed — to relate the 
 whole life of any one without entering into various details ; in 
 themselves, these are often unimportant, but they are required 
 as a background to bring out the principal figure in proper 
 relief. 
 
 In the dedication of the fragment of his Essay on Friendship, 
 he says : * I once had a friend, whom an inextricable multitude 
 of circumstances has forced me to treat with apparent neglect '. 
 
 The celebrated Cretan Maze, to which by the word ' inextri- 
 cable ' he plainly alludes, as his friend can testify, was a laby- 
 rinth of which he was himself the architect, the Daedalus ; and 
 his poetic imagination alone created the Minotaur, the fancied 
 monster that inhabited it, and exacted a cruel tribute. The 
 inextricable, inexplicable, irremediable, unobservable error, 
 in the real existence of which he with a rash credulity believed, 
 was entirely of his own making, or imagining. Clotho span 
 the thread of life for the Divine Poet precisely as she spins it 
 for other and less gifted mortals ; but he so wound the skein, 
 and weakly permitted others so to wind it for him, that it soon 
 became, as he supposed, ' inextricable ' ; although when it was 
 most tangled it would have been easy, with a little firmness, 
 to have cut at once every knot. It would have been, indeed, 
 no difficult task, with a moderate amount of patience and 
 ordinary address, to have unravelled the intricacies caused 
 solely by the perverse machinations and fraudulent ingenuity 
 of sordid and selfish people. 
 
 The primary object, great final cause, and last and most 
 important result of the poetical faculty and temperament is 
 certainly to make, to create ; but the incidental consequences 
 are also to destroy : a poet is a maker, but he is likewise a 
 marrer. I have often wondered and asked myself and others, 
 and amongst the rest my friend, as I stated before, how 
 many poets the world could bear at once, all simultaneously 
 energizing destructively ? 
 
 This question, however, can never arise in practice ; for, 
 fortunately or unfortunately, the number of poets has always 
 been very limited : a real poet is of rare occurrence. 
 
 Having wasted much money on the bootless expedition to 
 London, and on an expensive journey by post to Cumberland, 
 
304 Life of Shelley 
 
 as much as would have maintained them all in comfort for 
 some months at York, the unfortunate exiles found themselves 
 without resources, and were in great straits, in a land of 
 strangers — of persons less improvident, perhaps, but not less 
 needy, than they were. It was no longer in my power to assist 
 my friend ; a loan of twenty pounds, or thirty pounds, will 
 enable a single man to hold his way for some time, but to the 
 master of a family such paltry help avails little : it is a drop in 
 a bucket. 
 
 A retired naval captain, however gallant, generous, and 
 good-natured he may be, is seldom a wealthy man. Bysshe 
 had exhausted the bounty and the benevolence of his uncle, 
 who could inclose no more bank-post bills in his kind, jovial 
 letters. These, no doubt, were as genial as ever ; but all the 
 hero of many battles, of many sea-fights, could now do for 
 his high-spirited and studious nephew was to advise him to 
 live in as economical a manner as possible. Excellent advice, 
 and worthy of honour and acceptance ; but it is impracticable, 
 even for an inspired poet, and such unquestionably he was, 
 to subsist upon air — upon the pure, keen, searching air of the 
 mountains. 
 
 Various attempts were made to procure the requisite 
 supplies, but in vain. At last, the father of his wife gave him 
 grudgingly a small sum. It was unworthy of a Christian, or a 
 Jew, to refuse at least some small pittance, for present and 
 most urgent necessities, to a married daughter, whose filial 
 disobedience had elevated her from a coffee-house to Castle 
 Goring. Besides, his model daughter, Eliza, had never 
 offended him by any like act of prosperous undutifulness ; she 
 unquestionably had never forfeited her hereditary right to a 
 moderate pension. 
 
 The accursed thirst of gold defeats its darling objects, even 
 in the breast of a greedy vintner, of a perfidus caupo. This 
 sparing, but seasonable aid, enabled them to remain at Kes- 
 wick ; the dates of letters show that they resided there about 
 three months, from the middle of November, 181 1, to the 
 middle of the following February. 
 
 The campaign of the year 18 12, as well as the year itself, 
 was opened by a spirited attack upon the intrenchments of a 
 veteran philosopher. Shelley boldly assailed no less a chief 
 than the venerable William Godwin, whose acquaintance he 
 was determined to make without further delay, and whom 
 accordingly he addressed by letter, without introduction, as 
 
Life of Shelley 305 
 
 he was wont to do in cases of great literary emergency. 
 Bysshe's four letters to the author of Political Justice com- 
 prehend whatever is now known of this period of his life, and 
 they will be read with deep interest ; but the contents must 
 be received with caution, and with a certain distrust ; for, 
 together with much truth, they contain some fiction : some 
 flights of imagination, some strains of poetry, have here and 
 there thrown a false light upon a solid structure of facts. It 
 is much to be regretted, that, after the most careful and dili- 
 gent research through all our repositories, we have not yet 
 been able to find the calm answers of the old philosopher to 
 the fervid epistles of the youthful poet. But perseverance 
 frequently ensures success, and often renewed researches are 
 now and then rewarded by fresh discoveries ; all that has been 
 mislaid is not lost ; and we may still cherish the hope that 
 another edition of Shelley's life may present, together with 
 other desired documents, William Godwin's earliest letters 
 to his illustrious correspondent. Slight traces of thought, 
 scattered rays of light, which gleam faintly at intervals, as it 
 were, through crevices and interstices in the young man's 
 letters, strongly stimulate a liberal and enlightened curiosity 
 to long for the perusal of the missing papers. 
 
 Keswick, Cumberland, January 3, 18 12. 
 
 You will be surprised at hearing from a stranger. No 
 introduction has, nor in all probability ever will authorize 
 that which common thinkers would call a liberty ; it is, how- 
 ever, a liberty which, although not sanctioned by custom, is 
 so far from being reprobated by reason, that the dearest 
 interests of mankind imperiously demand that a certain 
 etiquette of fashion should no longer keep * man at a distance 
 from man ', or impose its flimsy fancies between the free 
 communication of intellect. 
 
 The name of Godwin has been used, to excite in me feelings 
 of reverence and admiration. I have been accustomed to 
 consider him" a luminary too dazzling for the darkness which 
 surrounds him. From the earliest period of my knowledge 
 of his principles, I have ardently desired to share, on the 
 footing of intimacy, that intellect which I have delighted to 
 contemplate in its emanations. 
 
 Considering, then, these feelings, you will not be surprised 
 at the inconceivable emotions with which I learned your 
 existence and your dwelling. I had enrolled your name in 
 
 X 
 
3o6 Life of Shelley 
 
 the list of the honourable dead. I had felt regret that the 
 glory of your being had passed from this earth of ours. It is 
 not so ; you still live, and, I firmly believe, are still planning 
 the welfare of human kind. 
 
 I have but just entered on the scene of human operations ; 
 yet my feelings and my reasonings correspond with what yours 
 were. My course has been short, but eventful. I have seen 
 much of human prejudice, suffered much from human persecu- 
 tion, yet I see no reason hence inferrible which should alter 
 my wishes for their renovation. The ill-treatment I have 
 met with has more than ever impressed the truth of my 
 principles on my judgment. I am young, I am ardent in the 
 cause of philanthropy and truth ; do not suppose that this is 
 vanity ; I am not conscious that it influences this portraiture. 
 I imagine myself dispassionately describing the state of my 
 mind. I am young ; you have gone before me — I doubt not, 
 are a veteran to me iii the years of persecution. Is it strange 
 that, defying prejudice as I have done, I should outstep the 
 limits of custom's prescription, and endeavour to make my 
 desire useful by a friendship with William Godwin ? 
 
 I pray you to answer this letter. Imperfect as may be my 
 capacity, my desire is ardent and unintermitted. Half an 
 hour would be at least humanely employed in the experiment. 
 I may mistake your residence ; certain feelings, of which I 
 may be an inadequate arbiter, may induce you to desire con- 
 cealment ; I may not, in fine, have an answer to this letter. 
 If I do not, when I come to London, I shall seek for you. I 
 am convinced I could represent myself to you in such terms 
 as not to be thought wholly unworthy of your friendship ; at 
 least, if desire for universal happiness has any claim upon 
 your preference, that desire I can exhibit. Adieu ! I shall 
 earnestly await your answer. 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, at M. J. Godwin's, 
 
 Juvenile Library, Skinner Street, London. 
 
 Keswick, January lo, 1812. 
 Sir, 
 
 It is not otherwise to be supposed than that I should 
 appreciate your avocations far beyond the pleasure or benefit 
 which can accrue to me from their sacrifice. The time, how- 
 ever, will be small which may be mis-spent in reading this 
 letter ; and much individual pleasure as an answer might give 
 
Life of Shelley 307 
 
 me, I have not the vanity to imagine that it will be greater 
 than the happiness elsewhere diffused during the time which 
 its creation will occupy. 
 
 You complain that the generalizing character of my letter 
 renders it deficient in interest ; that I am not an individual 
 to you. Yet, intimate as I am with your character and your 
 writings, intimacy with yourself must in some degree precede 
 this exposure of my peculiarities. It is scarcely possible, 
 however pure be the morality which he has endeavoured 
 to diffuse, but that generalization must characterize the 
 uninvited address of a stranger to a stranger. 
 
 I proceed to remedy the fault. I am the son of a man of 
 fortune in Sussex. The habits of thinking of my father and 
 myself never coincided. Passive obedience was inculcated and 
 enforced in my childhood. I was required to love, because it 
 was my duty to love : it is scarcely necessary to remark, that 
 coercion obviated its own intention. I was haunted with a 
 passion for the wildest and most extravagant romances. 
 Ancient books of Chemistry and Magic were perused with an 
 enthusiasm of wonder, almost amounting to belief. My senti- 
 ments were unrestrained by anything within me ; external 
 impediments were numerous, and strongly applied ; their 
 effect was merely temporary. 
 
 From a reader, I became a writer of romances ; before the 
 age of seventeen I had published two, St. Irvyn and Zasirozzi, 
 each of which, though quite uncharacteristic of me as now I 
 am, yet serves to mark the state of my mind at the period of 
 their composition. I shall desire them to be sent to you : 
 do not, however, consider this as any obligation to yourself to 
 misapply your valuable time. 
 
 It is now a period of more than two years since first I saw 
 your inestimable book on Political Justice ; it opened to my 
 mind fresh and more extensive views ; it materially influenced 
 my character, and I rose from its perusal a wiser and a better 
 man. I was no longer the votary of romance ; till then I had 
 existed in an ideal world — now I found that in this universe 
 of ours was enough to excite the interest of the heart, enough 
 to employ the discussions of reason ; I beheld, in short, that I 
 had duties to perform. Conceive the effect which the Political 
 Justice would have upon a mind before jealous of its indepen- 
 dence, participating somewhat singularly in a peculiar sus- 
 ceptibility. 
 
 My age is now nineteen ; at the period to which I allude I 
 
3o8 Life of Shelley 
 
 was at Eton. No sooner had I formed the principles which I 
 now profess, than I was anxious to disseminate their benefits. 
 This was done without the sHghtest caution. I was twice 
 expelled, but recalled by the interference of my father. I 
 went to Oxford. Oxonian society was insipid to me, uncon- 
 genial with my habits of thinking. I could not descend to 
 common life : the sublime interest of poetry, lofty and exalted 
 achievements, the proselytism of the world, the equalization 
 of its inhabitants, were to me the soul of my soul. You can 
 probably form some idea of the contrast exhibited to my 
 character by those with whom I was surrounded. Classical 
 reading and poetical writing employed me during my residence 
 at Oxford. 
 
 In the meantime I became, in the popular sense of the word, 
 a sceptic. I printed a pamphlet, avowing my opinion, and its 
 occasion. I distributed this anonymously to men of thought 
 and learning, wishing that Reason should decide on the case 
 
 at issue : it was never my intention to deny it. Mr. , at 
 
 Oxford, among others, had the pamphlet ; he showed it to 
 the Master and the Fellows of University College, and / was 
 sent for. I was informed, that in case I denied the publication, 
 no more would be said. I refused, and was expelled. 
 
 It will be necessary, in order to elucidate this part of my 
 history, to inform you, that I am heir by entail to an estate of 
 £6,000 per annum. My principles have induced me to regard 
 the law of primogeniture as an evil of primary magnitude. 
 My father's notions of family honour are incoincident with my 
 knowledge of public good. I will never sacrifice the latter to 
 any consideration. My father has ever regarded me as a blot, 
 a defilement of his honour. He wished to induce me by 
 poverty to accept of some commission in a distant regiment, 
 and in the interim of my absence to prosecute the pamphlet, 
 that a process of outlawry might make the estate, on his 
 death, devolve to my younger brother. These are the leading 
 points of the history of the man before you. Others exist, but 
 I have thought proper to make some selection, not that it is 
 my design to conceal or extenuate any part, but that I should 
 by their enumeration quite outstep the bounds of modesty. 
 Now, it is for you to judge whether, by permitting me to 
 cultivate your friendship, you are exhibiting yourself more 
 really useful than by the pursuance of those avocations, of 
 which the time spent in allowing this cultivation would 
 deprive you. I am now earnestly pursuing studious habits. 
 
Life of Shelley 309 
 
 I am writing ' An inquiry into the causes of the failure of the 
 French Revolution to benefit mankind '. My plan is that of 
 resolving to lose no opportunity to disseminate truth and 
 happiness. 
 
 I am married to a woman whose views are similar to my 
 own. To you, as the regulator and former of my mind, I must 
 ever look with real respect and veneration. 
 
 Yours sincerely, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 Keswick, Jan. 16, 18 12. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 That so prompt and so kind an answer should have 
 relieved my mind I had scarcely dared to hope ; to find that 
 he — who as an author had gained my love and confidence, 
 whose views and habits I had dehghted to conjecture from his 
 works, whose principles I had adopted, and every trace of 
 whose existence is now made sacred, and I hope, eternally so, 
 by associations, which throw the charm of feeling over the 
 deductions of reason — that he, as a man, should be my friend 
 and my adviser, the moderator of my enthusiasm, the personal 
 exciter and strengthener of my virtuous habits : all this was 
 more than I dared to trust myself to hope, and which now 
 comes to me almost like a ray of second existence. 
 
 Without the deceit of self-flattery, which might lead me to 
 think that my intellectual powers demanded your time, those 
 circumstances, which arbitrarily — or, as may be said, fortui- 
 tously — place me in a situation capable hereafter of consider- 
 ably influencing the actions of others, induce me to think that 
 I shall not * in publica commoda peccem, si longo sermone 
 morer tua tempora*. 
 
 I know not how to describe the pleasure which your last 
 letter has given me ; that William Godwin should have a 
 ' deep and earnest interest in my welfare ', cannot but produce 
 the most intoxicating sensations. It may be my vanity 
 which is thus flattered, but I am much deceived in myself, if 
 love and respect for the great and worthy form not a very 
 considerable part of my feelings. 
 
 I cannot help considering you as a friend and adviser, whom 
 I have known very long ; this circumstance must generate a 
 degree of familiarity, which will cease to appear surprising 
 to you, when the intimacy, which I had acquired with your 
 
'jio Life of Shelley 
 
 writings, so mucli preceded tlie information which led to my 
 first letter. It may be said, that I have derived little benefit 
 or injury from artificial education. I have known no tutor 
 or adviser {not excepting my father) from whose lessons and 
 suggestions I have not recoiled with disgust. 
 
 The knowledge which I have, whatever it may be (putting 
 out of the question the age of the grammar and the horn-book), 
 has been acquired by my unassisted efforts. I have before 
 given you a slight sketch of my earlier habits and feelings — 
 my present are, in my own opinion, infinitely superior — they 
 are elevated and disinterested ; such as they are, you have 
 principally produced them. 
 
 With what delight, what cheerfulness, what goodwill, may it 
 be conceived, that I constitute myself the pupil of him, under 
 whose actual guidance my very thoughts have hitherto been 
 arranged. 
 
 You mistake me, if you think that I am angry with my 
 father. I have ever been desirous of a reconciliation with him, 
 but the price which he demands for it is a renunciation of my 
 opinions, or, at least, a subjection to conditions which should 
 bind me to act in opposition to their very spirit. It is probable 
 that my father has acted for my welfare, but the manner in 
 which he has done so will not allow me to suppose that he has 
 felt for it, unconnectedly with certain considerations of birth ; 
 and feeling for these things was not feeling for me. I never 
 loved my father — it was not from hardness of heart, for I have 
 loved and do love warmly. You say, * Being yet a scholar, I 
 ought to have no intolerable itch to become a teacher '. I 
 have not, so far as any publications of mine are irreconcilable 
 with the general good, or so far as they are negative. I do not 
 set up for a judge of controversies, but into whatever company 
 I go, I have introduced my own sentiments, partly with a view, 
 if they were anywise erroneous, that unforeseen elucidations 
 might rectify them ; or, if they were not, that I should con- 
 tribute my mite to the treasury of wisdom and happiness. 
 
 I hope, in the course of our communication, to acquire that 
 sobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism. 
 
 I have not heard, without benefit, that Newton was a 
 modest man ; I am not ignorant that vanity and folly delight 
 in forwardness and assumption. But I think there is a line 
 to be drawn between affectation of unpossessed talents and 
 the deceit of self-distrust, by which much power has been lost 
 to the world ; for 
 
Life of Shelley 3II 
 
 Full many a flower is born to blush unseen. 
 And waste its sweetness on the desert air. 
 
 This line may be called ' the modesty of nature '. I hope I 
 am somewhat anxious not to overstep its boundaries. I will 
 not again crudely obtrude my peculiar opinions or my doubts 
 on the world. But could I not, at the same time, improve my 
 own powers, and diffuse true and virtuous principles ? Many, 
 with equally confined talents to my own, are by publications 
 scattering the seeds of prejudice and selfishness. Might not 
 an exhibition of truth, with equal elegance and depth, suffice 
 to counteract the deleterious tendency, of their principles ? 
 Does not writing hold the next place to colloquial discussion 
 in eliciting and classing the powers of the mind ? I am willing 
 to become a scholar — nay, a pupil. My humility and confi- 
 dence, where I am conscious tliat I am not imposed upon, and 
 where I perceive talents and powers so certainly and un- 
 doubtedly superior, are unfeigned and complete. I have desired 
 the publications of my early youth to be sent to you. You will 
 perceive that Zastrozzi and St. Irvyn were written prior to my 
 acquaintance with your writings — the Essay on Love, a little 
 poem — since. I had, indeed, read St. Leon before I wrote SU 
 Irvyn ; but the reasonings had then made little impression. 
 
 In a few days we set off to Dublin. I do not know exactly 
 when, but a letter addressed to Keswick will find me. Our 
 journey has been settled some time. We go principally to 
 forward as much as we can the CathoUc Emancipation. 
 
 Southey, the poet, whose principles were pure and elevated, 
 once, is now the paid champion of every abuse and absurdity. 
 I have had much conversation with him. He says, ' You will 
 think as I do when you are as old '. I do not feel the least 
 disposition to be Mr. S.'s proselyte. 
 
 In the summer we shall be in the north of Wales. Dare I 
 hope that you will come to see us ? Perhaps this would be 
 an unfeasible neglect of your avocations. I shall hope it until 
 you forbid me. 
 
 I remain, with the greatest respect, 
 
 Your most sincere and devoted, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 Keswick, Cumberland, January 28, 18 12. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Your letter has reached me on the eve of our departure 
 
312 Life of Shelley 
 
 for Dublin. I cannot deny myself the pleasure of answering 
 it, although we shall probably have reached Ireland before an 
 answer to this can arrive. You do us a great and essential 
 service by the enclosed introduction to Mr. Curran ; he is a 
 man whose public character I have admired and respected. 
 You offer an additional motive for hastening our journey. I 
 have not long been married. My wife is the partner of my 
 thoughts and feelings. My state at the period of our first 
 knowledge of each other was isolated and friendless ; hers was 
 embittered by family disagreements and a system of domestic 
 oppressions. We agreed to unite our fates, and the reasons 
 that operated to induce our submission to the ceremonies of 
 the Church were the many advantages of benefiting society 
 which the despotism of custom would cut us off from in case 
 of our nonconformity. My peculiar reasons were considera- 
 tions of the unequally weighty burden of disgrace and hatred 
 which a resistance to this system would entail upon my com- 
 panion. A man, in such a case, is a man of gallantry and 
 spirit — a woman loses all claim to respect and politeness. 
 She has lost modesty, which is the female criterion of virtue, 
 and those, whose virtues extend no farther than modesty, 
 regard her with hatred and contempt. 
 
 You regard early authorship detrimental to the cause of 
 general happiness. I confess this has not been my opinion, 
 even when I have bestowed deep, and, I hope, disinterested 
 thought upon the subject. 
 
 If any man would determine, sincerely and cautiously, 
 at every period of his life, to publish books which should 
 contain the real state of his feelings and opinions, I am willing 
 to suppose that this portraiture of his mind would be worth 
 many metaphysical disquisitions ; and one, whose mind is 
 strongly imbued with an ardent desire of communicating 
 pleasurable sensations, is of all others the least likely to 
 publish any feelings or opinions, but such as should excite the 
 reader to discipline in some sort his mind into the same state as 
 that of the writer. 
 
 With these sentiments, I have been preparing an address 
 to the Catholics of Ireland, which, however deficient may be 
 its execution, I can by no means admit that it contains one 
 sentiment which can harm the cause of liberty and happiness. 
 It consists of the benevolent and tolerant deductions of philo- 
 sophy reduced into the simplest language, and such as those 
 who by their uneducated poverty are most susceptible of evil 
 
Life of Shelley 313 
 
 impressions from Catholicism may clearly comprehend. I 
 know it can do no harm ; it cannot excite rebellion, as its main 
 principle is to trust the success of a cause to the energy of its 
 truth. It cannot ' widen the breach between the kingdoms ', 
 as it attempts to convey to the vulgar mind sentiments of 
 universal philanthropy, and whatever impressions it may pro- 
 duce, they can be no others but those of peace and harmony ; 
 it owns no religion but benevolence, no cause but virtue, no 
 party but the world. I shall devote myself with unremitting 
 zeal, as far as an uncertain state of health will permit, towards 
 forwarding the great ends of virtue and happiness in Ireland, 
 regarding as I do the present state of that country's affairs as 
 an opportunity which, if I, being thus disengaged, permit to 
 pass unoccupied, I am unworthy of the character which I have 
 assumed. Enough of Ireland ! 
 
 I anticipated in my own mind your sentiments on the 
 remark which you quoted from my last letter concerning my 
 father. I am not a stranger to the immense complexity of 
 human feelings, but when I find generosity so exceedingly 
 outweighed in any one's conduct by the contrary and less 
 extended principle, then I despair of good fruits, seeing marks 
 of barrenness. I have a great wish of adding to my father's 
 happiness, because the fiUal connection seems to render it, as 
 it were, more particularly in my power ; but it is impossible. 
 A little time since, he sent to me a letter, through his attorney, 
 renewing an allowance of two hundred pounds per annum, 
 but with this remark, * that his sole reason for so doing was 
 to prevent my cheating strangers '. The insult contained in 
 these words, as applied to me, excites no feelings of repulsion 
 or hatred towards him, but it makes me despair of conciliation 
 when I see how rooted is his prejudice against me. 
 
 I find myself near the end of my paper. My egotism appears 
 inexhaustible. My relation of pupilage with regard to you 
 in a manner excuses this apparent vanity. I wish to put you 
 in possession of as much of my thoughts and feelings as I 
 know myself. I shall regard as a most inestimable blessing 
 my happy audacity in casting aside the trammels of custom, 
 and drinking the streams of your mind at their fountain-head. 
 
 I will say no more of Wales at present. We have deter- 
 mined, next summer, to receive a most dear friend, of whom 
 I shall speak hereafter, in some romantic spot. Perhaps I 
 shall be able to prevail on you and your wife and children to 
 leave the tumult and dust of London for a while. However 
 
314 Life of Shelley 
 
 that may be, I shall certainly see you in London. I am not 
 yet of age. At that time, I have great hopes of being enabled 
 to offer you a house of my own. Philanthropy is confined to 
 no spot. — Adieu ! 
 
 Direct your next — ' Post-of&ce, Dublin '. 
 
 My wife sends her respects. 
 
 BeHeve me, in all sincerity of heart, yours truly, sincerely, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. WilUam Godwin, London. 
 
 CHAPTER XVI 
 
 Shelley's letters to William Godwin must be received with 
 caution ; the young poet saw events through the spectacles 
 of his pregnant and prurient fancy, and not as they really 
 were. 
 
 He was altogether incapable of rendering an account of any 
 transaction whatsoever, according to the strict and precise 
 truth, and the bare, naked realities of actual life ; not through 
 an addiction to falsehood, which he cordially detested, but 
 because he was the creature, the unsuspecting and unresisting 
 victim, of his irresistible imagination. 
 
 Had he written to ten different individuals the history of 
 some proceeding in which he was himself a party, and an 
 eye-witness, each of his ten reports would have varied from 
 the rest in essential and important circumstances. The 
 relation given on the morrow would be unlike that of the day, 
 as the latter would contradict the tale of yesterday. Take 
 some examples. He writes : 
 
 * I was informed at Oxford, that in case I denied the publica- 
 tion, no more would be said. I refused, and was expelled.' 
 
 This is incorrect ; no such offer was made, no such informa- 
 tion was given ; but musing on the affair, as he was wont, he 
 dreamed that the proposal had been declined by him and 
 thus he had the gratification of believing, that he was more of 
 a martyr than he really was. Again he writes thus : 
 
 ' At the period to which I allude, I was at Eton. No sooner 
 had I formed the principles, which I now profess, than I was 
 anxious to disseminate their benefits. This was done without 
 the slightest caution. I was twice expelled, but recalled by 
 the interference of my father '. 
 
 All this is purely imaginary : he never published anything 
 
Life of Shelley 315 
 
 controversial at Eton ; he was never expelled ; not twice, not 
 once. His poetic temperament was overpowered by the 
 grandeur and awfulness of the occasion, when he took up his 
 pen to address the author of Caleb Williams , so that the 
 auspicious Apollo, to reheve and support his favourite son, 
 shed over his head a benign vision. He saw himself at his 
 Dame's with Political Justice, which he had lately borrowed 
 from Dr. Lind, open before him. He had read a few pages 
 and had formed his principles in a moment ; he was thrown 
 into a rapture by the truisms, mares' -nests, and paradoxes, 
 which he had met with. 
 
 He sees himself in the printing-loft^ of * J. Pote, bibliopola 
 et typographus ', amongst Eton grammars and Eton school- 
 books, republishing with the rapidity of a dream, and ' with- 
 out the sUghtest caution ', Godwin's heavy and unsaleable 
 volumes. He sees himself before the Dons convened and 
 expelled ; and, lastly, he beholds the Honourable Member 
 for Shoreham weeping on his knees, Uke Priam at the feet of 
 Achilles, and imploring the less inexorable Dr. Keate. 
 
 All this, being poetically true, he firmly and loyally believes, 
 and communicates, as being true in act, fact, and deed, to his 
 venerable correspondent. One more instance, and that is 
 still more extraordinary ; he says : 
 
 * My father wished to induce me, by poverty, to accept of 
 some commission in a distant regiment, in the interim of my 
 absence to prosecute the pamphlet, that a process of outlawry 
 might make the estate on his death devolve to my younger 
 brother '. 
 
 No offer of a commission in the army was ever made to 
 Bysshe ; it is only in a dream, that the prosecution, outlawry, 
 and devolution of the estate could find a place. The narration 
 of such proceedings would have been too strong and too strange 
 for a German romance ; it would have been too large a requisi- 
 tion upon the reader's creduHty to ask him to credit them 
 in the father of Zastrozzi, or of St. Irvyn ; or even in the 
 unnatural parent of Ahasuerus, the Wandering Jew. Certain 
 other complaints concerning his father's conduct are uninten- 
 tionally exaggerated, or arise from misconception. 
 
 Nevertheless, it is undeniable, that he ought to have made 
 his eldest son and heir a fixed, moderate and competent allow- 
 ance, and to have left him to the full enjoyment of his opinions, 
 or rather, to be more exact, to the free indulgence of his 
 insatiable appetite for discussion. 
 
3i6 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' You know more than any other person of your friend 
 Shelley ; pray tell me, what were his real opinions ? ' 
 
 This question has often been addressed to me, and I have as 
 often, at least when the inquirer was a person worthy of a 
 serious answer, resolved it truly and fairly ; but, I fear, seldom 
 in a manner quite satisfactory to him who asked me, by reason 
 of the inherent difficulty and complexity of the subject. Mar- 
 silius Ficinus, it is believed, was better read in Plato than any 
 other man ever was, at least in modern times. He has been 
 duly evoked from the dead, and is in attendance, by virtue of 
 a writ of subpoena ; his expenses having been tendered to^him, 
 to submit himself to an examination. The distinguished 
 Platonist is asked, ' What were the real opinions of Socrates, 
 as they are expressed in Plato's Dialogues ? ' 
 
 What answer can the dead witness give ? Socrates was the 
 opponent, at least wherever he could hope to meet with a 
 respondent, of every thesis that was propounded to him. In 
 like manner Shelley's real opinions were always those which 
 were not held by any companion at all likely to dispute with 
 him. His confession of faith was made in this fashion. I am 
 a Republican ; a pure republic is an impossibility ; what you 
 mean by a republic is in truth an aristocracy. I am an aristo- 
 crat : all men are naturally equal ; how then can one man be 
 better than another ? I believe in revealed religion : there 
 cannot be a revelation, it is absolutely impracticable. I hold 
 by natural religion : no religion can be of nature, by revela- 
 tion it may exist. The soul is immortal : you cannot prove 
 that it is. Death is total annihilation : all the intellectual 
 phenomena contradict the hypothesis of annihilation ; it is 
 untenable. What then were the real opinions of my highly 
 gifted friend ? Tell me, I pray you, my gentle readers ; he 
 never told me ! Had Bysshe been left to himself, and been 
 permitted, without disturbance from without, to follow his own 
 inclinations, the burning, feverish, inextinguishable thirst 
 for metaphysical speculation would have abated. He would 
 have grown gradually weary of arguments and disquisitions ; 
 and, in fact, he did eventually become tired of them, and he 
 left them off in great measure, having learned, perhaps, to 
 dogmatize a little instead, partly out of his own head, and 
 partly from the writings of Plato, and of other ancient philo- 
 sophers. The opposition, intolerance, and sometimes also 
 persecution, which he suffered, served only to prolong the 
 period of his addiction to the vain attempt to elicit the truth, 
 
Life of Shelley 317 
 
 and this he long and sincerely believed was to be effected by 
 written and verbal argumentations. 
 
 His course of proceeding, even when he was most inclined to 
 doubt and discuss, always appeared to judicious persons per- 
 fectly harmless. Nobody listened to his discourses, entered 
 into his discussions, or read his controversial papers ; unless, 
 like Bysshe, he had a decided taste for such intellectual exer- 
 cises, and was therefore as bad as himself ; if, indeed, there 
 was anything bad in the matter, and it is quite certain, that 
 there was not. As to making converts to any pecuUar fancies, 
 it is not by disputing, that conversions are made ; this is to be 
 effected by persuasion, which is a very different process. 
 When we were taking a walk together after he had been silent 
 for a while, which happened occasionally, I have said to him, 
 suddenly : 
 
 ' Come, Bysshe, let us have a good long controversy ! I 
 am getting indifferent and lax, respecting my own crotchets, 
 and so are you as to your well-founded opinions, most lament- 
 ably so ; let us dispute together for an hour or two, and each 
 will confirm himself in his errors, and greatly strengthen 
 them ! ' 
 
 He did not like my sally, feeUng that the remark was but 
 too just ; he called it scoffing, and perhaps it was ; and he 
 added angrily : 
 
 ' Your mind is not fitted for the reception of truth ! ' and 
 perhaps it is not. 
 
 Having resided for three months very unpleasantly at 
 Keswick, with every element of discomfort around him, and 
 without the consolation of congenial society, for which the 
 correspondence lately entered into with William Godwin 
 proved an insufficient substitute, Bysshe was strongly impelled 
 to change his abode, and to try to ameliorate his condition. 
 The change which he proposed to himself was an extraordinary 
 one ; it was a mission to]^Ireland, in order at once thereby to 
 carry into effect Catholic emancipation, and to procure a repeal 
 of the Union Act by means of an Association of philanthropists, 
 and also to accomplish a complete regeneration of that country. 
 I had never heard him mention Catholic Emancipation, or 
 Catholic Disabilities ; and I do not believe that he ever had 
 any definite notion of the meaning of these party phrases. As 
 to the' Union Act, I am very sure that he was always entirely 
 ignorant of that statute, of its enactments and provisions, having 
 
3l8 Life of Shelley 
 
 certainly never read a single clause, or line, of the Act, which he 
 suddenly took upon himself to abrogate. I have often won- 
 dered, and endeavoured to discover, but without success, who 
 put this notable project into his head. I have suspected that 
 he fell in with some wandering apostle of Irish grievances 
 hiding himself amongst the mountains, because he disliked the 
 companionship of Oreads and Dryads less than that of sheriff's 
 officers and catchpoles — with some Hibernian Hampden 
 brimful of sympathy for his persecuted country, and of aversion 
 for his persecuting creditors. I have supposed that the coffee- 
 house in Mount Street was possibly infested by Irish patriots, 
 and that he might therefore have received at home, through the 
 original suggestions of these estimable clients and customers, a 
 hint, or even a plan, of his wild-goose chase ; but I never could 
 discover the source of the strange scheme. He did not com- 
 municate his intentions to me at the time. I never heard of 
 his exploits in Dublin until after their termination, and but 
 little did I learn at any period from himself. He seldom spoke 
 of them. If he ever referred to the subject at all it was briefly ; 
 and in truth he appeared to be heartily ashamed of the whole 
 proceeding. Whatever can be discovered concerning this 
 Irish dream, the vision of want of judgment, must be made 
 out from his correspondence with his newly-acquired friend, 
 and which has only recently come into my hands. In his letter 
 of the 1 6th of January, 1812, he says : * In a few days we set 
 off to Dublin. Our journey has been settled for some time. 
 We go principally to forward, as much as we (viz., Harriet, 
 Eliza, and myself) can, the Catholic Emancipation *. 
 
 On the 28th of January, he writes : ' Your letter has reached 
 me, on the eve of our departure for Dublin '. 
 
 A letter from Dublin of the 24th of February states that they 
 have just arrived there. Six most interesting letters, three of 
 them from William Godwin, will describe the labours of the 
 mission in the capital of Ireland. Bysshe invariably sent me 
 a copy of all his other works, whether long or short, in verse 
 or in prose, as soon as they were published, or more commonly 
 as soon as they were printed, but he never gave me, either at 
 the time of their appearance or subsequently, his two Irish 
 pamphlets. He never named them to me, and I saw them for 
 the first time a few months ago. The first and longer pamphlet 
 was written in England, as it informs us, and as was stated in a 
 letter ; it is entitled An Address to the Irish People^ by Percy 
 Bysshe Shelley : Dublin, 18 1 2. It consists of twenty-two pages, 
 
Life of Shelley 319 
 
 closely and badly printed, on coarse paper ; its appearance is 
 mean and vulgar. The title of the other pamphlet is * Pro- 
 posals for an Association of those philanthropists who, con- 
 vinced of the inadequacy of the moral and poHtical state of 
 Ireland to produce benefits which are nevertheless attainable, 
 are willing to unite to accomplish its regeneration ; by Percy 
 B. Shelley : Dublin '. It is comprised in eighteen pages ; the 
 type is somewhat larger, but its aspect is not more attractive. 
 The author's address is the same in both, ' No. 7, Lower Sack- 
 ville Street '. The pamphlets are exceedingly scarce ; I never 
 saw any other copies than those which are now in my posses- 
 sion. I would willingly, therefore, give some extracts, but I 
 cannot find a single paragraph worthy to be transcribed. They 
 are poorly and feebly written ; the style and the matter are 
 worthy of the printer and the occasion, but quite unworthy of 
 the author. 
 
 Dublin, Feh. 24, 18 12. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 A most tedious journey by sea and land has brought us 
 to our destination. I have delayed a few days informing you 
 of it, because I inclose with this a little pamphlet, which I have 
 just printed, and thereby save a double expense. I have wil- 
 fully vulgarized the language of this pamphlet, in order to 
 reduce the remarks it contains to the taste and comprehension 
 of the Irish peasantry, who have been too long brutalized by 
 vice and ignorance. I conceive that the benevolent passions 
 of their breasts are in some degree excited, and individual 
 interests in some degree generalized, by Catholic disqualifica- 
 tions and the oppressive influence of the Union Act ; that some 
 degree of indignation has arisen at the conduct of the Prince 
 Regent, which might tend to bUnd insurrections. A crisis 
 like this ought not to be permitted to pass unoccupied or 
 unimproved. I have another pamphlet in the press, earnestly 
 recommending to a different class the institution of a philan- 
 thropic society. No unnatural unanimity can take place, if 
 secessions of the minority on any question are invariably made. 
 It might segregate into twenty different societies, each coin- 
 ciding generically, though differing specifically. 
 
 We have had a most tedious voyage. We were driven by a 
 storm completely to the north of Ireland, in our passage from 
 the Isle of Man. Harriet, my wife, and Eliza, my sister-in-law, 
 were very much fatigued, after twenty-eight hours' tossing in a 
 
320 Life of Shelley 
 
 galliot during a violent gale. They are now tolerably recovered. 
 I am exceedingly obliged by your letter of introduction to 
 Mr. Curran. His speeches had interested me before I had any 
 idea of coming to Ireland. It seems that he was the only 
 man who would engage in behalf of the prisoners during the 
 times of horror of the Rebellions, I have called upon him 
 twice, but have not found him at home. 
 
 I hope that the motives which induce me to publish thus 
 early in life do not arise from any desire of distinguishing 
 myself any more than is consistent with and subordinate to 
 usefulness. In the first place, my physical constitution is 
 such as will not permit me to hope for a life so long as yours — • 
 the person who is constitutionally nervous, and affected by 
 slight fatigue at the age of nineteen, cannot expect firniness 
 and health at fifty. I have therefore resolved to husband 
 whatever powers I may possess, so that they may turn to the 
 best account. I find that whilst my mind is actively engaged 
 in writing or discussion, that it gains strength at the same 
 time — that the results of its present power are incorporated. 
 I find that subjects grow out of conversation, and that though 
 I begin a subject in writing with no definite view, it presently 
 assumes a definite form, in consequence of the method that 
 grows out of the induced train of thought. I therefore write, 
 and I publish, because I will publish nothing that shall not 
 conduce to virtue, and therefore my publications, so far as 
 they do influence, shall influence to good. My views of society, 
 and my hopes of it, meet with congenial ones in few breasts. 
 But virtue and truth are congenial to many. I will employ 
 no means but these for my object, and however visionary some 
 may regard the ultimatum that I propose, if they act virtuously 
 they will, equally with myself, forward its accomplishment ; 
 and my publications will present to the moralist and meta- 
 physician a picture of a mind, however juvenile and unformed, 
 which had at the dawn of its knowledge taken a singular turn ; 
 and to leave out the early lineaments of its appearance would 
 be to efface those which the attrition of the world had not 
 deprived of right-angled originality. Thus much for egotism. 
 
 I am sorry that you cannot come to Wales in the summer. I 
 had pictured to my fancy that I should first meet you in a 
 spot like that in which Fleetwood met Rufligny ; that then 
 every lesson of your wisdom might become associated in my 
 mind with the form of nature where she sports in the simplicity 
 of her loveliness and magnificence, and each become impcrish- 
 
Life of Shelley 321 
 
 able together. This must not be yet. I will, however, hope 
 that at some future time the sunset of your evening days may 
 irradiate my soul in scenes like these. I will come to London 
 next autumn. A very dear friend has promised to visit us in 
 Merionethshire in the summer, and I will own that I am not 
 sufficient of a Stoic not to perceive that the grand and ravishing 
 shapes of nature add to the joys of friendship. Besides, you 
 must know that I either am, or fancy myself something of a 
 poet. 
 
 You speak of my wife : she desires with me to you, and to 
 all connected with you, her best regards. She is a woman 
 whose pursuits, hopes, fears, and sorrows were so similar to 
 my own, that we married a few months ago. I hope in the 
 course of this year to introduce her to you and yours, as I have 
 
 introduced myself to you. It is only to those who have had 
 
 some share in making me what I am that I can be thus free. — 
 
 Adieu ! 
 
 You will hear from me shortly. Give my love and respects 
 
 to every one with whom you are connected. I feel myself 
 
 almost at your fireside. 
 
 Yours very sincerely, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 Have they sent you the books ? I send the little book for 
 which I was expelled. I know that Milton believed Christian- 
 ity, but I do not forget that Virgil believed ancient mythology. 
 
 To Mr. W. Godwin, London. 
 
 March 4, 1812. 
 
 My good Friend, 
 
 I have read all your letters (the first perhaps excepted) 
 with peculiar interest, and I wish it to be understood by you, 
 unequivocally, that as far as I can yet penetrate into your 
 character, I conceive it to exhibit an extraordinary assemblage 
 of lovely qualities, not without considerable defects. The 
 defects do and always have arisen chiefly from this source — 
 that you are still very young, and that, in certain essential 
 respects, you do not sufficiently perceive that you are so. 
 
 In your last letter you say, ' I publish, because I will publish 
 nothing that shall not conduce to virtue ; and therefore my 
 publications, so far as they do influence, shall influence to good '. 
 
 Oh ! my friend, how short-sighted are the views which 
 dictated this sentence ! Every man, in every deliberate action 
 
 Y 
 
322 Life of Shelley 
 
 of his life, imagines he sees a preponderance of good likely to 
 result. This is the law of our nature, from which none of us 
 can escape. You do not on this point generically differ from 
 the human beings about you. Mr. Burke and Tom Paine, 
 when they wrote on the French Revolution, perhaps equally 
 believed that the sentiments they supported were essentially 
 conducive to the welfare of man. 
 
 When Mr. Walsh resolved to purloin to his own use a few 
 thousand pounds, with which to settle himself and his family 
 and children in America, he tells us that he was for some time 
 anxious that the effects of his fraud should fall upon Mr. 
 Oldham, rather than upon Sir Thomas Plumer, because, in his 
 opinion, Sir Thomas was the better man ; and I have no doubt 
 that he was fully persuaded that a greater sum of happiness 
 would result from these thousand pounds being employed in 
 settling his innocent and lovely family in America, than in 
 securing to his employer the possession of a large landed estate. 
 
 It is this feature of human nature that is the great basis of 
 the duty of inquiry and disquisition. If every man, the 
 ignorant, the half-enlightened, and the most patient and 
 persisting philosopher, was always in the right, when he 
 thought himself in the right, inquiry then, instead of holding a 
 place in the first rank of human duties, would immediately 
 subside into an innocent and elegant amusement for our hours 
 of leisure. To you, who have been acquainted with me 
 principally through my writings, I may perhaps be allowed to 
 quote a passage of my own : 
 
 * To ascertain the tendency of any work is a point of great 
 difficulty. It is by no means impossible, that the books most 
 pernicious in their effects that ever were produced, were 
 written with intentions uncommonly elevated and pure'.* 
 
 In the pamphlet you have just sent me, your views and " 
 mine as to the improvement of mankind are decisively at 
 issue. You profess the immediate object of your efforts to be 
 ' the organization of a society, whose institution shall serve 
 as a bond to its members '. If I may be allowed to understand 
 my book on Political Justice, its pervading principle is, that 
 association is a most ill-chosen and ill-qualified mode of 
 endeavouring to promote the political happiness of mankind. 
 And I think of your pamphlet, however commendable and 
 lovely are many of the sentiments it contains, that it will 
 either be ineffective to its immediate object, or that it has no 
 * Enquirer, Essay xx., p. 138. 
 
Life of Shelley 323 
 
 very remote tendency to light again the flames of rebelUon and 
 war. It is painful to me to differ so much from your views on 
 the subject, but it is my duty to tell you that such is the case. 
 
 Does it not follow, that you have read my writings ver^'- 
 slightly ? I wish, at least, you had known whether our views 
 were in harmony or opposition. 
 
 Discussion, reading, inquiry, perpetual communication, 
 these are my favourite methods for the improvement of man- 
 kind : but associations, organized societies, I firmly condemn ; 
 you may as well tell the adder not to sting ; 
 
 You may as well use question with, the wolf ; 
 You may as well forbid the mountain pines 
 To wag their high tops, and to make no noise 
 When they are fretted with the gusts of heaven, 
 
 as tell organized societies of men, associated to obtain their 
 rights and to extinguish oppression, prompted by a deep 
 aversion to inequality, luxury, enormous taxes, and the evils 
 of war, to be innocent, to employ no violence, and calmly to 
 await the progress of truth. I never was at a public political 
 dinner, a scene that I have not now witnessed for many years, 
 that I did not see how the enthusiasm was lighted up, how the 
 flame caught from man to man, how fast the dictates of sober 
 reason were obliterated by the gusts of passion, and how near 
 the assembly was like Alexander's compotators at Persepolis, 
 to go forth and fire the city ; or like the auditors of Anthony's 
 oration over the body of Caesar, to apply a flaming brand to the 
 mansion of each several conspirator. 
 
 Discussion and conversation on the best interests of society 
 are excellent, as long as they are unfettered, and each man 
 talks to his neighbour in the freedom of congenial intercourse, 
 as he happens to meet with him in the customary haunts of 
 men, or in the quiet and beneficent intercourse of each other's 
 fireside. But they then become unwholesome and poisonous 
 when men shape themselves into societies, and become dis- 
 torted with the artifices of organization. It will not then long 
 be possible to reason calmly and dispassionately ; men will 
 heat each other into impatience and indignation against their 
 oppressors ; they will be in a hurry to act. If this view of 
 things is true, applied to any country whatever, it is peculiarly 
 and fearfully so when applied to the fervent and impetuous 
 character of the Irish. 
 
 The statement I have here made will end by convincing you, 
 or we must be contented to entertain different, and almost 
 
324 Life of Shcllov 
 
 opposite views on this momentous subject. In this case, 1 can 
 assure you, it will produce no estrangement in my feelings 
 towards you. I shall still acknowledge, as forwardly as ever, 
 the lovely qualities that I set out with confessing in you, and 
 shall only deeply and earnestly lament that you have been so 
 essentially misled in the exercise of them. 
 
 One principle, that I believe is wanting in you, and all our 
 too fervent and impetuous reformers, is the thought, that 
 almost every institution or form of society is good in its place, 
 and in the period of time to which it belongs. How many 
 beautiful and admirable effects grew out of Popery and the 
 monastic institutions, in the period when they were in their 
 genuine health and vigour ! To them we owe almost all our 
 logic and our literature. What excellent effects do we reap, 
 even at this day, from the feudal system and from chivalry ! 
 In this point of view, nothing can, perhaps, be more worthy of 
 our applause than the English constitution. Excellent to this 
 purpose are the words of Daniel in his Apology for Rhyme ; 
 ' Nor can it touch but of arrogant ignorance to hold this or that 
 nation barbarous, these or those times gross, considering how 
 this manifold creature, man, wheresoever he stand in the 
 world, hath always some disposition of worth, entertains and 
 affects that order of society which is best for his use, and is 
 eminent for some one thing, or other, that fits his humours and 
 the times '. This is the truest and most sublime toleration ! 
 There is a period, indeed, when each institution is obsolete, 
 and should be laid aside ; but it is of much importance, that 
 we should not proceed too rapidly in this, or introduce any 
 change before its due and proper season. 
 
 I perfectly agree with you when you say that it is highly 
 improving for a man, who is ever to write for the public, that he 
 should write much while he is young. It improves him equally 
 in the art of thinking and of expressing his thoughts. Till we 
 come to try to put our thoughts upon paper, we can have no 
 notion how broken and imperfect they are, or find where the 
 imperfection lies. Language is a scheme of machinery of so 
 subtle a kind, that it is only by long habit that we can learn to 
 conduct it in a masterly manner, or to the best purposes. 
 Swift, an eminent master of language, says in a letter written, 
 I think, when he was about eighteen — ' Within these last few 
 weeks I have written and blotted more quires of paper, and 
 upon almost all sorts of subjects, than perhaps any other man 
 you have known in a twelvemonth '. 
 
Life of Shelley 325 
 
 ^But I see no necessary connection between writing and 
 publishing ; and, least of all, with one's name. The life of a 
 tliinking man, who does this, will be made up of a series of 
 retractations. It is beautiful to correct our errors, to make 
 each day a comment on the last, and to grow perpetually 
 wiser ; but all this need not be done before the public. It is 
 commendable to wash one's face, but I will not wash mine in 
 the saloon of the opera-house. A man may resolve, as you say, 
 to present to the moralist and metaphysician a picture of all 
 the successive turns and revolutions of his mind, and it is fit 
 there should be some men, that should do this. But such a man 
 must be contented to sacrifice general usefulness, and confine 
 himself to this. Such a man was Rousseau ; but not such a 
 man was Bacon, or Milton. 
 
 Mankind will ascribe little weight and authority to a ver- 
 satile character, that makes a show of all his imperfections. 
 How shall I rely upon a man, they cry, who is not himself in his 
 public character at all times the same. I have myself, with all 
 my caution, felt some of the effects of this. You have already 
 begun your retractation. You confess that your thesis on 
 Atheism was not well judged or wise, though you still seek to 
 shelter yourself under the allegation, that it was harmless. I 
 think the second chapter of your Retractations is not far 
 distant. 
 
 You say that you count but on a short life. In that, too, 
 you are erroneous. I shall not live to see you fourscore, but it 
 is not impossible that my son will. I was myself, in early life, 
 of a remarkably puny constitution. Pope, who was at all 
 times kept alive only by means of art, reached his fifty-seventh 
 year. The constitution of man is a theatre of change, and I 
 think it not improbable, that at thirty, or forty, you will be a 
 robust man. 
 
 How did you manage with Curran ? I hope you have seen 
 him. I should not wonder, however, if your pamphlet has 
 frightened him. You should have left my letter with your 
 card the first time you called, and then it was his business to 
 have sought you. 
 
 I have not received your little romances. If they have a 
 publisher in London, and you had given me his name, I could 
 then have sent for them, and enforced your order for their 
 delivery. But in your handwriting I cannot even read their 
 names. 
 
 One strange expression of your pamphlet give me leave to 
 
326 Life of Shelley 
 
 notice. You say to the people of Ireland : ' I have come to 
 this country to spare no pains, where expenditure may pur- 
 chase your real benefit '. Does this mean money ? Do you 
 mean to contract debts, and lay out your thousands in estab- 
 lishing the association you so warmly recommend ? 
 
 To descend from great things to small, I can perceive, that 
 you are already infected with the air of that country. Your 
 letter with its inclosures cost me, by post, £1 is. 8d. ; and 
 you say in it, that, * you send it in this way to save expense '. 
 The post always charges parcels that exceed a sheet or two, 
 by weight, and they should, therefore, always be forwarded by 
 some other conveyance. 
 
 Perhaps in this letter I have assumed too much of the 
 instructor, and expressed myself with a bluntness and freedom 
 that will shock you. The length of my letter ought to convince 
 you of the warmth of my feelings, and my earnest desire to 
 serve you. 
 
 To P. B. Shelley, Dubhn. 
 
 Dublin, Sackville Street, March 8, 18 12. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 Your letter affords me much food for thought ; guide 
 thou and direct me. In all the weakness of my inconsistencies, 
 bear with me ; the genuine respect which I bear for your 
 character, the love with which your virtues have inspired me, 
 is undiminished by any suspicion of externally constituted 
 authority ; when you reprove me, reason speaks ; I acquiesce 
 in her decisions. I know that I am vain, that I assume a 
 character which is perhaps unadapted to the limitedness of my 
 experience, that I am without the modesty which is so gener- 
 ally considered an indispensable ornament to the ingenuous- 
 ness of youth. I attempt not to conceal from others, or my- 
 self, these deficiencies, if such they are. That I have erred in • 
 pursuance of this line of conduct, I am well aware : in the 
 oj^posite case, I think that my errors would have been more 
 momentous and overwhelming. ' A preponderance of result- 
 ing good is imagined in every action '. I certainly believe that 
 the line of conduct which I am now pursuing will produce a 
 preponderance of good ; when I get rid of this conviction, 
 my conduct shall be changed. 
 
 Inquiry is doubtless necessary, nay, essential. I am eagerly 
 open to every new information. I attempt to read a book 
 
Life of Shelley 327 
 
 which attacks my most cherished sentiments as calmly as one 
 which corroborates them. I have not read your writings 
 slightly ; they have made a deep impression on my mind ; their 
 arguments are fresh in my memory ; I have daily occasion to 
 recur to them, as alUes in the cause which I am here engaged in 
 vindicating. To them, to you, I owe the inestimable boon of 
 granted power, of arising from the state of intellectual sick- 
 liness and lethargy into which I was plunged two years ago, 
 and of which St. Irvyn and Zastrozzi were the distempered, 
 although unoriginal visions. 
 
 I am not forgetful or unheeding of what you said of asso- 
 ciations. But Political Justice was first published in 1793 5 
 nearly twenty years have elapsed since the general diffusion of 
 its doctrines. What has followed ? Have men ceased to 
 fight ? Have vice and misery vanished from the earth ? 
 Have the fireside communications which it recommends taken 
 place ? Out of the many who have read that inestimable book, 
 how many have been blinded by prejudice ; how many, in 
 short, have taken it up to gratify an ephemeral vanity, and 
 when the hour of its novelty had passed, threw it aside, and 
 yielded with fashion to the arguments of Mr. Mai thus ? 
 
 I have at length proposed a Philanthropic Association, 
 which I conceive not to be contradictory, but strictly com- 
 patible with the principles of Political Justice. The Address 
 was principally designed to operate on the Irish mob. Can 
 they be in a worse state than at present ? Intemperance and 
 hard labour have reduced them to machines. The oyster that 
 is washed and driven at the mercy of the tides, appears to me 
 an animal of almost equal elevation in the scale of intellectual 
 being. Is it impossible to awaken a moral sense in the breasts 
 of those who appear so unfitted for the high destination of their 
 nature ? Might not an unadorned display of moral truth, 
 suited to their comprehensions, produce the best effects ? 
 The state of society appears to me to be retrogressive. If 
 there be any truth in the hopes which I so fondly cherish, then 
 this cannot be. Yet, even if it be stationary, the eager acti- 
 vity of philanthropists is demanded. I think of the last 
 twenty years with impatient scepticism, as to the progress 
 which the human mind has made during this period. I will 
 own that I am eager that something should be done. But my 
 association. In some suggestions respecting it, I have the 
 following — * That any number of persons who meet together 
 for philanthropical purposes, should ascertain by friendly 
 
328 Life of Shelley 
 
 discussion those points of opinion wherein they differ and those 
 wherein they coincide, and should, by subjecting them to 
 rational analysis, produce an unanimity founded on reason, and 
 not the superficial agreement too often exhibited at asso- 
 ciations for mere party purposes ; that the minority, whose 
 belief could not subscribe to the opinion of the majority on a 
 division in any question of moment and interest, should 
 recede '. 
 
 * Some associations might, by refinement of secessions, con- 
 tain not more than three or four members '. I do not think a 
 society such as this is incompatible with your chapter on 
 associations ; it purposes no violent or immediate measures ; 
 its intentions are a facilitation of inquiry, and actually to carry 
 into effect those confidential and private communications 
 which you recommend. I send you with this the proposals, 
 which will be followed by the ' suggestions '. 
 
 I had no conception of the depth of human misery until now. 
 The poor of Dublin are assuredly the meanest and most miser- 
 able of all. In their narrow streets thousands seem huddled 
 together, — one mass of animated filth. With what eagerness 
 do such scenes as these inspire me ! How self-confident, too, 
 do I feel in my assumption to teach the lessons of virtue to 
 those who grind their fellow beings into worse than annihilation. 
 These were the persons to whom, in my fancy, I had addressed 
 myself : how quickly were my views on this subject changed ; 
 yet how deeply has this very change rooted the conviction on 
 which I came hither. 
 
 I do not think that my book can in the slightest degree tend 
 to violence. The pains which I have taken, even to tautology, 
 to insist on pacific measures ; the necessity which every 
 warrior and rebel must lie under to deny almost every passage 
 of my book before he can become so, must at least exculpate 
 me from tending to make him so. I shudder to think, that for 
 the very roof that covers me, for the bed whereon I lie, I am 
 indebted to the selfishness of man. A remedy must somewhere 
 have a beginning. Have I explained myself clearly ? Are we 
 now at issue ? 
 
 I have not seen Mr. Curran. I have called repeatedly, left 
 my address and my pamphlet. I will see him before I leave 
 Dublin. I send a newspaper, and the ' proposals '. I had no 
 conception that th^ packet I sent you would be sent by the 
 post ; I thought it would have reached you per coach. 
 
 Harriet joins in respects to you. Is your denial respecting 
 
Life of Shelley 329 
 
 Wales irrevocable ? Would not your children gain health and 
 spirits from the jaunt ? 
 
 With sincerest respect, yours, ^ 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 You will see the account of me in the newspapers. I am 
 vain, but not so foolish as not to be rather piqued than gratified 
 at the eulogia of a journal. I have repeated my injunctions 
 concerning St. I. and Z. 
 
 Expenditure is used in my address in a moral sense. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 March 14, 181 2. 
 
 I TAKE up the pen again immediately on the receipt of yours, 
 because I am desirous of making one more effort to save your- 
 self and the Irish people from the calamities with which, I see, 
 your mode of proceeding to be fraught. In the commence- 
 ment of this letter you profess to ' acquiesce in my decisions *, 
 and you go on with those measures which, with no sparing and 
 equivocal voice, I have condemned. I smile, with a bitter 
 smile, a smile of much pain, at the impotence of my expostula- 
 tions on so momentous a topic, when I observe these incon- 
 sistencies. 
 
 I have received nothing from you on this occasion but a letter 
 and a newspaper. If you sent anything else — which I suspect 
 from your saying, * I send you with this the Proposals ' — it has 
 not reached me ; and I mention this circumstance because, of 
 course, ' I can only reason from what I know ', — though I am 
 as well assured as I can be of any moral truth whatever, that 
 nothing that is behind can possibly vitiate and overturn the 
 conclusions I came to in my last letter, and which I repeat in 
 this. 
 
 You say in the extract contained in the Weekly Messenger, 
 ' 1 propose an association for the following purposes : first, 
 of debating on the propriety of whatever measures may be 
 agitated ; and, secondly, for carrying, by united and indivi- 
 dual exertion, such measures into effect when determined on '. 
 
 Can anything be plainer than this ? Do you not here 
 exhort persons, who you say ' are of scarcely greater elevation 
 in the scale of intellectual being than the oyster : thousands 
 huddled together, one mass of animated filth ', to take the 
 redress of grievances into their own hands. 
 
 But if it were exactly the contrary, if you exhorted them 
 
330 Life of Shelley 
 
 to meet, having their hands carefully tied behind them before 
 they came together, what would that avail ? Would not the 
 first strong sympathetic impulse which shot through the circle, 
 like the electric fluid, cause them ' to break their cords, as a 
 thread of tow is broken when it toucheth the fire ? ' 
 
 The people of Ireland have been for a series of years in a 
 state of diseased activity ; and, misjudging that you are, you 
 talk of awakening them. They will rise up like Cadmus's 
 seed of dragon's teeth, and their first act will be to destroy 
 each other. You say, * the pains you have taken, even to 
 tautology, to insist on pacific measures, must at least exculpate 
 you from tending to make the Irish peasant a warrior and a 
 rebel ! ' This is not the language of a philosopher, or a rca- 
 soner. If you are ' eager that something should be done ', 
 you must take all the consequences of your efforts for that pur- 
 pose. It behoves the friend of man to search into the hidden 
 seeds of things, and to view events in their causes. He scarcely 
 deserves the name, who plunges without consideration into a 
 sea of important measures, and leaves the final result of all 
 he begins to chance. 
 
 You have ' insisted on pacific measures, even to tautology, 
 and therefore judge yourself exculpated '. But this is not so. 
 I have made a main pillar of my doctrines of Political Justice — 
 a hostility to associations : and yet I cannot but consider 
 your fearful attempt at creating a chain of associations as 
 growing, however indirectly and unfairly, out of my book. 
 If you had never read my book, you would probably never 
 have gone to Ireland upon the errand that has now led you 
 thither. I shall ever regret this effect of my book ; and I can 
 only seek consolation in the belief that it has done more good 
 to many other persons, and the hope that it may contribute, 
 with other mightier and more important causes, to the meliora- 
 tion of future ages. 
 
 You say, * what has been done within the last twenty years ? ' 
 Oh, that I could place you on the pinnacle of ages, from which 
 these twenty years would shrink to an invisible point ! It 
 is not after this fashion that moral causes work in the eye of 
 Him who looks profoundly through the vast and, allow me to 
 add, venerable machine of human society. But so reasoned 
 the French revolutionists. Auspicious and admirable materials 
 were working in the general mind of France ; but these men 
 said, as you say, when we look on the last twenty years, ' we 
 are seized with a sort of moral scepticism — we must own we 
 
Life of Shelley 33 1 
 
 are eager that something should be done '. And see what 
 has been the result of their doings ! He that would benefit 
 mankind on a comprehensive scale, by changing the principles 
 and elements of society, must learn the hard lesson — to put 
 off self, and to contribute by a quiet, but incessant activity, 
 like a rill of water, to irrigate and fertilize the intellectual 
 soil. 
 
 Shelley, you are preparing a scene of blood ! If your associa- 
 tions take effect to any extensive degree, tremendous conse- 
 quences will follow, and hundreds, by their calamities and 
 premature fate, will expiate your error. And then what will 
 it avail you to say, ' I warned them against this ; when I 
 put the seed into the ground, I laid my solemn injunctions 
 upon it, that it should not germinate ? * 
 
 If you wish to consider the sentiments which in the earnest- 
 ness of my soul I have presented to you, you should consider 
 my two letters as parts of the same discourse, and read them 
 together. Do not be restrained by a false shame from retrac- 
 ing your steps ; you cannot say, like Macbeth, * I am in 
 blood-steps, in so far, that should I wade no more, returning 
 were as tedious as go o'er '. 
 
 I wish to my heart you would come immediately to London. 
 I have a friend who has contrived a tube to convey passengers 
 sixty miles an hour. Be youth your tube ! I have a thousand 
 things I could say orally, more than I can say in a letter, on 
 this important subject. Away ! You cannot imagine how 
 much all the females of my family, Mrs. G. and three daughters, 
 are interested in your letters and your history. 
 
 17, Grafton Street, March 18, 1812. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I have said that I acquiesce in your decision, nor has 
 my conduct militated with the assertion. I have withdrawn 
 from circulation the publications wherein I erred, and am 
 preparing to quit DubUn. It is not because I think that such 
 associations as I conceived, would be deleterious, that I have 
 withdrawn them. It is possible to festinate, or retard, the 
 progress of human perfectibihty ; such associations as I would 
 have recommended would be calculated to produce the former 
 effect ; the refinement of secessions would prevent a fictitious 
 unanimity, as their publicity would render ineffectual any 
 schemes of violent innovation. I am not one of those whom 
 pride will restrain from admitting my own short-sightedness, 
 
332 Life of Shelley 
 
 or confessing a conviction which wars with those previously 
 avowed. My schemes of organizing the ignorant I confess to 
 be ill-timed. I cannot conceive that they were dangerous, 
 as unqualified publicity was likewise enforced : moreover, I do 
 not see that a peasant would attentively read my address, 
 and, arising from the perusal, become imbued in sentiments of 
 violence and bloodshed. 
 
 It is indescribably painful to contemplate beings capable 
 of soaring to the heights of science, with Newton and Locke, 
 without attempting to awaken them from a state of lethargy 
 so opposite. The part of this city called the Liberty, exhibits 
 a spectacle of squalidness and misery, such as might reasonably 
 excite impatience in a cooler temperament than mine. But 
 I submit ; I shall address myself no more to the illiterate. I 
 will look to events in which it will be impossible that I can 
 share, and make myself the cause of an effect which will 
 take place ages after I have mouldered in the dust ; I need 
 not observe that this resolve requires stoicism. To return to 
 the heartless bustle of ordinary life, to take interest in its 
 uninteresting details ; I cannot. Wholly to abstract our views 
 from self, undoubtedly requires unparalleled disinterestedness. 
 There is not a completer abstraction than labouring for distant 
 ages. 
 
 My association scheme undoubtedly grew out of my notions 
 of political justice, first generated by your book on that 
 subject. I had not, however, read in vain of confidential 
 discussions, and a recommendation for their general adoption ; 
 not in vain had I been warned against a fictitious unanimity. 
 I have had the opportunity of witnessing the latter at public 
 dinners. The peculiarity of my association would have con- 
 sisted in combining the adoption of the former with the rejection 
 of the latter. Moreover, I desired to sink the question of imme- 
 diate grievance in the more general and remote consideration 
 of a highly perfectible state of society. I desired to embrace 
 the present opportunity for attempting to forward the accom- 
 plishment of that event, and my ultimate views looked to an 
 establishment of those familiar parties for discussion which 
 have not yet become general. 
 
 It appears to me that on the publication of Political Justice 
 you looked to a more rapid improvement than has taken place. 
 It is my opinion, that if your book had been as general as the 
 Bible, human affairs would now have exhibited a very different 
 aspect. 
 
Life of Shelley 333 
 
 I have read your letters — read them with the attention and 
 reverence they deserve. Had /, hke you, been witness to 
 the French Revolution, it is probable that my caution would 
 have been greater. I have seen and heard enough to make 
 me doubt the omnipotence of truth in a society so constituted, 
 as that wherein we live. I shall make you acquainted with all 
 my proceedings ; if I err, probe me severely. 
 
 If I was alone, and had made no engagements, I would 
 immediately come to London : as it is, I defer it for a time. 
 We leave Dublin in three weeks. 
 
 A woman of extraordinary talents, whom I am so happy as 
 to enroll in the list of those who esteem me, has engaged to 
 visit me in Wales. Mrs. Shelley earnestly desires me to make 
 one last attempt to induce you to visit Wales. If you absolutely 
 cannot, may not your amiable family, with whom we all long 
 to become acquainted, breathe with us the pure air of the 
 mountains ? Lest there be any informality in the petition, 
 Mrs. Shelley desires her regards to Mrs. Godwin and family, 
 urging the above. Miss Westbrook, my sister-in-law, resides 
 with us ; and, in one thing at least, none of us are deficient, 
 viz., zeal and sincerity. 
 
 Fear no more for any violence, or hurtful measures, in which 
 I may be instrumental in Dublin. My mind is now by no 
 means settled on the subject of associations : they appear 
 to me in one point of view useful, in another deleterious. I 
 acquiesce in your decisions. I am neither haughty, reserved, 
 not unpersuadable. I hope that time will show your pupil to 
 be more worthy of your regard than you have hitherto found 
 him ; at all events, that he will never be otherwise than sincere 
 and true to you. 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 March 30, 18 12. 
 Dear Shelley, 
 
 I received your last letter on the 24th instant, and the 
 perusal of it gave me a very high degree of pleasure. The 
 way in which my emotion of pleasure poured itself out was 
 in writing a letter to Curran, stating that I supposed he had kept 
 himself aloof from you on account of your pamphlet, and that 
 at my importunity you had given up your project, and 
 that being the case, I trusted he would oblige me by seeking 
 
334 Life of Shelley 
 
 the man, whom, under different circumstances, he had 
 probably thought himself bound to shun. This was the most 
 expressive way I could think of, to convey to you the delight 
 I felt in your conduct. I have since, however, reflected that 
 accidents might happen to prevent my project from taking 
 effect in the manner, or at the time, I intended, and therefore 
 I felt it incumbent on me to convey the language of my 
 emotions directly to yourself. I can now look upon you as a 
 friend. Before, I knew not what might happen. It was like 
 making an acquaintance with Robert Emmett, who, I believe, 
 like yourself, was a man of a very pure mind, but respecting 
 whom I could not have told, from day to day, what calamities 
 he might bring upon his country ; how effectually (like the 
 bear in the fable) he might smash the nose of his mother to 
 pieces, when he intended only to remove the noxious insect 
 that tormented her — what premature and tragical fate he 
 might bring down upon himself. Now I can look on you, not 
 as a meteor, ephemeral, but as a lasting friend, who, according 
 to the course of nature, may contribute to the comforts of my 
 closing days. Now I can look on you as a friend, like myself, 
 but I hope more effectually and actively useful, who is prone 
 to study the good of his fellow men, but with no propensities 
 threatening to do them extensive mischief under the form 
 and intention of benefit. 
 
 I observe that you are but half a convert to my arguments. 
 No matter, you have auspiciously yielded to them, and time 
 will do the rest. You say ' you do not see that a peasant could 
 arise from the perusal of your address to become imbued in 
 sentiments of violence and bloodshed '. This is the language 
 of an embryo philosopher, not of one who had passed a long 
 and patient noviciate in the study of the human mind. 
 
 Moral causes are like chemical ones. When the chemist 
 adds another ingredient to his mixture, he must think not 
 only of the qualities of that ingredient, but of those of all the 
 ingredients that have gone before, or else he will be little quali- 
 fied to anticipate the result. The ingredient he has added 
 is perhaps, considered by itself, entirely innoxious ; but if, 
 cooperating with what was before in the retort, it blows up his 
 machinery, or his chamber, or himself and the houses of next 
 neighbours in the air, he is, upon a strict and sound calculation, 
 answerable for the event. If he did not understand the thing 
 with which he intermeddled, he should have withheld his pro- 
 fane hands from so awful a business. If he had not unthink- 
 
Life of Shelley 335 
 
 ingly added his last fatal ingredient, no such calamity would 
 have taken place. 
 
 You say * I will look to events, in which it will be impossible 
 I can share, or make myself the cause of an effect, which will 
 take place ages after I shall have mouldered into dust '. In 
 saying this, you run from one extreme to the other. I have 
 often had occasion to apply a principle on the subject of educa- 
 tion which is equally applicable here : * Be not early discour- 
 aged, sow the seed, and after a season, and when you least 
 look for it, it will germinate and produce a crop *. I have 
 again and again been hopeless concerning the children, with 
 whom I have voluntarily, or by the laws of society, been con- 
 cerned. Seeds of intellect and knowledge, seeds of moral 
 judgment and conduct, I have sown, but the soil for a long time 
 seemed ' ungrateful to the tiller's care '. It was not so. The 
 happiest operations were going on quietly and unobserved, 
 and at the moment, when it was of the most importance, they 
 unfolded themselves to the delight of every beholder. These 
 instances of surprise are owing solely to the bluntness of our 
 senses. You find little difference between the men of these 
 islands and of Europe now and twenty years ago. If you 
 looked more keenly into these things, you would perceive that 
 the alteration is immense. The human race has made larger 
 strides to escape from a state of childhood in these twenty 
 years, than perhaps in any hundred years preceding. The 
 thing most to be desired, I believe, is to keep up the intel- 
 lectual, and in some sense the solitary, fermentation, and 
 to procrastinate the contact and consequent action. This 
 thing has its time. ' In the hour that ye think not, the Son 
 of Man Cometh '. 
 
 To P. B. Shelley, Dublin. W. G. 
 
 CHAPTER XVII 
 
 There was one meeting of Philanthropists, for it was reported 
 in a newspaper, and probably puffed a little, perhaps for a 
 valuable consideration : whether there were more meetings 
 does not appear. Poor Bysshe made a speech, and proposed 
 his scheme, but it did not succeed. He talks about * sobriety, 
 regularity, and thought ', in his printed discourses ; ' that 
 before anything can be done with effect, these must be entered 
 
33^ Life of Shelley 
 
 into, and firmly resolved upon '. ' Irishmen must reform 
 themselves, not by force of arms, but by power of mind, and 
 reliance on truth and justice. No Irishman must swerve from 
 the path of duty. Be open, sincere, single-hearted. O Irish- 
 men, reform yourselves ; desire peace and harmony, benevo- 
 lence and a spirit of forgiveness ; form habits of sobriety, 
 regularity, and thought ; accommodate yourselves to the 
 progression of wisdom and virtue, to peace, philanthropy, and 
 wisdom '. Of such phrases, of such simples, is the printed 
 panacea compounded ; no doubt the oral lecture repeated the 
 same forms of speech. There is nothing taking in all this, 
 and it did not take ; the association was damned at the first 
 representation. The poet was soon weary of the inspired and 
 unsuccessful dream ; probably, if the project had succeeded, 
 so versatile was his nature, he would have got tired of it all 
 the sooner. Had he founded an association, he would have 
 started off suddenly and have quitted in a moment, and for ever 
 forgotten the beautiful creation. The fickle and unnatural 
 parent, like the ostrich, would have speedily abandoned his 
 helpless, or hopeful progeny. He had written, ' I have come 
 to this country to spare no pains, where expenditure may 
 purchase your real benefit. 
 
 If any trading patriots, hireling and hungry agitators, at- 
 tended the philanthropic meeting, supposing that the expen- 
 diture was to be of money, when they discovered that the young 
 orator had not a shilling in his pocket, and that, therefore, 
 nothing was to be gotten, but good advice, which they did not 
 need, they soon withdrew themselves from the barren pursuit 
 of pure philanthropy : and those old stagers, who deemed the 
 wrongs of Ireland, as their own peculiar property and freehold, 
 were jealous of an interloper, who might interfere with their 
 long-established begging-box. 
 
 Shelley says, * Expenditure is used in my address in a moral 
 sense ' ; and his moral audience perhaps, soon perceived that 
 such was his real meaning, and accordingly took their leave 
 of him. 
 
 Having quickly grown tired of his hopeless scheme, Bysshe 
 persuaded himself, that the arguments of WiUiam Godwin had 
 persuaded him to abandon it, and to leave the country ; and 
 he readily made the old philosopher believe this ; and he 
 was much gratified and flattered by the imaginary triumph, 
 and more firmly convinced than ever, of the absolute omnipo- 
 tence of ratiocination, conducted after the method laid down 
 
Life of Shelley 337 
 
 m his brief tractate of Political Justice. Whereas, this very 
 curious correspondence proves exactly the contrary, and 
 shows clearly, that arguments were of no avail. By ingeni- 
 ous sophistry the young repealer, so long as he had any taste 
 for repeal, always avoids them with dexterity ; or he resists 
 them by setting up some fancy to serve as an excuse for not 
 yielding to them, as, for example, his feeble health, which he 
 urges on this occasion, as he did on many others. 
 
 * Until my marriage my life had been a series of illness ; as 
 it was of a nervous and spasmodic nature, it in a degree 
 incapacitated me for study ; I nevertheless in the intervals of 
 comparative health read romances, and those the most 
 marvellous ones, unremittingly, and pored over the reveries 
 of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus, the former of which I 
 read in Latin, and probably gained more knowledge of that 
 language from that source, than from all the discipline of 
 Eton.' 
 
 He had picked up at second-hand some vague notions of 
 these reveries, but that he had ever read the writings of 
 Albertus Magnus in Latin was a mere visionary fancy. He 
 never possessed the works of that author, and as they fill 
 twenty-one volumes folio, they could not be hidden under a 
 bushel. 
 
 Whenever he was hard pressed, his poetical imagination 
 invented the touching fable of a delicate and dangerous state 
 of health ; his robust microcosm became in an instant the 
 theatre of dire disease ; spasms, consumptions, breakings of 
 bloodvessels, veins and arteries, crowded thickly upon him, as 
 a pretence for undertaking what he eagerly desired, but felt 
 to be imprudent and improper. 
 
 William Godwin was not yet personally acquainted with him ; 
 he knew notliing of his volunteer tyro, but what he had been 
 able to gathet from half-a-dozen epistles penned in a romantic, 
 rapturous, exalted strain ; otherwise he would not have felt 
 any apprehensions of danger to himself or others to arise from 
 his day-dreams, even when they assumed for a few hours a 
 political character. Had he been aware how little he was 
 prone to engage in wars himself, or to be the cause of warfare in 
 others, he would not have likened his case to that of Robert 
 Emmett and of the other well-hanged heroes of the Croppies' 
 Hole. Nevertheless, the earnest and solemn warnings, albeit 
 unnecessary, were wise and well-meant, and praise and 
 gratitude were due for the kind and friendly intentions of his 
 
338 Life of Shelley 
 
 Mentor. His inspired brain, elevated and carried away by a 
 poetic temperament, was perfectly inaccessible to reason ; so 
 long as the fit of inspiration lasted Bysshe was indocile, in- 
 tractable, and unmanageable. It has been said that his friend, 
 William Godwin, had great influence over him, and so he had ; 
 but his influence, in fact, amounted to this — that no man 
 could more readily persuade him to do whatever he was him- 
 self already resolved upon doing. 
 
 If Shelley had the eccentricity of a comet, he had likewise 
 its inconceivable rapidity. From the postscript of his A ddrcss 
 to the Irish people, we may judge of the astonishing velocity 
 with which he approached the sun, and then receded from it ; 
 shooting along his trajectory to come suddenly into sight, flame 
 meteor-like across the heavens, and then as suddenly to vanish, 
 plunging into the abyss of infinite space. It affords an amusing 
 instance of the speed with which he arrived at his conclusions, 
 and adopted his measures. ' I have now been a week in 
 Dublin, during which time I have endeavoured to make my- 
 self more accurately acquainted with the state of the public 
 mind on those great topics of grievances which induced me to 
 select Ireland as a theatre, the widest and fairest, for the opera- 
 tions of the determined friend of religious and political freedom. 
 The result of my observations has determined me to propose 
 an association for the purpose of restoring Ireland to the 
 prosperity which she possessed before the Union Act '. If the 
 obnoxious Act could have been repealed, and the pristine 
 prosperity restored, in another week, the grievances of injured 
 Ireland might possibly have been redressed ; but if a longer 
 time, a few days more, had been required, that sacred, winged 
 thing, a Poet, would unquestionably have flown far away before 
 the deep degradation could have been removed by his media- 
 tion from the Island of Saints and Virgins. ^ 
 
 Twice — not oftener, I believe — he spoke to me of his Irish 
 mission. On one occasion, he told me that at a meeting — 
 probably at the meeting of Philanthropists — so much ill-will 
 was shown towards the Protestants, that thereupon he 
 was provoked to remark, that the Protestants were 
 fellow Christians, fellow subjects, and as such were entitled 
 to equal rights, to equal charity, toleration, and the rest. 
 He was forthwith interrupted by savage yells ; a tremendous 
 uproar arose, and he was compelled to be silent. At the 
 same meeting, and afterwards, he was even threatened with 
 personal violence. This unseasonable display of popish and 
 
Life of Shelley 339 
 
 party bigotry went far to disgust him with his rash enterprise, 
 to open his eyes, and to convince him that Irish grievances 
 consisted not in a denial of equal rights, these the Philanthropic 
 Association did not seek, but the power and opportunity to 
 tyrannize over and to oppress their Protestant brethren. The 
 other time, he spoke of Curran, and with distaste. 
 
 Bysshe was serious, thoughtful, enthusiastic ; melancholy 
 even, with a poet's sadness : he loved to discourse gravely 
 of matters of importance and deep concernment ; the un- 
 ceasing jests, perpetual farce, and profane and filthy ribaldry 
 of the comic Master of the Rolls he found wearisome, puerile, 
 and worse. In behaviour modest ; in conversation chaste ; 
 like some pure, innocent young maiden, the gross and revolt- 
 ing indecency of an immoral wit wounded his sensitive nature. 
 Moreover, the old equity judge talked of his Hibernian hearth, of 
 an Irishman's fireside, of domestic matters, and of his own 
 family affairs, in a way not to be repeated, and which hurt 
 the best feelings of his. meek young guest. 
 
 Shelley seldom indulged in a pleasantry, and William 
 Godwin as seldom reported one ; a jest of the former, given 
 on the relation of the latter, is at least a rarity of facetiousness. 
 
 A dull, boring fellow, who was accustomed, as other slow- 
 witted seekers after truth were also, to propound questions 
 to William Godwin, and to accept his answers, when they 
 could be extracted, as oracles, inquired one day in Shelley's 
 presence, with all solemnity, ' Pray, William Godwin, what 
 is your opinion of love ? ' The oracle was silent. After a 
 while, he who came to consult, repeated his question, * Pray, 
 William Godwin, what is your opinion of love ? ' The oracle 
 was still silent, but Shelley answered for him. 
 
 'My opinion of love is, that it acts upon the human heart 
 precisely as a nutmeg-grater acts upon a nutmeg.' 
 
 The grave inquirer heard the jesting answer with mute 
 contempt ; and presently repeated his question a third time. 
 * Pray, William Godwin, what is your opinion of love ? ' 
 
 ' My opinion entirely agrees with that of Mr. Shelley.* 
 
 One word more of Curran — of the witty and eloquent pat- 
 riot, Curran. Certainly they are good-natured people at 
 Liverpool ; having had lodgings there — apartments they call 
 them — for some twenty years, since assizes have been held 
 there, and commonly twice a year in travelling the Northern 
 Circuit, I may truly affirm that I have invariably been treated 
 with attention and kindness. One summer assizes, from 
 
3^0 Life of Shelley 
 
 some retardation of the train, I arrived at my lodgings 
 much later than the prescribed time, and therefore even more 
 fatigued than usual with the improbity of a long journey by 
 railway from London. Dinner was not to be thought of, so 
 I ordered tea, and after a cup or two my spirits revived, and 
 I boldly asked for chops. A couple of lamb chops were 
 presently served up and eaten. By-and-by, a gentle tap- 
 ping at the door was heard. ' Come in '. The door was 
 opened a little, and a head appeared, with the likeness of a 
 cook's head. 
 
 ' Shall you have another chop ? Will I do you another 
 chop ? ' 
 
 ' No, I thank you, no more ! * 
 
 ' Were they not agreeable, then ? ' 
 
 ' Perfectly agreeable. They were excellent ; good meat, 
 and very well dressed ! ' 
 
 * Oh ! Botheration ! ' The door flew wide open, and the 
 whole cook stood confessed. ' Do you think that the niece 
 of the Right Honourable John Philpot Curran, Master of the 
 Rolls in Ireland, does not know how to bryle a chop ? ' 
 
 * Is your name Curran, then ? ' 
 
 * Sure, and it is, your honour ! ' 
 
 ' Are you related to the late Master of the Rolls ? * 
 
 ' I am not in any way particularly related to him. I am 
 just his niece ! ' 
 
 This was most probably a misapprehension, a mistake ; 
 genealogies are too commonly a tissue of mistakes : however, 
 as the alleged uncle was, according to his biographer, a person 
 of very low origin, it is just possible that the cook's pedigree 
 was correct : I leave it to the jury. 
 
 When I first became acquainted with the Shelley family, 
 they were evidently consanguineous ; it was all, my uncle, 
 and my aunt ; my cousin this, my cousin that, and my cousin 
 the other ; my nephew and my niece : this is very amiable, 
 certainly, and a united family is delightful. Nevertheless, 
 consanguinity, it cannot be denied, is eminently conducive 
 to commonplace. Bysshe fell in love at an early age — violently, 
 desperately in love, with a fair cousin. He formed philo- 
 sophical friendships with his sisters, and enlightened his 
 uncle, the captain : if all this addiction to his own kindred 
 had gone on smoothly to the end, without let or hindrance ; 
 and if he had made his not ungenial father the chosen com- 
 panion of his studies, and the associate in his bolder specu- 
 
Life of Shelley 341 
 
 lations — and possibly it might have been effected — domestic 
 peace and feUcity would have been promoted. Yet genius, 
 originality, novelty, flights of fancy, and poetic daring would 
 have been sadly checked — docked and curtailed. This was 
 not to be ; all family bonds were burst and broken for ever, 
 and his estrangement became complete. A wise Providence 
 leads on its favourites to grand results by paths which, to 
 short-sighted mortals, appear rough and perilous. 
 
 The Irish dream which commenced so abruptly, being 
 brought as abruptly to an end, the youthful dreamer awoke ; 
 then suddenly vanished, and reappeared in Wales. He was 
 revealed to those only whose function it was at that 
 period to guide, or to mislead him ; for my own part, I learnt 
 nothing whatever, either of him, or of his adventures, for 
 some time afterwards ; and, until very lately, I never saw 
 those letters from which alone my imperfect narrative of this 
 portion of his history is drawn. 
 
 More epistles to his * venerated friend ' will display what 
 is to be known of tliis restless part of liis life : but they are 
 filled with the mythic tale of his early days, rather than with 
 a detail of his actual mode of existence. We can only arrive 
 at a general conclusion — that it was uncomfortable. A 
 climate wet and stormy, where the spring months are parti- 
 cularly cold and ungenial, is ill-adapted to promote the well- 
 being of any man ; it was especially noxious to a constitution 
 prone to the diseases by which he believed himself to be 
 afliicted. For solid reasons of romance, he had determined 
 to settle, probably * for ever ', in Merionethshire — the most 
 objectionable, perhaps, as to weather and temperature, of 
 the twelve objectionable counties of the Principality — because 
 it was feigned to have been the scene of some of the imaginary 
 operations of the hero of one of the less popular of William 
 Godwin's novels, and because the locality had been described 
 by the author who had never himself seen it. 
 
 To live in Sherwood Forest — -in merry Sherwood — because 
 bold Robin Hood had drawn a long bow there ; to dwell at 
 Warwick, because in that town Guy had killed the red cow ; 
 to rent a house, because Little Red Riding Hood and Hop-o- 
 my-Thumb had peeped in at the window, and run away 
 again — such are the motives of enthusiasm, and they are 
 worthy of reverence ; but surely the preferences of pilgrims 
 and crusaders may claim the like courtesy. 
 
 Although Merionethshire was the scene of Fleetwood's 
 
342 Life of Shelley 
 
 early life, not even temporary accommodation was to be 
 found there, and the young wanderers had tried in vain to 
 obtain a house at several other places. Their peregrination 
 is spoken of with the usual poetical amplification, ' We tra- 
 versed the whole of North and a part of South Wales fruitlessly ' . 
 They met with a residence at last, called Nantgwilt, near 
 Rhayader, in Radnorshire, but they were not completely 
 certain of being able to obtain it ; and in fact, they did not 
 obtain it. Some months previously he had spent ten days 
 or a fortnight at the house of his cousin in the neighbour- 
 hood of Rhayader. 
 
 Bysshe's letters, addressed to myself during that visit, 
 prove, as has been seen, that the scenery made very little 
 impression upon him at the time, but his poetic imagination 
 had brooded over it, and had produced this magnificent and 
 affecting picture : 
 
 * Nantgwilt, the place where we now reside, is in the neigh- 
 bourhood of scenes niarked deeply on my mind by the thoughts 
 which possessed it, when present among them. The ghosts 
 of these old friends have a dim and strange appearance, when 
 resuscitated, in a situation so altered as mine is, since I felt 
 that they were alive.' 
 
 The poet and his family were dull, lonely, and uncomfort- 
 able in their cold solitude ; this is proved by their anxious 
 desire to draw others into the like painful position, and to 
 make them partakers of the dreary delights of a romantic 
 existence. It would have been hard to have compelled 
 iEschylus to quit his snug garret, or attic in Athens, and 
 inhabit the snowy Caucasus, because, in a tragedy, he had 
 chained Prometheus on that inhospitable mountain. It 
 would have been not less cruel to press a London bookseller, 
 to tear him from his frequented shop in the city and his busi- 
 ness, to carry him off the stones and out of the sound of Bow- 
 bell, and to force the poor fellow to stray with the hungry 
 sheep on the side of proud Plinlimmon, because he had rashly 
 bestowed immortality upon that verdant region in a pretty 
 pastoral, or by some other handicraft of the sacred sisters. 
 
 Harriet and Eliza were, no doubt, especially uneasy, the 
 latter in particular. Harriet could employ and amuse herself 
 with the sages and legislators of antiquity, in writing, reading, 
 and reading aloud. But that dear Eliza ! To brush the 
 hair unceasingly, there being nobody within miles to admire 
 it, from morn till night, even in the sweetest, loveliest seclu- 
 
Life of Shelley 343 
 
 sion ; to polish everlastingly a head which did not contain one 
 single idea, must indeed be a weary lot ! 
 
 ' Gracious heaven ! what would Miss Warne say ? ' 
 What would she have said had she been translated from 
 the chatty bar and the cheerful coffee-room to the vast silence 
 that reigns amidst the scenes of Fleetwood's early hfe ? No 
 wonder, then, that these deserted, bewildered females were 
 continually worrying the family of William Godwin — persons 
 of whom they knew nothing whatever — to join them in the 
 wilderness, being willing and desirous to take the chance 
 of any strangers, whose presence might save them from 
 themselves. 
 
 Nantgwilt, Rhayader, Radnorshire, South Wales, 
 
 April 25, 1812. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 At length we are in a manner settled. The difficulty of 
 obtaining a house in Wales (like many other difficulties) is 
 greater than I had imagined. We determined, on quitting 
 Dublin, to settle in Merionethshire, the scene of Fleetwood's 
 early life, but there we could find not even temporary accom- 
 modation. We traversed the whole of North and part of 
 South Wales fruitlessly, and our peregrinations have occu- 
 pied nearly all the time since the date of my last. 
 
 We are no longer in Dublin. Never did I behold in any 
 other spot a contrast so striking as that which grandeur and 
 misery form in that unfortunate country. How forcibly do 
 I feel the remark which you put into the mouth of Fleetwood, 
 that the distress which in the country humanizes the heart 
 by its infrequency, is calculated in a city, by the multiplicity 
 of its demands for relief, to render us callous to the contem- 
 plation of wretchedness. Surely the inequality of rank is not 
 felt so oppressively in England. Surely something might be 
 devised for Ireland, even consistent with the present state of 
 politics, to ameliorate its condition. Curran at length called 
 on me. I dined twice at his house. Curran is certainly a 
 man of great abilities, but it appears to me that he under- 
 values his powers when he applies them to what is usually 
 the subject of his conversation. I may not possess sufficient 
 taste to relish humour, or his incessant comicality may weary 
 that which I possess. He does not possess that mould of 
 mind which I have been accustomed to contemplate with the 
 highest feelings of respect and love. In short, though Curran 
 
344- Life of Shelley 
 
 indubitably possesses a strong understanding and a brilliant 
 fancy, I should not have beheld him with the feelings of 
 admiration which his first visit excited, had he not been your 
 intimate friend. 
 
 Nantgwilt, the place where we now reside, is in the neigh- 
 bourhood of scenes marked deeply on my mind by the thoughts, 
 which possessed it, when present among them. The ghosts 
 of these old friends have a dim and strange appearance, when 
 resuscitated, in a situation so altered as mine is, since I felt 
 that they were alive. I have never detailed to you my short, 
 yet eventful life ; but when we meet, if my account be not can- 
 did, sincere, and full, how unworthy should I be of such a friend 
 and adviser as that whom I now address ! We are not yet 
 completely certain of being able to obtain the house where 
 now we are. It has a farm of two hundred acres, and the 
 rent is but forty-eight pounds per annum. The cheapness, 
 beauty, and retirement make this place in every point of view 
 
 desirable. Nor can I view this scenery -mountains and 
 
 rocks seeming to form a barrier round this quiet valley, which 
 the tumult of the world may never overleap ; the guileless 
 habits of the Welsh — without associating your presence with 
 the idea, that of your wife, your children, and one other friend, 
 to complete the picture which my mind has drawn to itself of 
 felicity. Steal, if possible, my revered friend, one summer 
 from the cold hurry of business, and come to Wales. — Adieu ! 
 
 Harriet desires to join me in kindest remembrances to 
 yourself, Mrs. G., and family. She joins also in earnest wishes 
 that you would all visit us. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 Nantgwilt, June 3, 181 2. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I hasten to dissipate the unfavourable impressions you 
 seem to have received from my silence. Mrs. Godwin, in a 
 letter to my wife, mentions the existence of your letter in 
 Ireland. This I have never been able to recover ; indeed, 
 I am confident that the date of your last was considerably 
 anterior to the 30th of March. 
 
 My health has been far from good since I wrote to you, and 
 I have been day after day tormented, and rendered anxious 
 by the delay of legal business necessary to secure this house 
 to us. I do not say that anything can absolutely excuse any 
 neglect to you ; but the constant expectancy that the sue- 
 
Life of Shelley 345 
 
 ceeding day would bring a train of thought more favourable 
 than the present, together with your expected letter, may be 
 permitted to palliate it. 
 
 I hope, my venerated friend, that you will soon permit the 
 time to arrive when you may know me as I am — when you 
 may consult those lineaments which cannot deceive — and 
 be placed in a situation which will obviate the possibility of 
 delusion. 
 
 I revert with pleasure to the latter part of your letter, and 
 entreat you to erase from your mind the impressions which 
 occasioned the former. They shall never, assure yourself, 
 find occasion of renewal. Until my marriage, my life had 
 been a series of illness, as it was, of a nervous and spasmodic 
 nature, which in a degree incapacitated me for study. I 
 nevertheless, in the intervals of comparative health, read 
 romances, and those the most marvellous ones, unremittingly, 
 and pored over the reveries of Albertus Magnus and Paracelsus, 
 the former of which I read in Latin, and probably gained more 
 knowledge of that language from that source than from all 
 the discipline of Eton. My fondness for natural magic and 
 ghosts abated, as my age increased. I read Locke, Hume, 
 Reid, and whatever metaphysics came in my way, without, 
 however, renouncing poetry, an attachment to which has 
 characterized all my wanderings and changes. I did not 
 truly think and feel, however, until I read Political Justice, 
 though my thoughts and feelings, after this period, have 
 been more painful, anxious and vivid — more inclined to action 
 and less to theory. Before I was a republican : Athens 
 appeared to me the model of governments ; but afterwards, 
 Athens bore in my mind the same relation to perfection that 
 Great Britain did to Athens. 
 
 I fear that I am wanting in that mild and equable 
 benevolence concerning which you question me ; still I flatter 
 myself that I improve ; at all events, I have wiUingness, and 
 ' desire never fails to generate capacity '. My knowledge of 
 the chivalric age is small : do not conceive that I intend it to 
 remain so. During my existence, I have incessantly specu- 
 lated, thought, and read. A great deal of this labour has 
 been uselessly directed ; still I am willing to hope that some 
 portion of the stores thus improvidently accumulated, will 
 turn to account. I have just finished reading La Systdme 
 de la Nature, par M. Mirabaud. Do you know the real 
 author ? It appears to me a work of uncommon powers. 
 
346 Life of Shelley 
 
 I write this to you by return of post, solicitous, as quickly 
 as possible, to reassure you of my fidelity and truth. I will 
 soon write one more at length, and with answers more satis- 
 factory to the questions in the latter part of yours. 
 Believe me, with sincerest respect. 
 
 Yours most truly, 
 
 P. B, Shelley. 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 Cwm-Rhayader, June ii, 1812. 
 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I will no longer delay returning my grateful and cordial 
 acknowledgments for your inestimable letter of March 30. 
 That it is most affectionate and kind, I deeply feel and thank- 
 fully confess. I can return no other answer, than that I will 
 become all that you believe and wish me to be. I should 
 regard it as my greatest glory, should I be judged worthy to 
 solace your declining years ; it is a pleasure, the realization of 
 which I anticipate with confident hopes, and which it 
 shall be my study to deserve. I will endeavour to subdue 
 the impatience of my nature, so incompatible with true 
 benevolence. 
 
 I know, that genuine philanthropy does not permit its 
 votaries to relax, even when hope appears to languish, or to 
 indulge bitterness of feeling against the very worst, the most 
 mistaken of men. 
 
 To these faults in a considerable degree I plead guilty ; at 
 all events, I have now a stimulus adequate to excite me to 
 the conquest of them. 
 
 I yet know little of the chivalric age. The ancient romances 
 in which are depicted the manners of those tirncs, never fell 
 in my way. I have read Southey's Amadis of Gaul and Pal- 
 merin of England, but at a time when I was little disposed 
 to philosophize on the manners they describe. I have also 
 read his Chronicle of the Cid. It is written in a simple and 
 impressive style, and surprised me by the extent of accurate 
 reading evinced by the references. But I read it hastily, and 
 it did not please me, so much as it will on a reperusal, seasoned 
 by your authority and opinion. It requires no great study to 
 attain an intimate knowledge of Grecian and Roman history ; it 
 requires but common feeling to appreciate and acknowledge 
 the resplendent virtues with which it is replete. The first 
 doubts, which arise in boyish minds concerning the genuine- 
 
Life of Shelley 347 
 
 ness of the Christian religion, as a revelation from the divinity, 
 are often excited by a contemplation of the virtues and genius 
 of Greece and Rome. Shall Socrates and Cicero perish, 
 whilst the meanest liind of modern England inherits eternal 
 hfe ? 
 
 I mean not to affirm, that this is the first argument, with 
 which I would combat the delusions of superstition ; but it 
 certainly was one of the first that operated to convince men, 
 that they were delusions. What do you think of Eaton's 
 trial and sentence ? I mean not to insinuate that this poor 
 bookseller has any characteristics in common with Socrates, 
 or Jesus Clirist, still the spirit which pillories and imprisons 
 him, is the same which brought them to an untimely end — 
 still, even in this enlightened age, the morahst and reformer 
 may expect coercion analogous to that used with the humble 
 yet zealous imitator of their endeavours. I have thought of 
 addressing the public on the subject, and indeed have begun 
 an outline of the address. May I be favoured with your 
 remarks on it before I send it to the world ? 
 
 We arc unexpectedly compelled to quit Nantgwilt. I 
 hope, however, before long time has elapsed, to find a home. 
 These accidents are unavoidable to a minor. I hope wherever 
 we are, you, Mrs. Godwin, and your children will come this 
 summer. 
 
 I do not suppose we shall remain here longer than a week. 
 All letters directed here will securely and certainly be for- 
 warded. Harriet desires to join me in everything, that is 
 respectful and affectionate to yourself, Mrs. G., and family, my 
 venerated friend. BeUeve me to remain yours most sincerely, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 CHAPTER XVIII 
 
 On the nth of June, 1812, they were settled in Radnorshire ; 
 but on the 5th of July the young rovers showed themselves in 
 North Devon, at Lymouth, near Barnstaple : how they got 
 there I know not. Four letters, that alone remain of the 
 correspondence with Wilham Godwin, supply whatever can 
 
348 Life of Shelley 
 
 be learned of the transactions of this period, and suggest a 
 few remarks. It had apparently been settled in London, that 
 they were to take the cottage of a certain Mr. Eton, a friend 
 of Mrs. Godwin, at Lymouth. A cottage in a region so remote 
 perhaps was not easily to be disposed of, and they probably, 
 according to their accustomed tenure, were to remain there 
 for ever ; to hold the undesirable cottage in fee-farm. With 
 this arrangement they did not comply, and their wilful neglect 
 seems to have given offence to the authorities in Skinner 
 Street, for the ' venerated friend ' was more angry than one 
 would expect so great a philosopher could be about so small 
 a matter. Inasmuch as, if his pupil thought that he could 
 promote the greatest happiness of the greatest number more 
 effectually in a spacious mansion where there was more elbow- 
 room than in citizen Eton's narrow house, where the progress 
 of perfectibility would have been cramped and hampered, 
 surely he was fully justified by the eternal fitness of things in 
 choosing the former. Thus, for once at least, there was a 
 collision between the unreal of poetry and the cant of philo- 
 sophy ; if the consequences of the accident were severe, 
 they were not fatal ; even Mr, Eton himself, although much 
 hurt, survived the concussion. It rather looks as if it had 
 been proposed to them, possibly by some of the enlightened 
 females, whose friendship they had so precipitately sought, 
 to journey from Rhayader to Lymouth on purpose to occupy 
 the charming cottage ; that to the first part of this reasonable 
 proposal their complying natures yielded, and the long journey 
 was actually performed, but that they had contumaciously 
 refused to take the cottage, because it would not contain them. 
 
 Shelley writes : * I am, as you know, a minor, and as such 
 depend upon a limited income, 400/. per annum, allowed by 
 my relatives. Upon this income justice and humanity have 
 many claims ' . 
 
 If it be correct, which is doubtful, that he had an income of 
 400/. a year — 200/. from his own father, and the like sum from 
 Harriet's father — and it was paid regularly, the allowance, 
 although moderate, would have been sufficient for his unosten- 
 tatious, unpretending style of living, if the greater part had 
 not been wasted on travelling expenses, and in costly flittings. 
 The only claim that justice and humanity could possibly have 
 upon so narrow a stipend, a strong claim no doubt, was that 
 the recipient should live within his income, and not exceed his 
 scanty means. 
 
Life of Shelley 349 
 
 This claim poor Bysshe did not, and could not, comprehend, 
 and there was no judicious friend at hand to undertake for 
 him the important duty of answering it by prudence, frugality, 
 and economy. The high and sole function of the Guardian 
 Angel was to keep up by continual friction the due activity of 
 the electric fluid in her rich, black hair. No domestic animal ; 
 no cat, white-mouse, or canary bird ; not even the nymph 
 Egeria, herself, was so thoroughly ignorant of and unskilled 
 in housewifery, as the good Harriet. The queer people, with 
 whom Bysshe inconsiderately connected himself, so far from 
 assisting him in this great object by temperate advice and 
 prudent example, were, for the most part, as irregular as 
 himself, and moreover were animated by a common and 
 eager desire to prey upon him to the utmost. 
 
 He writes, ' I might, it is true, raise money on my prospects, 
 but the percentage is so enormous, that it is with extreme 
 unwillingness I should have recourse to a step, which I might 
 then be induced to repeat, even to a ruinous frequency and 
 extent. The involvement of my patrimony would interfere 
 with schemes, on which it is my fondest delight to specu- 
 late '. 
 
 As a part only of the correspondence remains, it is impossible 
 to conjecture to what proposal, or suggestion, this passage 
 may refer. 
 
 He says, that Lymouth is a beautiful place, a lovely soli- 
 tude ; that myrtles of an immense size twine up our cottage. 
 It is only up the imagination of a poet, that the myrtle ever 
 twines. He often expressed to me the most lively admiration 
 of the Valley of Rocks near Ilfracombe ; and this is all that 
 he ever divulged respecting his residence at Lymouth ; and 
 this picturesque valley made an indelible impression upon 
 his memory. It was not less lasting than forcible, for during 
 the whole of his too brief life, even until its disastrous and 
 too early termination, it was his habit frequently to sketch, 
 or scrawl, almost unconsciously with his pen upon the fly- 
 leaves of books, on the backs of letters, and in note-books, 
 and occasionally even upon the wall, or wainscot, points, 
 spires, and pinnacles of rocks and crags, as recollections and 
 memorials of the fascinating spot. Specimens of his rude art 
 still remain, and are cherished :' as well as all other traces, 
 however faint, of his frail and fugitive existence, which the 
 Divine Poet left behind him on his abrupt and rough trans- 
 lation from a hard and unfeeling world ! 
 
350 Life of Shelley 
 
 Lymouth, Barnstaple, J^ily 5, 1812. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 I write to acknowledge the pleasure I anticipate in the 
 perusal of some letters from you and yours, which have not 
 yet reached us. The post comes to Lymouth but twice in a 
 week, and some allowance is to be made for the casualties 
 which attend an event by which we have been unexpectedly 
 unsettled. We were all so much prepossessed in favour of 
 Mr. Eton's house, that nothing but the invincible objection 
 of scarcity of room would have induced us, even after seeing 
 it, to resign the pre-determination we had formed of taking 
 it. We now reside in a small cottage, but the poverty and 
 humbleness of the apartments is compensated for by their 
 number, and we can invite our friends with a consciousness, 
 that there is enclosed space, wherein they may sleep, which 
 was not to be found at Mr. Eton's. I will, in the absence of 
 other topics, explain to you my reason for fixing upon this 
 residence. I am, as you know, a minor, and as such depend 
 upon a limited income (400/. per annum) allowed by my 
 relatives. Upon this income justice and humanity have many 
 claims, and the necessary expenses of existing in conformity 
 to some habitudes — which may be said to be interwoven with 
 our being — dissipate the remainder. I might, it is true, raise 
 money on my prospects, but the percentage is so enormous 
 that it is with extreme unwillingness I should have recourse 
 to a step, which I might then be induced to repeat, even to a 
 ruinous frequency and extent. The involvement of my 
 patrimony would interfere with schemes on which it is my 
 fondest delight to speculate. I may truly, therefore, be 
 classed generically with those minors who pant for twenty- 
 one, though I trust that the specific difference is very, very 
 wide. The expenses incurred by the failure of our attempt, 
 in settling at Nantgwilt, have rendered it necessary for us to 
 settle for a time in some cheap residence, in order to recover 
 our pecuniary independence. I will still hope that you and 
 your estimable family will, before much time has elapsed, 
 become inmates of our house. This house boasts not such 
 accommodations as I should feel satisfied in offering you, but 
 I will propose a plan which, if it meets your approbation, may 
 prove an interlude to our meeting, and become an earnest 
 that much time will not elapse before its occurrence. I have a 
 friend ; but first I will make you in some measure acquainted 
 with her. She is a woman with whom her excellent qualities 
 
Life of Shelley 351 
 
 made me acquainted. Though deriving her birth from a very 
 humble source, she contracted, during youth, a very deep 
 and refined habit of thinking ; her mind, naturally inquisitive 
 and penetrating, overstepped the bounds of prejudice, she 
 formed for herself an unbeaten path of life. 
 
 By the patronage of a lady, whose liberality of mind is 
 singular, tliis woman at the age of twenty was enabled to 
 commence the conduct of a school. She concealed not the 
 uncommon modes of thinking, which she had adopted, and 
 publicly instructed youth as a Deist and a Republican. When 
 I first knew her, she had not read Polilical Justice, yet her 
 life appeared to me in a great degree modelled upon its pre- 
 cepts. Such is the woman, who is about to become an inmate 
 of our family. She will pass through London, and I shall 
 take the libcrt}^ of introducing to you one whom I do not 
 consider unworthy of the advantage. As soon as we recover 
 our financial liberty, we mean to come to London. Why may 
 not Fanny come to Lymouth with her and return with us all 
 to London in the autumn ? I entreat you to look with a 
 favourable eye upon this request, and indeed our hearts long 
 for a personal intercourse with those to whom they are devoted ; 
 yet I fear, from the tenor of Mrs. G.'s letter, that we must give 
 up the hope of seeing you. This disappointed hope deter- 
 mines us to journey to London as soon as we can. This place 
 is beautiful, it equals — Harriet says it exceeds — Nantgwilt. 
 Mountains certainly of not less perpendicular elevation than 
 1,000 feet are broken abruptly into valleys of indescribable 
 fertility and grandeur. The climate is so mild, that myrtles 
 of an immense size twine up our cottage, and roses blow in 
 the open air in winter. In addition to these is the sea, which 
 dashes against a rocky and cavemed shore, presenting an 
 ever-changing view. All ' shows of sky and earth, of sea and 
 valley *, are here. Adieu ! Believe how devotedly and 
 sincerely I must now remain yours, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 I write this letter by return of post, and send purposely 
 to Barnstaple. I have more to say, but will reserve it until I 
 receive the letters which are on the way. 
 
 To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 Lymouth, July 7, 181 2. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 The person whom I sent yesterday to the post-town 
 
352 Life of Shelley 
 
 has returned. He brought those letters from you and yours, 
 which have been forwarded from Cwm Elan to Chepstow. 
 
 It is a singular coincidence, that in my last letter I entered 
 into details respecting my mode of life, and unfolded to you 
 the reasons by which I was induced, on being disappointed 
 in Mr. Eton's house, to seek an unexpensive retirement. I 
 feel my heart throb exultingly when, as I read the misgivings 
 of your mind concerning my rectitude, I reflect that I have 
 to a certain degree refuted them by anticipation. My letter, 
 dated the 5th, will prove to you that it is not to live in splen- 
 dour, which I hate — not to accumulate indulgences, which 
 I despise, that my present conduct was adopted. Most 
 unworthy, indeed, should I be of that high destiny which he, 
 who is your friend and pupil, must share, if I was not myself 
 practically a proselyte to that doctrine, by promulgating 
 which with unremitting zeal and industry I have become the 
 object of hatred and suspicion. 
 
 Our cottage — for such, not nominally, but really, it is — 
 exceeds not in its accommodations the dwellings of the peas- 
 antry which surround it. Its beds are of the plainest, I may 
 say the coarsest materials, and from the single consideration, 
 that accommodations for personal convenience were glaringly 
 defective, did I refrain in my last letter from pressing the 
 request, whose concession is nearest to my desires, that you 
 would come to this lovely solitude, and bring to a conclusion 
 that state of acquaintance which stands between us, to a 
 perfect intimacy. I was beginning a sentence in the middle 
 of the second page of my letter, in which I should have pressed 
 you to come here^ when Harriet interrupted me, bade me 
 consider that your health was delicate, that our rooms were 
 complete servants* rooms. I finished the sentence, as it 
 stands. She added, that we would hasten our journey to 
 London, and that you all should live with us. It was the 
 thought of the moment ; I send it you without comment, as 
 it arose. See my defence. Yet, my esteemed and venerated 
 friend, accept my thanks — consider yourself as yet more be- 
 loved by me, for the manner in which you have reproved my 
 suppositionary errors ; and ever may you, like the tenderest 
 and wisest of parents, be on the watch to detect those traits of 
 vice which, yet undiscovered, arc neverthelese marked on the 
 tablet of my character, so that I pursue undcviatingly the 
 path which you first cleared through the wilderness of life. 
 I said, in my last letter, that there are certain habitudes in 
 
Life of Shelley 353 
 
 conformity to which it is almost necessary that persons, who 
 have contracted them, should exist. By this I do not mean 
 that a splendid mansion, or an equipage, is in any degree 
 essential to life ; but that if I was employed at the loom, or 
 the plough, and my wife in culinary business and housewifery, 
 we should, in the present state of society, quickly become very 
 different beings, and, I may add, less useful to our species. 
 Nor, consistently with invincible ideas of delicacy, can two 
 persons of opposite sexes, unconnected by certain ties, sleep in 
 the same apartment. Probably, in a regenerated state of 
 society, agriculture and manufacture would be compatible 
 with the most powerful intellect and most polished manners 
 — probably delicacy, as it relates to sexual distinction, would 
 disappear — yet now, a plough-boy can with difficulty acquire 
 refinement of intellect ; and promiscuous sexual intercourse, 
 under the present system of thinking, would inevitably lead 
 to consequences the most injurious to the happiness of man- 
 kind. Mr. Eton's house had not sufficient bed-rooms, scarc^/y 
 sufficient for ourselves, and you and your family must sleep, 
 for, my dear friend, believe me that I would not willingly take 
 a house for any time, whither you could not come. Have 
 I written desultorily ? Is my explanation of habitudes 
 incorrect, or indistinct ? Pardon me, for I am anxious to 
 lose no time in communicating my sentiments. 
 
 Harriet is writing to Fanny ; if she is particular in her 
 invitation of Fanny, it is not meant exclusively. There are a 
 sufficient quantity of bed-rooms, and if the Humbleness of their 
 quality is no objection, I need not say — Come, thou venerated 
 and excellent friend, and make us happy. — Adieu ! 
 
 Believe me, with the utmost sincerity and truth. 
 
 Ever yours, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 (Single sheet.) To Mr. William Godwin, London. 
 
 My dear Shelley, 
 
 Our acquaintance is a whimsical, and, to a certain 
 degree, anomalous one. I have never seen your face. 
 
 Your face, my Thane, is as a book, where men 
 May read strange matters, 
 
 and till I have seen a man's face, I may say, in good sooth, 
 I do not know him. Would that this whimsical and anomalous 
 state of our acquaintance were brought to a conclusion ! 
 
 A A 
 
354 Life of Shelley 
 
 Deprived, therefore, as I have hitherto been, of the legiti- 
 mate way of reading your character, and diving into your 
 heart, I am reduced to collect traits of your character, one by 
 one, as I can, as they offer themselves in your correspondence. 
 I am half afraid I have got a glimpse of a new one — that, 
 perhaps, I may not altogether approve — this day : 
 
 The postman this morning brought a letter, directed to 
 Mr. Eton, at Mrs. Godwin's. The circumstance was an 
 awkward one. Our family have been taught by yourself and 
 Mrs. Shelley to be anxious about the place where you shall 
 fix your abode. The moment what I may now call the well- 
 known hand was seen, all the females were on the tiptoe to 
 know. 1 
 
 Well ! Do they take this nice cottage, near Tintern Abbey 
 and Piercefield ? It seemed idle, too, that we should be kept 
 in ignorance of your determination. There could, I thought, 
 be no secrets between you and Mr. Eton. I therefore ventured 
 to open the letter. Mrs. Godwin will write a line to Mr. Eton 
 in the course of the day, telling him that you decline his house, 
 I am a little astonished, however, with the expression in your 
 letter, that ' the insufficiency of house-room is a vital objec- 
 tion *. This would sound well to Mr. Eton from the eldest 
 son of a gentleman of Sussex, with an ample fortune. But to 
 me, I own, it a little alarms me. Observe, however, that I 
 know nothing of Mr. Eton's house. It may be of the dimension 
 of a pig-sty ; nor is it my habit to reason directly to a par- 
 ticular case : the bent of my mind's eye is always to a general 
 principle. 
 
 One thing more, by way of preliminary. You love frankness, 
 and you honour me ; but when this frankness proceeds to 
 unreserve and unceremoniousness in my person, will you bear 
 that ? 
 
 Your family consists of yourself, a very young wife, and a 
 sister. Yourself, as I conceived, a plain philosophical repub- 
 lican, loving your species very much, and caring very little 
 for the accumulation of personal indulgences — Tell me, how 
 much of truth there is in this picture ? 
 
 The Enquiry concerning Political Justice may, unknown 
 to me, be a mass of false principles and erroneous conclusions ; 
 to me it appears otherwise : there is one principle that lies at 
 the basis of that book : ' I am bound to employ my talents, 
 my understanding, my strength, and my time, for the pro- 
 duction of the greatest quantity of general good, I have no 
 
Life of Shelley 355 
 
 right to dispose of a shilling of my property at the suggestion 
 of my caprice '. There is no principle, as it appears to me, 
 more fundamental to a just morality than this last. Not only 
 property and money are most essential for promoting the good 
 of others ; but he that misuses these undermines all the good 
 qualities he might otherwise have. He may say, indeed, he 
 will employ his faculties and efforts for the general good, but 
 if in the meantime he lives, like a farmer-general, he is a wofully 
 deficient character. The very act of having no conscience in 
 the expenditure of his money, and pampering all his whims, 
 will corrupt his understanding and taint his benevolence. It 
 is in this point of view that the Apostle says well, * He that 
 offends in one point is guilty in all '. 
 
 But you, my dear Shelley, have special motives for wariness 
 in this matter. You are at variance with your father, and I 
 think you say in one of your letters, that he allows you only 
 200/. a year. If by unnecessary and unconscientious expense 
 you heap up embarrassments at present, how much do you 
 think that will embitter your days and shackle your powers 
 hereafter ? I wish to see you a free man, when you shall 
 come of age, and when, at whatever time that may arrive, 
 you shall be the minister, in the name and on the behalf of 
 your species, of a considerable property. Prudence, too, a 
 just and virtuous prudence, in this most essential point, the 
 dispensation of property, will do much to make you and your 
 father friends ; and why should you not be friends ? 
 
 Forgive the freedom of this expostulation : you must see, 
 that I am not playing the part of a peevish and presumptuous 
 censor, but endeavouring to revive in you, if they need to be 
 revived, great principles, without which a man can never be a 
 worthy, a meritorious member of the great commonwealth of 
 mankind. 
 
 Believe me, my dear Shelley, with the warmest wishes for 
 your prosperity and happiness, your sincere friend, 
 
 W. Godwin. 
 
 Lymouth, July 29, 18 12. 
 My dear Godwin, 
 
 I have never seen you, and yet I think, I know you ; 
 I think I knew you even before I ever heard from you, whilst 
 yet it was a question with me, whether you were living or 
 dead. It has appeared to me, that there are lineaments in the 
 soul, as well as in the face ; lineaments, too, less equivocal 
 
356 Life of Shelley 
 
 and deceptive, than those which result from mere physical 
 organization. This opinion may be illusory ; if I find it so, it 
 shall be retracted. You say, three letters of yours have been 
 unanswered. I waited to know, whether those of mine con- 
 tained any topics worthy of notice, or discussion. I find they 
 do not ; therefore, let us pass on. 
 
 To begin with Helvetius. I have read Le Syrdeme de la 
 'Nature, and suspect this to be Helvetius's by your charges 
 against it. It is a book of uncommon powers, yet too obnox- 
 ious to accusations of sensuality and selfishness. Although, 
 like you, an irreconcileable enemy to the system of self-love, 
 both from a feeling of its deformity and a conviction of its 
 falsehood, I can by no means conceive how the loftiest dis- 
 interestedness is incompatible with the strictest materialism. 
 In fact the doctrine, which affirms that there is no such thing 
 as matter, and that which affirms that all is matter, appear to 
 me perfectly indifferent in the question between benevolence 
 and self-love. I cannot see how they interfere with each 
 other, or why the two doctrines of materialism and disinter- 
 estedness cannot be held in one mind as independently of each 
 other, as the two truths, that a cricket-ball is round and a 
 box square. Immateriality seems to me nothing but a simple 
 denial of the presence of matter, of the presence of all the 
 forms of being with which our senses are acquainted, and it 
 surely is somewhat inconsistent to assign real existence to 
 what is a mere negation of all that actual world to which our 
 senses introduce us. 
 
 I have read Berkeley, and the perusal of his arguments 
 tended more than anything to convince me, that immatcri- 
 alism, and other words of general usage, deriving all their force 
 from mere predicates in non, were invented by the pride of 
 philosophers to conceal their ignorance, even from themselves. 
 If I err in what I say, or if I differ from you, though in this 
 point I think I do not, reason stands arbiter between us. 
 Reason, if I may be permitted to personify it, is as much your 
 superior, as you are mine. An hour and a thousand years 
 are equally incommensurate with eternity. With respect to 
 Helvetius's opinion to the omnipotence of education, there I 
 submit to your authority, because authority, derived from 
 experience such as yours, is reason. I will own, that the opinion 
 of Helvetius, until very lately, has been mine. 
 
 You know that in most points I agree with you. As I see 
 you in Political Justice, I agree with you. Your Enquirer is 
 
Life of Shelley 357 
 
 replete with speculations, in which I sympathize, yet the 
 arguments there in favour of classical learning failed to remove 
 all my doubts on that point. I am not sufficiently vain and 
 dogmatical to say that now I have no doubts on the deleterious- 
 ness of classical education ; but it certainly is my opinion — 
 nor has your last letter sufficed to refute it — that the evils of 
 acquiring Greek and Latin considerably overbalance the 
 benefit. But why, because I think so, should it even be sup- 
 posed necessary by you to warn me against fearing that you 
 feel displeasure. Assure yourself that the picture of you in the 
 retina of my intellect is a standing proof to me, that its original 
 is capable of extending to opinions the most unlimited tolera- 
 tion, and that he will scan with disgust nothing but a defect 
 of the heart. Let Reason, then, be arbiter between us. Yet 
 sometimes I am struck with dismay when I consider that, 
 placed where you are, high up on the craggy mountain of 
 knowledge, you will scarcely condescend to doubt, even 
 sufficiently for the purposes of discussion, that opinion which 
 you hold, although by that doubting you might fit me for 
 following your footsteps. Yet I will explain my reasons 
 for doubting the efficacy of classical learning as a means of 
 forwarding the interests of the human race. 
 
 In the first place, I do not perceive how one of the truths of 
 Political Justice rests on the excellence of ancient literature. 
 That Latin and Greek have contributed to form your char- 
 acter it were idle to dispute, but in how great a degree have 
 they contributed ? Are not the reasonings on which your 
 system is founded utterly distinct from and unconnected with 
 the excellence of Greece and Rome ? Was not the government 
 of republican Rome, and most of those of Greece, as oppressive 
 and arbitrary, as liberal of encouragement to monopoly, as 
 that of Great Britain is at present ? And what do we learn 
 from their poets ? As you have yourself acknowledged some- 
 where, ' they are fit for nothing but the perpetuation of the 
 noxious race of heroes in the world '. Lucretius forms, per- 
 haps, the single exception. Throughout the whole of their 
 literature runs a vein of thought similar to that, which you 
 have so justly censured in Hclvetius. Honour — and the 
 opinion either of contemporaries, or more frequently of pos- 
 terity — is set so much above virtue as, according to the last 
 words of Brutus, to make it nothing but an empty name. 
 Their politics sprang from the same narrow and corrupted 
 source. Witness the interminable aggressions between each 
 
35 8 Life of Shelley 
 
 other of the states of Greece ; the thirst of conquest with 
 which even repubhcan Rome desolated the earth — they are 
 our masters in pohtics, because we are so immoral as to prefer 
 self-interest to virtue, and expediency to positive good. You 
 say that words will neither debauch our understandings, nor 
 distort our moral feelings. You say that the time of youth 
 could not be better employed than in the acquisition of classical 
 learning. But words are the very things that so eminently 
 contribute to the growth and establishment of prejudice : the 
 learning of words before the mind is capable of attaching corre- 
 spondent ideas to them, is like possessing machinery with the 
 use of which we are so unacquainted as to be in danger of 
 misusing it. But words are merely signs of ideas. How many 
 evils, and how great evils, spring from annexing inadequate 
 and improper ideas to words ! The words honour, virtue, 
 duty, goodness, are examples of this remark. Besides, we 
 only want one distinct sign for one idea. Do you not think 
 that there is much more danger of our wanting ideas for the 
 signs of them already made, than of our wanting these signs 
 for inexpressible ideas ? I should think that natural philo- 
 sophy, medicine, astronomy, and, above all, history, could 
 be sufficient employments for immaturity ; employments 
 which would completely fill up the era of tutelage, and render 
 unnecessary all expedients for losing time well by gaining it 
 safely. 
 
 Of the Latin language, as a grammar, I think highly. It 
 is a key to the European languages, and we can hardly be 
 said to know our own without first attaining a complete know- 
 ledge of it. Still, I cannot help considering it as an affair of 
 minor importance, inasmuch as the science of things is superior 
 to the science of words. Nor can I help considering the 
 vindicators of ancient learning — I except you, not from polite- 
 ness, but because you, unlike them, are willing to subject your 
 opinions to reason — as the vindicators of a literary despotism ; 
 as the tracers of a circle which is intended to shut out from 
 real knowledge, and to which this fictitious knowledge is 
 attached, all who do not breathe the air of prejudice, or who 
 will not support the established systems of politics, religion, 
 and morals. I have as great a contempt for Cobbett as you can 
 have, but it is because he is a dastard and a time-server ; 
 has no humanity, no refinement ; but were he a classical 
 scholar, would he have more ? Did Greek and Roman litera- 
 ture refine the soul of Johnson ? Does it extend the views of 
 
Life of Shelley 359 
 
 the thousand narrow bigots educated in the very bosom of 
 classicaUty ? But 
 
 in publica commoda peccem 
 Si longo sermone morer tua tempora, 
 
 says Horace at the commencement of his longest letter. 
 
 Well, adieu ! All join in kindest love to your amiable 
 family, of whom I have forgotten to speak, but not to think ; 
 and I remain, 
 
 Very truly and affectionately yours, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. W. Godwin, London. 
 
 CHAPTER XIX 
 
 Shelley's last extant letter to William Godwin from Lymouth 
 is dated the 29th of July. I have two other letters from 
 Lymouth, the last bears date the i8th of August. These are 
 addressed to a person in London, who was possibly an acquaint- 
 ance of his wife's family, but not, I believe, of himself at that 
 time. They do not furnish any picture of his mode of life, 
 and are not, therefore, of any particular interest ; but the 
 statement of a few facts is not unworthy of notice. 
 
 Bysshe writes on the 29th of July, that he had just printed, 
 in London, his letter concerning the trial of D. I. Eaton (of 
 which hereafter) for private distribution, but that he did not 
 intend to publish it. He says — ' I have several works, some 
 unfinished, some yet only in contemplation. They are princi- 
 pally in the form of poems, or essays '. And he requests, that 
 Milton's Prose Works, Sir Humphrey Davy's Elements of 
 Chemical Philosophy, Hartley on Man, and The Rights of 
 Woman by Mary Wolstonecraft, may be sent to him immedi- 
 ately. 
 
 In his letter of the i8th of August to the same person he 
 writes thus — * I have procured a copy of a work from America. 
 It develops the actual state of republicanized Ireland , and 
 it appears to me to be above all things calculated to remove 
 the prejudices, which have been too long cherished, of that 
 oppressed country, and to strike the oppressors with dismay. 
 I enclose also two pamphlets which I printed and distributed 
 
360 Life of Shelley 
 
 whilst in Ireland some months ago, no bookseller daring to 
 publish them ; they were on that account attended with only- 
 partial success '. It would have been more correct and more 
 candid to have said, that the pamphlets had no success in 
 Dublin. ' I shall, if possible, prepare a volume of Essays, 
 moral and religious, by November ; but all my MSS. now being 
 in Dublin, and from peculiar circumstances not immediately 
 obtainable, I do not know whether I can. I enclose also, by 
 way of specimen, all that I have written of a little poem, begun 
 since my arrival in England ; I conceive I have matter enough 
 for six more cantos. You will perceive I have not attempted 
 to temper my constitutional enthusiasm in that poem. Indeed 
 a poem is safe ; an iron-souled prosecutor would scarcely dare 
 to attack " genus irritabile vatum ". The past, the present, 
 and the future are the grand and comprehensive topics of this 
 poem. I have not yet half exhausted the second of them '. 
 He says, that he had read The Empire of the Nairs, by the 
 Chevalier Lawrence, and also the prolusions of some other 
 liberal philosophers of the day ; and the letter concludes with 
 these words — •' I am about translating an old French work, 
 professedly by a M. Mirabaud, not the famous one, Le 
 Sysldme de la Nature. Do you know anything of it ? ' 
 
 This projected translation was not completed, probably 
 it was never commenced ; the System of Nature was hardly of 
 sufficient standing to be styled ' an old French work '. The 
 inchoate poem, of which a specimen was enclosed, is believed 
 to have been the celebrated Queen Mab of the Divine Poet. 
 
 The ordinary fate of Shelley's writings was much like that 
 of the Sibylline leaves ; they were blown about, at the mercy 
 of every wind, into holes and corners the most remote and 
 devious. His MSS. not immediately obtainable, but from 
 which in three short months a volume of moral and religious 
 Essays was to proceed, he had, under peculiar circumstances, 
 left behind him in Dublin. 
 
 Similar was the fortune of his letters ; these he often either 
 lost himself soon after they were written, or caused others to 
 lose for him. How large and how charming a volume would 
 those letters alone compose, which he wrote to myself and I 
 never received ! 
 
 So was it also with his books. A large share of his scanty 
 income, amounting in the whole to a considerable sum during 
 some fifteen years that he was constantly a purchaser, was 
 always expended upon books ; so that, wherever he happened to 
 
Life of Shelley 361 
 
 be, he was commonly in'possession of a tolerable library, com- 
 prising several choice works. I used to think him extremely 
 lucky in buying books, for he frequently picked up a rare and 
 valuable author at a very moderate price ; or, to do him justice, 
 I should perhaps rather say, that he was active, observant, 
 and intelligent in such purchases, as he was in all other matters. 
 
 When he changed his residence, and he often changed it — 
 too often, indeed — he hastily chose some new domicile, where 
 he resolved to remain ' for ever ' ; thither his books were at 
 once despatched, but with a so wild a precipitance, and such 
 head-long hurry, that ancients and moderns alike missed 
 their way. And when he, on the spur of the moment, quitted 
 his eternal abode, as he was wont, the books were left behind 
 to follow him to his lately elected and perpetual home : buf 
 they sometimes remained unheeded. 
 
 He had a good library expecting his return in a cottage at 
 Killarney ; and at I know not how many other places in the 
 British Isles, and in other states of Europe. I have many 
 times thought, what an excellent collection of valuable books 
 the poor poet would have owned, if all his different libraries, 
 scattered about in distant localities, had been brought together 
 under one roof and in one large room. 
 
 To lend Bysshe a book was to bid it a long farewell, to take 
 leave of it for ever ; and, indeed, the pain of parting was often 
 spared, for he bore away silently, reading it as he went, any 
 work that caught his attention. 
 
 I have always possessed many books, the true riches of a 
 scholar, and I have felt a certain weakness towards them ; but 
 if my books were dear to me, my incomparable friend was far 
 dearer ; he was most welcome, and more than welcome, to 
 them, as to all besides, that I ever had : yet I have now and 
 then permitted myself to regret, that he had deprived me of 
 some favourite volume, only that he might presently lose it. 
 
 How much longer than the i8th of August, the date of the 
 last remaining letter from Lymouth, the juvenile party tarried 
 there in their sweet seclusion, is not known ; nor why, or how, 
 they left that remote retirement, or whither they betook them- 
 selves. It should seem that they departed very abruptly, 
 after their fashion, and without communicating their hasty 
 determination even to those favoured persons who were at 
 that period in the fullest enjoyment of their entire confi- 
 dence, such as it was, to the ' venerated friend and his amiable 
 family ' ; inasmuch as William Godwin himself, as I discovered 
 
362 Life of Shelley 
 
 casually some years afterwards, for the lesion of philosophy was 
 too cruel ever to be alluded to by any of the parties concerned, 
 was hoaxed and regularly bitten in a most provoking and truly 
 laughable manner. By dint of urgent and often reiterated 
 invitations, he was at last persuaded and pressed into the 
 service ; and he made up his mind to pay a visit to his unseen, 
 unknown friend, his affectionate, obedient, admiring, and 
 devoted pupil ; to try his fortune in Devonshire, and to take 
 pot-luck at Lymouth. 
 
 Rashly relying on their assurances, and looking forward 
 confidently to a warm reception, to be heartily welcomed and 
 made perfectly comfortable, he took an inside place by the 
 coach to Barnstaple. The reverend Mentor entrusted himself 
 and his old-fashioned portmanteau to the heavy, lumbering 
 vehicle, slowly rolled onwards towards the west of England, and 
 after a long and tedious journey, he came at last to Lymouth, 
 wearied and exhausted, poor man, but full of good hopes of 
 finding at once rest, refreshment, and rapturous sympathy. 
 
 The worn-out patriarch of modern philosophy, to his no 
 small astonishment and utter dismay, found, that the house 
 was shut up and the birds flown ; his most addicted disciples 
 had taken themselves off suddenly, and no man knew whither. 
 There were no tidings, no traces, of their route ! Nothing was 
 left for him but to return to Skinner Street by the way he came ; 
 but this could not be effected every day. Twice, or at the 
 most, thrice, in the week did the six-inside coach plough its 
 reluctant course to town. The bewildered author of the 
 Essay on Sepulchres secured his seat, and reposed himself at 
 his own charge in the inn, pondering in unphilosophical, 
 unpoetic, unenviable loneliness how he might reconcile such 
 flighty proceedings with the great social principles laid down 
 so plainly in his immortal Enquiry concerning Political 
 Justice ; and drawing up, for the instruction of his amiable 
 family on his return, a verbal process of the astounding neglect 
 which he had experienced. 
 
 It would have been curious and amusing to have listened to 
 the narrative of the disappointed and bubbled traveller giving 
 the details of this specimen of human perfectibility. In addition 
 so his other annoyances, it was related that the much enduring 
 man, relying upon the liberality of his devoted admirers, had 
 not brought with him sufficient funds to take him home again, 
 and therefore he found himself short of money in a land of 
 strangers. 
 
Life of Shelley 363 
 
 It is necessary to return to myself for a little while, and 
 briefly to tell the simple story of my own uniform life, in order 
 to follow the tangled thread of the Divine Poet's multiform 
 and ever varying existence. 
 
 When my young friends betook themselves so hastily to 
 Keswick, they left me behind at York, as has been already 
 related ; and I incurred their displeasure, to a certain extent, 
 by refusing to join them, notwithstanding their repeated and 
 importunate solicitations. It was on all accounts inexpedient, 
 and indeed impossible, to relinquish my professional education. 
 After they quitted Cumberland, I received no more letters, 
 and I did not know how to address them. Both Bysshe and 
 Harriet wrote to me from Ireland, and also from Wales, as I 
 was afterwards informed ; but not one of their letters came 
 into my hands. I led a quiet, regular life, in the quiet old city, 
 punctually attending the chambers of my worthy conveyancer 
 every day, and remaining with him until the hour of dinner, 
 six o'clock, when the place was shut up, there being no attend- 
 ance in the evening. I drew whatever was required to be 
 drawn by me — marriage settlements, mortgages, wills, agree- 
 ments, and the various deeds by which land is transferred, 
 with dull, vulgar, and tiresome prolixity. I copied a thick 
 volume in quarto of precedents, and I read the works, for the 
 most part confused and ill-written, in which a branch of the 
 law of England, certainly not extensive, nor indeed difficult in 
 itself, is rendered perplexed, and sometimes unintelligible. 
 The most profound ignorance is the specific difference, and the 
 grand, unenviable distinction of the English lawyer — an animal 
 too often drawn from the dregs of society — and the place of the 
 real property lawyer, is commonly at the bottom of this low 
 scale. The conveyancer is usually some damaged article — 
 not merely a vessel of dishonour, moulded out of the coarsest 
 clay into the rudest and most awkward form, but a piece spoiled 
 in baking besides — a cracked pitcher, deformed in person 
 and disfigured, ridiculous through an impediment in his speech, 
 or by some broad provincial dialect, hardly to be understood 
 by hedgers and ditchers ; too vulgar for any judicial appoint- 
 ment, and moreover a rip, found on trial not to be respectable 
 enough for an attorney. Hence arises the pernicious ascen- 
 dency — the omnipotence, in truth — of low connections and 
 low arts, and the absolute impossibility, so long as this state of 
 things continues, of a thorough reform of the law, and of the 
 mode of transfer of real property in England. A scholar and 
 
364 Life of Shelley 
 
 a gentleman would be the master of his clients, and -would be 
 able to overrule and to silence all futile and interested objec- 
 tions to perspicuity and simplicity in dealings with land ; but 
 a mean and ignorant fellow must of necessity be the very 
 humble servant and slave of the attorneys, who, in considera- 
 tion of his entire and devoted subserviency, are pleased to give 
 him business and bread ; and to keep him out of the stone- 
 yard and from the road-side, for which a wise Providence 
 originally designed him. 
 
 I commonly gave up my evenings to humanizing studies ; 
 to the advancement of my general education, which had been 
 so rudely, illegally, and insolently interrupted by the petty 
 despots of my University. I had brought my books with me 
 from Oxford, and I went through several Greek and Latin 
 authors with careful and scrupulous attention. 
 
 Sometimes, however, I partook of the kind hospitality of 
 the good-natured and sociable inhabitants of the ancient 
 city. On Sunday, when the day was not unfavourable, I 
 bestowed a thought on my health, and I kept up my natural 
 vigour by stretching out boldly across the fine plain, which 
 encompasses York on all sides, and accomplishing on foot, a 
 round of twenty, or thirty miles. In addition to the most 
 salutary effects of robust exercise, the cxej-tions of an attentive 
 observer are usually rewarded by some object worthy of his 
 notice ; he sees some uncommon plant, or bird, or insect, 
 and there are few old churches, however humble, which do 
 not afford some interesting peculiarity of structure, or some 
 memorial of past ages. 
 
 Having completed my proposed residence of a year in York, 
 and taken the first step in my professional education, I 
 removed to London. I entered as a student in the Middle 
 Temple, and was doomed to eat in the noble Hall, but happily 
 during term only, that is to say, for about a third part of the 
 year, bad dinners in worse company. There were a few 
 young men amongst my fellow-students, whose society was 
 not displeasing, and we contrived to dine at the same table. 
 This desirable object was effected by coming into the hall 
 betimes, and performing certain ceremonies, the precise nature 
 of which I heive forgotten ; sticking forks into pieces of bread, 
 I think, was the principal charm. By such means we suc- 
 ceeded in keeping at a distance the future occupants of high 
 legal offices ; creatures stinking with filthy odours, stinking 
 with vulgarity, and in every respect unfit to associate with 
 
Life of Shelley 365 
 
 gentlemen. These, the coming ornaments of the legal pro- 
 fession, all young men who had been decently brought up 
 shunned as a pestilence. Rare Ben Jonson, some two cen- 
 turies ago, dedicated Every Man out of his Humour ' to the 
 noblest nurseries of humanity and liberty in the kingdom, the 
 Inns of Court '. 
 
 Nobody, nowadays, has a good word for these places ; 
 they must take a new start, or be sold up. Moreover, on my 
 arrival in London, I enlisted with a special pleader, and 
 fought manfully under his inky banners. In some respects 
 this study, or rather this vulgar and barbarous praxis, resem- 
 bled the pursuits of the preceding year, in others it was widely 
 different. Before, we had been drowsy, and well nigh asleep ; 
 now, we were always in a hurry ; this seemed still more pre- 
 posterous, and certainly less gentlemanlike, than the lethargy 
 of the former year. Dispatch was prayed — earnestly prayed 
 — most earnestly prayed. When can I have it ? The ques- 
 tion had never been asked at York ! At first, I believe, I was 
 one of two pupils, but shortly I became one of six. We were 
 all persons of good principles, high tories — the master and his 
 disciples, with the exception of one man, who sometimes 
 made a noise on behalf of Sir Francis Burdett, the most suc- 
 cessful performer of the day in his particular line ; having 
 stated his thesis to us, the obstreperous young patriot sup- 
 ported it by the best arguments that can be used on that side 
 of the question — by whistling and singing the popular tunes 
 of the French revolution, and beating time on his desk with 
 a ruler. We thought the noisy champion of freedom a very 
 foolish fellow, and such indeed he was ; and eventually even 
 his friend, Sir Francis, left him in the lurch, and came over 
 to our party, turning into a fine old English gentleman, like 
 ourselves. At the chambers of a special pleader, a greater 
 amount of attendance was required than with a conveyancer ; 
 it was necessary to go thither after dinner, and sometimes to 
 remain late ; at least in and about term, that is for half the 
 year, or more ; and in fact the evening was the busiest part 
 of the day. I attended very closely during the three years 
 assigned to this state of pupilage. I drew a prodigious mass 
 of pleadings, and copied many thick volumes of precedents, 
 and read many treatises and reports ; the employment was 
 sufficiently dull and unintellectual, and there was no lack of 
 tautology, but in this respect pleadings did not equal the 
 uncouth and barbarous tautology of deeds. 
 
366 Life of Shelley 
 
 The odious and stupid slavery, and perverse and absurd 
 mode of learning common law, consumed in a miserable manner 
 nearly the whole of my time, leaving but little for amuse- 
 ment, and, what I deeply deplored, for more humane studies. 
 Nevertheless, I contrived to visit the theatres occasionally, 
 to go sometimes into society, and to set apart a few hours 
 for the classical authors of Greece and Rome ; there are 
 refreshment and relaxation in a change of studies. 
 
 A residence in London became soon exceedingly agreeable 
 to me, and it has always been so ; a spare hour may be 
 employed with pleasure and profit in a capital city ; in the 
 country and in a provincial town there are not equal facilities 
 for making leisure fruitful. Access may readily be obtained 
 to books and other aids to learning, which are not approach- 
 able elsewhere ; and it is possible to cultivate the acquaintance 
 of men of accomplishments and acquirements, and to associate 
 with persons of both sexes distinguished by various talents. 
 The long vacation notwithstanding was an invaluable relief, 
 a complete renovation, the germ of a new life ; to visit the 
 country during the pleasantest part of the year — the autumn 
 — to ride, to shoot, to study, at entire ease, and according to 
 one's good pleasure, was a delightful change. ; to burn many 
 pounds of powder, and to read many goodly volumes of 
 Greek. 
 
 I had returned from the country at the end of October, 
 18 12, and had resumed the duties of a pleader ; I was sitting 
 in my quiet lodgings with my tea and a book before me : it 
 was one evening at the beginning of November, probably 
 about ten o'clock. I was roused by a violent knocking at 
 the street door, as if the watchman was giving the alarm of 
 fire ; some one ran furiously upstairs, the door flew open, 
 and Bysshe rushed into the middle of the room. 1 had not 
 seen him for a year ; not since they left me at York. I had 
 not heard from him, nor indeed any tidings of him, for many 
 months ; not once after his departure from Keswick. I made 
 several fruitless attempts to find out what had become of him 
 soon after I came to reside in London the last spring. 
 
 The civil and obliging Mr. Graham had unfortunately 
 quitted his lodgings, and the people could not tell me where 
 he was ; he could have given me at once the information, 
 which I so ardently desired. I called in Lincoln's Inn Fields, 
 and I saw the elder of the cousins, the younger and more com- 
 municative one had gone to Edinburgh to study medicine. 
 
Life of Shelley 367 
 
 I had a very cold reception ; of Bysshe he either knew, or 
 chose to know, nothing. 
 
 It was evident there was a screw loose ; he gave me no 
 encouragement to call again, nothing, it was plain, was to be 
 made of him, and I have never seen him since. 
 
 From this untoward sample it was conspicuously of no use 
 to address myself to any other members of his family, or to 
 their agents ; the poor Poet was a prohibited book, closely 
 sealed up and put away to be out of sight, and indeed out of 
 mind. There was nothing to be done but to draw pleas, to 
 keep terms, and to bide my time. 
 
 The time had now come suddenly and unexpectedly. 
 Bysshe looked, as he always looked, wild, intellectual, 
 unearthly ; Uke a spirit that had just descended from the 
 sky ; like a demon risen at that moment out of the ground. 
 
 How had he found me out ? I could never have discovered 
 his hiding-place ; in truth I had often tried in vain. He 
 knew of my intention to become a law-student ; he had been at 
 the Treasury in Lincoln's Inn ; they sent him to the Temple. 
 I had dined that day in the Hall of the Middle Temple, and 
 from thence they dispatched him to my special pleader, and 
 he, with considerable hesitation, gave him my address. 
 
 The next morning this gentleman said to me, not without 
 a certain trepidation : 
 
 * You had just left chambers last night, when a very wild- 
 looking man came here, and asked for you — he must see you 
 instantly. He was in a great hurry ; he must see you. He 
 required your address ; I doubted, whether I ought to give it 
 him, for he would not tell me his name. Leave your own 
 name and a written direction ; Mr. Hogg will be here in the 
 morning, he will see it, and if he pleases, he can call upon you ; 
 but he would not agree to this : he must see you immediately. 
 My clerk thought, that in a frequented part of London there 
 could not be much danger, so I permitted him, though rather 
 unwillingly, to write down your lodgings, and at last I gave 
 it him. Did you see him ? I hope he did not do you any 
 harm '. 
 
 Bysshe did not approve of the caution of the prudent 
 pleader ; next day, when I told him of his suspicions, he 
 exclaimed, * Like all lawyers, he is a narrow-minded fool ! 
 How can you bear the society of such a wretch ? The old 
 fellow looked at me, as if he thought I was going to cut his 
 throat J the clerk was rather better, but he is an ass ! ' He 
 
368 Life of Shelley 
 
 had ten thousand things to tell me, and as he told me a thou- 
 sand at least of them at a time without order, and with his 
 natural vehemence and volubility, I got only a very indistinct 
 notion of his history during the preceding year ; I picked up 
 a few facts afterwards, many more very recently, but even at 
 this moment I can trace only an imperfect narrative of this 
 portion of his life. I learned that he had been in Ireland, in 
 Wales, and in other places ; that was nearly all which I could 
 then make out. He eagerly asked me innumerable questions, 
 but he seldom heard, or waited for, my answers. He was 
 soon coming to reside in London — to stay there ' for ever ' ; 
 so we should never be separated again. He stayed late, and 
 would have remained conversing with me all night, but I took 
 him by the arm, and led him downstairs and into the street, 
 that the people of the house, who began to show their uneasi- 
 ness, might go to bed ; for my landlord was a judge's clerk, 
 and kept good hours. I promised at parting to dine with him 
 the next day. I should see Harriet, who had much to tell me. 
 
 Accordingly, on the morrow at six o'clock, in some hotel 
 very near to St. James's Palace, I found in a sitting-room high 
 up in the house Eliza, who smiled faintly upon me in silence, 
 and Harriet, who received me cordially and with much shaking 
 of hands. ' It really seemed as if we were never to meet more ! 
 What a separation ! But it will never occur again, for we are 
 coming to live in London '. 
 
 ' You are looking surprising well, Harriet ! ' And so she 
 was, and in the full bloom of radiant health. 
 
 ' Oh no, poor dear thing ', said Eliza, feebly, ' her nerves are 
 in a fearful state ; most dreadfully shattered '. 
 
 I took a seat, and conversed a little while with the bright 
 and nervous beauty. Harriet then produced a large sheet 
 of thick paper, printed on one side only, and with an engraving 
 at the top, much like an Oxford Almanack, and handed it to 
 me with a certain unction, as if it were something sacred and 
 full of edification. I looked at it in a cursory way. The 
 letterpress was a report of the trial of Robert Emmett ; the 
 engraving represented a court of justice with the usual accom- 
 paniments. The principal figure was the unfortunate young 
 man ; he was standing at the bar and, addressing the bench, 
 vainly endeavouring to charm two deaf adders. Baron George 
 and Baron Daly, and to persuade them to feel commiseration 
 for, if not sympathy with, high treason. When I had looked 
 at the paper a short time, the good Harriet asked me, not 
 
Life of Shelley 369 
 
 without emotion, ' Well, what do you think ? Do not you 
 pity him ? Poor young man ! ' — ' Not the least in the world ! ' 
 ' What do you think of it ? ' The paper was filled for the 
 most part with the speech of the prisoner. I had read for- 
 merly a fuller report of Emmett's trial. ' I think the sooner 
 all such rascals are hanged the better ! ' Eliza eyed me with 
 calm contempt, with mute languid disgust. 
 
 ' Yes, it is just Hke you ! ' Harriet ejaculated. ' You are 
 so horribly narrow-minded ! So terribly unfeeling ! ' 
 
 Presently Bysshe came thundering upstairs from the street, 
 Hke a cannon-ball, and we had dinner. After dinner the Poet 
 spoke of Wales with enthusiasm. T was to come and see it. 
 He talked rapturously of the waterfalls, walking about the 
 room and gesticulating as he described them. What effect 
 they had upon him when they were actually present before 
 his eyes I know not ; the recollection of them absent filled 
 him with wonder and ecstasy in St. James's Street. Soon 
 after tea Eliza said, they must go and pack up ; they were 
 to set out for Wales early next morning, and she trembled for 
 poor dear Harriet's nerves ! 
 
 A few shabby, ill-printed books, productions of the Irish 
 press, were lying about the room ; they treated of the history 
 of Ireland, and of the affairs of that country. Bysshe did not 
 say a word about Ireland ; on the contrary, when I took up 
 an ill-favoured volume, and remarked, what a shockingly 
 printed book, it is hardly legible ; he gently drew it out of my 
 hands, closed it, and laid it aside. He spoke on two subjects 
 only ; his project to come and reside in London, when we 
 should be always with each other, and should read together 
 every book that was ever written by man ; and about the 
 Welsh waterfalls, which I was soon to visit in company with 
 him ; and some day we must take a look at the falls of Niagara. 
 The lovely Eliza in her languishing manner whispered to her 
 sister, that a certain Mrs. Madocks was a most delightful 
 creature ; and she had named in the course of the evening, 
 more than once, with faint rapture, some Mr. Madocks, as the 
 benefactor of the human species. Bysshe also informed me 
 in confidence, that Mr. Madocks, of Tremadoc, was the true 
 Prince of Wales, being the lineal descendant and heir-at-law 
 of that Prince Madoc, who had been immortalized in a never- 
 dying epic by the immortal Robert Southey. No doubt the 
 worthy squire by genealogical syllogisms might easily be 
 proved to be Prince of Wales, Duke of Cornwall, and Earl of 
 
 B B 
 
370 Life of Shelley 
 
 Chester, and Duke of York to boot : this would be but a 
 modest and moderate assumption in a Welsh pedigree. My 
 friends loved mysteries which were never worth penetrating ; 
 farthing secrets not of sufficient importance for finding out. 
 I learned subsequently what was the meaning of all this. The 
 true nature of the transaction will be explained most readily 
 by a letter, which has been put into my hands lately, addressed 
 by Shelley to an attorney in Wales, the agent of Mr. Madocks. 
 
 In the brief interval between quitting Lymouth and his 
 sudden apparition in the Treasury at Lincoln's Inn, he had 
 become acquainted with a company of projectors and specula- 
 tors ; at what place, or in what way he came to know them, I 
 never heard. He fell at once into their schemes after his 
 manner, and with a zeal far too hot to hold. It does not 
 appear whether he had engaged in actual personal canvass 
 for the Tremadoc people in Sussex, as his letter might imply, 
 or had written sundry epistles on their behalf, and had received 
 cold answers ; or, as is most probable, he had, in virtue of his 
 former experience of the men of his native county, set them 
 down for * cold, selfish, calculating animals ', who reckoned 
 it better to spend their money at home in the purchase of 
 Sussex dumplings, in eating, drinking, and sleeping, than in 
 embanking against the sea in a corner of some Welsh county. 
 
 The Duke of Norfolk, I was informed, politely answered 
 the request for pecuniary assistance, and regretted that he 
 had no funds at his immediate disposal, which most likely was 
 true ; but their inference was not so ; that if he had a large 
 sum of money in hand, he would have placed it instantly at 
 the disposal of that most delightful creature, Mrs. Madocks, 
 for the sake of her lovely friend's glossy black hair. 
 
 The attempt is said to have been a noble one ; and for a 
 thing of the kind, probably it was very good. Some four or 
 five thousand acres of fertile land were to be gained from the 
 sea, which were to be let at forty shillings an acre, and would 
 have produced an income of from eight to ten thousand pounds 
 a-year ; the newly created town of Tremadoc would have 
 been greatly benefited, as well as the neighbourhood, and a 
 road on the top of the embankment would have united two 
 counties of Wales, and would have shortened considerably 
 the journey from Dublin to London and Bath : the last 
 advantage perhaps is a doubtful one, for there are quite as 
 many Irishmen in London and Bath as are wanted. The 
 \yhole was to have been effected at the estim<vted co«jt of 
 
Life of Shelley 371 
 
 twenty thousand pounds. All this would have been very- 
 good for the people in that remote angle of North Wales, and 
 particularly for Mr. Madocks himself ; but it is not easy to 
 see what the worthy inhabitants of the Rapes of Sussex had 
 to do with the scheme, what profit they were to derive from 
 it, or why Bysshe should write about it in such rapturous 
 strains ; why so much ' unabated and unconquerable ardour ' 
 should be kindled by one of the pecuniary speculations of a 
 very active and sanguine speculator ; what better feeUngs the 
 Duke of Norfolk could have relative to this sea-wall ; why it 
 was ' our country's cause ' ; how it could rationally excite 
 * fond hopes, ardent desires, unremitting personal exertions 
 in a cause, which I will desert but with my life ! ' This surely 
 is" the poetry of engineering ! A civil engineer must be inspired 
 to write thus. 
 
 St. James's Coffee-house, Nov. 7, 18 12. 
 
 My dear Williams, 
 
 I received your long and kind letter, and although 
 press of business does not permit me to answer to its length, 
 I do hope that it may not be deficient in kindness. I need 
 not assure you of the pleasure which I receive from the intelli- 
 gence of the safety and success of the embankment, of the 
 honourable perseverance of the men, or your own good hopes 
 and spirits. You know my feelings on all these things. I 
 have too often expressed my unabated and unconquerable 
 ardour for the success of you and your enterprises to need 
 repetition now. 
 
 On Thursday next we set out for Tanyrallt, and expect to 
 be with you on the ensuing Monday. The Duke of Norfolk 
 has just returned to London. I shall call upon him this 
 morning, and shall spare no pains in engaging his interest, or 
 perhaps his better feeUngs, in our and our country's cause. 
 
 I see no hope of effecting, on my part, any grand or decisive 
 scheme until the expiration of my minority. In Sussex I 
 meet with no encouragement. They are a parcel of cold, 
 selfish, and calculating animals, who seem to have no other 
 aim or business, on earth, but to eat, drink, and sleep ; but 
 in the meanwhile my fervid hopes, my ardent desires, my 
 unremitting personal exertions (so far as my health will allow), 
 are all engaged in that cause, which I will desert but with my 
 life. Can you hire a trustworthy maid-servant, as we shall 
 
372 Life of Shelley 
 
 require three in all ? Believe me, I feel the attention of the 
 Nanney family very deeply. 
 
 Harriet is now writing to Mrs. M., to express her sense of 
 her kindness. I do think that your country owes more than 
 I can express to the disinterestedness and activity of that 
 administration. 
 
 Harriet and the ladies unite with me in sincerest best wishes, 
 and believe me, 
 
 Your true friend, 
 
 Percy Bysshe Shelley. 
 
 P.S. — I am much better than when you last saw me. If I 
 can find time to-day, I shall write to the Doctor. Mr. Bed- 
 well will settle the 70/. affair. 
 
 The date of a letter shows, that on the 3rd of December, 
 1 812, Shelley was residing, probably with three trustworthy 
 maid-servants, at Tanyrallt, near Tremadoc, in a cottage, or 
 country house, the property of Mr. Madocks. The letter 
 shows also that he was already getting tired, if not of the 
 embankment, at least of the distant and inconvenient locality, 
 and of his unenlightened neighbours. 
 
 ' My parcel of books ', he writes, * is not yet arrived. I 
 own I am rather anxious concerning it, as the irregularity of 
 the coaches in this solitude among mountains frequently 
 causes mistakes. The verses which I have lately read are 
 accurately descriptive of the exquisite souls by whom I am 
 encompassed. Bigotry is so universally pervading, that the 
 best are deeply tainted. I was speaking of your friend to a 
 lady, who knew him during his residence in Wales. In many 
 respects she is a woman of considerable merit, and, except in 
 religious matters, a model of toleration. " Oh ! " she said, 
 
 " there he lived in a cottage near T , associating with no 
 
 one, and hiding his head, like a murderer, and ", she added, 
 altering her voice to a tone of appropriate gravity, " he was 
 worse than that, he was a sceptic ! " I exclaimed much 
 against the intolerance of her remark, without producing the 
 slightest effect. She knows very well that I am a democrat ; 
 but perhaps she does not do me justice ! There is more 
 philosophy in one square inch of any tradesman's counter, 
 than in the whole of Cambria. It is the last stronghold of 
 the most vulgar and commonplace prejudices of aristocracy. 
 Lawyers of unexampled villainy rule and grind the poor, 
 
Life of Shelley 373 
 
 whilst they cheat the rich. The pccisants are mere serfs, and 
 are fed and lodged worse than pigs. The gentry have all 
 the ferocity and despotism of the ancient barons, without 
 their dignity and chivalric disdain of shame and danger. The 
 poor are as abject as slaves, and the rich as tyrannical as 
 bashaws '. 
 
 In another letter from Tanyrallt, in Carnarvonshire, of the 
 17th of December, Bysshe says : 
 
 ' I am preparing a volume of minor poems, respecting the 
 publication of which I shall request the judgment both of a 
 publisher and a friend. A very obvious question would be 
 Will they sell, or not ? Subjoined is a list of books, which I 
 wish you to send to me very soon. I am determined to apply 
 myself to a study that is hateful and disgusting to my very 
 soul, but which is above all studies necessary to him who 
 would be listened to as a mender of antiquated abuses — I 
 mean, that record of crimes and miseries — history. You see 
 that the metaphysical works, after which my heart hankers, 
 are not numerous. In this list, one thing will you take care 
 of for me, that the standard and reputable works on history, 
 etc., be of the cheapest possible editions ; with respect to the 
 metaphysical works, I am less scrupulous. Spinoza you may, 
 or may not, be able to obtain. Kant is translated into Latin 
 by some Englishman '. 
 
 Bysshe did not begin to learn the German language until 
 the year 181 5. 
 
 ' I would prefer that the Greek Classics should have Latin, 
 or English translations printed opposite ; if they are not to 
 be obtained thus, they must be sent otherwise. Mrs. Shelley 
 is attacking Latin with considerable resolution, and can 
 already read many odes in Horace *. 
 
 There follows, by way of postcript, a long list of standard 
 historical works, a few on physics and metaphysics, and four 
 venerated names, Herodotus, Thucydides, Xenophon, and 
 Plutarch, ' with translations in Latin or English subjoined. 
 To these, which will take some stiff reading, you may add 
 anything new, that you conceive of sufficient worth '. On 
 the shortest day, the 21st of December, he writes to London 
 for ' Marcus Antoninus, Seneca, and Plato ; the last author 
 with a translation '. 
 
 It did not transpire, whether Shelley had any personal inter- 
 view with William Godwin during his brief visit to London 
 in November ; the proceedings of my friend were shrouded in 
 
374 " Life of Shelley 
 
 his habitual mystery, and his hasty and devious footsteps 
 seldom left any traces behind him ; it was not otherwise, 
 than if he had been walking upon the surface of the sea. 
 According to ordinary rules, one would infer that Bysshe 
 called upon him, and offered some explanation, or apology, 
 for having left his visitor so strangely in the lurch at Ly- 
 mouth. But an inspired poet is not governed by ordinary 
 rules, and there is no indication in William Godwin's letter 
 of their having as yet met. Possibly the flight from Ly- 
 mouth was too outrageous a slight to be expiated by an early 
 exposition of motives face to face with a lover of wisdom for 
 its own sake, however meek and mild he might be. It is 
 certain, that William Godwin had no large sums of money at 
 his disposal, wherewith the favourite speculation of the moment 
 might have been aided, nor was he an adept in the science of 
 banking out the sea, so that in the present emergency his 
 counsels would have availed little. Besides, a permanent 
 residence in London was then contemplated as being about 
 to commence immediately, and personal acquaintance might 
 naturally and conveniently be postponed until a frequent and 
 familiar intercourse might be carried on without interruption. 
 
 William Godwin's letter to Shelley is dated the loth of 
 December, 1812. It treats of the study of history ; and 
 although the latter part is wanting, the fragment is of con- 
 siderable length, and therefore it must be passed over, at least, 
 for the present. Nevertheless, it is worthy of attention ; 
 of more attention than the young historical student appears 
 to have bestowed upon it, whose reading was not influenced 
 in any the smallest degree by advice humbly and urgently 
 demanded. 
 
 The year 1813 opens at Tanyrallt with this extract from a 
 letter of the 2nd of January : 
 
 * On reflection, I feel rather chagrined that I excepted 
 against the Georgics. I fear it may withhold your hand, when 
 you would otherwise send me some really valuable work. I 
 assure you I am quite reconciled to Professor Martyn. Harriet 
 will probably derive some assistance from his translation, 
 when she has mastered Horace. Now to answer your ques- 
 tions. The Tractatus Polemicopoliticus and the Opera Post- 
 huma of Spinoza will fully suffice, at least, for the present. 
 With regard to Kant, there is a work of his, and, as I judged, 
 the only one, which has been translated into Latin by some 
 Doctor. This, which is liis most celebrated work, is the 
 
Life of Shelley 375 
 
 only one I require ; and I have no choice between a Latin, 
 a French, and an Enghsh translation. My poems will, I fear, 
 stand the criticism even of friendship ; some of the latter 
 ones have the merit of conveying a meaning in every word, 
 and all are faithful pictures of my feelings at the time of writ- 
 ing them. But they are, in a great measure, abrupt and 
 obscure — all breathing hatred of despotism and bigotry ; 
 but, I think, not too openly for publication. One fault they 
 are indisputably exempt from, that of being a volume of 
 fashionable literature. I doubt not but some friendly ha^id 
 will clip the wings of my Pegasus considerably. Small 
 Christmas, or Easter, Offerings of a neat little book have fre- 
 quently a surprising effect. The Emperors of China seem to 
 form a singular exception to the usual doltishness of the regal 
 race. I sympathize with his Imperial Majesty '. 
 
 What this compliment to the Emperor of China relates to 
 does not appear. 
 
 * Harriet, her sister, and myself hope to see some of our 
 friends here early in the spring '. 
 
 The early spring will speak for itself, and will tell its own 
 tale. On the 26th of January, he writes from Tanyrallt, 
 Tremadoc. 
 
 * The thermometer is twelve degrees below freezing ; this 
 is Russian cold ! I am provoked by the stupidity of the people 
 who were to send the box, etc., etc' 
 
 But on the manifold inconveniences of a residence in the 
 wilderness it is needless to expatiate. 
 
 ' I certainly wish to have all Kant's works. My question 
 concerning the Encyclopedie was more of curiosity than 
 want '. 
 
 This kind of liberal curiosity may be easily gratified in 
 London, but not at Tremadoc. 
 
 ' I expect to have Queen Mab and the other poems finished 
 by March. Queen Mab wdll be in ten cantos, and will contain 
 about 2,800 lines ; the other poems contain probably as 
 much more. The notes to Queen Mab will be long and philo* 
 sophical ; I shall take that opportunity, which I judge to be 
 a safe one, of submitting for public discussion principles of 
 reformation, which I decline to do syllogistically in the poem. 
 A poem very didactic is, I think, very stupid. I do not think 
 that Sir William Drummond's arguments have much weight. 
 His (Edipus Judaicus has completely failed in making me a 
 convert '. 
 
376 Life of Shelley 
 
 To proceed with the extracts from Shelley's letters. He 
 writes thus from Wales on the 19th of February : 
 
 * You would very much oblige me if you would collect all 
 possible documents on the Precession of the Equinoxes, as 
 also anything that may throw light upon the question of, 
 whether or not the position of the Earth on its poles is not 
 yearly becoming less oblique. It is an astronomical affair '. 
 His attention had probably been called to equinoctial con- 
 siderations by Sir William Drummond and other writers of 
 the same stamp ; however this might be, the astronomical 
 affair and the extensive commission to which it gave occasion, 
 would certainly puzzle the brains of a correspondent as far 
 advanced in astronomy, as a Carnarvonshire squire. 
 
 Dry Drummond's CEdipus is altogether unreadable ; but 
 Volney's Ruins was one of Harriet's text-books, which she 
 used to read aloud for our instruction and edification. 
 
 'Queen Mab,' he continues, ' is finished and transcribed. I 
 am now preparing the notes, which shall be very long and 
 philosophical. It will be received with the other poems : I 
 should think, that the whole should form one volume : but 
 of that we can speak hereafter. As to the French Encyclo- 
 pedie, it is a book, which I am desirous, very desirous, of 
 possessing. And if I could get a few months' credit (being 
 present rather low in cash), I should very much desire to have 
 it. How long will the poems be printing after they have been 
 received ? * 
 
 ' Excuse the earnestness of the first part of my letter. I feel 
 warmly on this subject, and I flatter myself, that so long as 
 your own independence and liberty remain uncompromiscd, 
 you are inclined to second my desires ' . 
 
 Of the earnestness which he seeks to excuse, the first 
 sentence of the letter will afford a specimen : ' I am boiling 
 with indignation at the horrible injustice and tyranny of the 
 sentence pronounced on the editor of the Examiner and his 
 brother ; and it is on this subject that I write to you. Surely 
 the seal of abjectness and slavery is indelibly stamped upon 
 the character of England '. 
 
 After a further display of very excusable earnestness, he 
 proposes that a public subscription to pay the fine imposed 
 be set on foot, and with this unbounded, and too often incon- 
 siderate, liberality, he sends twenty pounds as his own con- 
 tribution, should the project be adopted. 
 
 A pert journalist had presumed to call a very important 
 
Life of Shelley 377 
 
 personage ' a Adonis of sixty ', and had even ventured to 
 charge him with being ' fat ' ; whereas the Adonis was dis- 
 posed to sink his age, and to esteem his figure as eminently 
 correct, and in its fulness graceful. The author lying always 
 under the stern necessity of saying something every week to 
 the purpose, if possible, and relevant to the passing concerns 
 of the day, or at all events of saying something to fill up his 
 paper ; in addition to the imputation of corpulency with its 
 attendant jests, had discoursed of the ordinary topics of cen- 
 sure, which in those times were thought to be intimately 
 connected with the name of that personage. He might never 
 be mentioned indeed by his former adherents without some 
 reference to these ; without reiterating the old complaint, 
 that the monarch had turned the tables and his own back, a 
 broad fat back it was affirmed to be in this instance, upon the 
 associates and bottle-holders of the heir-apparent. In this 
 respect the article complained of had not gone, it was freely 
 acknowledged, beyond the proper limits of sound Whig doc- 
 trines, and constitutional scurrility ; but it had pronounced 
 him to be a fat old man. This was saucy, and peculiarly 
 offensive to a ruler, who was resolved to be still reputed a slim 
 slender-waisted youth. 
 
 It might well be, that the personal ridicule was reprehen- 
 sible to a certain extent, but most assuredly it was foolish to 
 be so deeply offended at it. It was childish to own so much 
 displeasure, and preposterous to file a criminal information 
 in such a case. It is hard to believe, that a public prosecutor 
 could have been found indiscreet enough to disgrace himself 
 and his office by taking up seriously so absurd a matter — to 
 comprehend, how the defence could have been so conducted, 
 and a jury packed, so that a verdict of guilty could have been 
 procured. A fine of fifty pounds imposed upon the con- 
 victed defendants, or a month's imprisonment, would have 
 been a moderate and sufficient punishment ; a mark of dis- 
 approbation fully adequate to the offence, such as it was. 
 A fine of one thousand pounds, and the incarceration of two 
 persons for two years, appeared to be a measure of outrageous 
 and stolid vengeance, too insane to be awarded by the slowest 
 of judges, and of too manifest and patent a tendency to bring 
 the administration of criminal justice into utter and univer- 
 sal contempt. 
 
 It is said to be a question of what wood Mercuries ought 
 to be made ; but there could be no question, after this frantic 
 
378 Life of Shelley 
 
 sentence, whether successful advocates, who had turned 
 trading pohticians, were the proper material out of which to 
 construct a bench of judges. Moreover, it seems quite incre- 
 dible, that the royal prerogative of mercy did not interpose to 
 remedy the wrong, and to soothe the shocked and irritated 
 feelings of the public, by remitting the greater part of the 
 monstrous punishment. 
 
 The libel possibly was blameable ; the prosecution, the per- 
 secution, and rigorous condemnation were altogether indefen- 
 sible. However, it was a paltry, pitiful affair on both sides, 
 and in every point of view. It was party spite against party 
 spite, and nothing more. It was in its origin and nature an 
 attempt to annoy political opponents ; and in its results the 
 insulting aggressors, political assailants, had the worst of it. 
 Consequently there was nothing in the transaction to cause 
 indignation, a virtuous indignation, to boil over. A lower 
 temperature, than 212"^, on a philosopher's thermometer 
 would have indicated warmth of displeasure equal to censure 
 adequately the injustice and tyranny of an improper and 
 impolitic severity. The fancy of a sensitive, imaginative 
 young poet surely runs riot, when he writes to his 
 correspondent of ' the great debt of obligation, which the 
 people of England owe to a good, brave, enlightened 
 man, to the champion of their liberties and virtues, which if 
 they hesitate to pay, they are dead, cold, stony-hearted, and 
 insensible, and brutalized by centuries of unremitting bondage. 
 The great debt being in truth, that the champion of liberty 
 and virtue had called somebody, or other, 'a fat Adonis of 
 sixty ', in order that he might sell his journal, divert his 
 readers, and please the political adventurers of his own party, 
 who might, or might not, feel themselves bound in gratitude 
 to stand by him, to compensate his losses and sufferings, and 
 to be substantially thankful for having afforded them so good 
 a grievance, as the severe sentence, which sent him, for his 
 impertinence, to tarry an unreasonably long time in a prison 
 in Horsemonger Lane. But a scholar, a poet and a gentle- 
 man should scorn such trash ; he ought not to be caught by 
 so poor a bait. 
 
 A strange epistle, of which a copy in Mrs. Shelley's writing 
 has lately been placed in my hands, may be conveniently 
 introduced and noticed in this place, as being connected vdth 
 the subject, although it was written two years before, during 
 our residence at Oxford. 
 
Life of Shelley 379 
 
 What the triumph, so highly prized by men of hberaUty, 
 on the occasion of which his sincerest congratulations were 
 offered, really was, does not appear, not is it material to inquire. 
 It was probably some success of journalism, in truth interest- 
 ing only to journalists ; to ' the fearless enlighteners of the 
 public mind ', as they are laughably, but not ironically styled. 
 However, it is unnecessary to discuss such lofty themes. The 
 letter is curious,because it presents one of the very few instances 
 in which he appeared to have contemplated the contingency 
 of sitting in parliament. He commonly shrank with dismay 
 and horror from every proposal of that' kind, when it was 
 made to liim by his father and other members of his family, 
 or by the Duke of Norfolk. But I apprehend, that he con- 
 templated it only for a moment, during the brief dream, in 
 wliich he penned this fanciful and whimsical effusion ; this 
 vision of want of judgment. The Abbe Barruel's History of 
 Jacobinism was a favourite book at college, he went through 
 the four volumes again and again, swallowing with eager 
 credulity the fictions and exaggerations of that readily believ- 
 ing, or readily inventing author. He used to read aloud to 
 me with rapturous enthusiasm the wondrous tales of German 
 lUuminati ; and he was disappointed, sometimes even dis- 
 pleased, when I expressed doubt or disbelief. 
 
 The staple end of the letter of the 2nd of March is some 
 crude notion of applying the machinery of lUuminism to 
 establish on a firm basis the rational liberty of the press ; or 
 perhaps the unrestrained licence of flippant journalism. The 
 same letter also illustrates in a striking manner Bysshe's 
 perilous propensity, by writing to them with effusion, of 
 making the acquaintance of persons of some notoriety, but 
 of whose character and habits of life he knew iiothing 
 whatever. 
 
 His introduction of himself to William Godwin, a remarkable 
 example of this very unusual course of proceeding, has been 
 already fully detailed. This practice surely is imprudent 
 and improper ; it is certainly unnecessary, for it is always 
 easy to be personally presented, or made known by letter, 
 through the intervention of a common acquaintance. Besides, 
 there is something ridiculous in so abrupt and hasty a step ; 
 it too nearly resembles dealing through an advertisement in 
 the Times. 
 
 Wanted a good, plain cook ; or housekeeper to a single 
 gentleman — wanted a philosopher ; a profound one, who is a 
 
38o Life of Shelley 
 
 friend to liberty, will be preferred. If any fearless enlightener 
 of the public mind will apply at the butter shop, he will hear 
 of something to his advantage. 
 
 The truth is, my poor friend knew well that it was quite 
 wrong, because he never communicated his intentions to 
 myself, or to any of his friends ; he never told me what he 
 had done, being unquestionably ashamed of his precipitancy ; 
 he never showed me the letter, or the answer to it, if he ever 
 received one. Now for the letter, which I never read until 
 very recently. 
 
 University College, Oxford, March 2, 1811. 
 
 Sir, 
 
 Permit me, although a stranger, to offer my sincerest 
 congratulations on the occasion of that triumph so highly to 
 be prized by men of liberality ; permit me also to submit to 
 your consideration, as one of the most fearless enlighteners 
 of the public mind at the present time, a scheme of mutual 
 safety and mutual indemnification for men of public spirit 
 and principle, which if carried into effect, would evidently be 
 productive of incalculable advantages : of the scheme the 
 following is an address to the public, the proposal for a meet- 
 ing, and it shall be modified according to your judgment, if 
 you will do me the honour to consider the point. 
 
 The ultimate intention of my aim is to induce a meeting of 
 such enlightened and unprejudiced members of the community, 
 whose independent principles expose them to evils which 
 might thus become alleviated ; and to form a methodical 
 society, which should be organized so as to resist the coalition 
 of the enemies of liberty, which at present renders any expres- 
 sion of opinion on matters of policy dangerous to individuals. 
 It has been for want of societies of this nature, that corrup- 
 tion has attained the height at which we now behold it ; nor 
 can any of us bear in mind the very great influence, which 
 some years since was gained by Illuminism, without con- 
 sidering, that a society of equal extent might establish national 
 liberty on as firm a basis, as that which would have supported 
 the visionary schemes of a completely equalized community. 
 
 Although perfectly unacquainted with you privately, I 
 address you as a common friend to liberty, thinking that in 
 cases of this urgency and importance, etiquette ought not to 
 stand in the way of usefulness. 
 
 My father is in parliament, and on attaining twenty-one, I 
 
Life of Shelley 381 
 
 shall in all probability fill his vacant seat. On account of 
 the responsibility, to which my residence in the Univ^ersit^^ 
 subjects me, I, of course, dare not publicly avow all I think, 
 but the time will come, when I hope, that my every endeavour, 
 insufficient as this may be, ^\^ll be directed to the advance- 
 ment of liberty. 
 
 I remain, sir. 
 
 Your most obedient servant, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To Leigh Hunt. 
 
 In the course of the winter, 1812-1813, I received several 
 letters from my young friends at Tanyrallt. 
 
 I have found three from Bysshe ; they are most interest- 
 ing. I present them together, being unwilling to interrupt 
 the series of extracts from his communications Avith other 
 correspondents. 
 
 Tanyrallt, Dec. 3, 1812. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your letter begins with the Duke of Norfolk. I stared, 
 when I saw his name ; from the very moment I parted from 
 you to the moment of the receipt of your letter, I had thought 
 no more of the Duke of Norfolk than of the man in the moon. 
 I will this instant sit down, and do penance for my involun- 
 tary crime by writing a long and wheedling letter to his Grace, 
 and you shall be duly informed of the success of the experi- 
 ment. I have no hopes, however, of bending my father, but 
 by the mere force of gross interest, and therefore suppose it 
 equally impossible, that he should come to terms before I am 
 of age, as that he should hold out at the expiration of my min- 
 ority. Be it as it may, I will give him a fair chance, I will 
 put on my most good-humoured and conciliatory countenance, 
 which Heaven knows, mil in this case have something of the 
 Grimgriffinhoff in it after all. When I see him, though I 
 shall say the civilest things imaginable, yet I shall not look 
 as if I liked him, because I do not like him. 
 
 You think, that, because your reasonings on the subject of 
 moral and political science have led you wide of me, you are 
 regarded by me with less complacency ; but good intention 
 is the essence of merit, and any qualification so involuntary 
 as belief, or opinion, is surely a defective standard, by which 
 
382 Life of Shelley 
 
 to measure out esteem. It is only when conviction is influ- 
 enced by debasing and unworthy motives, that it becomes in 
 any degree criminal. 
 
 Of such motives I do not accuse you, and you appear tainted 
 with some portion of that illiberality, of which you indirectly 
 accuse me, by the very spirit of suspicion, which produces 
 that accusation. 
 
 You misinterpret my feelings on the state of the moral 
 world, when you suppose that the bigotry of commonplace 
 republicanism, or the violence of faction, enters into them at 
 all. 
 
 I certainly am a very resolved republican (if the word 
 applies), and a determined sceptic ; but although I think 
 their reasonings very defective, I am clearly aware that the 
 noblest feelings might conduct some few reflecting minds to 
 Aristocracy and Episcopacy. Hume certainly was an 
 aristocrat, and Locke was a zealous Christian. 
 
 The Brown Demon, as we call our late tormentor and school- 
 mistress, must receive her stipend. I pay it with a heavy 
 heart and an unwilling hand ; but it must be so. She was 
 deprived by our misjudging haste of a situation, where she 
 was going on smoothly : and now she says, that her reputa- 
 tion is gone, her health ruined, her peace of mind destroyed 
 by my barbarity ; a complete victim to all the woes mental 
 and bodily, that heroine ever suffered ! This is not all fact ; 
 but certainly she is embarrassed and poor, and we being in 
 some degree the cause, we ought to obviate it. She is an 
 artful, superficial, ugly, hermaphroditical beast of a woman, 
 and my astonishment at my fatuity, inconsistency, and bad 
 taste was never so great, as after living four months with her 
 as an inmate. What would Hell be, were such a woman in 
 Heaven ? 
 
 The society in Wales is very stupid. They are all aristocrats 
 and saints : but that, I tell you, I do not mind in the least : 
 the unpleasant part of the business is, that they hunt people 
 to death, who are not so likewise. 
 
 Miss Westbrook is perfectly well ; Harriet unites with me 
 in wishing you all possible good, and I am your very sincere 
 friend, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 Write soon, for your letters amuse us ALL. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
Life of Shelley 383 
 
 Tanyrallt, Dec, 27, 18 12. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Your letter to Harriet contains some hints of the possi- 
 biUty of your being at leisure in a short time. I sincerely 
 hope that yovir schemes will allow a visit to Tanyrallt. The 
 advantage of a mail within seventeen miles would entirely 
 obviate any hitch in the affair. We all anxiously wish 3^ou 
 would come, and hope that your hint was something better 
 than a mere lure for the opportunity of refusal. 
 
 We are all surprised at the complaints of cold which issue 
 from London. For a day or two, indeed, -it bit a little in the 
 first of the morning, but nothing more. 
 
 Believe me that I sympathize in your feelings on Buona- 
 parte and Peace, very warmly. Buonaparte is a person to 
 whom I have a very great objection ; he is to me a hateful 
 and despicable being. He is seduced by the grossest and most 
 vulgar ambition into actions which only differ from those of 
 pirates by virtue of the number of men and the variety of 
 resources under his command. His talents appear to me 
 altogether contemptible and commonplace ; incapable as he 
 is of comparing connectedly the most obvious propositions, 
 or relishing any pleasure truly enrapturing. Excepting Lord 
 Castlereagh, you could not have mentioned any character but 
 Buonaparte whom I contemn and ahbor more vehemently. 
 With respect to those victories in the North ; if they tend 
 towards peace, they are good ; if otherwise, they are bad. 
 This is the standard by which I shall ultimately measure my 
 approbation of them. At the same time, I cannot but say 
 that the first impression which they made on me was one of 
 horror and regret. 
 
 Brougham's defence was certainly not so good as it might 
 have been ; it was fettered by the place wherein he stood. 
 Entire liberty of speech was denied. He could not speak 
 treason ; he could not commit a Hbel ; and therefore his 
 client was not to be defended on the basis of moral truth. He 
 was compelled to hesitate when truth was rising to his lips ; 
 he could utter that which he did utter only by circumlocution 
 and irony. The speech of the Solicitor-General appeared to 
 me the consummation of all shameless insolence, and the 
 address of Lord EUenborough so barefaced a piece of time- 
 servingness, that I am sure his heart must have laughed at his 
 lips as he pronounced it. 
 
 I have as yet received no answer from the Duke of Norfolk. 
 
384 Life of Shelley 
 
 I scarcely expect one. I do not see that it is the interest of 
 my father to come to terms during my non-age ; perhaps even 
 not after. Do you know, I cannot prevail upon myself to 
 care much about it. Harriet is very happy as we are ; and 
 I am very happy. I question if intimacy with my relations 
 would add at all to our tranquillity. They would be plotting 
 and playing the devil, or showing us to some people who would 
 do so ; or they would be dull ; or they would take stupid likes 
 or dislikes, and they certainly might cramp our liberty of 
 movement. In fact, I have written to the Duke. I can say 
 to my conscience, ' I have done my best ' ; but I shall not be 
 very unhappy, if I fail. 
 
 I continue vegetable ; Harriet means to be slightly animal, 
 until the arrival of Spring. My health is much improved by 
 it ; though partly perhaps by my removal from your nerve- 
 racking and spirit-quelling metropolis. 
 
 We are divided between two opinions : Whether you really 
 will allow us the heartfelt pleasure of seeing you here this 
 winter : or whether your suggestion was a quiz. 
 
 My dear friend, I remain, 
 
 Yours very affectionately, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 Tanyrallt, Feb. 7, 1813. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I have been teased to death for the last fortnight. 
 Had you known the variety of the discomfitures I have under- 
 gone, you would attribute my silence to anything but unkind- 
 ness or neglect. I allude to the embankment affairs, in which 
 I thoughtlessly engaged ; for when I come home to Harriet, 
 I am the happiest of the happy. I forget whether I have 
 expressed to you the pleasure which you know I must feel at 
 your visit in March. I hope it will be early in the month, and 
 that you will arrange matters so in London, that it may be 
 protracted to the utmost possible length. 
 
 We simple people live here in a cottage extensive and tasty 
 enough for the villa of an Italian Prince. The rent, as you 
 may conceive, is large, but it is an object with us that they 
 allow it to remain unpaid till I am of age. 
 
 What said Harriet of America ? 
 
 You must take your place in the mail as far as Capel Cerrig, 
 and inform me of the time you mean to be there, and I will 
 
Life of Shelley 385 
 
 meet you. I do not think that you have ever visited this 
 part of North Wales. The scenery is more strikingly grand 
 in the way from Capel Cerrig to our house than ever I beheld. 
 The road passes at the foot of Snowdon ; all around you see 
 lofty mountain peaks, lifting their summits far above the 
 clouds, wildly wooded valleys below, and dark tarns reflecting 
 every tint and shape of the scenery above them. The roads 
 are tremendously rough ; I shall bring a horse for you, as you 
 will then be better able to see the country than when jumbled 
 in a chaise. 
 
 Mab has gone on but slowly, although she is nearly finished. 
 They have teased me out of all poetry. With some restric- 
 tions, I have taken your advice, though I have not been able 
 to bring myself to rhyme. The didactic is in blank heroic 
 verse, and the descriptive in blank lyrical measure. If an 
 authority is of any weight in support of this singularity, 
 Milton's Samson Agonistes, the Greek Choruses, and (you will 
 laugh) Southey's Thalaha may be adduced. I have seen your 
 last letter to Harriet. She will answer it by next post. I 
 need not say that your letters delight me, but all your princi- 
 ples do not. The species of pride which you love to encourage 
 appears to me incapable of bearing the test of reason. Now, 
 do not tell me that Reason is a cold and insensible arbiter. 
 Reason is only an assemblage of our better feelings — passion 
 considered under a peculiar mode of its operation. This 
 chivalric pride, although of excellent use in an age of Vanda- 
 lism and brutality, is unworthy of the nineteenth century. 
 A more elevated spirit has begun to diffuse itself, which, with- 
 out deducting from the warmth of love, or the constancy of 
 friendship, reconciles all private feelings to pubHc utiUty, and 
 scarce suffers true Passion and true Reason to continue at 
 war. Pride mistakes a desire of being esteemed for that of 
 being really estimable. I scarce think that the mock humility 
 of ecclesiastical hypocrisy is more degrading and blind. I 
 remember when over our Oxford fire we used to discuss various 
 subjects ; fancy me present with you in spirit, and own * how 
 vain is human pride ! * Perhaps you will say that my Republi- 
 canism is proud ; it certainly is far removed from pot-house 
 democracy, and knows with what smile to hear the servile 
 applauses of an inconsistent mob. But though its cheeks 
 could feel without a blush the hand of insult strike, its soul 
 would shrink neither from the scaffold nor the stake, nor from 
 those deeds and habits which are obnoxious to slaves in power. 
 
 C C 
 
386 Life of Shelley 
 
 My Republicanism, it is true, would bear with an aristocracy 
 of chivalry and refinement before an aristocracy of commerce 
 and vulgarity ; not, however, from pride, but because the 
 one I consider as approaching most nearly to what man ought 
 to be. So much for Pride ! 
 
 Since I wrote the above, I have finished the rough sketch 
 of my poem. As I have not abated an iota of the infidelity 
 or cosmopolicy of it, sufficient will remain, exclusively of 
 innumerable faults, invisible to partial eyes, to make it very 
 unpopular. Like all egotists, I shall console myself with 
 what I may call, if I please, the suffrages of the chosen few, 
 who can think and feel, or of those friends whose personal 
 partialities may blind them to all defects. I mean to subjoin 
 copious philosophical notes. 
 
 Harriet has a bold scheme of writing you a Latin letter. 
 If you have an Ovid's Metamorphoses, she will thank you to 
 bring it. I do not teach her grammatically, but by the less 
 laborious method of teaching her the English of Latin words, 
 intending afterwards to give her a general idea of grammar. 
 She unites with me in all kindest wishes. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 CHAPTER XX 
 
 I HAD promised to visit my young friends in their wilderness 
 during the Spring Circuit ; that is to say, at the beginning of 
 March ; in about a month from the date of Bysshe's last 
 letter. It would have been a great pleasure to have -met 
 again ; to have spent a few pleasant weeks with them ; to 
 have seen the famous embankment, and all the other wonders 
 of nature and art, and to have examined in a course of long 
 walks, in company with my friend, that part of the Princi- 
 pality, an interesting tract of country which I had never set 
 eyes upon. This project was rudely and abruptly put an end 
 to by a very remarkable incident, if incident it may be called. 
 Although I had known Bysshe intimately for three or four 
 years, I could still be surprised, and I was not a little sur- 
 prised by a letter which I received one morning from Harriet. 
 Frolicsome fairies, evil-disposed elves, spiteful spirits, and 
 daring demons have been in all times the torment of the milk- 
 maid, the miner, the husbandman ; no calling, no trade, no 
 mystery, no occupation has been exempt from their malignant 
 
Life of Shelley 387 
 
 influence and mischievous interference ; even the quiet pur- 
 suits of the recluse student are not privileged or protected 
 from praeternatural intromission and disturbance. I have 
 occupied the same dingy chambers in the Temple for some 
 fifty years, and during the lapse of half a century countless 
 letters and papers of various kinds have been received and 
 suffered to accumulate there. Such of them as related to 
 matters of business were classed and tied up in bundles, and 
 arranged under their proper heads ; but those which con- 
 cerned private friendships and domestic, affairs merely were 
 put away without order and indiscriminately, as soon as each 
 had been read and answered, where an answer was required ; 
 and they have rarely been referred to subsequently, or dis- 
 turbed. In locked drawers, desks, and closets, every letter, 
 every scrap of paper, although covered thickly with dust and 
 soot, and in utter confusion, must remain, a vast, rude, and 
 undigested mass ; but still it must be in existence, and on a 
 diligent search should undoubtedly be forthcoming. . But it 
 is not so ; far otherwise ! When I undertook to write the 
 life of my incomparable friend, my first care was to collect 
 materials for the task. Accordingly, I spent several long and 
 laborious days in the painful office, painful in every way, of 
 looking over my ample collections, and selecting from my 
 several repositories whatever had any reference to the subject. 
 I never had such dirty hands, or went through so filthy a job, 
 as when I made the retrospect of my past life. Besides, it 
 was far too like the proceedings of the Day of Judgment — of 
 the great and terrible day, when the secrets of all hearts will 
 be revealed — to be perfectly agreeable. Unavailing and 
 painful regrets ; the revival of distressing, but forgotten, 
 occurrences ; afflicting and mortifying recollections — a fresh 
 flood of the ebbed waters of a wide sea of troubles. All this 
 and more might have been borne, and indeed was borne, but 
 the harvest ought to have been as abundant as the toils of 
 the labourer were heavy ; the crop disappointed me. The 
 Cobbold had been there before me ; it seemed that the tiny 
 subjects of Queen Mab had prevented me ; that they had 
 previously rifled my long-neglected hoards. Shelley printed 
 books that they might be pirated mercilessly ; he gave copies 
 of them to his friends, or reserved them for himself, that they 
 might be borrowed without notice, and never to be returned ; 
 in one word — stolen. Everything referring in any way to 
 him, not under lock and key, was accounted derelict ; it 
 
388 Life of Shelley 
 
 became the property of the first occupant, until he also should 
 be stripped of it in turn ; whatever had his mark upon it 
 was outlawed — it bore a wolf's head ! Of this ban I was 
 fully sensible ; I had long felt the full weight of it ; and 
 therefore I had been the more careful jealously to secure my 
 stores, to keep them in thick darkness and secrecy. It is 
 impossible to believe that anything has been actually lost ; 
 but certainly there are many things upon which I am unable 
 at present to lay my hand. Hereafter, doubtless, they will 
 turn up. The inconvenience is only temporary, but it is 
 considerable. Some things I am unwilling to state, not having 
 my vouchers by me ; other things, probably, I have forgotten, 
 but may hope some day, on recovering my papers, to be 
 reminded of them, and that my memory will thus be refreshed. 
 I have an uncertain, obscure, hazy recollection of having 
 separated, many years ago, Harriet's letters from the others ; 
 for what purpose I do not remember — this is of little moment — 
 neither can I remember where I deposited them, which is most 
 unfortunate. 
 
 It has been stated confidently, that Harriet Shelley always 
 spelt her name Harriett, with a double (tt) at the end ; it is 
 a trifling matter, indeed, but it is well to be correct even in 
 trifles. I have seen many of her letters, addressed to others, 
 as well as to myself, but her Christian name never was spelt 
 so — always Harriet. And Shelley, who frequently mentioned 
 her in his letters and journals, always wrote Harriet. The 
 only letters of hers which I can meet with at present are three 
 or four, which I appear to have overlooked ; so that I may 
 affirm, rather paradoxically, that I have such of her letters 
 as I had lost, and I have lost those which I had. Amongst 
 the letters missing is that which cut off my promised visit to 
 Carnarvonshire. However, I have been furnished with a 
 letter to another party, in which the Hegira, the flight from 
 Mecca — from Tanyrallt, at least — is described, and the cause 
 of their flight. The Pilgrim Good Intent withdrew hastily, 
 precipitately, to Dublin, and this is the strange story of his 
 Progress : 
 
 Tanyrallt, March 3, 181 3. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I have just escaped an atrocious assassination. O 
 send the twenty pounds, if you have it ! You will perhaps 
 hear of me no more ! Your ^Friend, 
 
 Percy 'Shelley. 
 
'Life of Shelley 389 
 
 Mr. Shelley is so dreadfully nervous to-day, from being up 
 all night, that I am afraid what he has written will alarm you 
 very much. 
 
 We intend to leave this place as soon as possible, as our 
 lives are not safe as long as we remain. It is no common 
 robber we dread, but a person who is actuated by revenge — 
 who threatens my Ufe and my .sister's as well. 
 
 If you can send us the money, it will greatly add to our 
 comfort. 
 
 Sir, I remain. 
 
 Your sincere Friend, 
 
 H. Shelley. 
 To Mr. H. T., London. 
 
 Bangor Ferry, March 6, 181 3. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 In the first stage of our journey towards Dublin we 
 met with your letter ; the remittance rescued us from a situa- 
 tion of peculiar perplexity. 
 
 I am now recovered from an illness brought on by watching, 
 fatigue, and alarm, and we are proceeding to Dubhn to dissi- 
 pate the unpleasing impressions associated with the scene of 
 our alarm ; we expect to be there on the 8th ; you shall then 
 hear the detail of our distresses. 
 
 The ball of the assassin's pistol (he fired at me twice) pene- 
 trated my nightgown, and pierced the wainscot. He is yet 
 undiscovered, though not unsuspected, as you will learn from 
 my next. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 To Mr. H. T., London. 
 
 35, Cuff Street, Stephen's Green, Dublin, 
 March 12, 1813. 
 My dear Sir, 
 
 We arrived here last Tuesday, after a most tedious 
 passage of forty hours, during the whole of which time we 
 were dreadfully ill. I'm afraid no diet will prevent us from 
 the common lot of suffering when obliged to take a sea voyage. 
 Mr. Shelley promised you a recital of the horrible events 
 that caused us to leave Wales. I have undertaken the task, 
 as I wish to spare him, in the present nervous state of his 
 
390 Life of Shelley 
 
 health, everything that can recall to his mind the horrors of 
 that night, which I will relate : 
 
 On the night of the 26th February, we retired to bed between 
 ten and eleven o'clock. We had been in bed about half-an- 
 hour, when Mr. S. heard a noise proceeding from one of the 
 parlours. He immediately went downstairs with two pistols 
 which he had loaded that night, expecting to have occasion 
 for them. He went into the billiard-room, when he heard 
 footsteps retreating ; he followed into another little room, 
 which was called an office. He there saw a man in the act of 
 quitting the room through a glass window which opened into 
 the shrubbery ; the man fired at Mr. S., which he avoided. 
 Bysshe then fired ; but it flashed in the pan. The man then 
 knocked Bysshe down, and they struggled on the ground. 
 Bysshe then fired his second pistol, which he thought wounded 
 him in the shoulder, as he uttered a shriek and got up, when 
 he said these words : * By God, I will be revenged. I will 
 murder your wife, and will ravish your sister ! By God, I 
 will be revenged ! ' He then fled, as we hoped, for the night. 
 Our servants were not gone to bed, but were just going, when 
 this horrible affair happened. This was about eleven o'clock. 
 We all assembled in the parlour, where we remained for two 
 hours. Mr. S. then advised us to retire, thinking it Wcis 
 impossible he would make a second attack. We left Bysshe 
 and our man-servant — who had only arrived that day, and 
 who knew nothing of the house — to sit up. I had been in 
 bed three hours when I heard a pistol go off. I immediately 
 ran down stairs, when I perceived that Bysshe's flannel gown 
 had been shot through, and the window curtain. Bysshe 
 had sent Daniel to see what hour it was ; when he heard a 
 noise at the window : he went there, and a man thrust his 
 arm through the glass, and fired at him. Thank Heaven ! 
 the ball went through his gown, and he remained unhurt. 
 Mr. S. happened to stand sideways ; had he stood fronting, 
 the ball must have killed him. Bysshe fired liis pistol, but 
 it would not go off ; he then aimed a blow at him with an old 
 sword, which we found in the house. The assassin attempted 
 to get the sword from him, and just as he was pulling it away, 
 Dan rushed into the room, when he made his escape. This 
 was at four in the morning. It had been a most dreadful 
 night ; the wind was as loud as thunder, and the rain de- 
 scended in torrents. Nothing has been heard of him, and we 
 have every reason to believe it was no stranger, as there is a 
 
Life of Shelley 391 
 
 man of the name of Luson, who, the next morning that it 
 happened, went and told the shopkeepers that it was a tale 
 of Mr. Shelley s to impose upon them, that he might leave 
 the country without paying his bills. This they believed, and 
 none of them attempted to do anything towards his discovery. 
 We left Tanyrallt on Sunday, and stayed, till everything was 
 ready for our leaving the place, at the house of the Solicitor- 
 General of the County, who Hved sevea miles from us. This 
 Mr. Luson had been heard to say, that he was determined to 
 drive us out of the country. He once happened to get hold 
 of a little pamphlet which Mr. S. had printed in Dubhn. This 
 he sent up to Government ; in fact, he was for ever saying 
 something against us, and that because we were determined 
 not to admit him to our house, because we had heard his 
 character, and from acts of his, we found that he was malig- 
 nant and cruel to the greatest degree. 
 
 We experienced pleasure in reading your letter, at the time 
 when every one seemed to be plotting against us ; when those 
 who, a few weeks-back, had been offering their services, shrunk 
 from the task, when called upon in a moment like that. 
 
 Mr. Shelley and my sister unite with me in kind regards ; 
 whilst I remain, 
 
 Yours truly, 
 H. Shelley. 
 
 To Mr. H. T., London. 
 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 Harriet related to you the mysterious events which 
 caused our departure from Tanyrallt. I was at that time so 
 nervous and unsettled as to be wholly incapable of the task. 
 By your kindness, we are relieved from all pecuniary diffi- 
 culties. We only wanted a little breathing time, which the 
 rapidity of our persecutions was unwilling to allow. I will 
 readily repay the twenty pounds when I hear from my corre- 
 spondent in London. 
 
 Yours faithfully, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 To Mr. H. T. 
 
 Harriet's letter to me was written from Tanyrallt, a day 
 or two after the catastrophe ; it bore an earlier date, but in 
 other respects it was, to the best of my recollection, precisely 
 similar, word for word, indeed, to her letter from Dublin of 
 the 1 2th of March. I have been informed, that she also sent 
 
392 Life of Shelley 
 
 to other persons a narrative of the nightly fears in the same 
 terms, writing descriptive circulars, and dispatching them in 
 different directions. Persons acquainted with the locahties 
 and with the circumstances, and who had carefully investi- 
 gated the matter, were unanimous in the opinion, that no such 
 attempt was ever made. I never met with any person who 
 believed in it. I have heard other histories, alike apocryphal, 
 of attacks made by the good people of North Wales upon 
 persons of whose sentiments, religious or political, they were 
 supposed to disapprove ; but the ale-bibbers and devourers 
 of Welsh-rabbits are too wise, or two stolid, to care how much 
 logic any man may chop within the Principality, or how fine 
 he may chop it. What could the quiet, sheep-tending, 
 mutton-eating, stocking-knitting folks in a secluded corner 
 of Carnarvonshire care about an unread and unreadable 
 pamphlet on Catholic claims and the wrongs of Ireland, pri- 
 vately printed in Dublin ? Apollo, the shepherd, would not 
 credit, that a simple pastoral race could murderously assault, 
 and basely assassinate a brother shepherd. How could the 
 countrymen of Talliessin and the other immortal bards perse- 
 cute and expel from their land of poesy and song the special 
 favourite and pet of the Aonian maids ? Neither Bysshe 
 nor Harriet ever spoke to me of the assassination ; and the 
 lovely Eliza observed on this subject, as on all others, her 
 wonted silence. There is certainly something fabulous and 
 mythic, that carries us back to the earliest ages and infancy 
 of Rome, leaving us there amidst historical doubts, in the 
 avowed determination of the Cambro-British Tarquin con- 
 cerning her. Burglary, arson, murder, we can contemplate 
 with dry eyes ; but to ravish a guardian angel ! The thought 
 of such violation could not possibly have entered into any 
 head but her own ; her maidenly fears must have been sug- 
 gested by an excess of virgin timidity. It is astonishing, 
 indeed, that the good Harriet could so coolly repeat the vain 
 threat. 
 
 Dan was an emancipator and a philanthropist. This is 
 his story ; it is worthy to be told in an Irish melody, and 
 sung to the harp of Erin. He had been apprehended for 
 posting, distributing, or pubUshing printed papers, wanting 
 the name of the printer ; convicted, and imprisoned. A good 
 angel, although possibly a rebel angel, delivered Daniel from 
 the lions' den. By paying the penalty for him, or by other 
 humane interposition, he was set free ; and, marvellous to 
 
Life of Shelley 393 
 
 relate, Bysshe took the released bill-sticker into his service. 
 Dan was a short, thickset, hard-featured man, of a pure 
 Celtic type. He could not, or would not, speak, or 
 understand, the English language, or comprehend anything 
 whatever. They brought him to London with them, in the 
 following Spring, where I saw him at a hotel, soon after their 
 arrival. Here the stupid, starved savage over-eat himself 
 to such a degree as to bring on a very severe, if not dangerous, 
 illness. It was necessary to remove him to a hospital ; and 
 there, after much suffering, he was at last cured, chiefly by 
 the change of hospital diet from hotel' fare. Bysshe was 
 persuaded, with some dif&culty, to part with him, Harriet 
 declaring he was so faithful. For his health's sake, he was 
 remitted to his accustomed potatoes and butter-milk — the 
 bog-trotter was trotted back to his native bogs ; a salutary 
 precedent that might have been very extensively followed, 
 and with the best results. 
 
 What part this ruffian may have played in the strange 
 scenes at Tanyrallt — for he was in the thick of them — it is 
 hard to conjecture ; whether he had any strictly Hibernian 
 objects of plunder and ordinary villany in view, which were 
 accidentally frustrated ; or got up a nocturnal row for the 
 purpose of displaying his fidelity ; or created the disturbance 
 through a barbarian panic ; or was set on and instructed by 
 some moving power, to whom it was at heart to quit Wales, 
 and for some private end to go again to Ireland — we may 
 soon lose ourselves in conjectures, in vain and bootless con- 
 jectures. One thing at least is certain, viz. that Shelley was 
 in a nervous, unsettled state, which was far more likely to be 
 the parent of imaginary aggressions, than the fruit and off- 
 spring of a real attack, on the mind of a man of remarkable 
 and unquestionable courage. He certainly never spoke of 
 the murderous assault to me. With regard to what he may 
 have related to others, I can only say, that these assertions 
 were the result of his being agitated with fury, and possessed 
 by the god ; for we must speak poetically of a poet. And 
 we may add, whatever the errors and failings of the Divine 
 Poet may have been, womankind is too weak to bear a second 
 Shelley ! 
 
 A letter addressed to the agent of Mr. Madocks relates to 
 this attack. It is not dated, but it seems to have been written 
 before they quitted Tanyrallt, and under a strong impression 
 of the reality of a transaction of which the broken windows 
 
394 Life of Shelley 
 
 of the house gave testimony, and bore indications. It was 
 as follows : 
 
 My dear Williams, 
 
 I am surprised that the wretch who attacked me has 
 not been heard of. Surely inquiries have not been sufficiently 
 general, or particular ? 
 
 Mr. Nanney requests that you will order that some boards 
 should be nailed against the broken windows of Tanyrallt. 
 We are in immediate want of money. Could you borrow 
 twenty-five pounds in my name, to pay my little debts ? I 
 know your brother could lend me that sum. I think you 
 could ask him on such an occasion as this. 
 
 My dear Williams, yours very truly, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 CHAPTER XXI 
 
 My promised visit to Tanyrallt was put an end to by the 
 assassination. My young friends had gone to Ireland ; why 
 they repaired to that country a second time, I could never 
 learn. As a compensation for the expected visit in Wales, 
 I was urgently required to join them in Dublin ; to remain 
 there for a week or ten days, and having viewed that capital 
 and its environs, to return with them to London, where they 
 had determined to reside permanently ; to five there indeed 
 ' for ever '. It was the month of March, during the Spring 
 Circuit, a period when special pleaders, if not absolutely idle, 
 have comparatively little employment ; and I could be spared 
 at Chambers without inconvenience. I had made up my 
 mind to travel at this season to the extreme parts of Carnar- 
 vonshire, to undertake a long journey for no long visit ; con- 
 sequently, to extend my western course to Dublin was not 
 an alarming addition in distance, or trouble, to the trip origi- 
 nally resolved upon. 
 
 Although the metropolis of Ireland is not in any respect a 
 first-rate city, it was still no doubt, in its decay, a more impor- 
 tant and remarkable place than Tremadoc, of which the 
 grandeur was incipient and future. I received two or three 
 letters from my friends in Ireland, pressing me to come to 
 them immediately, informing me how I was to proceed, and 
 
Life of Shelley 395 
 
 where I should meet with them ; and assuring me that they 
 would anxiously wait for my coming, and would not leave 
 Dublin until we could quit it together. These letters I can- 
 not now find ; I took them with me to serve as guides in a 
 strange land, and it is not improbable that I lost them on the 
 journey. 
 
 There were in those days two mail-coaches to Holyhead, 
 one of them pursuing the route by Chester, and the other by 
 Shrewsbury ; I secured an outside place by the former. At 
 that time of life I was regardless of cold and exposure to the 
 weather, but a friend to whom I communicated my projected 
 expedition, compelled me to accept the loan of his box-coat, 
 assuring me, that I should greatly need it by night at that 
 season amongst the Welsh mountains. I took my seat on 
 the box by the side of the coachman, and left London at nine 
 o'clock on a dark, threatening night. 
 
 We had not advanced far before rain began to fall, at first 
 softly, and soon afterwards heavily. My friend's box-coat 
 was of frieze, of a soft spongy texture, an excellent defence 
 against dry cold, but affording protection for a short time 
 only against continuing rain, so that I was soon wet to the 
 skin. I seemed indeed to be more wet myself by reason of 
 the wet *rug, which I had on, than I should have been without 
 it : I appeared to be clothed in a full suit of wet sponge. I 
 suppose we stopped for our meals in the course of the night 
 and on the following day, but not often, and never for a long 
 time. When and where we baited, I do not remember. I 
 remember nothing but wet and cold ; it continued always to 
 rain, to rain from the west, to rain in my face. Heaven's 
 water descended upon my hat ; it ran from my hat down my 
 neck ; it penetrated the thick soft coat to my body ; it flowed 
 copiously over my chilly hands, issuing from the sleeves ; 
 and flowing freely out of my trousers, at the ankles, irrigated 
 incessantly my benumbed feet ; and the cushion of the box, 
 upon which I sat, and where all things were disagreeable, 
 this was the most disagreeable thing of all, became saturated 
 with moisture, like a piece of turf newly dug out of a flooded 
 bog. In those early and inhospitable ages no apron pro- 
 tected the knees of the coachman and his assessor ; during 
 my long and manifold journeys on the outside of coaches I 
 have frequently wondered, why there was no such defence, 
 and I have greatly and vainly desiderated it ; in this respect 
 at least I was before my age ! 
 
396 Life of Shelley 
 
 * It is rather soft weather, gentlemen ! * said our other out- 
 side passenger, who sat behind us on the roof. He was a tall, 
 bony, red-haired Scot, to the full as wet as myself ; about 
 once every hour he observed with much seriousness, and with 
 the air of one who had made an unexpected discovery, to the 
 coachmen and myself, 
 
 * It is rather soft weather, gentlemen ! ' 
 ' It is, indeed ', I answered. 
 
 * Soft and be ' exclaimed my friend on the right. 
 
 A quarter of an hour after his first remark our solemn 
 fellow-passenger from the north ventured upon a second, 
 uttering it also as if it were a novelty. 
 
 * And it is not over-warm ! Not a bit ! ' 
 
 This was his whole stock of small talk. I recollect that we 
 remained some time at Chester to take supper ; and that the 
 supper was nasty, and the inn dirty and disagreeable, and 
 that there was much confusion, because the passengers by 
 other coaches supped at the same time and in the same room. 
 
 I, wet, mounted my wet seat again, sitting now by a rude 
 companion, who was conspicuously a Welshman, and looked 
 more like a shepherd than a coachman. We soon approached 
 the mountains and the sea ; and then, to solace my second 
 night of travel, it began to rain in good earnest, and as if it 
 liked it, and the heavier rain was rendered still more impres- 
 sive by a squally wind. But it made little difference to me ; 
 I had been like a spout too long to mind it : that the water 
 ran along a good deal faster under my clothes, did not seem 
 to be any concern of mine ! 
 
 The guard told me, that we were to breakfast at Conway. 
 This information comforted ; it promised warmth and refresh- 
 ment ; the pleasing images and foretaste of warm tea, hot toast, 
 and possibly of broiled meats, consoled me in passing through 
 wind and rain, and the county of Flint. Fortunately, I did 
 not yet know what a breakfast at Conway was. 
 
 The Cambrian coachman pulled up short at the mouth of 
 a wide river, wild, rough, and stormy, as the sea itself, and 
 the sea was pouring into it with mad fury. We got into a 
 boat, or rather the mail-coach was emptied of all its lumber, 
 living, dead, and half-dead, into a large terry-boat ; we had 
 a rude and tedious passage across. When we were midway, 
 they spoke of a fatal accident that had occurred there just a 
 month before ; that the ferry-boat was upset and the mail- 
 guard drowned. 
 
Life of Shelley 397 
 
 Twenty years afterwards, in 1833, I visited Conway again, 
 being a Commissioner of Municipal Corporations, and I spoke 
 of this occurrence to the Vicar ; he took me into the church- 
 yard, and pointed out to me the grave, tombstone, and epitaph 
 of the unfortunate guard. I have travelled much by coaches ; 
 and, therefore, I know, as well as any man, and to my sorrow, 
 what a bad breakfast is, and I assert with the hard-earned 
 confidence of long and painful experience, that the breakfast 
 at Conway was never surpassed. Vile bread, vile butter, and 
 the vilest tea ; we ordered other things, they readily promised 
 to bring them, and they told us, growing impatient, that they 
 were coming directly : but the guard came first, and gave us 
 notice that the mail was ready to start. 
 
 Our short stay at the wretched inn was rendered still more 
 distasteful by the odious, discordant noise of a brawling Irish- 
 man, who would keep on assuring everybody in a loud voice 
 and an offensive brogue, that he was proud of his country : 
 nobody noticed his vulgar clamour, but all persons present 
 seemed to suspect that he was not so proud of it as he said 
 he was. 
 
 Having affected us with notice, the guard set an example 
 of promptitude by mounting the stern of the coach and sound- 
 ing his horn. I ascended uncomforted to the temple of the 
 winds and storms ; and it rained and blew harder and harder, 
 whilst we proceeded, as it were to do honour to the great 
 mountain, Penmaenmawr, and to the furious sea. Through 
 flood, but not through fire, we advanced, and reached another 
 ferry, Bangor Ferry, across the Menai Straits. It was stormy, 
 rough, and wild, but being farther inland, farther removed 
 from the fierce sea, it was not so formidable as the mouth of 
 the river Conway. Here we were tumbled by rugged Welsh 
 ferrymen, without ceremony, bag and baggage, mail bags 
 and mail baggage, into a large boat ; with the accustomed 
 delicacy and attention of mail-coach travelling, of which the 
 leading principle always was — so that the letter-bags and 
 guard are safe, the passengers and their effects may go to the 
 devil ! The wind and tide were unfavourable, and the Channel 
 was rough ; we were tossed up and down in our boat, and 
 were a long time in crossing ; but the boatmen pulled hard, 
 and we got to shore at last. 
 
 To take our places instantly, and to make the best of our 
 way, for we were late : these were the orders, and they were 
 obeyed. It was something to set foot in Druid-ridden Anglesea 
 
398 Life of Shelley 
 
 for the first time, to traverse the whole width of Mona ; to 
 see plainly with my own eyes that there was nothing what- 
 ever to be seen. It was delightful to believe that I should 
 soon arrive at Holyhead — the Head it was called by general 
 consent. It would be impossible to embark in less than 
 twenty minutes, a space of time amply sufficient for my pur- 
 pose, which was, the moment we drew up at the door of the 
 inn, to march with my little portmanteau in my hand into a 
 bedroom, and to fasten the door, to strip off with all speed 
 my wet blanket, my coat, and all my wet clothes even to my 
 wet skin, to tie them up in a dripping bundle, and to put on 
 everything dry ; and going thus quite dry on board the packet, 
 in a berth, on a bench, or upon the floor of the cabin, to sleep 
 soundly, and as one would sleep after spending two long days, 
 and two longer, sleepless nights in the rain, wind, and cold on 
 the top of a coach. 
 
 The anticipated pleasure was a full remuneration for my 
 sufferings. My pleased fancy prompted that I was to awake 
 somewhat late, to go at once upon the deck, and to behold the 
 Green Isle, and the proud palaces and tall spires of Dublin, 
 so near to our cutter — that I might confidently expect, in 
 two or three hours, to be seated at breakfast with Bysshe, and 
 to be telling him my windy, watery tale. 
 
 It rained during my transit over Anglesea, but modestly, 
 as it ought to rain in a flat country — as it might have rained 
 at York, or in Middlesex. It was fair when we drew up before 
 the door of the inn at Holyhead : we descended, and forth- 
 with the merciless mail drove off. It was to proceed at once 
 to the boat. All our luggage was to be put on board immedi- 
 ately — nothing whatever could be taken out of the boat on 
 any pretence. Very well ! my soul said to itself ; I can change 
 my clothes on board ; the delay will not be great : in half an 
 hour I shall be dry again, from head to foot ! What a bless- 
 ing ! 
 
 We were to dine directly, for. it was late, and our time was 
 short ; and the moment we took our seats at the table, a waiter 
 went round with a plate to collect our money ; so we paid 
 for the dinner before we were permitted to eat it. The pro- 
 visions looked well. There was a nice roast leg of mutton, 
 mealy potatoes, and other things — all very tempting ; but 
 before anybody was helped the inexorable guard entered with 
 our cruel sentence. We had not an instant to lose : the packet 
 was just about to sail. 
 
Life of Shelley 399 
 
 A waiter, who seemed to be a friend in need, took me aside, 
 and told me, in confidence, that nothing was to be had on 
 board the packet ; no victuals were supplied ; nothing could 
 be bought ; and we might be a long time at sea ; therefore I 
 had better purchase the leg of mutton which had not been 
 cut, and a loaf of bread, and he showed me a fine large loaf. 
 I paid an exorbitant price for them, and for a bottle of sherry ; 
 but I felt that I was perhaps redeeming my forfeited life. 
 I was then told, that I had not a moment to spare : I must 
 run down to the boat as fast as I could, or I should be left be- 
 hind. My friend indeed, the civil, compassionate waiter, 
 assured me that he would take care that the leg of mutton and 
 the loaf, with the wine, should be safely sent on board for me ; 
 I need not be under any apprehensions. I ran down to the 
 boat, and was pushed into it. We were tossed about a good 
 while by the white-headed waves of St. George's Channel, 
 on board the crowded boat, but the near prospect of dry cloth- 
 ing, an abundant and excellent supper, to be eaten at my ease 
 and with the fullest leisure, and finally a good night's rest, 
 sleeping quietly in some warm, snug corner, filled my fatigued 
 brains wdth the most agreeable images. Had I been gently 
 gliding down the smooth Cydnus, on board her golden galley, 
 with the lovely Queen of Egypt, blessed by her favouring 
 smiles, amidst the profuse and elegant luxury of Greece and 
 of the East, I could not have felt a more lively conviction of 
 impending happiness. We came alongside the dancing ves- 
 sel : at one instant, our fickle boat would dive under its keel, 
 and then it suddenly strove to dash bodily upon its deck. 
 At a critical moment, roughly but skilfully, the helpless pas- 
 sengers were tlirust head-long, in the dark night, up the side 
 of the packet, and we found ourselves staggering on the crowded, 
 moving, and slippery deck. The crew were busy setting the 
 sails, and everything was in orderly confusion. As soon as 
 our good sloop was on her course and making way, there was 
 peace on board. It then appeared to be practicable to stretch 
 forth my hand, and at once to grasp impending happiness. I 
 meekly attempted to ask after my mutton and my sherry. 
 Roast mutton and bottled sherry have no necessary connection 
 with the perilous navigation of the coasts of North Wales ; 
 I met with little attention and no sympathy. However, I 
 discovered, only too clearly, that there were no advices, and 
 no effects. I then modestly demanded my portmanteau, that 
 I might at least put off my wet garments, and thus enjoy 
 
400 Life of Shelley 
 
 the poor satisfaction of enduring hunger for an indefinite 
 period with a dry skin. The mail bags, the baggage of both 
 the Irish mails, and the luggage of all the passengers on 
 board, had been stowed ^'away forwards ; my portmanteau 
 was quite safe ; it would be kept dry ; I might have it, when 
 I landed ; the hatches had been fastened down ; it was 
 impossible to break bulk. 
 
 The night was dark and cloudy, the wind blew fresh and 
 cold, but fortunately it was fair. I walked the deck all night, 
 pacing backwards and forwards, in my wet clothes ; I was very 
 cold and very hungry, chilled and famished ; but I marched 
 on bravely, walking every step of the way, and as fast as I 
 could, from the Head to Ireland. By the morning I was dry ; 
 nor had I ever felt any the least sickness, although the sea 
 was rough. The packet was much crowded ; there were 
 several carriages on deck, and the persons who sat in them 
 relieved, or amused, themselves by being sick out of the window. 
 The cabin was filled with vulgar, noisy people ; crammed, 
 indeed. I never once ventured to go below ; I took a survey of 
 the place through the skylight, and that was enough ; I saw 
 plainly that it would not do. Besides, to sleep in my rain- 
 soaked raiment would have been imprudent. 
 
 The next day, the third day of my pilgrimage, was fine and 
 dry ; the sky shone above me clear and bright ; the wind was 
 less strong, but it still blew cold, and I was more cold and 
 hungry than ever. How I should have enjoyed a little break- 
 fast, however homely ; a crust of brown bread and milk, skim 
 milk, oatmeal porridge, cold cabbage, anything ; but no man 
 gave unto me. There was a tall footman, in a purple livery, 
 standing plate in hand by the open window of a purple coach ; 
 I made a circuit, and took an observation, and I had the grati- 
 fication to see a bishop sipping hot chocolate out of a large 
 china cup. It was pleasing to be assured that all meats and 
 drinks had not entirely disappeared and vanished from the 
 face of the earth ; and that one fellow-creature at least was well 
 cared for. I should have liked a little luncheon, an early 
 dinner, the earlier the better ; and I eagerly desired to catch 
 a glimpse of Ireland and of hope, but Ireland could not be seen. 
 Presently some Irishman declared, that he saw the Wicklow 
 Mountains, but others, his countrymen, rudely contradicted 
 him, and said it was impossible ; so it was disputed for a long 
 time with much noise and vehemence and muttered threats, 
 until the mountains were visible, and so conspicuous that 
 
Life of Shelley 401 
 
 there could be no mistake, no dispute, even amongst Irishmen. 
 In the afternoon, we were in the Bay, at some point, of which I 
 do not remember the name. The captain and guard went on 
 shore in a boat with the mail bags, leaving the poor passengers 
 on board to settle it as we could. 
 
 The passengers, it has been said, paid the whole expense 
 of the conveyance of letters, as well by the coaches as by the 
 packets, and yet they were too often treated with neglect, 
 occasionally with insolence, and sometimes, as in the present 
 instance, even with cruelty. Our captain was a good seaman, 
 without doubt, but he was disobliging ; his crew took him 
 for their pattern. Such of the sailors as deigned to return an 
 answer to our questions did not know when we should land, 
 and were proud to let us see that they did not care. A gentle- 
 man asked them to make a signal for a boat from shore : They 
 had no right to make signals ! One man, less uncivil than the 
 rest, said, ' You make any signals you please yourselves, we 
 will not prevent you ! ' A passenger hung out a kind of 
 flag ; it waved about, and for a time appeared to be disre- 
 garded. At last there was a joyful cry of * A boat ! a boat ! * 
 and by-and-by a large boat, rowed by four men, came along- 
 side. Two of the men stepped on deck : they would take 
 us to some place ; it was five miles off, but we must give 
 them five shillings a-head. I gladly embraced the proposal, 
 and all the other passengers, who desired to go on shore 
 at that spot, at once assented. It seemed that all was 
 arranged, when a little Irishman advanced : ' No ! you shall 
 not go on shore with these fellows ; not one of you. I am deter- 
 mined. Blackguards, scoundrels, villains ; I will never stand 
 quietly by and see the gentlemen passengers by His Majesty's 
 Post-Office Packets fleeced and scandalously plundered by 
 these exorbitant rascals. You shall go ashore, gentlemen ; 
 you shall all go, but at your own price, not at theirs ! ' He 
 was a middle-aged man, thin, and of short stature, and with an 
 extremely Celtic face ; that is to say, he looked as if his face had 
 been broken to pieces, and the fragments had been put hastily 
 and carelessly together again, some bits not in their places, 
 and the room of other lost pieces had been replaced by paint, 
 putty, and anything that was at hand. He spoke with a 
 powerful brogue, fluently, and even eloquently, and with 
 much vigour, energy, and action ; but his language was violent 
 and abusive. The men stood out for their price, but they were 
 civil, respectful, humble. Four shillings and sixpence were 
 
 D D 
 
402 Life of Shelley 
 
 proposed and refused. Four shillings ? No ! Three shillings 
 and sixpence ? The discussion seemed endless ; the men were 
 not less dramatic than the principal disputant. It is of no 
 use ; cast off the boat ; let us go home ! I was taken in by 
 them, and dreading a still longer fast, and possibly another 
 night on board, I said, ' I will give you your price ; it is not 
 unreasonable ; I will give you your five shillings in hand, if 
 you hke, only do not go ashore without me ! ' 
 
 * We will not go without you, sir; you may depend upon it '. 
 The little disputant, who seemed to be a person in some 
 
 authority by station, character, or office, gently put me aside. 
 ' The gentleman is too kind to you, a great deal. You are 
 a parcel of dirty villains ; you shall not have five shillings of 
 his money ; I will take care of that ! ' 
 
 * The gentleman is very kind ; but we are poor men ; wc 
 have our bread to get ! ' 
 
 Two hours, at least, were wasted thus in a violent and weari- 
 some dispute ; eventually it was arranged, that they were to 
 put us on shore at two shillings a piece. And then we were 
 all on board the boat and away in a trice ; certainly they were 
 very smart fellows. The little wrangler was to the full as 
 noisy in the boat, as he had been in the packet ; he loudly 
 vociferated, that two shillings a head was enough ; the rowers 
 assented, and it seemed that we were all of one mind. 
 
 After we had made a mile, or so, of way, the brawling little 
 fellow changed his tack. 
 
 ' Do they not pull well ? Are they not fine fellows ? Did 
 you ever see better rowing ? Are they not boys ? We must 
 give them sixpence more. If they keep it up thus, it must 
 be half-a-crown ! ' Never was there a smarter boat's crew 
 they were four fine young fellows ; never did men pull harder 
 that was most manifest. 
 
 Our friend, if such he is to be called, loudly renewed and 
 repeated his admiration at intervals ; and at every burst of 
 applause he raised the price sixpence ; when wc were a quarter 
 of a mile from shore, the fare stood fixed at four shillings and 
 sixpence, but suddenly the clamorous blockhead bellowed out : 
 
 * I say, lads, can you hit it ? ' 
 
 * Oh, to be sure we can ! * 
 
 * Well, then, if you hit it, you shall have your five shillings, 
 without any abatement '. 
 
 * Thank you, sir; thank you ; thank your honour, kindly '. 
 Accordingly, the head of the boat went bump against some 
 
Life of Shelley 403 
 
 post at the landing-place, and each of the gentlemen passen- 
 gers, by His Majesty's Post-Ofhce Packet, paid the dirty 
 villains five shillings, the sum originally demanded. 
 
 I did not catch the name of the place where I landed ; it 
 was at some distance, five miles, I think, from Dublin. I 
 readily procured a car, and was jolted along a rough road 
 and through ill-paved streets in the dusk. The driver did not, 
 or would not, know the situation of the inn, to which he was 
 to take me. When he was tired of driving me about, he stopped 
 at the door of a hotel, and demanded much more than the 
 sum agreed upon ; then a mighty contention arose, and an 
 incredible number of persons took part in it. I was firm, ten- 
 dering the appointed fare. He consented in the end to take 
 it ; and now for the first time a new difiiculty arose, but which 
 I had to encounter during the whole of my stay in Ireland. 
 I had no silver, no other money indeed than one pound notes 
 of the Bank of England, and these were not available. Change 
 for one of them could not be obtained. My Automedon, in 
 despair of getting payment, after various fruitless attempts 
 to find shillings, or tenpennies, proposed that I should give 
 him an I O U for four shillings, on a slip of paper ; I did so. 
 
 The inn was odious, the food abominable, the attendance 
 intolerable ! It took a long time to get hold of a servant ; 
 when he was caught, he promised civilly enough to do what was 
 required ; he went away and paid no more attention to the 
 orders he had received. When he was apprehended again, 
 which was not soon or easily effected, he had forgotten all 
 about the matter. To get anything to eat was difiicult, to 
 get anything fit to be eaten impossible. Sleep after three 
 nights watching under circumstances of extreme discomfort and 
 vast fatigue was indispensable : a good night's rest was most 
 desirable to one worn out and spent : in the morning I should 
 certainly find the friends, to join whom I had endured such 
 severe hardships. I resolved to go to bed at once ; to repose 
 a few hours would suffice. Nevertheless, in this simple, un- 
 pretending arrangement I met with new and peculiar embar- 
 rassments. There was not a single-bedded room in the house ; 
 all the sleeping rooms had two beds at the least. I could not 
 have a room to myself ; and on farther debate I was made to 
 understand, that I could not have even a whole bed to myself ; 
 that I must make up my mind to receive a bedfellow, if need 
 were. After much altercation I chose a bedroom with only 
 two beds in it, secretly determining to lock and bolt the door. 
 
404 Life of Shelley 
 
 Being left alone, I went to secure the door, but it had neither 
 lock, nor bolt, nor any effective latch, for that was broken, so 
 that the door must stand ajar. 
 
 I was overcome with weariness and vexation, so I crept half- 
 undressed into one of the two beds, and fell suddenly into a 
 deep sleep. I did not awake till morning ; it was quite light, 
 and I awoke with horror, expecting to find by my side some 
 uncouth bedfellow, some big priest perhaps. It was no small 
 relief to find that I was quite alone. Had I locked the door it 
 would have been of no avail, for a panel at the bottom was 
 loose. Presently it was softly pushed aside, and a youth crept 
 into the room. 
 
 ' What do you want, pray ? ' 
 
 ' I am the boy Pat, Mr. Hogg ; I have only come to clean 
 your honour's boots a bit ! ' 
 
 He took them away, and I rose, and was soon engaged in 
 shaving a beard of four days' growth, when I heard a noise in my 
 chamber. 
 
 Some loose boards in a corner of the room were thrust aside, 
 and a man below began to bawl out lustily. I went to the 
 hole in the floor, and inquired, what was the matter ? 
 
 ' Oh, I beg your honour's pardon, I was not speaking to you ; 
 I am speaking to the gentleman upstairs ! ' 
 
 And he continued to call out louder than before, until a 
 ragged head appeared through a corresponding hole in the 
 ceiling, which I had not noticed. A long dialogue was carried 
 on thus through my apartment between the two gentlemen in a 
 vociferous manner ; they doubtless understood each other, 
 but what they said was unintelligible to me. 
 
 The boy Pat did not bring my boots back ; to call him on the 
 stairs was found to be useless by me persevering. I went down 
 into a squalid coffee-room, and wasted my energies in fruitless 
 efforts to procure breakfast. There was one person in the 
 room, and he was at breakfast — a grave, civil Scotchman. I 
 complained to him, that I could not get anything to eat. 
 
 * You will never get anything, sir, for you do not know the 
 house. If you choose to take your breakfast with me, you are 
 welcome. I know the house ! ' 
 
 I gladly acceded to his proposal, for I was famished : I 
 had scarcely eaten at all — assuredly not to any good purpose — 
 since I left London. I took a seat at his table, and fell to, 
 like a starving man. There were cold fowls and boiled eggs, 
 both excellent, and good bread : the other things were nasty. 
 
Life of Shelley 405 
 
 He had more fowls and eggs brought : by what magic he affected 
 it I could not comprehend, but they were suppUed liberally. 
 I ate freely, and was filled and comforted. 
 
 ' I have often heard, sir, that Ireland is famous for its poultry, 
 and such seems really to be the case, if these fowls are a fair 
 specimen '. 
 
 ' I never heard the remark before. I have been all over 
 Ireland, and, now you have mentioned it, I feel that it is so. 
 They have fine fowls and good eggs everywhere '. 
 
 ' As you know the house, perhaps, sir,- you can get me my 
 boots. The boy Pat took them away, and will not bring them 
 back again. You have done me one favour ; will do you me 
 another ? ' 
 
 ' Most willingly ! ' 
 
 The good genie then took upon him to procure my boots 
 for me ; but all his powerful incantations were required 
 to bring it about. With much trouble, the benevolent Scottish 
 magician conjured up the boy Pat, who, constrained by the 
 spells, brought at first a shoe and a boot ; then some odd 
 boots, one of which was mine. I quickly seized it, and after- 
 wards he reluctantly produced the other. • 
 
 My kind preserver, fortunately for me, knew the house : he 
 also knew Dublin, and put me in the way to find Stephen's 
 Green, the address which Bysshe had given me. Stephen's 
 Green is a larger and a handsomer square than Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, as the boastful Irish confidently assert. It is probably 
 somewhat larger, but it is far less handsome : there are grass 
 fields in the middle of the square, with cows in them, and a 
 thorn hedge all round. 
 
 I knocked at the door marked with the number indicated in 
 the letters of my friends ; and after how much fatigue and 
 suffering ! But now these were forgotten, and were about to 
 receive their reward. A man servant answered the door ; 
 it was the right house. He told me to wait a moment. The 
 master of the house came running downstairs and received me 
 cordially, shaking my hand with effusion. 
 
 I inquired eagerly after Mr. and Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 ' Oh ! It is all right ! ' 
 
 * Where are they ? Pray let me see them ! ' 
 His answer certainly astonished me. 
 
 * If you will do me the honour to come here to dinner to- 
 morrow at five o'clock, Mr. Hogg, I will give you some dirty 
 mutton, a bottle of real, good, old port wine, and a hearty 
 
4o6 Life of Shelley 
 
 welcome : and then you shall hear all about your friends. 
 Oh ! he is a nice gentleman, Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley ; a 
 real gentleman ! Will you come ? * 
 
 I thanked him for his hospitality ; and I stated that I had 
 lately arrived from London, having come to Dublin to join 
 my friends, and that I wished to see them immediately. ' 
 
 * Oh ! but you cannot see them immediately *. 
 ' Why not ? ' 
 
 * Why not — because they are just at Killarney ! * 
 
 I had not yet heard of William Godwin's adventures at 
 Lymouth ; had I known them, the conviction that the picture 
 of my fortunes in Ireland would have the honour to form a 
 suitable pendant to a graphic delineation of his exploits in 
 North Devon, would not have tempted me to venture upon 
 so protracted and so painful a pilgrimage. 
 
 * It will be easy and pleasant for you, Mr. Hogg, to go on to 
 Killarney, and join your friends there. But will you promise 
 me not to set out before you have dined with me ? I am 
 engaged to-day, unfortunately, but to-morrow, will you come ; 
 will you promise ? ' 
 
 I promised very readily ; for to spend a few days in seeing 
 Dublin, to enjoy such amusements as the place might afford, 
 and then to return to London — this was my only safe course. 
 I complained of the utter discomfort of my inn : * If there is 
 no other less miserable, can decent lodgings be procured for 
 a week ? ' 
 
 ' I will take you to as good a hotel as any in London. I 
 am particularly engaged at this moment ; call at four, and in 
 my walk to dinner, I will introduce you at a house where you 
 will be perfectly comfortable '. 
 
 The day was bright, sunny, dry, rather. windy, and somewhat 
 cold ; it was much like March weather in England, and there 
 was no lack of March dust in Ireland. I walked about the 
 city, and searched out some marked objects, but the reality 
 did not justify the magnificent descriptions which I had heard 
 of them. Almost all things were poor and mean ; some few 
 were handsome, but scarcely anything was at all remarkable. 
 I was punctual to my appointment. We walked together to 
 the inn, where I had slept : change for a one pound note was 
 not to be had, — not to be thought of ; I paid by another 
 I O U ; my new acquaintance settled the matter summarily, 
 perhaps arbitrarily. The driver of the car had called twice, 
 whilst I was out, to have his I O U cashed. Poor fellow I 
 
Life of Shelley 407 
 
 The boy Pat was caught, and he carried my portmanteau ; 
 his services were not thought worthy of an I O U. I was 
 to think of him, when I could get change ; and I was as good 
 as my word, for frequently afterwards, when I have had a 
 pocket full of silver, I have thought of the boy Pat ; how he 
 pushed out the loose panel, and crept through the door, to 
 take away my boots, and keep them from me. 
 
 CHAPTER XXII 
 
 The hotel was a handsome house enough, in a principal street ; 
 the dinners and other meals in the coffee-room were very fair ; 
 the wine was decidedly good, and it was supplied in large 
 bottles, each containing the full measure, a quart, or a pint. 
 The attendance was bad, especially at first ; but when I got to 
 know the house — that is, to know the haunts of the servants, 
 where they were to be found, and to go and catch them, and to 
 speak to them in a proper manner, partly familiar and partly 
 authoritative — it was sufficient. There were two beds in every 
 room, but by special agreement I was to have the exclusive, 
 occupation of my bedroom ; and I gave additional force to 
 the agreement by cautiously fastening the door, in the only way 
 in which it could be secured, by tying down the latch at night 
 with a piece of string. A scene which I once witnessed, at 
 a house much frequented by the Irish — the Bush Inn, at 
 Bristol, had not diminished my distaste for lying two in a bed, 
 according to the ancient usages of the Isle of Saints and virgins. 
 The chamber-maid conducted me into a double-bedded room ; 
 I objected, and asked to have a room with only one bed in it ; 
 she said there was not one at liberty, and whilst we were 
 disputing, a huge, hairy Irishman sprang out of one of the 
 beds, and stood before us, stark naked, in the middle of the 
 room. * The gentleman may have whichever bed he pleases ; 
 I have only this moment got into bed, and if he prefers my bed, 
 I will get into the other ; it is the same thing to me ; 
 I am always willing to accommodate a gentleman ! ' The 
 woman was accustomed to the ways of her Milesian guests, 
 and was not the least disconcerted at what she beheld, but 
 stood by unmoved, candlestick in hand, thanking him for his 
 civility. I went away, and finding a room with a single bed, 
 took possession of it. I learnt afterwards that it was the practice 
 
4o8 Life of Shelley 
 
 of the Irish to sleep quite naked ; and this did not lessen my 
 disinclination to have such a bed-fellow, although, like my civil 
 friend at the Bush, he might be always willing to accommo- 
 date a gentleman. I dined, according to his invitation and 
 my promise, with my most obliging new acquaintance ; and 
 1 was very well treated by him in every respect. He had a 
 tall, big, handsome young wife, with bright red hair, but 
 extremely good-looking. She was kind and polite. To my 
 surprise, I perceived that I could not understand a word she 
 said, nor could I make myself understood by her ; and this I 
 found was often the case with regard to other natives, during 
 my short residence in Dublin, their English being as unin- 
 telligible to me as their Irish. 
 
 Nothing could exceed the kindness of this gentleman ; he 
 introduced me to several of his friends, all of whom were as 
 obliging as himself. He spoke to me of the wrongs of Ireland, 
 and asked me what my sentiments were on that subject. 
 I knew nothing about the matter, and consequently I had no 
 sentiments, or opinions, to disclose. He often returned to 
 the momentous question, as he called it, and pressed me to 
 make a fair and free disclosure of the feelings of an honourable 
 man. Being unwilling to deceive any one, especially so 
 friendly a person, I said to him, continually urging me, 
 
 ' Do you know London ? ' 
 
 * Perfectly well ; as well as I know Dublin ! ' 
 
 ' Do you know Chancery Lane ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! Faith ! Right well '. 
 
 ' It is not very wide, even in the widest part ? ' 
 
 ' No ! It is very narrow. It is not like Sackville Street ? ' 
 
 ' Not the least in the world ! ' 
 
 ' Well, then, to tell you the truth — and it is always best to 
 tell the truth, and not to sail under false colours — I would 
 not take the trouble to walk across Chancery Lane in the 
 narrowest part, if by so doing I could at once redress all the 
 wrongs and grievances of Ireland ; emancipate the Catholics, 
 and turn them all loose upon the country, to play the devil, 
 just as if they were good Protestants '. He laughed heartily 
 at this sally, and was much pleased with my open, fearless 
 candour. He introduced me to some institution, club, or 
 reading-room, where there were newspapers in plenty, and 
 some books ; and a very nice place it was. When he first 
 took me, some gentleman asked him, if I was a friend to Ire- 
 land ? He answered : ' Yes ! a true friend ! ' And then he 
 
Life of Shelley 409 
 
 told the people present what I had said concerning Chancery 
 Lane. They did not treat me the worse for it. On the con- 
 trary, I fancied they seemed pleased, proud, elated ; that 
 everybody who heard it felt himself a foot taller on finding 
 that he had the happiness to live in an age which had produced 
 one thorough contemner of humbug. My friendly guide 
 carried his kindness so far as to send me every day at dinner 
 time, wet from the press, a Dublin Evening Paper. I read it 
 faithfully after dinner, because he wished me to read it, and 
 because he always examined me in its contents the next 
 morning. It treated of politics, about which I cared little, and 
 chiefly of Irish politics, about which I cared nothing. I told 
 him it was ably written, and so indeed it was. 
 
 ' Had I met with anything I disapproved of in the paper ? ' 
 
 * Nothing whatever.' 
 
 He said to me at parting, * Now that you have read some- 
 thing about our Irish grievances, tell me frankly your opinion 
 of them ? ' 
 
 ' What I have read has entirely confirmed the only opinion 
 which I ever formed of the whole matter, that the Devil may 
 mend it, if he will ; for full sure nobody else can ! ' 
 
 He spoke frequently of Bysshe, and with uniform, unvary- 
 ing kindness and respect ; and so spoke all in Dublin, who 
 had ever seen him, in a handsome, liberal, and gentlemanlike 
 manner. This unanimity was a real and solid gratification 
 to me ; and another tribute of regard was still more pleasing : 
 to me, a young man, it was delightful to hear my friend, a 
 young man, named and remembered with marked and distin- 
 guished favour, for his good looks, by females, themselves 
 eminently good-looking. They discoursed, with a due dis- 
 crimination of colours, of the locks of dark brown hair shading 
 an intellectual and inspired countenance. 
 
 And let it be remarked, by the way, that persons who had 
 never seen Shelley, or were incapable of correctly distinguish- 
 ing hues and shades of colour, have sometimes erroneously 
 assigned to him ' golden hair ' ; it was of a dark brown, with- 
 out a tinge of red, or yellow ; there was no more gold in his 
 hair than there usually was in the poor fellow's pocket. 
 
 I was often warmly recommended to go on to Killarney ; 
 the lake and country were well worth a visit ; no doubt they 
 were, possibly even in the month of March. My friends would 
 be charmed to see me ; they would, certainly. I should be 
 quite sure to find them there ; this, at least, was doubtful ; 
 
4IO Life of Shelley 
 
 and one such a wildgoose chase as I had just indulged in was 
 sufficient sport for one season. 
 
 I breakfasted on a Sunday morning somewhere, in order to 
 see at one glance all the fashionable society in Dublin ; and 
 for this purpose they conducted me to a chapel, where the most 
 popular preacher in the capital officiated, and all persons of 
 fashion congregated to listen to his eloquence. The orator 
 spoke that affected, mincing dialect, which is but too com- 
 monly in use amongst the upper classes in Ireland, which is 
 always painful to English ears, and sometimes absolutely 
 intolerable : the fashionable world had a mean and poverty- 
 stricken aspect. A conspicuous, glaring poverty pervaded 
 the whole city. I never once met a woman in the streets 
 with silk stockings, although I walked about everywhere ; 
 and by riding in jaunting-cars and gingells in windy weather, 
 the daughters of Erin lost no opportunity of exhibiting their 
 millposts to an unprejudiced and observant stranger ; I should 
 have seen their silk stockings, if they had been worth a pair. 
 
 I saw very few pretty women here, and they were all in the 
 upper classes ; the lower orders were hard-featured and ugly, 
 without one exception. I never saw so few good-looking 
 females in a large city. In Naples the women were for the 
 most part plain, but not ugly, as they too commonly were in 
 DubUn. 
 
 The Theatre Royal, in Crowe Street, is a sorry building for 
 the chief, or the only theatre of a capital city ; my active 
 guide conducted me to it on a fashionable evening. Change, 
 the door-keeper could not give ; an I O U could not be taken 
 there, but my conductor pledged his sacred word of honour 
 for me at the door. The pledge was accepted, and I was 
 admitted to the dress-boxes. The beau monde looked rather 
 seedy ; the all-pervading poverty was apparent here as else- 
 where : there was not merely a want of small change, but a 
 want of money. The play was King John ; the part of 
 Lady Constance was filled by Miss O'Neil. I have frequently 
 witnessed that lady's performance subsequently in London 
 with admiration and delight : she was already a great celebrity 
 in Dublin, but, I confess, I was much less struck by her acting 
 than perhaps I ought to have been. The character is not 
 effective ; possibly it did not suit her ; and to say the truth 
 like everything else in Ireland, she had been puffed so out- 
 rageously, that the excessive praise which had been dinned 
 into my ears, indisposed mc to perceive and acknowledge her 
 
Life of Shelley 41 1 
 
 real merit. Everything besides, which I had hitherto seen, 
 had disappointed me so much, and had fallen so very short 
 of the extravagant laudation heaped upon it, that the mind 
 was weary of being balked, and was fatigued with constant 
 shortcomings. 
 
 The boasted Sackville Street and the bepraised squares were 
 certainly handsome ; yet they had a dull, deserted look. The 
 Vice-regal Castle was but a shabby Lincoln's Inn. Sir John 
 Stevenson played well on the organ ; and the monument of 
 Jonathan Swift is undoubtedly genuine ; nevertheless, for an 
 archiepiscopal cathedral, St. Patrick's is a mean, dirty, dismal 
 church. 
 
 At Trinity College the buildings are handsome and com- 
 modious ; but to eyes accustomed to the neatness, the pro- 
 priety, the elegance with which the several colleges in the 
 University at Oxford are kept and garnished, its neglected air 
 bespeaks a workhouse ; and in comparison vnth the smart, 
 well-dressed, gentleman-like undergraduates, my former 
 associates, the young hopes of Hibernia, however promising 
 intrinsically, seemed outwardly a buttonless, stringless, ragged 
 lot. There was a noble library, I was assured, containing many 
 rare and valuable MSS., and a vast collection of printed books ; 
 but I was also assured, and doubtless with equal truth, that 
 it was useless to visit it, for it was in the utmost disorder and 
 confusion. 
 
 The Bank of Ireland alone, formerly the House of Parlia- 
 ment, deserved all the commendations poured out lavishly 
 over it. Of all the infinite gasconades this alone is just and 
 well founded, that the important business of banking is not, 
 and cannot be, carried on in a more magnificent structure in 
 any other city. The small currency of Ireland had long 
 consisted almost entirely of the notes of provincial banks for 
 sums under the value of one pound ; of bank notes for a crown, 
 and, if I mistake not, for I never saw a specimen of this paper 
 money, for half-a-crown. All these notes, the sole medium 
 of small payments just before my arrival in Dublin, had been 
 unadvisedly, inconsiderately, and wickedly, withdrawn sud- 
 denly and totally from circulation before any substitute was 
 introduced. The inconvenience and confusion created by this 
 rash proceeding are not to be described. How long the curse 
 continued to afflict and desolate the country I know not : 
 during my short visit, it was at the highest point. This 
 execrable interdict upon all ordinary dealings does not appear 
 
412 Life of Shelley 
 
 to have met with adequate reprehension ; or that the stocks, 
 the pillory, and the whipping-post, the well-merited chastise- 
 ments of political economists, so foolish and mischievous, 
 were brought vigorously into requisition. The holders of my 
 I O U's became numerous, and sometimes they were uneasy ; 
 they seemed to be apprehensive, that I meditated flight. I 
 could only offer a pound note to any one who would under- 
 take to get it changed ; but that was impossible. So when- 
 ever my securities happened to be looked upon with disfavour 
 in the Dublin money market, they pressed me with clamorous 
 but never uncivil, or disrespectful, importunity. 
 
 The driver of the car assured me, probably with perfect 
 veracity, that he wanted a bit of bread for his babes, shoes and 
 food for his horse, his wife, or himself ; and he earnestly 
 besought me, for the sake of the Holy Virgin, the blessed 
 Mother of God, just to take up my I O U. In my urgent 
 distress I applied to my very obliging acquaintance. Surely 
 there were bankers, merchants, in a large city, from whom a 
 few pounds' worth of silver might be procured. He assured 
 me that the thing was impracticable ; and he adopted a 
 palliative, which was national, characteristic, and effectual, 
 at least for my personal relief, but not altogether in accord- 
 ance with my feelings and wishes. This was his hunting-whip ; 
 with the doubled thong at first, when my creditors were near 
 at hand, and afterwards, when they began to retreat, with the 
 point of the lash, he procured for me temporary accommo- 
 dation; forbearance and relief. He was a thoroughly good- 
 natured fellow, and he did more towards clearing the ground 
 by cracking his formidable whip, than by actually striking 
 the clamorous applicants who pursued and hunted me about. 
 Sometimes he would apostrophize them in this fashion : 
 
 * You dirty villains, what do you mean ? Is this your 
 hospitality ? The good gentleman has come from London 
 expressly to redress the wrongs of Ireland, and you torment 
 him in this manner ! Take yourselves off, you dirty black- 
 guards ! ' 
 
 In addition to the pursuit of my daily increasing creditors, 
 I was constantly followed by a troop of ragged, squalid beggars. 
 It was a novelty to hear women asking charity, for the sake 
 of the Holy Virgin, of the Mother of God, of the blessed Mary, 
 the mother of the sweet Jaysus. 
 
 I remained a week or ten days in Dublin. I had visited 
 every place that was reputed to be worthy of a visit. I never 
 
Life of Shelley 413 
 
 was in a town of the same dimensions in which there was so 
 little to be seen. 
 
 I had not received any intelligence from Killamey, although 
 I had written to my friends, and I. was not inclined to pursue 
 them farther. I brought with me money enough to pay my 
 journey to Dublin, and back again to London, with a small 
 reserve for contingencies. This was almost consumed, and 
 it appeared to be prudent, and on all accounts desirable, to 
 return home. But I could not discover how this was to be 
 done, without discharging my debts, and that seemed to be 
 absolutely impossible. I consulted my obliging Mentor, and 
 he kindly proposed that I should leave the amount of my 
 outstanding debts with him in notes, and he would undertake 
 to discharge every I O U, as soon as silver money could be 
 obtained. 
 
 Accordingly we had a meeting of my creditors — an audit ; 
 the holders of securities were very accommodating. I gave 
 the auditor the total amount, and when the day of payment 
 arrived he could discharge all my obligations, and give every 
 man his own. 
 
 I determined to return by another and preferable route, 
 and I took an outside place to London by the Shrewsbury 
 mail. I sailed on a fine afternoon by the Post-Ofi&ce Packet, 
 from the Pigeon House ; the vessel was not crowded as before, 
 and I slept soundly on a sofa in the cabin. When I awoke in 
 the morning, I saw a Scotch gentleman seated at a small 
 table with a fine cold fowl before him, and a large loaf. He 
 civilly asked me to assist him in eating his provisions. I felt 
 hungry, certainly, but I also felt and expressed some scruples 
 at diminishing his stock ; and I honestly told him that I had 
 not the means of repaying him, if he should run short, as I 
 had no sea-stores. He answered : ' There was no fear of that ; 
 we should land in half an hour, and if I went on deck for a 
 minute, I should have a fine view of the Head '. The morning 
 was sunny and bright ; the sight of the desired port is always 
 pleasant, and I found the prospect lovely and exhilarating. 
 When I went down again into the cabin, my share of the fowl 
 was on a plate before me. I had no time to lose, he said, and 
 I did not lose my time. We made a hasty meal, commending, 
 as was most due, the excellence of Irish poultry. My enter- 
 tainer complained bitterly of the disorder and confusion 
 which reigned universally in Ireland ; of the utter want of 
 punctuality in business, and of other defects, which must 
 
414 Life of Shelley 
 
 be peculiarly odious and inconvenient to an exact, precise, 
 and formal Scotchman. I felt these deficiencies very sensibly 
 myself ; and yet, to say the truth, I quitted the Green Isle 
 with regret ; I liked it with all its faults, and I acknowledged 
 that if circumstances should require it, I should not be alto- 
 gether sorry to make my residence there : because it was an 
 aristocratical country ; every feeling, to the back bone, and 
 to the heart's core, was aristocratical ; I had seen that a gentle- 
 man is always treated in Ireland like a gentleman, and that 
 to live well there it is only necessary to be a gentleman, and 
 to behave like one. He shook his head at this, and affirmed 
 that my feeling in favour of aristocracy was narrow, vulgar, 
 selfish, unfounded, ignorant ; ' and, I must add, young gentle- 
 men, although I say it with pain, a most highly reprehen- 
 sible prejudice '. I held steadily to my principles, and I 
 added, ' The little which I have seen of Wales, I liked much, 
 and for the same reason — that also is an aristocratical country ; 
 quite as much so as Ireland '. 
 
 ' Oh ! my good sir ; the Welsh, as a nation, are in the very 
 lowest state of human degradation ! ' 
 
 ' Yet they boast that they alone, of all nations, have never 
 been conquered.' 
 
 ' Precisely so ! and for a very plain reason — because they 
 were not worth conquering ; and if they merit anything at 
 our hands, it can be nothing more than total extermination ! ' 
 I was not to be put down, so I went on : * I have not seen 
 much of Scotland, but I liked what I saw there, for there 
 likewise is a decided leaning towards aristocracy '. 
 
 At this remark, he immediately changed his note : ' And 
 so you liked Scotland ! Oh ! that is a fine country ! There 
 you see civilization at the highest pitch ! What a noble race 
 of men ! So you really liked Scotland ? Well, it is a power- 
 ful, an irresistible argument in favour of your good sense, my 
 young friend, that you liked Scotland ! ' 
 
 The conversation was interrupted by an order to get into 
 the boat. We embarked, and my patriotic acquaintance 
 took his place by my side, lecturing, as we nearcd the shore, 
 on the pre-eminence of Scotland, and inquiring with interest 
 what parts of that country I had seen ; and at the moment 
 of landing he said : ' If you love social refinement, you must 
 lose no time in visiting Glasgow ! * 
 
 The mail was ready to start ; I mounted upon the roof, the 
 box being already occupied. As soon as I was seated, with a 
 
Life of Shelley 415 
 
 smack of the whip and a blast of the horn we bid adieu to Holy- 
 head. We recrossed Mona, and came to Bangor Ferry, where, 
 at a charming inn, and for a moderate charge, we had ample 
 time to enjoy an excellent repast. We passed propitiously 
 the Menai Straits ; the marine river was now as bright, as 
 calm, as smiling, as it had before appeared gloomy, rough, 
 and threatening. I hastened from the boat to regain my 
 watch-tower near the skies. The afternoon was clear and 
 sunny. We proceeded onwards to Capel Cerrig. No lan- 
 guage can describe the beauty and majesty of the scene which 
 I now beheld, perched on the roof of the coach : Snowdon 
 and the magnificent chain of lofty mountains filled me with 
 admiration and deUght. I was now amply repaid, overpaid 
 for all my labours, and sufferings, and disappointments. 
 
 My return to London was as auspicious in every respect, 
 as my journey to Dublin had been cruel and terrible. The 
 service of the mail and the accommodations for passengers 
 were as convenient and satisfactory by this route, as on that 
 by Chester they had been comfortless and disgusting. 
 
 The weather was favourable all the way ; the nights cold, 
 but serene and fine : my friends' blanket coat, which had 
 proved useless, or rather mischievous, in hea.vy and incessant 
 rain, was now sovereign, and kept me as warm as I wished 
 to be. I arrived at the General Post Office in London in due 
 course, upon the whole much gratified by my fortnight's tour 
 to the sister island ; by my hasty visit to my little sister, 
 Cinderbreech, to the poor snubbed and slighted Cinderella. 
 For some days after my arrival in Dublin, I felt as if I should 
 never be warm again, and when I laid my hand upon my 
 flesh my body struck cold as marble ; but by degrees the 
 chill departed, the natural heat returned, and I suffered no 
 lasting inconvenience. Amongst many other advantages, 
 which I derived from my journey, one of the most striking 
 was the marked difference in tone, with which my Irish 
 acquaintances spoke to me of their own glorious land, when 
 they were informed of my actual personal inspection of it. 
 One of the boldest boasters said to me meekly on my return : 
 
 ' You could not fail to remark, that as they paint every- 
 thing in London, so they paint nothing in Dublin ; and that 
 it would be quite as difficult to find a broken window-shutter 
 in London and the neighbourhood, as it would be to find a 
 whole one in, or near, the proud metropolis of Ireland '. To 
 have learned fully to appreciate in all its bearings this candid 
 
4i6 Life of Shelley 
 
 and judicious remark is surely not to have travelled in 
 vain ! 
 
 Cork Hotel, Dublin, March 31, 181 3. 
 
 My dearest Friend, 
 
 We have just arrived in Dublin — had you remained 
 here but one day, you would have seen us. We travelled 
 night and day, from the receipt of your note. My Harriet 
 insisted on accompanying me. Her spirits, and the hope of 
 seeing you here, supported her through two days and nights 
 of hard travelling : 240 English miles. 
 
 You falsely supposed that her note was in answer to yours. 
 We did not receive yours until Monday noon. On Monday 
 evening we began travelling on Irish roads with Irish horses 
 and chaise. We reached Cork at one the next day, took the 
 mail, and to-day, Wednesday, at three o'clock arrived. We 
 shall soon be with you in London ; Eliza and our servant 
 remain at Killarney. 
 
 You ought not to accuse me of reserve towards you. It is 
 the inconceivable blindness and matter of fact stupidity of 
 Lawless that deserve your reprehension ; but had you staid 
 one day longer, you would have heard the words of sincerity 
 and friendship from my own lips. As soon as I shall consider 
 the fatigue as overcome, I shall come to London. I must by 
 some means raise money for the journey here, but I am not 
 one to stick at difficulties. 
 
 Do not write to us here. We shall be on our way before 
 your letter could arrive. 
 
 Harriet unites in kind remembrances. 
 
 Your very sincere friend, 
 
 Percy B. S. 
 
 Harriet will write to-morrow. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 Dublin, April 3, 1813. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I wrote yesterday before I had seen Lawless, undei 
 the one and only impression of disappointment at not meeting 
 you here. That, however, shall speedily be remedied. I 
 have raised a small sum of money, and to-morrow evening we 
 embark for Holyhead. 
 
 I have been very much pleased at what Lawless has said of 
 you. The first ten words he spoke entirely dissipated all the 
 
Life of Shelley 417 
 
 ill-humour I had cherished against him. He had done what 
 I could not conceive any one, who dined with you, could have 
 neglected. He had been open with you. 
 
 Of course you will not write to us here. Above all do not 
 send, or dream of procuring for us any money ; we will do 
 those matters well. The property of friends at least is in 
 common. On Monday evening we shall be in London. 
 
 I write from Lawless 's. I am very much pleased and 
 flattered by his account of you. 
 
 Harriet is quite well. She writes to-day. 
 
 My dear friend, all happiness attend you. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 [No date.] 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 We have just arrived. We are now at 23, Chapel 
 Street, but will see you, or write to-morrow morning. 
 
 Yours affectionately, 
 
 P. B. S. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 35, Great Cuffe Street, Dublin, 
 May 3, 1813. 
 Dear Sir, 
 
 I take the liberty ci troubling you with these few lines 
 to be informed by you, how our good friends the Shelleys are, 
 from whom I have heard but once since they left this country. 
 I did flatter myself with a letter from my friend long before 
 this, and now begin to apprehend some serious cause for his 
 not writing. I hope no such cause has interposed, and if not, 
 you will much oblige me by telling him, how anxious both Mrs. 
 Lawless and I are to hear from him and Mrs. Shelley. I 
 suppose Miss Westbrook has long since arrived with you. 
 I remain, 
 
 Your very humble Servant, 
 
 John Lawless. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 {First Indorsement.) 
 
 Sunday Morning. 
 Dear Harriet, 
 
 I am very sorry that Bysshe is unwell. It is hard that 
 
 EE 
 
41 8 Life of Shelley 
 
 his heart should be so good, and his head so bad : I wish you 
 had as much influence over the latter as over the former. 
 Mr. Lawless has had the goodness to send me the paper, on 
 which I write. Bysshe will answer him. I met Mr. and Mrs. 
 N., as I returned last night ; they. ordered me to tell you, 
 that they would take tea with you this evening. Adieu ! 
 
 Yours truly, 
 
 T. J. H. 
 To Mrs. Shelley. 
 
 [Second Indorsement.) 
 
 Bysshe is better now, and wishes for your company this 
 
 evening, at eight o'clock, to meet the N s. 
 
 Harriet. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 CHAPTER XXin 
 
 A DAY or two after my return to London, I received a letter 
 from Dublin, and, after a like brief interval, another letter 
 from the same place, and presently afterwards a short scrawl, 
 without a date, announcing the arrival of my friends in town, 
 at the house of Harriet's father. There appeared to have 
 been a misunderstanding on both sides, and at all hands, but 
 how it arose I could never comprehend at the time ; and it 
 would be vain indeed to attempt now to discover its source. 
 I found Bysshe and Harriet in a hotel at the West End : 
 they were both well, and in good spirits ; the lady was as 
 bright, blooming, and placid as ever. They expressed much 
 regret at my fruitless expedition, and most kindly condoled 
 with me. I had made a long and energetic, although not an 
 agreeable journey ; nevertheless, there is a certain pleasure 
 in energy and exertion ; and I had enjoyed the advantage of 
 seeing something of Wales, and much of Dublin ; so, being 
 reconciled to my lot, I was in a condition to act as a comforter 
 towards them. They complained bitterly of the fatigue, 
 expense, and hideous improbity of their long and barbarous 
 course. Their wearied souls were brimful of the recollections 
 of discomfort and miseries endured at Killarney ; where, 
 that they might be more thoroughly wretched, they had 
 
Life of Shelley 419 
 
 occupied a cottage situated upon an island in the lake. I 
 write hesitatingly, for I never saw Killarney myself, or visited 
 the county of Kerry ; and their descriptions were not graphic, 
 or even precise. The climate is mild, but the weather rainy 
 and stormy ; beyond belief and conception stormy. 
 
 Bysshe discoursed with animation and eloquent astonish- 
 ment of the perilous navigation of the lakes ; of sudden gusts 
 and treacherous whirlwinds. How vessels were swamped 
 and sunk in a moment ; and he related with implicit faith 
 tales savouring somewhat of Milesian exaggeration and credu- 
 lity. How a boat had sometimes been caught up out of the 
 water by a storm, carried bodily on shore, and deposited at 
 a distance from the margin of the lake. 
 
 I could not make out why they had gone a second time to 
 Ireland ; there was no political object as before ; in truth, 
 they did not know the reason themselves, and could not 
 therefore inform me. Something was said about its being a 
 change : it would have been a change to have gone to Nova 
 Zembla, but hardly a more prudent or pleasant one. It 
 might well be, that some glowing description of a beautiful 
 locality from the lips, or in the pages, of a picturesque tourist 
 caught the vivid imagination of the Divine Poet, and deter- 
 mined him on the instant to seek, forgetful of all other con- 
 siderations and of every previous subsisting engagement, a 
 perpetual asylum in a terrestrial paradise ; to betake himself, 
 as fast as post-horses or the mail coach could convey him, to 
 the south-western corner of Ireland, that he might settle at 
 Killarney ' for ever '. If the irresistible delusion was sudden, 
 it was as suddenly dispelled, for certainly the spell was broken, 
 the fascination was at an end ; he had awakened completely 
 from his dream of fairy-land. 
 
 He had taken, or sent, a considerable number of books to 
 the happy cottage on the blissful lake ; many useful volumes 
 collected in the solitude of Tanyrallt, and for which he had so 
 earnestly written to his correspondent in London. When he 
 started off hastily to overtake me in Dublin, or to join me in 
 London, he had left Eliza in charge of his library. He was 
 evidently weary of angelic guardianship, and exulted with a 
 malicious pleasure that he had fairly planted her at last. He 
 made no secret of his satisfaction, but often gave vent to his 
 feelings with his accustomed frankness and energy. The 
 good Harriet smiled in silence, and looked very sly ; she did 
 not dare to express her joy, if she really rejoiced at the absence 
 
420 Life of Shelley 
 
 of her affectionate and tiresome sister, by uttering treasons 
 against her liege lady, the defender of her nerves. The 
 deliverance was of brief duration — surprisingly brief, for in 
 an incredibly short space of time Eliza reappeared and resumed 
 her sovereign functions. They remained for some time at 
 hotels, and during this period Eliza was with them, mute, 
 smiling and languishing as before. Whether she lived con- 
 stantly with them I was not exactly informed ; it seemed 
 rather, that she went and came in a hushed, mystical manner. 
 However, she was often present when I visited them, but 
 retired frequently to her bedroom, probably to brush her hair 
 assiduously as of old. Whenever she joined us, she displayed 
 the same painful interest in Harriet's nerves ; their condition 
 was authoritatively pronounced to be shattered and deplor- 
 able ; and when she deigned to wonder at anything, she 
 wondered what Miss Warne would say. On some days she 
 was unquestionably absent ; and then, perhaps, she had gone 
 to hold a chaste conference with her virgin friend respecting 
 the nervous system, and actually to hear what the oracle said. 
 
 Harriet gave visible promise of being about to provide an 
 heir for an ancient and illustrious house ; and, like all little 
 women, she looked very large upon the occasion. She was 
 in excellent voice, and fonder than ever of reading aloud ; 
 she promptly seized every opportunity of indulging her taste : 
 she took up the first book that came to hand as soon as I 
 entered the room, and the reading commenced. Sir William 
 Drummond's Academical Questions, Smith's Theory of Moral 
 Sentiments, some of Bishop Berkeley's Works, Southey's 
 Chronicle of the Cid, had taken the place of Telemachus, Beli- 
 sarius, Volney's Ruins, and the other works, which she had 
 formerly read to me. Whenever Eliza made a descent upon 
 us, silence was immediately proclaimed, and the book was 
 carried away. 
 
 ' Dearest Harriet, what are you about ? Only consider 
 the state of your poor nerves ! Think of your condition ! 
 You are killing yourself as fast as you can ; you are, indeed, 
 dear ! Gracious heaven ! What would Miss Warne say ? ' 
 
 I dined with my young friends one day at a hotel in Dover 
 Street. Bysshe was to go somewhere with all haste — a com- 
 mon occurrence with him — to perform, or to procure, some- 
 thing mysterious and prodigious. He could hardly be pre- 
 vailed upon to take his dinner ; he restrained his impatience 
 until our meal was finished, and whilst the waiter was remov- 
 
Life of Shelley 42 1 
 
 ing the cloth, he sprang on his feet, snatched up his hat and 
 ran away, leaving me alone with Harriet. We sat and con- 
 versed for awhile ; she probably was wishing for the moment, 
 when with a decent and proper regard for the paramount 
 duty of digestion, she might begin to read aloud. 
 
 Before the desired moment came. Dr. S. was announced, 
 and a quiet Quaker physician quickly entered the room, his 
 hat upon his head, and a bland smile upon his countenance. 
 I rose instantly to depart, but the doctor seized my arm, and 
 made me sit down again. I felt uneasy, but believing that 
 he took me for the husband of the lady whom he attended, 
 I was about to inform him that I was not, when Harriet 
 interposed : 
 
 ' You need not go away ! Dr. S. does not desire it, I am 
 sure. He rather wishes you to stay ! ' 
 
 My position seemed delicate and distressing, but it was not 
 so. The Doctor seated himself over against his blooming 
 young patient, and rather near to her, looking at her fixedly ; 
 the bland smile was still upon his countenance, and the ample 
 hat was still upon his head. Nothing was said, either by the 
 lady or by her dumb physician. 
 
 Twice, or thrice, the latter murmured softly and inarticu- 
 lately. 
 
 The mute consultation continued about ten minutes, and 
 terminated abruptly. When he had satiated his eyes, and 
 satisfied the demands of science by gazing silently. Dr. S. 
 started suddenly from his chair, as if something had stung him 
 behind, and with a celerity hardly natural in a Quaker, quitted 
 the room, carefully closing the door after him. Harriet 
 appeared to be relieved at being delivered from his silent, 
 searching eye. 
 
 * Well ! You see there was no necessity for your going 
 away ; not the least in the world. You might very well 
 stay ! It was Bysshe's wish that Dr. S. should see me, and 
 he has seen mc ! ' 
 
 Dr. John S. was a very distinguished member of the Society 
 of Friends ; he was eminent as a botanist, and eminent like- 
 wise as a ladies' physician. The speechless individuals of 
 the vegetable kingdom did not require him to talk to them ; he 
 might arrange them, and distinguish their several species in 
 the most profound silence. But the success of so taciturn a 
 doctor with animated nature, with natures very animated, 
 with patients who love to speak and to be spoken to, especially 
 
422 Life of Shelley 
 
 on those interesting occasions, to which his extensive practice 
 was chiefly directed, was certainly remarkable. I have been 
 told that he would attend a female through the whole affair 
 without once uttering a single word, even in a protracted and 
 difficult case. It was wonderful how the charming, prattling 
 sex could endure such mute ministrations ; how a nice talka- 
 tive young lady could ever bear to be put, not chattily to bed, 
 but drily, like a specimen of a woman, into a herbarium, or 
 hortus siccus ; and as though, in truth, she was not more 
 than many flowers ! I have sometimes thought that his 
 numerous patients imagined that the doctor must speak at 
 last ; that some day or other, sooner or later, he would say 
 something ; and then, what in the world would it be ? And 
 that the hope of being the fortunate holder of the prize ticket 
 consoled them for his obstinate silence, and supported them 
 under it. To hear eventually the secret of secrets would be 
 a full compensation for the pains and perils of child-birth ; 
 for all the preceding apprehensions and inconveniences ; for 
 all succeeding sufferings and maladies ; for a tedious con- 
 finement ; for the sorrows of suckling ; for blighted hopes 
 and bitter bereavements ; nay, even for the attendance of a 
 dumb accoucheur ! Woman is Nature's ipasterpiece, as well 
 as that of Aristotle ; and when the very observing doctor's 
 close and varied examination of strange and astonishing 
 things, continued moreover without intermission for many 
 years, should transpire at last, being clothed in appropriate 
 language, the full and final disclosure of the sleek, sly, silent 
 Quaker would at once atone for a whole life of the strictest 
 reticence ! 
 
 Dr. John S. doubtless made his observations on the lovely 
 Harriet, but he did not communicate them. During the 
 sole interview I ever had with our valued Friend, not one 
 drop of the grand secret oozed out. 
 
 Shelley continued to reside for some weeks at hotels ; some 
 persons blamed such a course as imprudent, and moreover 
 as being expensive, but his motives were discreet and rational. 
 Next August he would be of age. It was confidently asserted, 
 and generally believed, that his father would then come to a 
 satisfactory and proper arrangement. It was thought that 
 a hotel was more convenient for negotiations than lodgings. 
 His father, it was said, would pay his debts, of which the 
 amount was inconsiderable, and make him a moderate, per- 
 manent, and suitable allowance. 
 
Life of Shelley 423 
 
 For some two years I had seen but little of Bysshe, but 
 from this epoch it was my good fortune to see a great deal of 
 him, and to enjoy, off and on, much of the unappreciable 
 pleasure and advantage of his most precious society and 
 familiar and friendly intercourse. Having consumed many 
 valuable hours in the dull diplomacy of his father's agents, 
 and finding the residence at a hotel, a place where the Muses 
 do not haunt, unfavourable to study, and to assembling a 
 goodly fellowship of ancient books round him, he took lodgings 
 in Half-Moon Street. I went one day, by invitation, to dine 
 with him there, and on arriving I found Harriet alone. 
 
 ' Bysshe called on the Duke of Norfolk this morning, who 
 asked him to dinner, and it would have been improper to 
 have refused. He has just gone, but he will come to us as 
 soon as he can get away'. 
 
 Harriet and myself dined together, and had tea ; and after 
 tea Harriet was reading aloud to me, as" she was wont to do. 
 Her reading was abruptly put an end to by vehement and 
 well-known rapping ; Shelley came tumbling upstairs, with 
 a mighty sound, treading upon his nose, as I accused him of 
 doing, rushed into the room, and throwing off his neckcloth, 
 according to custom, stood staring around for some moments, 
 as wondering why he had been in such a hurry. He informed 
 us that there was a large party of men at Norfolk House ; 
 he sat near the bottom of the table, and the Earl of Oxford 
 sat next to him. After dinner, the Earl said to him, 
 
 ' Pray, who is that very strange old man at the top of the 
 table, sitting next to His Grace, who talks so much, so loudly, 
 and in so extraordinary a manner, and all about himself ?' 
 
 ' He is my father, and he is a very strange old man indeed ! 
 The Earl said no more on that head, but we continued to 
 chat together, and he walked with me from St. James's Square. 
 I have just left him at the door '. 
 
 Feelings of sympathy and antipathy are various and mani- 
 fest. Bysshe appeared to be pleased with the Earl of Oxford, 
 because he disliked his father. I did not know the Earl, but 
 I was so fortunate as to meet his lovely and fashionable 
 Countess occasionally, and I was soon able to discover that 
 we had one point of sympathy and strong common feeling — 
 an intense abhorrence of bores. 
 
 The first time I met this admired lady was at a conference 
 of wise men and wise women — a conversation party ; the 
 term, an evening's work, soiree, was not then in use. Some 
 
424 Life of Shelley 
 
 philosophers were discussing at length, and in a sufficiently 
 tiresome manner, about the locality of the Garden of Eden ; 
 concerning the true situation of the terrestrial Paradise. 
 Lady Oxford plainly showed her sense of extreme weariness 
 by gaping and yawning aloud, quite unreservedly, as she 
 would sometimes do, like one who was deemed above ordi- 
 nances. When there was a pause in the conversation, being 
 encouraged, perhaps, by the lady's oscitancy, I ventured to 
 say, 
 
 ' I believe I know exactly where Paradise is situated ? ' 
 
 ' Where ? ' asked some one shortly, and in a tone which 
 seemed to imply — ' what can you know about the matter ? ' 
 
 I answered, ' It is certainly in Cranbourne Alley ; for there 
 so many pretty faces may be seen flitting about the bonnet- 
 shops on a fine day, that it is impossible to believe Paradise 
 can be anywhere else '. The philosophers appeared to be 
 disgusted at my impertinence ; but the lovely Countess took 
 me by the hand, and always treated me with much kindness. 
 
 Another evening, the whole party was sentimental, and 
 each person present, in turn, pathetically selected some 
 favoured spot in which it would be sweet to be buried. Some 
 romantic churchyard in Wales was chosen, or a secluded nook 
 in the district of the English Lakes. The church was to be 
 small, old, overgrown with moss, and shaded with ivy. There 
 were to be ancient trees, yews in particular, and nightingales 
 were to sing in them. There must be a crystal brook near at 
 hand, flowing with a gentle murmur — a babbling brook. 
 The ground must not be moist and marshy, nor the situation 
 low, but light, sandy soil, on a moderate acclivity, was pre- 
 ferred ; for to lie dry is thought comfortable, even after 
 death. 
 
 * You have not told us, Sir, where you would like to be 
 buried ', the Countess said to me, although she had not fixed 
 upon her own sepulchre. ' You are too young to have thought 
 much about it. Perhaps you have not made up your mind ? ' 
 
 ' I have thought about it ; I have made up my mind, quite '. 
 
 ' Where is it to be, then, will you tell us ? ' ' Cert^iinly. 
 For my part, I should choose to be buried under the kerb- 
 stone, before the door of the most fashionable milliner in 
 London ; it would be no mean consolation to know that the 
 prettiest feet and ankles in the world were stepping backwards 
 and forwards into and out of carriages, all day long, over my 
 head '. In those days we had feet and ankles ; we showed 
 
Life of Shelley 425 
 
 them freely, and never supposed that there was any harm in 
 it. We were naked, it is true, but being innocent, we were 
 not ashamed ; indeed, we did not even know that we were 
 naked. In those days, also, there was a visible, sensible 
 difference, a marked diversity, in the forms of females ; now 
 all are made alike, and in the similitude of champagne bottles ; 
 and as for feet and ankles, for anything that appears to the 
 contrary, ladies now-a-days are moved about upon castors, 
 like easy-chairs and tables. 
 
 The latter sally was not more displeasing than the former 
 one ; but I am not writing the history of my own life and 
 times, but the biography of a Divine Poet, to the illustration 
 of whose remarkable character alone every word should tend. 
 In the year 18 10 I went home for the long vacation, travelling 
 to the North of England on the outside of coaches. The first 
 of these was a Birmingham coach, which stopped to breakfast 
 at Stratford-on-Avon, where I had never been before. I wil- 
 lingly forfeited my breakfast that I might see Shakespeare's 
 House. I saw it ; and the church being open, I saw the tomb 
 also, and the celebrated bust, with its high forehead ; and 
 by hard running I got back to the coach just in time to regain 
 my airy seat. 
 
 My fellow collegians and travelling companions laughed at 
 my enthusiasm, a frame of mind in little favour at that time 
 in our ancient University. 
 
 * How did you like your breakfast ? ' 
 
 I got nothing to eat until dinner at Birmingham ! 
 
 ' You will surely be a poet yourself ! ' 
 
 I am not a poet ; but I am a biographer of a Divine Poet, 
 whose acquaintance I had the good fortune to make on my 
 return to Oxford in the following October. It may be, that 
 familiarity with an illustrious poet must always be purchased 
 by some sacrifices ; by the loss of a breakfast at the least ! 
 
 Bysshe, as has been asserted already, and will be declared 
 again and again, was invariably an especial favourite of the 
 fair sex ; he was cherished as the apple of beauty's eye ; he 
 was often called by names of endearment, as Ariel, Oberon, 
 and spoken of by the ladies of his acquaintance as the Elfin 
 King, the King of Faery, and under other affectionate titles. 
 Elegant society was deemed to be his proper element, to adorn 
 which appeared to be his natural vocation ; to bring him into 
 it, and to keep him in it, was the anxious care of several 
 amiable and charming creatures at the present crisis of his 
 
426 Life of Shelley 
 
 life. It was thought desirable to procure for him an intro- 
 duction to the Countess of Oxford, in order that her wise and 
 gentle influence might perchance make him less unlike other 
 people, and bring about a certain reasonable compliance with 
 received usages. With this view, he was mentioned to her 
 by several of his female friends, and she was well disposed 
 towards him, greatly interested in him, and inclined to admit 
 him amongst her acquaintances. She asked many questions 
 concerning the young poet, and spoke of him, not merely 
 with curiosity, but with kindness and regard. These benevo- 
 lent intentions did not lead to any practical results ; they 
 were frustrated chiefly by the departure from England of 
 this distinguished lady, who went with her family to reside at 
 Cagliari. 
 
 John Home Tooke was at this time the oracle of the liberal 
 section of literary society ; his testimony was cited in favour 
 of the ingenious Countess. Discoursing one day of learned 
 ladies and women of talent, the Philosopher of Wimbledon, 
 as he was sometimes styled, declared that he had never known 
 a woman of talent. The best of them, he said, are mere 
 parrots ; they repeat what they have heard, but without 
 understanding it : if what they repeat happens to be clever, 
 although it is not their own, and if it be really clever, it never 
 is, they obtain credit for a degree of cleverness to which they 
 are not entitled. But when I say I never met with a woman 
 of real talent, I must, in justice, make one exception, and that 
 is Lady Oxford. He then cited some of the excepted lady's 
 smart sayings, which he proved to be original and spontaneous ; 
 and demonstrated that they could not possibly have been 
 learned by rote. I have forgotten these proofs and instances ; 
 but I remember that I inquired with some solicitude, whether 
 the cynic, for such surely he must be accounted, had ever 
 been in company with the daughter of Neckar ? but I could 
 not make out how that was. Whether the morose sentence 
 included the most celebrated Blue of the age, or perhaps of 
 any age, amongst the hen parrots ; whether Corinna herself 
 was but a talking bird, a * Blue bird ! ' Lively, agreeable, 
 and good-natured conversations I well recollect ; but no 
 profound observations — nothing likely to throw into the 
 shade the Proverbs of Solomon, or the Precepts of the Seven 
 Wise Men of Greece. 
 
 The pompous Dr. Parr at one period puffed this distin- 
 guished lady most vigorously ; but his judgment was less 
 
Life of Shelley 427 
 
 sober, his evidence less truthful and worthy to be relied on, 
 than the decision of the author of * Winded Words ! ' Not- 
 withstanding all his efforts, the Reverend Doctor Samuel Parr 
 could not get himself made a bishop : in order, therefore, 
 to spite the more fortunate Lords Spiritual and their arch- 
 deacons, he took it into his head to wear the cassock, which 
 he maintained is, according to the canons, the proper dress of 
 a priest. It is also generally worn at the two Universities, but 
 never there without the gown, as he wore it : moreover, the 
 pushing priest, in his canonical costume, had the satisfaction, 
 such as it was, of passing for a bishop in the streets, and with 
 strangers. The doctor was in full flower at that time — 
 covered with bloom, indeed ; puffing himself, and being puffed, 
 parading and praising himself at every point of the compass. 
 The singularity of his clerical vesture attracted much observa- 
 tion and continual criticism : it might be in accordance with 
 the canons of the church, of which nobody knew anything, but 
 it was contrary to long-estabUshed usage, and with this all the 
 world was acquainted. 
 
 The Countess openly threatened to ask him, why he alone 
 of priests wore the proper and peculiar dress of priesthood ; 
 but she was assured that it was a delicate inquiry, a sore point, 
 and he must not be spoken to on the subject. However, she 
 had betted five guineas, it was reported, that she would 
 publicly ask him, why he wore the cassock. Despising all 
 friendly cautions, and in defiance of warnings and admonitions, 
 she boldly persevered in her contumacious design. 
 
 ' Pray, Dr. Parr, how long have you taken to wear petti- 
 coats ? ' she said to him one day at a large dinner-party. 
 
 There was no answer, and the company laughed ; and 
 thereupon the audacious lady triumphantly repeated the 
 question in a louder voice. 
 
 ' Ever since your ladyship has taken to wear the breeches ! ' 
 
 She won her bet, certainly ; but she earned her five guineas ! 
 
 Whether this anecdote be strictly true, I know not : it was 
 current at the time, and pretty generally credited : if it be not 
 true, it is at least not ill found. 
 
 With respect to the famous cassock, I not only saw it several 
 times, but I once wore it myself for an hour or more — a dis- 
 tinction which few persons can boast. 
 
 A clever artist, with whom I had some acquaintance, was 
 employed to take a likeness of Sam. Parr. He had already 
 made considerable progress in his work ; what he had done 
 
428 Life of Shelley 
 
 was most satisfactory to himself, to the Doctor, and to his 
 numerous friends ; and he was extremely anxious to com- 
 plete the portrait with equal success. 
 
 * The Doctor is not a good sitter : he is very restless, and 
 unless he has somebody to talk to him and amuse him, I 
 cannot keep him quiet ; and then I do not get on with my 
 work so well as I desire. I am unable to converse with him 
 myself. Will you come and talk to him at his next sitting ? 
 You will do me a great favour — a real kindness ! ' 
 
 The next sitting had been fixed for the following Sunday, 
 for the Doctor's stay in town was limited. I went to breakfast 
 with the painter. 
 
 ' The Reverend Doctor has promised to sit this morning 
 for two or three hours, during the time of divine service. 
 You must not tell at what time he sat ; so mighty a pillar of 
 the church would not like that it should be known ; indeed, 
 he charged me particularly not to mention it to anybody ; but 
 he will not mind you, I am sure ! ' 
 
 After breakfast the bells struck up, calling the sheep together 
 into the fold ; the good shepherd came to us punctually. 
 The immortal editor of the immortal Bellendeniis was con- 
 ducted straight to the painting-room, and we joined him there 
 immediately. He was not at all displeased at seeing me, but 
 shook hands cordially, and was in high good humour ; and, 
 to say the truth, he always appeared to me to be a thoroughly 
 good-natured, kind-hearted old man. He pointed out the 
 fire in the short clay pipe held in the hand, and extolled 
 the felicity with which the burning tobacco was represented, 
 enlarging greatly upon that theme. The artist smiled. 
 
 ' That is not a very difficult feat of art, I believe ? ' 
 
 * Not at all ', said the painter ; ' but what do you think of 
 the likeness ? ' 
 
 ' It is admirable — perfect ! ' 
 
 And so in very truth it was ; absurdly, ridiculously like, 
 and yet a pleasing picture. The visage was required to be 
 tauriform — as much like a bull as possible, only without horns, 
 and in that respect, therefore, unlike Moses or Bacchus, or a 
 bull, and like the Doctor. 
 
 The learned sitter arrayed himself in his canonicals, mounted 
 the raised chair, was placed in proper attitude and light, and 
 the work of imitation duly advanced. 
 
 It was easy to talk with Dr. Parr, for he loved to have all 
 the talk to himself, and to lay down the law : however, he 
 
Life of Shelley 429 
 
 desired to be understood, and he expected to meet with 
 attention ; and, indeed, his conversation deserved it. His 
 discourse was always worth hstening to, and instructive, 
 more or less : it cannot be denied that, for good taste, he spoke 
 too much of himself. Having ascertained from his watch that 
 people must be coming out of church, he took off his 
 gown and departed suddenly, and somewhat sooner than was 
 expected. 
 
 I was requested to take his place for a little while, and 
 accordingly I put on the cassock that had been sent to be 
 worn by the painter's lay figure ; the light- fell at that moment, 
 it was said, in an agreeable manner upon the drapery about 
 the knees ; the effect ought not to be lost, for, in the language 
 consecrated to art, it was rich and happy. 
 
 The worthy and most laborious artist told me, whilst I was 
 sitting in proper priestly costume as proxy for a reverend 
 priest, that the great Sir Joshua Reynolds had said, that no 
 painter had ever attained to eminence, who looked upon Sun- 
 day as a holiday ; and that, for his part, he always worked 
 particularly hard on that day. He then discoursed of Dr. 
 Parr with admiration, and with admiration still more profound 
 of my friend Shelley ; how much he desired that these two 
 wonderful men should meet ; how much he wished to be present 
 at their meeting, and to listen to their exquisite conversation ! 
 I have heard in other quarters of the project of bringing the 
 old Grecian and the young Poet into personal communication ; 
 but it was not a promising one. 
 
 Sam. Parr's delight was to dogmatize — to have everything 
 entirely his own way ; he had no relish for any companion who 
 doubted his absolute infallibility. Besides, a Whig divine is 
 placed in a very critical position, between two fires ; he has 
 to try to make his way, to creep, to the paradise of a bishopric — 
 a long and narrow bridge, narrow as the edge of a razor ; he 
 must not compromise his orthodoxy on the one hand, or his 
 liberality on the other. Bysshe, on his side, had no inclina- 
 tion for the society of a pedagogue ; an invitation to come 
 and converse familiarly with a schoolmaster, how illustrious 
 soever, would appear too like a summons to return to Eton, 
 and have an agreeable chat with old Keate, whom his soul 
 abhorred ; too like bidding him to crosst he great gulf of 
 eternal separation, and to commune again with the Big Wigs 
 of Oxford, for whom he very naturally had conceived an 
 intense hatred, mingled with well-merited and unmitigated 
 
430 Life of Shelley 
 
 contempt. And so the friendly conference with the Reverend 
 Doctor Samuel Parr never came off ! 
 
 In London, Bysshe found books and society, and he appeared 
 to rejoice in being delivered from the long-endured, intolerable 
 loneliness of Wales : the good Harriet also rejoiced, and was 
 bright, blooming, calm, and composed, as heretofore ; but 
 she had not renounced her eternal purpose of suicide ; and 
 she still discoursed of some scheme of self-destruction, as 
 coolly as another lady would arrange a visit to an exhibition 
 or a theatre. She told me sometimes that she was very 
 unhappy, but she never said why ; and in particular, she 
 told me frequently, as she had told me formerly, that she had 
 been very unhappy at school, and often intended to kill her- 
 self. I asked her again and again the cause of her unhappi- 
 ness, but she did not know it. It certainly appeared to be 
 mere talk, and I found a festivity in it ; it became jolly, as 
 it were, to laugh at her suicidal schemes, and the solemnity 
 with which she unfolded them : with this she was now and 
 then a little offended. ' Mamma is going to have some wal- 
 nuts pickled next week ', a little girl once said to me, a little 
 boy ; and she added, with a grave look and an air of quiet 
 resolution, ' and mamma says she is quite determined ! ' So 
 poor Harriet was quite determined, and did not choose to be 
 laughed out of it, being displeased with my apologue of the 
 walnuts. 
 
 In this strange world one comes across strange people 
 sometimes, and finds strange kinds of industry, especially 
 when a man lays himself out for strange characters. Dining 
 one day at a hotel in London with Bysshe and Harriet, I met 
 a poor poet there, whose acquaintance they had just made — 
 how, I know not ; I think, through some advertisement in 
 a newspaper. Shelley introduced me to him, and grimly 
 whispered, that he was going to kill himself. ' Very well ! ' 
 ' Immediately ! ' he added. * With all my heart ! ' The 
 professor of suicide, it must be admitted, had rather a melan- 
 choly look. He was pale, cadaverous, and he discoursed 
 during dinner in a grave, pedantic manner, of his inflexible 
 resolution to commit suicide, as it seemed, instantly ; and 
 he talked much, and with due solemnity, of Otho — of the 
 Otho of Tacitus — until dinner was over. Otho, he said, was 
 his favourite — his hero ! However, Otho ate his salmon 
 and lobster sauce, and whatever else was put before him, 
 largely and voraciously, and with a prodigious relish ; took his 
 
Life of Shelley 431 
 
 wine very freely, and then a long nap ; and finally departed, 
 without having become a felon of himself. When he had 
 taken his leave, Harriet told me with great glee — * the gentle- 
 man is going to kill himself '. ' Really ! ' ' Directly ; is 
 not that quite delightful ? ' ' Quite ! ' 'I should not wonder 
 if he is doing it now ! ' I did not wish to put her out of conceit 
 with this notion, but I should have v/ondered much if he had 
 been doing anything of the kind. I saw him twice or thrice, 
 there and thereabouts ; his talk was ever in the same self- 
 murderous vein ; so confidently did he speak, so urgent was 
 the necessity, that on leaving the room for five minutes one 
 might expect to return and find him in a pool of blood ; but 
 no, the calamity never happened ; it was plain that suicide 
 was only his stock-in-trade. All people laughed at him, except 
 Harriet, whose sympathies were excited at first; but after a short 
 time, even she got tired of him ; or possibly she was jealous 
 of Otho's superior confidence of assertion touching impending 
 self-destruction. What ultimately became of the fellow I 
 know not ; I never heard that he cut his throat ; perhaps he 
 hit upon some other mode of getting a dinner, when this 
 dodge was seen through. 
 
 Poor Shelley was too often taken possession of, and kept 
 in a sort of imprisonment, or duress, in the society of persons 
 in every respect unworthy of him, for their own sordid and 
 selfish purposes ; the plunderers taking care, meanwhile, 
 that the captive and victim should see as little of his old friends 
 as possible. One of the many inconveniences of being dis- 
 tinguished is, that every impudent pretender thinks he has 
 a right to introduce and push himself, as an admirer of talent 
 and genius, being at once a devoted worshipper, and a person 
 admirably fitted to be kicked out of the room. Bysshe was 
 cruelly pestered by impertinent intruders, and he felt the 
 annoyance very sensibly ; he used sometimes to turn them 
 over to me ; this was not pleasant for either party. But, 
 however coolly such fellows might be treated, they would 
 seldom go away the sooner ; nothing, in short, but the free 
 and liberal use of a pitchfork, or flail, would have delivered us 
 from the unwelcome company. 
 
 If the line of life which the young poet had taken subjected 
 him to many disagreeable intrusions, and brought him fre- 
 quently in contact with odious and pernicious people, on the 
 other hand, it was the means of introducing him to some 
 pleasant and clever persons, from whose society he derived 
 
432 Life of Shelley 
 
 much delight, and no small profit. Such intercourse exercised 
 a powerful influence on his character and conduct. I will 
 select a few instances, treating the subject somewhat discur- 
 sively, as a miscellaneous matter. He spoke with enthusiasm 
 of a charming family, whose acquaintance he had lately made, 
 in what manner I do not remember, and he promised to 
 introduce me to them, declaring that I should be as much 
 taken with them as he was himself. He informed me soon 
 afterwards that he had spoken of me to them, that they desired 
 to see me, and the next day he would take me to dine with 
 them. The next day — it was a Sunday, in the summer — we 
 took a walk together, wandering about, as usual, for a long 
 time without plan or purpose. About five o'clock Bysshe 
 stopped suddenly at the door of a house in a fashionable street, 
 ascended the steps hastily, and delivered one of his superb 
 bravura knocks. 
 
 ' What are we going to do here ? ' 
 
 * It is here we dine '. 
 
 He placed me before him, that I might enter first, as the 
 stranger ; the door was thrown wide open, and a strange 
 spectacle presented itself. There were five naked figures in 
 the passage advancing rapidly to meet us. The first was a 
 boy of twelve years, the last a little girl of five ; the other 
 three children, the two eldest of them being girls, were 
 of intermediate ages, between the two extremes. As soon 
 as they saw me, they uttered a piercing cry, turned round, 
 and ran wildly up stairs, screaming aloud. The stairs pre- 
 sented the appearance of Jacob's Ladder, with the angels 
 ascending it, except that they had no wings, and they moved 
 faster, and made more noise than the ordinary representations 
 of the Patriarch's vision indicate. From the window of the 
 nursery at the top of the house the children had seen the 
 beloved Shelley — had scampered downstairs in single file to 
 welcome him ; me, the killjoy, they had not observed. 
 
 I was presented to a truly elegant family, and I found 
 everything in the best taste, and was highly gratified with my 
 reception, and with the estimable acquisition to the number 
 of my friends. Nothing was said about the first strange 
 salutation, nor did I venture to inquire, what it signified. 
 After dinner, Bysshe asked, why the children did not come 
 into the room to the dessert, as usual. The lady of the house 
 coloured slightly, and said Shelley should see them by- 
 and-by, in the nursery, but they did not dare to show them- 
 
Life of Shelley 433 
 
 selves in the dining-room. They were all too much ashamed 
 at having been seen, as they were, so unexpectedly, by a 
 stranger ! 
 
 Nothing more transpired to clear up the mystery of their 
 nudity. At subsequent visits, the whole system was unfolded, 
 
 I am quite unable to do justice to the theory of philosophical 
 nakedness. I can only recall a very few things of many which 
 I heard on that head. There was to be soon a return to nature, 
 it was believed — to the natural and pristine state of innocence, 
 in which we are taught, by the highest authority, that human 
 beings were naked. 
 
 In order to prepare mankind for the happy impending 
 restoration of perfect and universal nudity, children ought to 
 be accustomed at an early age to be, at least occasionally, 
 naked. It was alleged, moreover, that the practice of stripping 
 young persons sometimes is eminently conducive to their 
 health, to strength of body, symmetry, beauty, and to moral- 
 ity, and virtue ; and that even grown persons may derive 
 much benefit from remaining some hours, in mild weather, 
 without their clothes. It was most manifest that the children 
 liked to nakedize — such was the term of art — exceedingly ; 
 but it was something new and different from the ordinary 
 routine of jackets, trousers, and petticoats — in a word, it was 
 a change. It was conceded as a privilege and favour, and 
 whilst they remained naked they were allowed — a glorious 
 concession to a child, to make as much noise as they pleased. 
 These young innocents were remarkably healthy, happy, 
 beautiful and intelligent ; whether they would have been less 
 so if they had always worn their clothes like other children, 
 it is not easy to determine. As far as we can learn, nations 
 who are habitually naked are not more healthy, happy, hand- 
 some and virtuous, than people who are constantly clothed 
 from head to foot. The mistress of the family assured us that 
 she frequently remained for hours without her clothes, and 
 derived much advantage from the complete exposure to the 
 air. She never seemed to have much the matter with her ; 
 and in imaginative persons fancy sways their feehngs and 
 convictions. ' I rose early this morning, and having locked 
 myself into my dressing-room, or undressing-room, I remained 
 for three hours, stark-naked. I am all the better for it, I 
 assure you ; I always am. I feel so innocent during the rest 
 of the day ! ' Impertinent persons would sometimes laugh at 
 her frank avowal of superior innocence. Never was there a 
 
 FF 
 
434 Life of Shelley 
 
 more modest, a more virtuous lady ; never was there less 
 cause for malicious laughter ; and her feelings are perhaps 
 intelligible enough. Any one who begins the day by remaining 
 stark-naked for three or four hours in the early morning, closely 
 shut up, and of necessity alone, is compelled, in order to pass 
 the time, to be steadily employed during the entire period of 
 seclusion, in reading, writing, drawing, working — to persevere 
 in the performance of some engrossing duty. A day com- 
 menced in so useful and creditable a manner cannot fail to 
 bring with it impressions of self-satisfaction and innocence. 
 I gained some credit by communicating that I had sometimes 
 nakedized, under the authority and by the advice of the 
 celebrated Dr. Franklin, who wrote with earnestness in com- 
 mendation of air-baths, for so he called and esteemed the 
 remaining naked for some hours in the early morning. He 
 discourses at length about the salubrious influence of the air on 
 the bare skin ; of this I do not pretend to judge. When I was 
 young, I was surprisingly strong and healthy ; air-bathing 
 unquestionably never did me any harm, nor, so far as I could 
 discover, any good ; but I was so well, that it must have been 
 a wonderful air and a wonderful bath indeed that could have 
 made me better than I then was. This practice, like all other 
 practices, had its peculiar conveniences and inconveniences. 
 To carry it into effect, it is necessary to rise betimes, for in the 
 first morning alone a person is seldom wanted, and the bath is 
 not liable to be interrupted — a most salutary condition. The 
 air-bather, so long as he remains in the bath, is constrained to 
 employ himself, to sit reading, or writing, with closed doors. 
 To quit my occupation without quitting the bath was impossi- 
 ble. On the other hand, it prevented a healthy morning walk ; 
 it cut one off from intercourse with others ; and it did not allow 
 me to go forth on the spur of the occasion, and the suggestion 
 of the moment, to do something that might be useful or 
 expedient. Moreover, there is some danger of going out una- 
 wares, unconscious of nakedness, for by familiarity with the 
 state of nature, and wrapt up in abstract study, one soon learns 
 to forget the helpless and shameful condition. It is a prudent 
 precaution, therefore, not only to lock the door, but also to put 
 the key away in some place that may remind us, through arti- 
 ficial memory, and the association of ideas, in seeking it, that 
 our first parents were too fond of apples and of knowledge. 
 The father of air-bathing, it is said, was once guilty of inadver- 
 tence in this respect. The Doctor tells us that he pursued his 
 
Life of Shelley 435 
 
 morning studies in utter nakedness, with the most beneficial 
 results, for many summers, but he does not tell us the anecdote 
 which I will relate. The philosopher was never in affluence, 
 and having once received a bill of exchange from England for a 
 moderate amount from a debtor of doubtful character, he had 
 sent it to the neighbouring town to be presented for accep- 
 tance, and he was most anxious to learn whether his English 
 correspondent's paper had been duly honoured. A friend 
 going to the town undertook to inquire, and to let him know. 
 He came home too late to communicate with the doctor that 
 night ; but early the next morning Benjamin espied his friend's 
 maid-servant tripping quickly across the Green towards his 
 house with a letter in her hand. The long habit of remaining 
 for hours without his clothes, and his extreme solicitude as to 
 the fate of the bill, overpowered his consciousness. When the 
 girl came within a few yards of his door, the venerable patriot 
 eagerly rushed out, a second, or a third Adam, to meet her. 
 She fled in terror, and ran screaming home. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? Did you see the Doctor ? ' 
 * Oh ! No ! Poor old gentleman ; we shall never see him 
 again ; he has been barbarously murdered, no doubt ! The 
 Indians got possession of the farther end of the village in the 
 night ; the chief is in the poor Doctor's house, and as soon as he 
 saw me he ran out, tomahawk in hand, to scalp me ! ' 
 
 To counteract absence of mind, and to obviate such un- 
 pleasant contingencies, it is prudent, as I soon discovered my- 
 self, and have already observed, not only to lock the door, but 
 to adopt additional precautions. Females, it is notorious, have 
 more presence of mind than we have ; therefore the charming, 
 enthusiastic lady, who sat for three hours at a time, at the 
 dawn of day, cooling her unprejudiced mutton, might not be 
 subject to the like precipitancy, and to incur the like peril. 
 To rush naked into the street, that she might welcome a long 
 absent friend, would be an unpleasant mistake before the 
 Return to Nature and innocence had been duly proclaimed 
 at Temple Bar by naked heralds : even the day before. Except 
 on my first visit, the dear children never appeared naked 
 before me ; before Bysshe they often did. It is for his credit's 
 sake that I state it. I was of the earth, earthy ; he was of the 
 heaven, heavenly — I was a worldling ; he had already returned 
 to nature, or rather he had never quitted her. He was a pure 
 spirit, in the Divine likeness of the Archangel Gabriel ; the 
 peace-breathing, lily-bearing, Annunciator. Whether the 
 
436 Life of Shelley 
 
 charming lady might not, without tarnish or discredit, have 
 appeared before him robed only in her innocency, as she was 
 wont to sit during the early morning hours, I will not presume 
 to determine ; it is, at all events, certain that she never did so. 
 Much has been said and written by wise men and by foolish 
 ones on the subject of going naked ; it would not be to the 
 purpose to repeat their arguments and conclusion?, still less 
 expedient would it be to discuss the matter anew ; but looking 
 at the question without regard to moral, physical, or intellec- 
 tual amelioration, but simply with a view to personal comfort, 
 I will merely remark that the practice would not be convenient 
 or agreeable. Shelley was powerfully attracted^by every 
 scheme tending towards improvement, to ethical progress, and 
 human perfectibility ; and the attraction was more powerful 
 in proportion as the scheme was novel, strange, and startling ; 
 but he was not tempted to accept — and it is extraordinary that 
 he was not — the project of virtuous and philanthropic nudity. 
 It is fortunate, indeed, that he did not put it in practice in his 
 own person, his absence and aberration of mind being totally 
 over-powering — 
 
 and being transported . 
 And rapt in secret studies, 
 
 he would probably have started off heedlessly some fine morn- 
 ing, and run through the streets of London, to a diplomatic 
 conference with his father's bootless negotiators, or other 
 appointment, the recollection of which had suddenly flashed 
 across the mind of the naked student ; as the priests of old ran 
 about Rome bare on the Lupercalia. Or perad venture the 
 handsome young gymnosophist, being startled at his books 
 by the sound of the meal-going bell, would have joined a party 
 of female friends at the breakfast table, as wanting in all cloth- 
 ing, and as unconscious of the want as a new-born babe. 
 
 He thus neglecting worldly ends, all dedicated 
 To closeness, and the bettering of his mind, 
 
 was eminently unquahfied to engage in so slippery and perilous 
 an innovation. 
 
 There have always been, off and on, a considerable number 
 of people doing the stays movement. This part of female 
 apparel had many enemies at that period ; stays, it may be 
 easily believed, found no favour with the advocates of naked- 
 ness. I heard much from them of the sin and danger of wear- 
 
Life of Shelley 437 
 
 ing stays, and I listened patiently to many a fierce, angry 
 diatribe against them. I was once taken to a lecture on stays, 
 to be delivered by a first-rate, scientific Blue. She inhabited a 
 large and handsome old house in a dull street, and an old- 
 fashioned, obsolete part of the town. Scene the first was the 
 dining-room ; it had been fitted up as a lecture-room. The 
 audience was pretty numerous, and, with the sole exception of 
 myself, consisted exclusively of females. I asked^my fair 
 conductress, by whose side I was seated, if it was quite proper 
 for me to remain ? She commanded rne to stay. * You are a 
 friend of our sex, and perfectly free from prejudices ! * The lat- 
 ter part of the compliment I sensibly felt that I did not deserve. 
 On a large table was a green cloth and on the cloth were plaster- 
 casts, drawings and engravings, and a rabbit with its chest 
 cut open, so that the lungs appeared. The lady lecturess came 
 forward, and after a profound courtesy and gentle murmurs of 
 applause, she began to discourse fluently, earnestly, and rather 
 agreeably ; with extreme solemnity — with the gravity, indeed, 
 of many professors. She addressed herself first to the casts, 
 and, laying her hands upon them, expounded at length what 
 may be called the upper works of woman. She then directed 
 our attention to the deceased rabbit, pointing to different 
 portions of the lungs, and explaining, or attempting to explain, 
 the whole economy of respiration. She proved likewise, 
 exceedingly well, that stays on the body of a rabbit would 
 interfere with and impede its movements, and would be in- 
 convenient and uncomfortable. Bundles of stays of different 
 kinds were handed to her ; these she successively applied to 
 the plaster-casts, and demonstrated how grievously they 
 offended against every principle of anatomical science ; launch- 
 ing forth into an animated invective against busks, which, 
 whether they were of wood, of whalebone, or of steel, found 
 no quarter. She then exhibited pictures of crooked shoulders, 
 distorted spines, contracted chests, and manifold deformities, 
 painful to behold. She assured us, that all these calamities, 
 and many others, were occasioned solely by the pernicious 
 pressure of stays. The peroration was exceedingly impressive 
 and authoritative ; she assured us, as if from revelation, that a 
 benevolent Providence never intended the fairest of his 
 creatures to be so strait-laced — to commit their captivating 
 persons to devilish engines of torture and destruction. 
 
 The second scene was the drawing-room. The many had 
 departed ; a select party, the chosen few, had been invited to 
 
438 Life of Shelley 
 
 remain and take coffee. When I entered the room, I was 
 placed, for cause of honour, upon the sofa, after the foreign 
 fashion ; the lady of the house had resided much abroad, and 
 presently she set herself down by my side. She said much in 
 courteous phrase of the honour and pleasure, and so on, of my 
 attendance. 
 
 ' You heard my poor discourse, sir ; through your kindness, 
 you heard it with attention. What do you really believe were 
 the designs of Providence with respect to us females ; do you 
 think that we were ever intended to wear stays ? Have I not 
 fully demonstrated that we were not ? ' 
 
 ' To say the truth, madam, I do not very well know how to 
 answer you : with respect to women, I am not competent to 
 decide ; but I am fully convinced, and you demonstrated it 
 completely, that Providence never meant that a buck rabbit 
 should wear stays ! ' 
 
 And indeed it was a buck ; what a terrible oversight. 
 ' That is much to be regretted, on all accounts ; it ought most 
 unquestionably to have been a doe ; it is a thousand pities ! ' 
 
 A long silence ensued ; the poor lady was manifestly troubled 
 about the sex of her anatomical subject. 
 
 When she had recovered herself, and conversation was 
 resumed, it came out that Bysshe had promised faithfully to 
 attend the lecture, but the traitor had faithlessly broken his 
 engagement. His defection was deeply deplored. The lec- 
 turess spoke of him with animation and enthusiasm ; if he 
 would once declare himself distinctly on the great, the 
 momentous question, the distinct declaration of so great 
 and influential a mind would instantly and finally determine it. 
 Not another pair of stays would ever be sold, made, or 
 worn in Europe ! 
 
 Coffee was served ; I partook of it, it was excellent ; and 
 when the guests had all been supplied, the philosopheress took 
 a cup herself. A china cup containing a yellow powder was 
 brought to her ; she took a teaspoonful of the powder, and 
 stirred it into her coffee. 
 
 ' Was it ginger, saffron, gold dust, the dust of the potable 
 gold of the alchymists — what was it ? ' I ventured to inquire. 
 
 ' No ; it was flour of mustard. I once had the honour and 
 happiness to see the Great Frederick of Prussia take coffee at 
 Potsdam, and he put flour of mustard into his coffee, as I have 
 just done ; and therefore I have taken it thus ever since, in 
 memory of so illustrious a man. He was once in a compaign 
 
Life of Shelley 439 
 
 in Poland in a rainy season, and a marshy country, when he was 
 attacked grievously, dangerously, by diarrhoea ; his ordinary 
 medical attendants could not relieve him, " Was there no 
 physician in the neighbourhood ? " " Yes, a celebrated one, 
 but he is a Jew, and your Majesty would not like to consult 
 him ". " Jew or Gentile, so that he can cure me, bring him 
 here ! " The Polish physician prescribed flour of mustard in 
 coffee ; the King took it immediately and freely, and the effect 
 was rapid and beneficial. The Great Frederick was subject 
 to such attacks, and therefore he persevered in using the 
 remedy '. 
 
 * And are you subject to them ? ' 
 
 Her temperament appeared to be dry and adust. 
 
 ' No ! By no means ! But it is only a due tribute of respect 
 for the memory of so great a man, that I should always take my 
 coffee as I once saw him take his ! ' 
 
 The whole soul of my ardent and imaginative young friend 
 was inflamed at this period of his life, by a glowing desire to 
 witness and to promote the improvement and progress of civil 
 society. He had translated an essay, or treatise, of some French 
 philosopher, on the Perfectibility of the Human Species ; and 
 he read his translation aloud to me, as well as the writings of 
 other authors on the same fanciful subject. A state of things 
 was fast approaching, we were assured, in which mankind, 
 having become perfectly virtuous, the sanction of laws, as well 
 as all binding contracts and agreements, would no longer be 
 required. It would be fortunate and happy, indeed, if the 
 accession of this complete change and entire amelioration were 
 true, or even probable. A man might then lend ten or fifty 
 thousand pounds to a friend, or even to any stranger, at four 
 per cent., or on any other terms, without the trouble and delay 
 of executing mortgages, or bonds, or other securities ; without 
 the wearisome investigation of intricate titles ; without the 
 dull, tedious, and expensive formaUties of lawyers. And so it 
 would be with all other transactions whatever, no other safe- 
 guard than that of triumphant and universally prevailing virtue 
 ought ever to be looked for. Marriage, of course, would be on 
 the same easy, but secure, footing as all other agreements. 
 So far as it is a civil contract, this might very well be, if all men 
 and all women were perfectly true, honourable, and virtuous. 
 Nobody affected to believe that such a condition of affairs 
 actually existed ; but that it would soon arrive, some well- 
 meaning persons confidently asserted, and seemed to credit it. 
 
440 Life of Shelley 
 
 I met with certain of the advocates of the coming perfectibiUty 
 worthy, but somewhat credulous people : the men discoursed 
 of its influence over all human affairs, the women treated it 
 principally with reference to those matters which most nearly 
 concern themselves. I listened to observations and conversa- 
 tions which to me, doubting of the blessed advent, were 
 laughable. 
 
 One example will suffice : I went to drink coffee and tea, to 
 listen to conversation more or less instructive, and to music, 
 and to enjoy all such innocent recreations as are not inconsis- 
 tent with perfectibility, at the handsome house of a very 
 hospitable and agreeable perfectible. In the. course of the 
 evening a lady stole into the room, and took her seat on a 
 solitary sofa opposite ; she was a most lovely creature, in every 
 respect, and I expressed my admiration of her in no measured 
 terms to the lady of the house, with whom I was conversing, as 
 I had supposed, in confidence, and under the belief that what I 
 had said was to go no farther. After a little while, the lady of 
 the house crossed the room, sat down by the side of her lovely 
 guest, and conversed earnestly with her, both the ladies occa- 
 sionally looking at me. Afterwards, a signal was made that I 
 was to approach ; I obeyed it. The lady of the house then 
 told the fair stranger, word for word, all that I had said about 
 her, pausing from time to time, and asking me if I had not said 
 so. It was impossible to deny it. * Well, sir ', said the stranger 
 lady, with a certain gracious gravity, when she had heard all 
 my praises, and I had confirmed them, * your homage is ac- 
 cepted, and when the perfectibility of the human race is accom- 
 plished, you shall be made happy '. ' Thank you, Madam ', I 
 answered, somewhat impertinently, I fear ; ' and when the 
 Millennium commences, we will go and reside in the New Jeru- 
 salem ; we will hire a handsome first-floor in a commodious 
 house, hollowed out of one huge emerald, and live together in 
 it ! * She frowned at this harmless jest, but made no reply. 
 I did not think that so rare a beauty could have looked so 
 black, and withdrew in manifest anger. 
 
 A few days after our conversation, she related what I had 
 said to Bysshe, adding, ' Your friend is a very strange person 
 indeed ; it is quite plain that he does not believe in the perfect- 
 ibility of the human race. How unaccountable ! and indeed 
 he seems to make it the sole business of his life to scoff at 
 everything ! ' 
 
 * How could you think of living with her in a house carved 
 
Life of Shelley 441 
 
 out of an emerald ? ' he inquired with his saddest look and in 
 his most plaintive voice, when he told me this. 
 
 I answered, ' We read in the Book of Revelation that each of 
 the twelve gates of the New Jerusalem was a pearl, and one 
 foundation of the walls was a topaz, another an amethyst, and 
 so on ; and consequently it did not seem too much to expect 
 that when the number of the elect has been accomplished, 
 and what she promised me is to take place, I might easily hire 
 such apocalyptic apartments for us to live in together, as I 
 proposed to her '. 
 
 He looked grave, and said mournfully, *- You laugh at every- 
 thing ! I am convinced that there can be no entire regenera- 
 tion of mankind until laughter is put down ! ' 
 
 On that point at least we were agreed. 
 
 The poetic temperament is naturally melancholy, the poet's 
 airy realms being thickly peopled by imaginary sorrows ; and 
 Shelley's natural melancholy had been confirmed and increased 
 by manifold crosses, vexations, and disappointments ; yet 
 occasionally he could be merry, notwithstanding the strong 
 aversion for laughter and ridicule which he habitually and 
 vehemently expressed. He could indulge in a mirthful sally ; 
 he could play joyous, funny pranks, and could relate or even 
 act them over again, in a vivacious manner, and with a keen 
 relish and agreeable recollections of his own mischievous 
 raillery. His frolics were ever peculiar and characteristic ; 
 their nature will be best explained and illustrated by an 
 example : 
 
 One summer's evening he had to travel a short distance in 
 his own country, in the county of Sussex — such, if I mistake not, 
 for I know the adventure only from Bysshe's account of it, was 
 the scene of his whimsical exploit. He set out on foot, ex- 
 pecting that the stage would soon overtake him. He had not 
 proceeded far when the heavy coach came up. There was no 
 room outside, but the six inside seats were unoccupied ; he got 
 in, and the vehicle rumbled along the dusty road. For a Httle 
 while it was all very well, but the heavy stage coach stopped 
 suddenly, and a heavy old woman came in to him, reddened 
 with heat, steaming and running down with perspiration. 
 She took her place in the middle seat, like a huge ass 
 between a pair of enormous panniers ; for, on one side 
 was a mighty basket, crammed full of mellow apples, and 
 on the other a hke basket, equally well filled with large 
 onions. The odour of the apples and the onions, and the aspect 
 
442 Life of Shelley 
 
 of the heated, melting, smoking old woman, were intolerable 
 to the delicate, sensitive young poet. He bore it, at first, 
 patiently, then impatiently, at last he could endure it no 
 longer ; so, starting up, he seated himself on the floor of the 
 coach, and, fixing his tearful, woeful eyes upon her, he addressed 
 his companion thus, in thrilling accents : 
 
 For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground. 
 And tell sad stories of the death of kings ! 
 How some have been deposed, some slain in war. 
 Some haunted by the ghosts they dispossessed ; 
 Some poisoned by their wives ; some sleeping killed. 
 All murthered ! 
 
 ' Oh, dear ! ' exclaimed the terrified old woman. ' Dear ! 
 dear'! Oh, Lord ! Oh, Lord ! ' 
 
 But when he shrieked out the two last words, ' All mur- 
 thered ! ' she ran to the window in an agony, and, thrusting 
 out her head, cried : 
 
 ' Oh, guard, guard ! stop ! Oh, guard, guard, guard ! 
 let me out ! ' 
 
 The door was opened, she ahghted immediately with her 
 strong-smelhng wares, and through the united wit of two 
 great poets, that of Shakespeare and his own, he was permitted 
 to finish his journey alone. 
 
 He was proud of this achievement, and delighted in it long 
 afterwards. 
 
 ' Show us, Bysshe, how you got rid of the old woman in 
 Sussex '. 
 
 He sprang wildly on his feet, and, taking his seat on the 
 floor, with a melancholy air, and in a piteous voice, cried out : 
 
 For heaven's sake, let us sit upon the ground ! 
 
 When he had given out the words, ' All murthered ! ' with a 
 fiendish yell, he started up, threw open the window, and began 
 to call, ' Guard ! guard ! ' often, to the astonishment of 
 persons passing by, whose temperament was less poetic, and 
 less excitable than his own. 
 
 So moving were the woes of the gentle Richard Plantagenet, 
 told by the great dramatist, and declaimed by another poet, 
 second to him, at least in time ! So drastic was their effect! 
 
 Quitting the Swan of Avon, and the Swan of the Arun, and 
 of Warnham mere, we will return for a moment to the lovely 
 and indignant lady. 
 
 Some months after the huge emerald had proved to be a 
 
Life of Shelley 443 
 
 stone of offence and a stumbling-block in the way to her good 
 graces, I met her alone in Orchard Street ; she was exceed- 
 ingly handsome by daylight, but less handsome than she had 
 appeared by candlelight ; the tell-tale summer's sun showed 
 brown or yellow hues. It struck me that the emerald mansion 
 would not be becoming to her complexion ; it would be pre- 
 ferable to reside in a ruby, or a topaz. She received me 
 graciously, shaking hands cordially ; and we walked round 
 Portman Square together. To say the truth, I met her again 
 soon after my first disaster, and, as a Christian, I desired to 
 live and to die in peace with her. Accordingly, when she was 
 quite alone, I ventured to creep up to her, and, sitting down 
 softly by her side, humbly to address her. I said nothing 
 of her transcendent beauty, which had been the cause of my 
 original discomfiture, and had brought down upon my head 
 the odious and opprobrious appellation of a scoffer ; nor of the 
 progress of mankind towards perfection, of which I doubted ; 
 but I spoke of indifferent subjects only ; of chess, of cards, of 
 quadrille. At first, certainly, she was somewhat crusty, treat- 
 ing me as an Infidel ought always to be treated, but she 
 softened by degrees. 
 
 ' Well ! Have you made it up ? ' the lady of the house 
 asked, as she walked past us, and saw us conversing together 
 in a friendly manner. 
 
 ' We never had anything to make up ', answered the lovely 
 lady, obligingly ; ' we never had any quarrel ! ' 
 
 She spoke much of Shelley, and in such terms that, had we 
 been old and bitter enemies, we should have been at once 
 reconciled. She spoke also of him whilst we were walking 
 round the square, and with so great warmth, admiration, and 
 enthusiasm, that the yellow tints on her skin rapidly and 
 completely disappeared, and I thought she would look per- 
 fectly charming even in the emerald messuage. 
 
 ' I was talking about him with a female friend the other 
 day, that he is so modest, so reserved, so pure, so virtuous, 
 
 A clear, immaculate, and silver fountain ! 
 
 and we were saying what terrible havoc he would make, if he 
 were at all rakish ! ' 
 
 ' If he were less modest, he would be less attractive, and 
 therefore less dangerous '. 
 
 ' Yes, it would be so. But that did not occur to us '. 
 
444 Life of Shelley 
 
 ' I wonder it did not, for it is sufficiently obvious '. 
 
 * Have you seen him lately ? ' 
 
 * Have you ? ' 
 
 There were many mutual inquiries. 
 
 ' Does he not visit you then ? ' 
 
 ' I wish he did ; I would gladly, oh, so gladly, give half of all 
 I possess, if he were an habitual, I will add even an occasional 
 visitor ! Cannot you bring him to me ? Will you ? ' 
 
 ' I will try '. 
 
 ' You said you wish to learn quadrille ; we will teach you. 
 My mother, my sister, and myself have lived much in Spain, 
 where alone they understand the game : quadrille is well 
 played there. If you can excuse our not playing for money, 
 which we never do, we will play with you whenever you 
 choose '. 
 
 * To learn so difficult a game as quadrille demands much 
 leisure, and I have none '. 
 
 ' That is a pity, for it is well worth learning ! However, 
 you will come and see me ? ' 
 
 * It must be after my return to London, because I am going 
 into the country to-morrow, for some months '. 
 
 ' Whenever you please ; but bring him with you '. 
 
 In one respect only is the long vacation too long ; on every 
 other account I have invariably found it too short. The 
 absence from London is so long, that it causes a disruption of 
 studies, pursuits, and acquaintances ; of acquaintances that 
 might have ripened into valuable friendships. 
 
 When I returned to town in November, the recollection of 
 my obliging instructress in quadrille had faded, and Bysshe 
 and myself were so ungrateful as to forget the lovely per- 
 fectible ! The precise nature of the perfect felicity which 
 was promised to the elect, and was to be enjoyed by them, 
 when the perfectibility of the human species was accom- 
 plished, I never discovered. It certainly was not that kind 
 of felicity that one would at first infer from the lax, ambiguous 
 manner of talking in use among zealous votaries. It was 
 something ethereal, spiritualized, transcendent, remote from 
 the gratifications of the senses, and the grossness of mortal 
 frailty — a certain celestial joy. In truth, my curiosity did not 
 stimulate me to inquire minutely into the conditions of a state 
 of society, in which I did not myself believe. 
 
 During his residence of some weeks or months in Half Moon 
 Street, Bysshe was happy and comfortable — comfortable 
 
Life of Shelley 445 
 
 according to his own peculiar scheme of hfe. There were few 
 shelves for books in the little sitting-room on the first-floor ; 
 but books accumulated rapidly, and they were arranged in 
 rows on the floor, in the recesses on each side of the fireplace ; 
 and they were piled in disorder on tables and chairs, and 
 heaped up under tables in confusion. Many books had been 
 left behind, through a miserable negligence and inconceivable 
 rapidity of movement and evolutions, in localities from whence 
 they never emerged, and were never seen or heard of more. If 
 he possessed the faculty of losing volumes without number, he 
 had the power also to assemble around him again, in a few days, 
 a respectable library. In one recess remained, but little dis- 
 turbed by any of us, in a long row, a Latin edition, or transla- 
 tion, of the works of Emmanuel Kant. It was comprised in I 
 know not how many volumes ; they were in boards, and were 
 uncut, and unopened. Of these, the young metaphysician 
 had been most anxious to obtain possession, but he totally 
 neglected them obtained. I do not believe that he ever read 
 a single page of the transcendental philosopher. I took up a 
 volume myself occasionally, and attempted to get through a 
 few pages, but I did not make any progress. I found in the 
 mystical dogmatism nothing attractive in any respect, but, 
 on the contrary, much to repel me. The only remark which I 
 recollect to have made was that the word * purus ' occurred 
 many times in every page, and in every case, gender, and 
 number. 
 
 The Kantian philosophy was much in vogue at that time, 
 but I never found an adept who was able to explain to me the 
 meaning of that which of myself, and without the advantage 
 and assistance of oral instruction, it was totally impossible to 
 comprehend. Harriet's power of reading aloud were in full 
 force, and were often brought into requisition. Rokehy had 
 lately appeared, a poor performance, at which the critics 
 laughed unmercifully ; but the fair reader was pleased with 
 it, and read it aloud more than once throughout. 
 
 There were a few pleasing passages, pretty descriptions, 
 and good lines interspersed, here and there, with much fluent 
 commonplace verse and book-making. I listened with 
 attention, but I could never make out the story either of that 
 poem, or of the other poems of the same fertile author, which 
 I heard from the same lips. Scene after scene passes over 
 the mind, like a dream, and no permanent or distinct impres- 
 sion is left behind by the flitting shadows. 
 
44^ Life of Shelley 
 
 Finding myself in the neighbourhood of Rokeby some years 
 afterwards, I remembered enough of what I had heard to be 
 induced to visit the spot. It repaid a ride, and was well worth 
 the deviation from my direct course. The confluence of the 
 Greta and the Tees is pleasing, perhaps even striking. Bysshe 
 was sometimes able to give his attention for a little while to 
 the reading, which flowed on easily in a continuous, unbroken 
 stream, like the versification of the Poet of the Scottish Border ; 
 he then suddenly started off, and returned, and heard a little 
 more ; the uninspired and uninspiring strains still trickling 
 down, like the waters of the Greta in their rocky bed. It may 
 seem, that the many fits and many bouts of linked readings, 
 long drawn out, must have been wearisome, but they were not 
 so ; the good Harriet read well, clearly, distinctly, in an agree- 
 able voice, and with a just accent and emphasis ; but the 
 principal charm of these performances was, that they were so 
 delightful to the performer, she enjoyed herself so much in 
 the healthy exercise of the chest, that it would have been 
 churlish indeed not to have lent a patient ear. 
 ^ ' Come, sit down, be quite still ; do not walk about the room, 
 as Bysshe does ; be silent, and attend to me ; do not ask any 
 foolish questions ! When I come to anything that I think you 
 cannot understand, I will explain it to you myself ! ' 
 
 Not to humour her would have been inhuman, it would have 
 been impossible. Shelley was visited occasionally by a few 
 agreeable and by some tolerably agreeable acquaintances, 
 chiefly of a literary description ; whom to write at length would 
 be tedious. As the author of another equally uninspired, 
 but more popular, more extensively and permanently popular 
 poem, than Rokeby, ' Propria quae maribus ', truly sings con- 
 cerning nouns of anomalous and irregular genders. One of 
 these visitors may be named, the Chevalier Lawrence, a Knight 
 of Malta, who had lately reached some celebrity by his novel, 
 The Empire of the Nairs. He had resided long in the Court 
 of some small German potentate, and related anecdotes that 
 were amusing enough of the courts and literature of Germany. 
 He spoke much of nobility, to which in his capacity of a 
 Knight of Malta, he had devoted himself ; and of some work, 
 which he had written concerning the nobles of England, prov- 
 ing that the real English nobles are not the peers of the realm, 
 as is universally, but erroneously, believed, but the old families 
 of landed gentry ; and this, taking nobility in a continental 
 sense, and according to continental notions, is strictly true. 
 
Life of Shelley 447 
 
 I never fell in with the discourse of nobility — I do not know- 
 even its proper title : with his great work, upon which his 
 immortality rests, The Empire of the Nairs, I could not get on, 
 although I tried to read it more than once ; it was too roseate, 
 too much like the amatory honey-dew of Tommy Moore. To 
 my young friends the Indian tale was attractive ; they read it ; 
 and even Eliza, who never read anything else, read it, and 
 declared, in an audible voice, that it was quite dehghtful. 
 Gracious Heaven ! What would Miss Warne say ? 
 
 I saw a great deal of Bysshe during his residence in the quiet, 
 convenient street, which unquestionably, however paradoxi- 
 cal it may seem, suited him better than the mountains of Wales 
 or Cumberland. 
 
 ' If the man in the moon be a queer fellow, what are we to 
 make of the man in the Half-Moon ? ' 
 
 ' The man in the moon ! ' he said, in a piteous voice ; ' the 
 man in the moon ! ' And having looked on the moon implor- 
 ingly for some time, he asked : ' Do you really believe there is 
 a man in the moon ? More than one ? ' He then sighed 
 deeply, exclaiming, ' Poor fellow ! ' 
 
 I sat with him, read with him, walked with him, talked 
 with him ; and that there might be no limit to my self-devo- 
 tion, I dined with him. 
 
 As we travel now-a-days through London in a cab, a vehicle 
 unknown in the days of which I write, through devious ways 
 and unheard-of streets, known only to cabmen and their 
 associates, the fairies ; in like manner did I walk with Bysshe 
 then. I always let him lead the way, and followed his guid- 
 ance : his course and choice of direction were erratic and 
 uncommon, and he would dart across the road and quickly 
 enter some unpromising, ill-omened street or passage, and 
 hurry me along it : I have often wondered by what impulse 
 he was thus borne along. His flight was to escape from, not 
 to pursue ; to get away from some object for which he had 
 conceived a sudden dislike. 
 
 To return to dinner. At the bare proposal to order dinner, 
 poor Shelley stood aghast, in speechless trance ; when he had 
 somewhat recovered from the outrage to his feelings, ' Ask 
 Harriet ', he shrilly cried, with a desponding, supplicating 
 mien. The good Harriet herself was no proficient in culinary 
 arts ; she had never been initiated in the mysteries of house- 
 wifery : ' Whatever you please ', was her ordinary answer. 
 
 I was once staying at the house of a country clergyman ; 
 
44^ Life of Shelley 
 
 the worthy pastor was eminently skilled in divine things ; his 
 not less worthy wife was deeply conversant with human affairs, 
 well versed in all the learning of the kitchen, excellent in ordering 
 the genial board, as became the helpmate of a first-rate theo- 
 logian. There were usually a few neighbours, guests at dinner. 
 Amongst these, one day, was a lovely young woman ; ^healthy, 
 comely, fair, and plump ; the daughter of a substantial farmer 
 of a superior degree. 
 
 When the visitors had departed, my kind and notable 
 hostess asked me in confidence what I thought of the hand- 
 some, well-fleshed girl ? 
 
 * I think that she is a beautiful creature ! I have seldom 
 seen a prettier young woman of the kind ! ' 
 
 * She is, indeed, and she is as good as she is beautiful — so 
 useful in a house '. 
 
 'I had heard much about her, but I never saw her before ; 
 and I am satisfied that all I heard about her is true. I.have 
 had a great deal of talk with her ; she seems to understand 
 everything, and to be wonderfully clever in a family. I could 
 not take my eyes off her all the evening ; I am afraid she would 
 think me rude, but I could not help it ! ' * She is so beautiful, 
 it is very difficult to help looking at her ; it is not easy to take 
 one's eyes off her ! ' * No ! It is not indeed ! I sat looking 
 at her, and thinking what delightful jellies she would make ; 
 I could not help looking at her, and saying to myself, how 
 I should like to taste her calves'-foot jelly. And I longed to 
 tell her so ! ' 
 
 Poor Harriet had pledged herself at Keswick to learn of Mrs. 
 Southey to make tea cakes ; but Mrs. Southey would not 
 teach, or Harriet would not learn, and she had not redeemed 
 her pledge. It was her only chance, and she lost it, which 
 was unfortunate : it would have been a green spot in a desert. 
 To say, * Whatever you please ', is a sorry mode of ordering 
 dinner, and it was all she ever said on that head. Some con- 
 siderable time after the appointed hour, a roasted shoulder of 
 mutton, of the coarsest, toughest grain, graced, or disgraced, 
 the ill-supplied table ; the watery gravy that issued from the 
 perverse joint, when it was cut, a duty commonly assigned to 
 me, seemed the most apt of all things to embody the concep- 
 tion of penury and utter destitution. There were potatoes in 
 every respect worthy of the mutton ; and the cheese, which 
 was either forgotten or uneatable, closed the ungenial repast. 
 Sometimes there was a huge boiled leg of mutton, boiled till the 
 
Life of Shelley 449 
 
 bone was ready to drop out of the meat, which shrank and 
 started from it on all sides, without any sauce, but with turnips 
 raw, and manifestly unworthy to be boiled any longer. Some- 
 times there were impregnable beef-steaks — soles for shooting- 
 shoes. I have dropped a word, a hint, about a pudding ; a 
 pudding, Bysshe said dogmatically, is a prejudice. I have 
 wished that the converse of the proposition were true, and that 
 a prejudice was a pudding, and then, according to the judgment 
 of my more enlightened young friends, I should never have 
 been without one. 
 
 It is a strong proof of the extraordinary fascination of the 
 society of the Divine Poet, that to purchase it — and it was 
 absolutely requisite to pay a price — I submitted cheerfully so 
 often, and for such a long period, to so many inconveniences 
 and privations. I was never indifferent to the amenities of 
 life ; I had always been accustomed to comfort — to a certain 
 elegance, indeed : at college, in preparing for college, and 
 more especially at home ; for in a district where the creature 
 comforts were well cared for, my own family were always 
 conspicuous for an exact and exquisite nicety. In this respect, 
 as in some others, there was something contradictory in Shelley : 
 he emphatically — I may say ostentatiously — renounced what- 
 ever might be stigmatized by a morose philosopher of Spartan 
 habits and principles as luxury ; and yet, like the majority of 
 mankind, he appeared to be best pleased when he was most at 
 his ease. He continually and openly lamented his rude and 
 tyrannical extrusion from Oxford ; and it was manifest that he 
 was unconsciously sensible of the loss of innumerable commo- 
 dities ; he secretly pined for he knew not what ; in truth, he 
 pined for the flesh-pots of Egypt ; for the leeks, and the onions, 
 and the water-melons. At that University, behold with 
 reverence the rare wisdom of our forefathers ! a man was 
 compelled to live comfortably whether he would or not, and in 
 spite of himself. 
 
 Bysshe's dietary was frugal and independent ; very remark- 
 able and quite peculiar to himself. When he felt hungry he 
 would dash into the first baker's shop, buy a loaf and rush out 
 again, bearing it under his arm ; and he strode onwards in his 
 rapid course, breaking off pieces of bread and greedily swallow- 
 ing them. But however frugal the fare, the waste was con- 
 siderable, and his path might be tracked, like that of Hop-o'- 
 my-Thumb through the wood, in Mother Goose her tale, by a 
 long line of crumbs. 
 
 GG 
 
450 Life of Shelley 
 
 The spot, where he sat reading, or writing, and eating his 
 dry bread, was likewise marked out by a circle of crumbs 
 and fragments scattered on the floor. He took with bread, 
 frequently by way of condiment, not water-cresses, as did the 
 Persians of old, according to the fable of Xenophon, but com- 
 mon pudding raisins. These he purchased at some mean 
 little shop, that he might be the more speedily served ; and 
 he carried them loose in his waistcoat-pocket, and eat them 
 with his dry bread. He occasionally rolled up little pellets of 
 bread, and, in a sly, mysterious manner, shot them with his 
 thumb, hitting the persons — ^whom he met in his walks — on 
 the face, commonly on the nose, at which he grew to be very 
 dexterous. 
 
 When he was dining at a coffee-house, he would sometimes 
 amuse himself thus, if that could be an amusement, which 
 was done unconsciously. A person receiving an unceremonious 
 fillip on the nose, after this fashion, started and stared about ; 
 but I never found that anybody, although I was often appre- 
 hensive, that some one might resent it, perceived or suspected 
 from what quarter the offending missile had come. The 
 wounded party seemed to find satisfaction in gazing upwards 
 at the ceiling, and in the belief that a piece of plaster had 
 fallen from thence. When he was eating his bread alone over 
 his book he would shoot his pellets about the room, taking aim 
 at a picture, at an image, or at any other object which attracted 
 his notice. He had been taught by a French lady to make 
 panada ; and with this food he often indulged himself. His 
 simple cookery was performed thus. He broke a quantity — 
 often, indeed, a surprising quantity — of bread into a large 
 bason, and poured boiling water upon it. When the bread 
 had been steeped awhile, and had swelled sufficiently, he poured 
 off the water, sqeezing it out of the bread, which he chopped 
 up with a spoon ; he then sprinkled pounded loaf sugar over 
 it, and grated nutmeg upon it, and devoured the mass with a 
 prodigious relish. He was standing one day in the middle of 
 the room, bason in hand, feeding himself voraciously, gorging 
 himself with pap. 
 
 ' Why, Bysshe ', I said, ' you lap it up as greedily as the 
 Valkyriae in Scandinavian story lap up the blood of the slain ! ' 
 
 * Aye ! ' he shouted out, with grim delight, ' I lap up the 
 blood of the slain ! ' 
 
 The idea captivated him ; he was continually repeating 
 the words ; and he often took panada, I suspect, merely to 
 
Life of Shelley 451 
 
 indulge this wild fancy, and say, ' I am going to lap up the 
 blood of the slain ! To sup up the gore of murdered 
 kings ! ' 
 
 Having previously fed himself after his fashion from his 
 private stores, he was independent of dinner, and quite 
 indifferent to it ; the shoe of tough mutton would remain 
 untouched upon his plate, and he would sit at table reading 
 some book, often reading aloud, seemingly unconscious of the 
 hospitable rites in which others were engaged, his bread 
 buUets meanwhile being discharged in every direction. 
 
 The provisions supphed at lodgings in London were too 
 frequently in those days detestable, and the service which 
 was rendered abominable and disgusting. Meat was procured 
 wherever meat might be bought most cheaply, in order that, 
 being paid for dearly, a more enormous profit might be real- 
 ized upon it ; and those dishes were selected in which the 
 ignorance in cookery of a servant-of-all-work might be least 
 striking. 
 
 Our dinners, therefore, were constructive, a dumb show, a 
 mere empty, idle ceremony ; our only resource against abso- 
 lute starvation was tea. ' We will have some muffins and 
 crumpets for tea ', the famished Harriet would say. * They 
 will butter them ! ' Bysshe exclaimed, in a voice thrilling with 
 horror. Harriet sometimes ordered them privily, without 
 consulting him ; and when they were brought in sUently, and 
 appeared smiling upon the tea-table, he dealt with them as 
 remorselessly as with Mrs. Southey's tea-cakes at Keswick. 
 We meekly sought rehef in buttered toast ; but the butter 
 was too commonly bad, and ill-suited to our palates, but 
 answering admirably the final cause of making the toast ; 
 that not being relished in the parlour, there might be more 
 left for the unclean maid to eat. Penny buns were our assured 
 resource. The survivors of those days of peril and hardship 
 are indebted for their existence to the humane interposition 
 and succour of penny buns. A shilling's worth of penny 
 buns for tea. If the purchase was entrusted to the maid, 
 she got such buns as none could believe to have been made 
 on earth, proving thereby incontestably that the girl had 
 some direct communication with the infernal regions, where 
 alone they could have been procured. Shelley was fond of 
 penny buns, but he never bought them unless he was put up 
 to it. 
 
 ' Get a shilling's worth of penny buns, Bysshe ', Harriet 
 
452 Life of Shelley 
 
 said, ' at some good confectioner's ', the situation of whose 
 shop she described. 
 
 He rushed out with incredible alacrity, like a Wind God, 
 and in an instant returned, and was heard stumbling and 
 tumbling up stairs, with the bag of buns, open at the top, in 
 his hand ; and he would sometimes, in his hot haste, drop them 
 on the stairs, and they all rolled down to the bottom, and 
 he picked them up again ; but we were not particular. Wc 
 had our own tea ; it usually lay spread out on an open paper 
 upon a side table ; others might help themselves, and probably 
 they did so, but there was always some left for us. 
 
 Such was the Poetic Life ! But, ah, sweet youth, how soon 
 it fades ! All these privations and miseries were then as 
 nothing. They were the salt of life, and surely we associated 
 with the salt of the earth. To say the truth, I love a good 
 penny bun to this hour ; I look upon one with gratitude, as a 
 friend in need, with emotion, as my preserver ! The faculty 
 of inducing his friends, and particularly myself, to undergo 
 losses, derangements, and annoyances many and various, for 
 the sake of his instructive and fascinating company, was 
 certainly remarkable enough, but it was trifling indeed — a 
 slight exercise of the authority of talents and genius, in com- 
 parison with another and most astonishing power over the 
 minds and souls and conduct of others, which he now and 
 then unintentionally, and as it were unconsciously, put 
 forth. 
 
 The conversation of the Divine Poet was found to be especially 
 attractive and enchanting by all females, particularly by the 
 young and intellectual. He never was inclined to go to bed ; 
 it may be truly affirmed that he never went to bed ; he was 
 sent to bed, taken to bed, put to bed, but he never retired 
 to rest of his own accord and voluntarily. He was commonly 
 most communicative, unreserved, and eloquent and enthusi- 
 astic, when those around him were inclining to yield to the 
 influence of sleep, or rather at the hour when they would have 
 been disposed to seek their chambers but for the bewitching 
 charms of his discourse. If he was in company with two or 
 three young ladies at bed-time, they would continue to sit 
 with him, hearing him and asking him questions. He took 
 no note of time, and never thought of retiring himself, and the 
 quiet hours of night glided away like moments ; they re- 
 mained — female doctors disputing with him in the temple of 
 wisdom and virtue, until some one of the fair audience, recol- 
 
Life of Shelley 453 
 
 lecting herself at last, exclaimed in a pause of the animated 
 conversation : 
 
 ' Well, but it is time to go to bed ; surely it must be late ! ' 
 
 ' Gracious goodness ! It is five o'clock — it is six o'clock in 
 the morning ! ' 
 
 ' It cannot be ; it is impossible. There must be some 
 mistake ! ' 
 
 ' No ; there is not. Hark ! it is striking six ! How in- 
 credible ! How quickly the time has passed ! It is wonder- 
 ful ! There is no use in going to bed now ; we must remain as 
 we are. We will have breakfast as soon as we can. I am 
 hungry ! It is a fine, bright morning ; let us take a turn in 
 the garden ; it will refresh us ! ' 
 
 And so the debate was adjourned, the conclave was broken 
 up at the crowing of the cock, and the proceedings terminated 
 with a walk and breakfast. 
 
 We, that are of purer fire. 
 
 Imitate the starry quire. 
 
 Who in their nightly watchful spheres 
 
 Lead in sweet round the months and years. 
 
 It has happened that he had only one female disciple during 
 the watches of the night, and the winged hours sped not less 
 rapidly in interesting, engrossing debate. In two or three 
 instances I have heard there was a noise about it, but most 
 assuredly without other foundation than that such nocturnal 
 consultations are unusual. 
 
 When the irresistible force of attraction was known, the 
 old birds drove the young ones to their nests ; the old hen 
 sent the pullets to roost ; and this was most readily effected 
 by hunting the sorcerer to his chamber : the old bores de- 
 spatched the young Adonis to bed, and then they might dispose 
 of every widowed Venus as they would. 
 
 In the Lives of the Saints, some acts, we are told, are set 
 forth for example's sake, and that they may be universally 
 imitated ; others for edification only ; others neither for 
 example or edification, but solely as marvels to be wondered 
 at, and in order to demonstrate the infinite power of the 
 supreme disposer of all things. 
 
 This strange social anomaly, of the occurrence of which 
 the parties were totally unconscious at the time, is not adduced 
 with the recommendation, ' Go and do likewise ', but to 
 exemplify a wonderful charm, a potent spell, that, as far as I 
 
454 Life of Shelley 
 
 am able to discover, was never exercised by any other indi- 
 vidual, however gifted. To me, observing the precise and 
 sometimes painful punctuality with which ladies hasten to 
 bed, this spiritual magnetism of my incomparable young 
 friend has appeared the more astounding. 
 
 I have frequently wondered that the most inspiring con- 
 versation, the most interesting volume, the most ravishing 
 music, the most critical situation at chess, has always proved 
 less attractive than a bedroom candlestick, which, even in the 
 best appointed houses, is commonly but a scurvy utensil. 
 Nothing is ever engaging enough at the prescribed moment 
 of departure to obtain even the brief respite of five minutes. 
 We must except the stupid animal pastime of dancing, and 
 this, when it once sets in, it is hardly possible to confine within 
 moderate limits. What in the world did Bysshe say to his 
 charmed and charming young watchwomen ? I have often 
 essayed — perhaps with a profane hand, and therefore in 
 vain — to raise the veil that covered the face of the mystical 
 Isis ; my attempts were uniformly abortive. I have fre- 
 quently inquired of my friend : * What were you talking about 
 all the long night, Bysshe, with your attendant fairies ? 
 Pray, what were you telling them ? ' He stared, and was 
 perplexed ; he did not, and could not, inform me. He had 
 no concealments, since nothing remained for him to tell ; the 
 whole had passed away. Had he been then a mere conduit- 
 pipe — a channel to convey pure streams from sources higher 
 and nearer to heaven than even his own spotless mind ? I 
 have asked again and again the fair interlocutresses for some 
 samples of the nightly dialogues, but I never obtained more 
 than general expressions of vague delight. A tall, hard- 
 featured, middle-aged man, impatiently forcing his way 
 through the crowd that commonly impedes the passage along 
 Westminster Bridge, was once pointed out to me as the famous 
 Walking Stewart — as the man who had walked all over India 
 and the far East, and every step of the way from the East 
 Indies to London, save only the passage over some rivers and 
 the little bit of sea, which separates Calais from Dover. I 
 have often thought of this celebrated pedestrian in conjunction 
 with my friend's nocturnal disquisitions. The connection is 
 not obvious ; but it may be shortly explained. William 
 Godwin told me that he knew Stewart well, and that he was 
 worth knowing, because, without knowing him, nobody could 
 possibly have any idea what a bore really was. 
 
Life of Shelley 455 
 
 His chief delight was to walk at the rate of five miles an 
 hour straight on end as long as it was light. In the evening 
 he sought literary and scientific conversation, and the com- 
 merce of wits. He had lodgings somewhere near Westminster 
 Hall ; and on a fixed day of the week he gave a conversation 
 party ; and for that purpose he hired a spacious room at one 
 of the coffee-houses round Palace Yard. The room was 
 large, but the attendance was small, in spite of all his efforts 
 to collect visitors, and moreover the affair was but dull. He 
 complained to William Godwin, ' You and the other great 
 Wits of the day seldom come to my evening parties, and I 
 know why you do not come. It is because you are afraid that 
 the good things which you say will be lost ; but I assure you, 
 you are mistaken. Not a single word will be thrown away ; 
 nothing will be lost. I have taken effectual precautions to 
 prevent it. I have engaged twelve eminent shorthand writers ; 
 they are placed behind screens in different parts of the room, 
 very judiciously posted. They take down whatever they 
 hear, and report it to myself ; nothing can escape them. So 
 fear not ; not a word will be lost ; talk your best ! ' 
 
 These arrangements having been made generally known, the 
 attendance became thinner, the conversation tighter, and the 
 shorthand writers' reports more meagre. * For if there be 
 anything in the world ', William Godwin concluded, ' that can 
 effectually seal up a man's lips, it is the assurance that every 
 word a man utters in private conversation will be written down 
 and recorded against him ! ' 
 
 I have often wished — vainly wished — that one at least of 
 the twelve shorthand writers had been placed behind a screen 
 during Bysshe's nightly colloquies, to catch and secure for 
 ever on paper a philosophical apocalypse, of which the duration 
 was unhappily so transient. What a delightful and precious 
 appendix to an imperfect biography would, the notes of the 
 shorthand writers afford ! Shelley was given to sit up all 
 night, and he often practised it. I have sometimes sat up 
 with him, reading, conversing, drinking tea, playing at chess. 
 The achievement is much less serious than persons, who have 
 not made the experiment, would suppose. The night soon 
 passes away ; its duration indeed is but short. Nobody 
 thinks of going to bed before twelve, it would be too early ; at 
 twelve the night commences. Nobody would go to bed at 
 five, it would be too late ; at five it is light — it is time to go 
 out and take a walk ; at five the night ceases. Five hours 
 
45<^ Life of Shelley 
 
 practically comprehend the whole night, except during the 
 depth of winter, a portion of the year which none would select 
 for keeping watch. To take a part of the day with which 
 people in general are more conversant : a man who has dined 
 at four comes home at six from his evening saunter. He 
 looks over the newspaper, has tea at seven, plays at chess, at 
 cards ; reads a light book, listens to music, or takes a part in 
 it. How soon is it eleven o'clock ; and so quietly and quickly 
 passes away the night from twelve to five, being a like space of 
 five hours. 
 
 It may be fit to remark here, that I have always designated 
 the distinguished person of whom I have often spoken, and 
 shall often have occasion to speak, as Wilham Godwin. Shelley 
 called him shortly, Godwin ; but I was not sufficiently intimate 
 with him to justify the use of so familiar a title. In speaking 
 of him to his own original, pecuhar friends and associates, I 
 have at first said, ' Mr. Godwin ' ; but I was instantly cor- 
 rected — I may perhaps say snubbed — by the emendation, 
 * William Godwin, you mean *. It was much as if I had spoken 
 of a Quaker to Quakers, and adopted, to their discomfiture, 
 terms implying creature-worship. His primary destination 
 and proper occupation was minister in some congregation of 
 Protestant dissenters, of what denomination I know not, 
 being myself totally ignorant on the subject of religious 
 dissent ; and he escaped service on juries, in parochial offices, 
 and the like burthens, by returning himself to the last as a 
 dissenting minister. As there is no great danger of a revolt 
 in this instance, the prejudices of caste may be respected, and 
 the Brahmin may receive his proper appellation of William 
 Godwin. 
 
 Shelley told me, when he was at Oxford, that shortly before 
 he came to the university he had taken poison for love of a 
 young lady who had refused his hand. He had swallowed a 
 large dose of arsenic, but his stomach rejected it, and he threw 
 it up, or the principal part of it ; and he described various 
 distressing symptoms as vividly as if he was really suffering 
 from the effects of the corrosive and deleterious metal ; but it 
 was purely imaginary. He frequently discoursed poetically, 
 pathetically, and with fervid melancholy fancies of suicide ; 
 but I do not believe that he ever contemplated seriously and 
 practically the perpetration of the crime. It was not at all in 
 accordance with his principles. He suffered occasionally from 
 certain painful infirmities j but his stamina were sound, his 
 
Life of Shelley 457 
 
 constitution and general health good. He coughed at times 
 violently, as many others cough, especially after some im- 
 prudent exposure ; and his whole Ufe,.so far as regards the 
 care and preservation of his health, was but one imprudence. 
 He coughed violently, and sometimes felt a pain in his side 
 and chest, and he called it spasms. He coughed, and declared 
 that he broke blood-vessels and spat blood. I have heard 
 him cough, and seen him spit, but I never observed, although 
 I watched him narrowly, that he voided any blood. He was 
 encouraged in these chimeras, and in the most unfounded 
 notion of being consumptive, by persons who thought that 
 they had an interest in his bad health, arid who trafficked and 
 made a profit of their own pretended ailments. 
 
 There was a coarse, fat woman, who used to spunge upon 
 him unmercifully under pretence of breaking blood-vessels. 
 It was said, that her lungs were her stock in trade ; that she 
 got three hundred a-year by her broken blood-vessels, receiv- 
 ing, as it were, compensation to that amount at least from 
 the credulously charitable. 
 
 ' Poor Matilda ', that was not quite the name, he said to 
 me, one day, horror-stricken with trembling compassion, 
 ' poor Matilda has broken a blood-vessel, and is spitting blood ! ' 
 
 ' Poor Matilda ', I answered, * has broken the cheese- 
 toaster, and is spitting toasted cheese ! * 
 
 He thought me very inhuman, I am sure, but he laughed ; 
 in truth, the woman was only drunk all the time. He coloured 
 and laughed, but relieved her, and she continued to spit blood 
 and to spunge upon the poor fellow, and, in every sense of 
 the word, to spoil him. 
 
 In a crowded stage-coach Shelley once happened to sit 
 opposite an old woman with very thick legs, who, as he 
 imagined, was afflicted with elephantiasis, an exceedingly 
 rare and most terrible disease, in which the legs swell and 
 become as thick as those of an elephant, together with many 
 other distressing symptoms, as the thickening and cracking 
 of the skin, and indeed a whole Iliad of woes, of which he had 
 recently read a formidable description in some medical work, 
 that had taken entire possession of his fanciful and impressible 
 soul. The patient, quite unconscious of her misery, sat dozing 
 quietly over against him. He also took it into his head that 
 the disease is very infectious, and that he had caught it of his 
 corpulent and drowsy fellow-traveller ; he presently began 
 to discover unequivocal symptoms of the fearful contagion 
 
458 Life of Shelley 
 
 in his own person. I never saw him so thoroughly unhappy 
 as he was, whilst he continued under the influence of this 
 strange and unaccountable impression. His female friends 
 tried to laugh him out of his preposterous whim, bantered 
 him and inquired, how he came to find out that his fair neigh- 
 bour had such thick legs ? He did not relish, or even under- 
 stand, their jests, but sighed deeply. By the advice of his 
 friends, he was prevailed upon to consult a skilful and ex- 
 perienced surgeon, and submitted to a minute and careful 
 examination : the surgeon of course assured him, that no 
 signs or trace of elephantiasis could be discerned. He further 
 informed him, that the disease is excessively rare, almost 
 unknown, in this part of the world ; that it is not infectious, 
 and that a person really afflicted by it could not bear to travel 
 in a crowded stage-coach. Bysshe shook his head, sighed 
 still more deeply, and was more thoroughly convinced than 
 ever, that he was the victim of a cruel and incurable disease ; 
 and that these assurances were only given with the humane 
 design of soothing one doomed to a miserable and inevitable 
 death. His imagination was so much disturbed, that he was 
 perpetually examining his own skin, and feeling and looking 
 at that of others. One evening, during the access of his 
 fancied disorder, when many young ladies were standing up 
 for a country dance, he caused a wonderful consternation 
 amongst these charming creatures by walking slowly along 
 the row of girls and curiously surveying them, placing his 
 eyes close to their necks and bosoms, and feeling their breasts 
 and bare arms, in order to ascertain whether any of the fair 
 ones had taken the horrible disease. He proceeded with so 
 much gravity and seriousness, and his looks were so woe- 
 begone, that they did not resist, or resent, the extraordinary 
 liberties, but looked terrified, and as if they were about to 
 undergo some severe surgical operation at his hands. Their 
 partners were standing opposite in silent and angry amaze- 
 ment, unable to decide in what way the strange manipulations 
 were to be taken ; yet nobody interrupted his heart-broken 
 handUngs, which seemed, from his dejected air, to be pre- 
 paratory to cutting his own throat. At last the lady of the 
 house perceived what the young philosopher was about, and 
 by assuring him that not one of the young ladies, as she had 
 herself ascertained, had been infected, and, with gentle expostu- 
 lations, induced him to desist, and to suffer the dancing to 
 proceed without further examinations. 
 
Life of Shelley 459 
 
 The monstrous delusion continued for some days ; with 
 the aspect of grim despair he came stealthily and opened the 
 bosom of my shirt several times a day, and minutely inspected 
 my skin, shaking his head, and by his distressed mien plainly 
 signifying that he was not by any means satisfied with the 
 state of my health. He also quietly drew up my sleeves, and 
 by rubbing it investigated the skin of my arms ; he also 
 measured my legs and ankles, spanning them with a convulsive 
 grasp. * Bysshe, we both have the legs and the skin of an 
 elephant, but neither of us has his sagacity ! ' He shook 
 his head in sad, silent disapproval ; to jest in the very jaws 
 of death was hardened insensibility, not genuine philosophy. 
 He opened in like manner the bosoms and viewed the skin of 
 his other associates, and even of strangers. Nor did females 
 escape his curious scrutiny, nor were they particularly solicit- 
 ous to avoid it ; so impressive were the solemnity and 
 gravity, and the profound melancholy of his fear-stricken and 
 awe-inspiring aspect, that there could be no doubt of the 
 innocence and purity of his intentions : and if he had pro- 
 ceeded to more private examinations and more delicate investi- 
 gations, the young ladies would unquestionably have sub- 
 mitted themselves with reverence to his researches, which, 
 however, were arrested by authority in the case of the fair 
 dancers before they had greatly exceeded the bounds of 
 decorum. 
 
 This strange fancy continued to afflict him for several weeks, 
 and to divert, or distress, his friends, and then it was forgotten 
 as suddenly as it had been taken up, and gave place to more 
 cheerful reminiscences, or forebodings : he was able to listen 
 to, or even occasionally, but rarely, to relate himself droll 
 stories. One of them, as it is perfectly innocent, may be 
 repeated without envy or calumny : it had occurred two or 
 three years before. 
 
 He called one morning on an acquaintance in London, and 
 saluted the door, as he was wont to do with a thundering rap, 
 and followed it up with a corresponding application to the bell. 
 His invocation, although sufficiently audible, was not answered. 
 The injunction, * rap and ring ', was never thrown away upon 
 him ; he made his coming heard. The summons was repeated 
 with increased energy, and he was just about to try the effect 
 of a third attack, for he was naturally and habitually im- 
 patient, when the door was partially opened, and the good- 
 natured and obliging Mr. Graham addressed him with extreme 
 
460 Life of Shelley 
 
 trepidation over the chain, solemnly assuring him that he was 
 the master of the house, and the only man who resided in it. 
 ' Why, what the devil is the matter here, Graham ? ' The 
 exclamation and a burst of shrill, shrieking laughter led to an 
 explanation, and the tone of Mr. Graham's nerves was so much 
 restored, that he was able to unhook the chain and admit him. 
 
 Having carefully barricaded the door, he conducted Bysshe 
 upstairs into the front bedroom. He stooped down, and held 
 a whispered conversation for some time with a person under 
 the bed, and after a long parley and often-repeated assurances, 
 crawled forth into the light, covered with flue and feathers, 
 the Platonic lover, for such he was. He was greatly agitated 
 at first, but having composed himself by degrees, he proceeded 
 to relate the strange story of his amour. 
 
 In his accustomed solitary walks about the streets of London 
 he had fallen in with a lady, still reasonably young and passa- 
 bly good-looking, who seemed to be desirous of making his 
 acquaintance. He entered into conversation with her, and 
 they formed a philosophical friendship on the instant, and on 
 the spot. They used to meet and walk together, and con- 
 verse ; to converse after their own peculiar fashion ; for the 
 lady, being excessively loquacious, said everything, and the 
 gentleman, on the contrary, being remarkably taciturn, said 
 nothing. They also corresponded ; her voluminous epistles 
 arrived daily, and were answered by his letters of a moderate 
 length. A shower overtook the happy pair one morning in 
 their walk, a coach was called to convey the lady to her home, 
 or rather to set her down prudently near it. They took their 
 seats, and toddled on together, the fair one discoursing, with 
 her accustomed volubility, of the nature of love in the abstract, 
 and her mute adorer listening with due and delighted atten- 
 tion. But presently the lady became vehemently disturbed ; 
 she pointed out with extreme and overwhelming emotion a 
 suspicious hackney coach, which she declared was following 
 them ; it contained her jealous husband ; he would overtake 
 and exterminate them both. The lover sat as far back as he 
 could, to conceal himself, and not venturing to look out of 
 the window, he took all on trust, on the lady's word. The 
 chase continued ; she declared they were undone ; to baffle 
 pursuit, they drove about in different directions, for several 
 hours ; eventually, the enemy's coach was no longer in sight ; 
 it was the moment to escape ; they must part ; she would 
 drive homewards ; and the gallant lover must take to his heels, 
 
Life of Shelley 461 
 
 and make the best of his way to some place of security, for 
 if her cruel husband caught him, he would inevitably murder 
 him. The frightened lover ran straight home, like a hunted 
 cat ; the fair object had terrified him so completely that he 
 fancied he was followed and watched, and that the injured, 
 or rather the offended husband, had seen him enter his door. 
 Hence the protection of Mr. Graham, and all the notable pre- 
 cautions and expedients upon which Shelley had dropped. 
 The state of apprehension was cruel. His father was very 
 particular, a man of exemplary piety, who had a violent 
 antipathy to sighs and amorous glances, and if he should 
 detect any attachment, Platonic or other, he would certainly 
 barbecue him. The son was not pious, but he also was par- 
 ticular ; he had a particular dislike to stand a shot, and a 
 particular aversion for gunshot wounds, which had been 
 increased by his observations in walking the hospitals. It 
 was horrible to think that a causelessly jealous, narrow-minded 
 monster might come at any moment, pull him out from under 
 his bed by the leg, and shoot him dead in his own bedroom ! 
 Bysshe loved a bit of romance, a perilous adventure, a hair- 
 breadth escape : he stood and listened to the tale, quivering 
 with delight. 
 
 ' But you have got her letters ! Where are they ? Where 
 are they ? Show them to me ; let me see them. You may 
 trust me ! ' 
 
 A pile of letters was produced— of letters crossed and re- 
 crossed, and crossed again. Bysshe caught up one, and began 
 to read it eagerly ; after hurrying over a few pages, he threw 
 it down, and cried out : 
 
 * She is mad ! She is mad ! The woman is mad, raving 
 mad ! ' 
 
 Upon a calm, deliberate examination of the correspondence, 
 it was manifest, even to the lover himself, that such was 
 really the case. He had got hold of a mad woman, or rather 
 she had got hold of him. She was possibly out on furlough, 
 and a fresh access having appeared, the pursuit, if she had 
 actually been pursued, was not by an unkind husband, with 
 destructive swords and pistols, but by a kind keeper with 
 a well-aired, conservative strait waistcoat. The existence 
 of a husband probably was but a hallucination of the mind ; 
 and the loved one was some poor, insane spinster. Not 
 deeming it expedient to look out of the window, he admitted 
 that he had never seen the pursuing coach. 
 
462 Life of Shelley 
 
 I asked Bysshe what the attractive lunatic's letters were 
 about. The passages which I read treated exclusively of 
 Hermes Trismegistus, to whom the lady compared her Platonic 
 and somewhat frigid and apathetic lover. Whether Hermes 
 Trismegistus also concealed himself under his bed, when he 
 had made too free with the wife of Thoth Moses, and had 
 rashly stirred up jealousy in Egypt, she did not state. 
 
 With thrice great Hermes, or unsphere 
 The spirit of Plato. 
 
 Nor did she say whether the operation of unsphering was 
 effected by drawing him with terriers, or otherwise, from under 
 the bed, like an earthed fox, or a badger, from his hiding- 
 place. The frame of Shelley's mind, by nature and habit, 
 was serious — melancholy, but that he had no feeling for the 
 comic was not true ; he delighted to tell this droll tale to his 
 female friends ; to tell it dramatically, acting parts of it, and 
 shrieking with paroxysms of the wildest laughter. He had 
 a like but a longer tale about another acquaintance, who 
 took up with, or took off with a mad woman ; a right merry 
 and conceited geste it is, but it belongs to a subsequent period. 
 Yet by an ill-timed jest have I sometimes offended him — for 
 example : He was speaking with somewhat unreasonable 
 displeasure of his father's relish for port wine : 
 
 ' Your father reminded me forcibly of Milton's Comus.' 
 
 * How is that possible ? It is absurd ! ' 
 
 ' It is possible and true. Comus, who must have been a 
 good judge of wine, said to the lady Alice of the brothers 
 Egerton, much to the credit of themselves and of the hospi- 
 tality of Ludlow Castle, 
 
 Their Port was more than human. 
 
 A brother poet could not bear that the quaint majesty of 
 Milton's Masque should furnish a handle for a paltry pun ; 
 and he was right. 
 
 The cousins, with whom we had formerly associated, had 
 quitted London, and were gone to complete their medical 
 education, if I mistake not, at Edinburgh ; they were good- 
 natured and obliging, but insipid and insensible, and incapable 
 of comprehending Bysshe's poetical and philosophical flights 
 of fancy. He never mentioned them. 
 
 He saw nothing of his own relatives, but agreeable associates 
 
Life of Shelley 463 
 
 were not wanting, neither were intruders nor obtruders. 
 There was no end of obtrusion ; the word intrusion is not 
 strong enough. One person wanted to teach Harriet Itahan ; 
 another, probably, would have given, or sold, to Eliza instruc- 
 tions in Hebrew, or Arabic ; but the greater number, without 
 any excuse or pretence, forced themselves upon him. He 
 was a rock to which limpets stuck fast, and periwinkles 
 attached themselves. Queen Mah was now printed, but it 
 was not published, I believe ; it was not publicly exposed 
 for sale, but copies had been privately distributed to friends. 
 The poem had attracted attention. Shelley is the only modern 
 poet whose verses uniformly appear to be inspired ; no other 
 poet of recent times is so completely and universally under 
 the influence of inspiration. The earliest, the most hasty, the 
 least finished, the most unformed and irregular of his poems 
 have, notAvithstanding their manifold defects, something 
 superhuman about them. They seem to have been breathed, 
 not by mere mortal, but by some god or demon. His writings 
 are invariably demoniacal, plainly the compositions of a 
 demoniacal man. The least striking and complete of his 
 productions has a preternatural air and tone. Of other poets, 
 his contemporaries, the masterpieces are sometimes good, 
 very good indeed ; it would be unjust to deny it. But the 
 trundling of a wheelbarrow cannot be compared to the pace 
 of a race-horse, to the bounding of an antelope, or to the flight 
 of an eagle, although it may often happen that the barrow 
 is admirably trundled by a robust and active navigator — by 
 the choicest flower of hodmen ; still, there cannot be any 
 comparison between the different modes of progression. 
 
 Shelley was uniformly a gentleman, eminently and strik- 
 ingly such, and his Muse is always a lady. In all their deal- 
 ings with him, and they were many and various, the nine 
 sacred sisters conducted themselves like nine gentlewomen ; 
 whilst vulgarity was too commonly the characteristic feature 
 of the poetry of coetaneous writers. This odious quality is 
 of course consummate in the productions of the Cockney 
 versifiers ; there was something low-lived about the Lake 
 school. And the chief of the romantic style wrote about 
 barons and knights, it is true ; but it is equally true that Sir 
 Walter Scott spoke of these aristocratical personages, not 
 as if he was one of themselves, but as if he had been their 
 factor, steward, or land-agent. 
 
 It has been affirmed that * it was not until Shelley resided 
 
464 Life of Shelley 
 
 in Italy that he made Plato his study '. It is quite true that 
 he had not read much of the dialogues of Plato in the original 
 Greek before ; but he had long been familiar with his philo- 
 sophy by means of translations ; and he had imbibed, at a 
 very early age, his doctrine and theories at second hand. 
 Queen Mah is the production of a Platonist incontestably ; and 
 if the great master of the Academy were to read it, he would 
 at once acknowledge the author for a disciple — for a favoured 
 and a favourite one. 
 
 A big and burly Quaker, the proprietor of a large soke-mill, 
 with a considerable water-power, whose profits and privileges 
 were trenched upon by steam-mills, once said to me : ' It is 
 perfectly certain that God Almighty never intended that his 
 creatures should grind corn by steam ! ' A Quaker — a vessel 
 of direct immediate inspiration — may readily attain to perfect 
 certainty in such a matter ; but it is not apparent how per- 
 sons placed in a less commanding position than a member of 
 the Society of Friends can obtain it. 
 
 The text of the poem demonstrates that the Divine Poet 
 was not less familiar with the counsels of deities, than our 
 valued friend, the miller. ' What is the use of such poetry ? 
 What is the use of any poetry ? ' has sometimes been asked. 
 We may ask, in our turn, what is use ? Of what use is poetry ? 
 It is of no use to the farmer, as a farmer ; it will not make the 
 grass grow ; it will not keep the fly from the turnips, or mil- 
 dew from the wheat ; it will not drain a piece of boggy land, 
 and so kill the rushes. 
 
 ' I never read Paradise Lost ', said a celebrated Cambridge 
 mathematician. 
 
 ' But you must read it ; everybody has read Milton's great 
 epic' . 
 
 ' Well, as it is absolutely necessary, I will read it ' . 
 
 After a short respite the mathematician said to his friend : 
 ' I have read your famous poem. I read it attentively ; 
 but what does it prove ? There is more instruction in half 
 a page of Euclid ! A man might read Milton's poem a hundred, 
 aye, a thousand times, and he would never learn that the 
 angles at the base of an isosceles triangle are equal ! ' 
 
 What does Queen Mah prove ? If the Cambridge mathe- 
 matician had read it, he would have found that it proved even 
 less than Paradise Lost. The whole poem is eminently, 
 excessively spiritual ; replete with imaginary, unearthly 
 creations. It has been ignorantly stigmatized as atheistical. 
 
Life of Shelley 465 
 
 On the contrary, it is specially theistical, full of divinity 
 obscurely shadowed forth. It is altogether unphilosophical, 
 if indeed the notes are to be accounted philosophical. The 
 text presents throughout a strong and a strange contrast to 
 the commentary. It glows, notwithstanding, with an ardent, 
 a wild love of liberty, more particularly of the absolute, unre- 
 strained liberty of thought and of speech, often extreme, 
 sometimes extravagant, running occasionally even into rhap- 
 sody. The tendency of the verse is unfortunately oppressed 
 and weighed down by the prose. By verse everything may 
 be demanded ; to verse everything may be conceded ; for 
 the heavenly enthusiasm, the divine rapture of the poet, his 
 celestial and preternatural inspiration, afford an undeniable 
 excuse, a licence for all excesses. But prose is accounted of 
 a more practical nature, and it cannot claim the like indulgence 
 of interpretation. It was unwise, injudicious, imprudent, 
 unfortunate, and injurious to have appended notes, so-called 
 philosophical. The notes have little to recommend them — 
 little that is original ; they consist chiefly of excerpts from 
 the writings of Paine, Godwin, and others. Whatever was 
 startling in these is rendered more offensive by being set out 
 in detached fragments, without the modifications, qualifica- 
 tions, conditions, and softenings, which are found in the works 
 from whence they were taken ; when they are read in their 
 proper and natural position, with all their antecedents and 
 consequents, whatever seems crude and repulsive is much 
 mitigated and corrected. But when harsh paradoxes were 
 brought out strongly in separate, segregated passages, the 
 implied adoption of the sentiments and dogmas of their several 
 authors becomes in its nakedness indecent and shocking ; and 
 the violent opinions promulgated in the commentary seem to 
 give a meaning to the poem itself which does not in reality 
 belong to it, and could never have been fairly deduced from it. 
 The common proceeding of modern times, that the poet should 
 be at once, and in his own person, both poet and commen- 
 tator — that he should compose not only verses, but annota- 
 tions upon his own verses, is preposterous. 
 
 It is hard to comprehend how Juvenal could be not merely 
 Juvenal, but Ruperti likewise ; Persius, Bond as well as Per- 
 sius. The contemporaries of these two great satirical poets 
 did not require coeval illustrations ; the powerful verses of the 
 vigorous, unsparing satirists were sufficiently intelligible. 
 It was only through lapse of time, change of circumstances 
 
 H H 
 
466 Life of Shelley 
 
 and social conditions, and the failure of various sources of 
 information, that notes became necessary, in order to make plain 
 what before had been plain enough of itself to every instructed 
 and intelligent reader. The self-annotating poet would compel 
 us to imagine that Virgil was Servius, as well as Virgil ; and 
 that Pindar was the author of the excellent and copious 
 scholia upon his exalted odes, as well as of the odes them- 
 selves ; that Homer was Didymus, or even Eustathius, and 
 composed the voluminous commentary on his divine poems, 
 called the Horn of Amalthea, probably which is usually ascribed 
 to the most erudite Archbishop of Salonichi. The Georgics and 
 the Works and Days would probably have been less accept- 
 able to Roman and Grecian readers, if they had been loaded 
 at their first advent with heavy ballast, like Darwin's 
 ponderous commentary on his Loves of the Plants. A poet who 
 cannot write verses that do not need a perpetual comment to 
 render them comprehensible, is certainly not competent to 
 write verses ; he should confine himself to the more congenial 
 and humbler duty of writing notes upon the verses of others. 
 Such a prosaic poet is apt to betray himself, and to forget 
 that he is not writing notes when he should be writing verses. 
 A historian who explains his meaning, not in the text but at 
 the foot of his pages, will probably produce very good notes, 
 but a very indifferent history. 
 
 It will be necessary to return to the notes on Queen Mab, 
 and to speak hereafter of the purposes to which they were 
 foolishly applied and fraudulently perverted : insomuch so, 
 that his queen proved to be 
 
 A fiend, a fairy, pitiless and rough : 
 A wolf. Nay, worse ! 
 
 Shelley had every qualification that a poet ought to possess, 
 the highest qualifications in the most luxuriant and lavish 
 abundance ; but few, or none, of those which constitute a 
 patient, painful, careful commentator. He lived and moved 
 and had his being under the absolute, despotical empire of a 
 vivid, fervid fancy, as his illusion respecting elephantiasis 
 demonstrates. The legendary tales and popular traditions, 
 which he had heard as a child, had taken complete possession 
 of his imagination at a very early age, such as the marvels of 
 the Forest of St. Leonard in Sussex ; of St. Leonard, the god- 
 son of Clovis ; the recluse, the solitary, the hermit ; the 
 inhabitant of the forests of the IJmousin ; the deliverer of 
 
Life of Shelley ^6j 
 
 prisoners, and the slayer of huge serpents. It was under the 
 last attribute that he was chiefly venerated. The mountains 
 and waterfalls of Wales and Cumberland, the English and 
 Irish lakes leave their image on the fancy and memory of all 
 who behold them ; that the impression of these striking objects 
 was deeper and more sensible in him, than in an ordinary 
 spectator, is undeniable ; and he gave many and frequent 
 proofs how profoundly the resistless beauties of these miracles 
 of nature had entered into his inmost soul, and had become 
 integral portions of himself and of his existence. But the 
 poetic faculty of turning himself mentally into the subject of 
 his poem, of metamorphosing himself internally into an 
 attendant spirit, into Titania, Queen Mab herself was con- 
 spicuous and astonishing. This faculty, I apprehend — for, 
 claiming no fellowship myself with poets, I speak on this topic 
 doubtingly and under correction — is common to all true poets. 
 In trifling matters, moreover, which were unconnected with, 
 and unworthy of, poetic themes, he could become, I should 
 say rather he became, involuntarily and unconsciously, the 
 very personage of whom any remarkable incident was related, 
 however trivial it might be, that forcibly struck his impressible 
 soul. It would be tedious to offer many examples, and 
 improper not to present any : two or three instances may be 
 given ; the more insignificant they are the more plainly will 
 they illustrate his disposition and habit to adopt the situation, 
 the feelings, the colour of other persons. 
 
 I told Bysshe one day that I had been lately in society 
 where short-hand had become the subject of conversation. 
 He was not himself a proficient in this art, he would never 
 have had the patience to learn it ; but he would sometimes 
 take up a piece of paper covered with writing in short-hand, 
 and holding it commonly the wrong way upwards, he would 
 gaze upon it a long time in mute amazement. Some short- 
 hand writer was mentioned, I told him, not a professional 
 stenographer, but a man of learning and letters, a person of 
 great talent and not less eccentricity. He wrote short-hand 
 much, and seeking to improve a useful art, he wrote shorter 
 and shorter, and abbreviated daily more and more, and how- 
 ever little he might write, and however much he might abbre- 
 viate, he was always able to read his notes with equal, or 
 nearly equal, facility. At last he carried his abbreviation to 
 such an extent that he wrote absolutely nothing. Some 
 said that he still continued to read what he had written, or 
 
468 Life of Shelley 
 
 rather what he had not written. According to others, he 
 was greatly astonished when he had put down nothing what- 
 ever, not a single character, not one mark, on taking up his 
 note-book, after the interval of a few days, to find that he 
 was unable to decipher the blank pages. I have often seen 
 Bysshe sitting with a piece of paper in his hand, his eyes 
 fixed intently on the uninscribed leaf, seriously and earnestly 
 studying it. It was evident that he had been changed 
 inwardly into the surprised and disappointed abbreviator, 
 vainly trying to recall what had never existed. Once whilst 
 he was thus occupied he anxiously inquired — 
 
 * Who invented short-hand ? ' 
 
 * Tiro, it is believed '. - 
 
 * And who was Tiro, pray ? ' 
 ' He was Cicero's clerk '. 
 
 ' Was Tiro really the name of Cicero's clerk ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! And Tire, Oh ! was no bad name for the clerk of 
 so famous an orator ! How tired the poor fellow must have 
 been listening all day to his master's copious eloquence ! ' 
 
 Soon afterwards he was sitting alone in a corner, his counte- 
 nance expressive of extreme dejection, and the utmost weari- 
 ness. * Oh ! Tire, Oh ! ' he suddenly exclaimed, yawning 
 aloud, yawning as heartily as if he had heard out the whole 
 of the orations against Verres. His lively fancy had trans- 
 muted him into the swunk freedman, and in the spirit he had 
 been in the Senate, or the Forum, where he had been bored 
 to death by the endless prosing of the great master of Roman 
 eloquence. 
 
 ' But Tiro was not a mere clerk, an amanuensis ; he was a 
 person of ability, of learning ! yes, and of considerable ingen- 
 uity, for he was the inventor of short-hand '. ' That was a 
 great invention, was it not ? ' 'It was, but possibly he some- 
 times thought that of short speeches would have been a still 
 greater ! ' Shelley abhorred a pun. ' It snaps the thread 
 of discourse, blows out the candle, and puts an end at once 
 to all conversation. It is like a troublesome and odious insect, 
 a wasp. No ! It wants the dignity of a wasp, it is a mos- 
 quito, a gnat ! But you can do anything with me, you can 
 sometimes even reconcile me to a pun ! ' Shelley used to pick 
 the turpentine off fir-trees, and eat it with a relish, or in walk- 
 ing through a pine wood he would apply his tongue to a larch, 
 and lick it as it oozed in a liquid state from the bark. I 
 never met with any one else who had the same taste. I have 
 
Life of Shelley 469 
 
 expostulated with him on the subject, and of course in vain, 
 and I once related to him a little apologue, which was rather 
 more efficacious. I was once at a ball, a very pleasant one 
 it was, and we were all dancing away merrily, but we were 
 obliged to desist, for all on a sudden the fiddlers stopped in the 
 middle of a tune ; we told them to play on, but they answered, 
 we cannot ; * We cannot go on with our music, because that 
 rascal, Bysshe, has eaten up all our rosin ! ' Sometimes 
 when he was creeping stealthily up to a fir-tree, that he might 
 lick it, my fable of the poet and the fiddler, would come into 
 his head, and he would turn aside laughing. The broken up 
 ball, the interrupted country dance, the enraged musicians, 
 the whole scene appeared in a moment before his eyes. * And 
 so you were obliged to give up dancing ? Pray what did 
 your partner say ? How did she like it ? Was she not much 
 disappointed ? Was she not very angry with me ? * It has 
 often happened that I being so much with the Divine Poet, 
 being constantly indeed in his company, whenever my avoca- 
 tions would permit, was taken for him. Not that we were at 
 all like one another, but persons who knew who we were, who 
 knew the two friends, but did not know which was which, 
 frequently addressed me for him, persons of both sexes ; and 
 this occurred during the whole period of our intimacy. 
 
 I sometimes heard extraordinary things which I will not 
 repeat, inasmuch as the communications were made in confi- 
 dence, although it was a mistaken confidence, yet never mis- 
 placed. I have many times been accosted in society — in 
 elegant society — as Mr. Shelley ; sometimes I at once rectified 
 the error, but sometimes, through a curiosity, not altogether 
 inexcusable, I hope, I have suffered the delusion to continue 
 for a while. 
 
 * You are Mr. Shelley, are you not ? ' 
 
 ' Well, and what then ? ' 
 
 I am happy to add, that when I explained myself, no con- 
 fusion, no embarrassment ensued. I was esteemed a faithful 
 Achates ; what had been confided was not meant for my ear, 
 but for that of Eneas ; whether Dido, the queen, or the 
 celestial Venus herself, or her companions, the Graces, or some 
 half goddess, one of her attendant nymphs, spoke to me, as 
 if I were of a heavenly origin, I have answered thus, and per- 
 haps not imprudently : ' I am glad you think so favourably 
 of my friend ; I will tell him what you say '. 
 
 ' Pray do ; you will not forget ! ' 
 
470 Life of Shelley 
 
 It is probable that Bysshe was now and then in Hke manner 
 taken for his friend ; but I never was informed by him, that 
 this had actually happened. One misapprehension was of 
 so comical a character that it ought to be related ; and since, 
 most assuredly, the Loves and Graces were not concerned in 
 the matter, there can be no scruples of delicacy in telling the 
 adventure just as it fell out. I called at his lodgings one 
 afternoon in the summer to walk together, as we were wont. 
 He was not at home, but he had left a message for me, that 
 if I went to the residence of a common friend, I should not 
 fail to find him there. I at once repaired thither, and was 
 kindly received, as I invariably was. He had not arrived, 
 but if I would stay to dinner, I should doubtless see him, for 
 he would come, if not to dinner, for certain in the course of 
 the evening. I readily consented to the proposal, and I sat 
 chatting in the drawing-room, hearing the news of the day, 
 and much admiration and many commendations of my incom- 
 parable friend, such as I invariably heard wherever he was 
 known. A bell gave warning that dinner would be served in 
 half-an-hour, and I was conducted upstairs into the front bed- 
 room to wash my hands. Whilst I was thus employed two 
 ill-looking fellows burst abruptly into the room ; one of them 
 locked the door and set his back against it, telling me that he 
 arrested me ; that I was his prisoner. He was a short, stout 
 man. The other, a long, lean fellow, showed me a writ, and 
 presented me with a copy of it. 
 
 * What does all this mean ? ' I asked. 
 
 * You know very well, you are Mr. Percy Bysshe Shelley ! ' 
 
 * You are pleased to say that I am *. 
 
 ' We know very well that you are the defendant ; you need 
 not try to persuade us that you are not ! ' 
 
 * Then I will not try ! ' 
 
 Upon this the bailiffs became rather insolent, and were 
 inclined to be abusive, I finished washing myself and then 
 sat down by the window ; the men stood in the middle of the 
 room growling and grumbling. In ten minutes, or a quarter 
 of an hour, there was a gentle tap at the door ; the man who 
 had locked it opened it — a spare, white-faced fellow dressed 
 in black, like an undertaker's man, entered. He looked at 
 me with surprise, staring hard, and whispered something to 
 the bailiffs, who seemed still more astonished than he was. 
 They then threw open the door and told me I was at liberty, 
 and might depart ; it was a mistake. John Doe and Richard 
 
Life of Shelley 47 1 
 
 Roe, and their friend in mourning, began to offer excuses, 
 explanations, and apologies, assuring me that they always 
 acted on the best information, and seldom made mistakes. 
 I did not answer, but walked down to dinner in silence. How 
 long they remained in the bed-room, whether they were con- 
 verted by the influences of the locality to aVegetable diet, and 
 induced to return to nature, or what became of these worthies 
 I know not, for I never fell in with any of the party again. 
 
 The arrest, as I afterwards learnt, was for the price of the 
 good Harriet's fine, new carriage. After such an indignity, 
 and in order to wipe off the stigma, I ought to have had a ride, 
 and a good long one, too, in the carriage ; but I had not that 
 satisfaction ; I never even saw the vehicle, nor heard of it, 
 indeed, except on this occasion. Whenever any act of signal 
 folly, extraordinary indiscretion and insane extravagance was 
 to be perpetrated, I was never informed of it, and certainly 
 there was no obligation to tell me. And without doubt it was 
 better that it should be so, in order that the foster-child of the 
 Muses might fulfil his high destinies ; if he could have followed 
 the humble suggestions of ordinary prudence — if he could 
 have been guided by common place advice and common 
 sense, the tenor of his innocent, guileless life would have been 
 more tranquil, but prosaic, the poetical elements being starved 
 and stinted. 
 
 It is a well founded and just maxim, that things are best 
 known from their opposites. It is also true, that many things 
 which are most dissimilar, have yet some strong and striking 
 point of resemblance : it is true, moreover, of persons. 
 
 I have frequently instituted in my own mind a comparison 
 between two people, with whom I was well acquainted, and 
 who appear to have been the most unlike of mankind. Each 
 of the parties would have been shocked and deeply offended 
 at being likened to the other ; each would have felt an anti- 
 pathy for the other, and an invincible repugnance to be brought 
 into contact, or collision. The ardent and zealous admirers 
 of both, being equally bigoted in their respective views, would 
 have been displeased and alarmed at the imputation of the 
 slightest and most distant resemblance ; and yet there was 
 in many respects the strongest similarity. 
 
 It would have been practicable, and perhaps profitable, to 
 have written the lives of both these distinguished individuals, 
 and to have drawn, after the manner of Plutarch, an ethical 
 parallel between them ; a parallel, or comparison of the lives 
 
472 Life of Shelley 
 
 of my incomparable friend, Percy Bysshe Slielley, and of my 
 justly celebrated relative, poor Granville Sharp. 
 
 Amongst my earliest and firmest recollections are the 
 numerous and wonderful particulars which I continually 
 heard of my ' Cousins Sharp ', and the many peculiarities 
 which I witnessed myself in such of the members of that very 
 remarkable family whom I had seen and known. * Your 
 cousin Sharp *. The affectionate appellation, * Cousin ', was 
 still in frequent use in the North of England, when I was a 
 boy ; and it was adopted sometimes when its application was 
 not strictly correct. We could certainly claim no consan- 
 guinity with the blood of the Sharps : they were the grand- 
 children of Dr. John Sharp, Archbishop of York, who was the 
 son of a wool-stapler in the West Riding of Yorkshire ; but 
 I believe some affinity, some connection by marriage, sub- 
 sisted ; but I do not at present remember what it was, and it 
 is immaterial. Poor Granville was long and well known for 
 many ingenious and original, but whimsical speculations, 
 of a description totally alien and averse from the poetical and 
 philosophical fancies of Shelley. He rendered himself illus- 
 trious by his crusade against and victory over the Slave Trade 
 and Slavery, and he won thereby a monument among the 
 renowned dead in Westminster Abbey. Poor Granville 
 abolished slavery ; others, more worldly wise and practical 
 men, who sought and found their own advantage in it, carried 
 out the details ; and finally, as is uniformly the case in all 
 great changes, a rabble rout of impostors and mountebanks 
 shouted in triumph at the ultimate consummation of his 
 success. But the meek, single-hearted, innocent old man, 
 of infinite singularity and credulity, and entire simplicity, did 
 the deed. To relate his successful progress from the famous 
 case of Somerset, the Negro, to his last act in that career, 
 would be a long story and quite foreign to my present purpose. 
 At the time when I first came to London, the venerable apostle 
 of Negro Emancipation resided in chambers in the Temple, a 
 solitary bachelor ; indeed, he in a manner died there. I had 
 the happiness to see occasionally, as a young man, one whom 
 I had known as a school-boy ; and I have passed fresh from 
 Granville to Shelley, and from Shelley to Granville. How 
 different, and yet how like ! The thought soon struck me 
 forcibly, and it grew in strength. Both were equally impres- 
 sible and unimpressible ; both alike inaccessible to reason, with 
 more than a tinge of fanaticism, alike bigoted to opposite and 
 
Life of Shelley 473 
 
 discordant fancies ; of ascetic lives, more than Spartan fru- 
 gality, temperance, and austerity ; harsh to themselves alone, 
 to others charitable, generous, profuse, lavish. Of childish 
 credulity, ready to believe, because it was impossible ; full 
 of rash reliance, and a blind credence in the professions of the 
 unworthy. But the most remarkable point of resemblance 
 was this, that both these celebrated men, always desiring to 
 do nothing but good, did in fact nothing but mischief. My 
 poor cousin Granville, the hoary-headed apostle of benevo- 
 lence, ruined, utterly ruined and destroyed, the finest, richest, 
 and happiest of the dependencies of the Crown of Great 
 Britain. It is true, that the youthful, philosophical philan- 
 thropist never took any serious, resolute, permanent part in 
 public affairs, and therefore never had an opportunity to do 
 mischief by wholesale and on a grand scale. But his hasty, 
 inconsiderate bounty in private life, by encouraging laziness, 
 promoting dependence, and teaching the objects of his indis- 
 criminate generosity to indulge unreasonable expectations, 
 was the fertile source of much evil ; and by his lavish charity 
 he hampered, impoverished and punished himself, and suffered 
 needless and unmerited poverty and privations. Not only 
 poor Granville, but the whole family of Sharp were equally 
 culpable in this respect. I have heard painfully laughable 
 examples of their beneficent indiscretions, demonstrating, 
 that, in an artificial state of society, a little knowledge of 
 human nature and of the world is indispensable to prevent 
 the open-handed and open-hearted giver inflicting injuries by 
 his gifts ; something of the subtlety of the serpent must be 
 combined with the simplicity of the dove in the distribution 
 of eleemosynary funds. In early life I heard histories of the 
 Christian achievements, many of them very ludicrous, of this 
 excellent family, more particularly in connection with the 
 much vaunted charities at Bamburgh. If it should ever be 
 deemed expedient by authority, as the public voice loudly 
 declares that it is, to institute a searching inquiry into the 
 disposal of tHe munificent bequests of Lord Crewe, and to 
 learn from his trustees in what manner their ample funds and 
 extensive patronage have been expended and exercised ; the 
 real nature, actual working, and ultimate consequences of 
 the proceedings of the amiable house of Sharp will be laid 
 open ; and whether their dealings with this large mass of 
 property form an exception to the ordinary results of their 
 indiscreet benevolence, will fully appear. 
 
474 Life of Shelley ' 
 
 An open, public inquiry, is required, if any real good is to 
 be effected ; the futile and childish investigations of charity 
 commissioners with closed doors, have proved at best useless. 
 The Charity Commission, it has been said, commenced in 
 folly, and being laid hold of by the strong hand of an able and 
 unscrupulous man, terminated in knavery. 
 
 If there were points of contact, of strong and striking 
 similarity, between these two illustrious individuals, as most 
 assuredly there were, there were also points of repulsion, of 
 utter and total dissimilarity. No temperament was ever 
 less poetical than that of Granville Sharp. His own peculiar 
 course had been clearly marked out for him, and he accom- 
 plished it nobly. It was fanciful and fantastical enough, in 
 truth, but not imaginative. Urania had imparted to him 
 largely a knowledge of heavenly things ; but neither she nor 
 her sacred sisters had touched his pure and holy lips with a 
 live coal kindled on the altar of Apollo. 
 
 It was wisely ordained that Shelley also should fulfil his 
 destinies — his high destinies, which carried him away impetu- 
 ously in a different and opposite direction. It was certainly 
 ordained that he should become a divine poet. The poetic 
 faculty is surely divine. A poet is a maker — a creator ; and 
 creation is the highest power and energy of divinity. To the 
 Poet is granted a portion of the loftiest and most wonderful 
 attributes of the Supreme Creator : he is constituted and 
 appointed a creator ; and this, poor Granville never was. 
 
 It was my fortune to be once, and only once, in the com- 
 pany of a personage who has shone forth conspicuously in 
 Bysshe's correspondence, under two very different phases ; 
 she had been for some time an inmate of his solitary mansions 
 in Wales. At her first coming to dwell with him in the desert, 
 she was warmly recommended to correspondents, and more 
 particularly to William Godwin, and hailed with a kind of 
 angelic salutation, as blessed amongst women ; as a tower- 
 proof, fire-proof, bomb-proof blue ; free from and above all 
 prejudices ; and a resolute champion of the Rights of Women. 
 The author of St. Leon seems to have received the recom- 
 mendation of the author of St. Irvyn rather coldly. A grocer 
 never likes figs ; and possibly he had already heard quite 
 enough about the ' Rights of Women ' : he did not take the 
 bait. At a period not long subsequent, she is stigmatized as 
 dirty, androgynous, and, indeed, a brown demon. 
 
 I called, one Sunday morning, I think at some hotel, to 
 
Life of Shelley 475 
 
 walk and dine. It was soon after their return from Wales ; 
 and in due order it ought to have been noticed before ; but 
 the chronology of such an interview need not be exact. The 
 heroine was tall and thin, bony and masculine, of a dark com- 
 plexion ; and the symbol of male wisdom, a beard, was not 
 entirely wanting. She was neither young nor old ; not hand- 
 some — not absolutely ill-looking. She had been a governess 
 and a schoolmistress, as was sufficiently indicated by a prim, 
 formal, didactic manner and speech. At first she possessed 
 some influence over the young couple ; but the charming 
 Eliza would not tolerate any influence but her own. She had 
 worked upon Harriet's feelings, and the good Harriet had 
 succeeded in making his former favourite odious to Bysshe. 
 It had been finally arranged that she was to depart — to go 
 away that very evening — ^which was boasted of as a great 
 blessing ; and such, perhaps, it might have been, if there had 
 been any valid and available security, that another and a 
 greater bore would not. soon succeed to the vacancy. 
 
 Bysshe could not walk with me ; he was particularly 
 engaged, as often happened, to go somewhere, and to perform 
 some indispensable and important thing. 
 
 I can fly, or I can run. 
 
 Quickly to the green earth's end, ' , 
 
 Where the bow'd welkin slow doth bend ; 
 
 And from thence can soar as soon 
 
 To the comers of the moon. 
 
 Harriet had a bad headache ; so I was summarily condemned 
 to walk with the two spinsters. 
 
 Accordingly, in execution of my sentence, I was turned 
 over to them ; and with the brown demon on my right arm 
 and the black diamond on my left, we went forth into St. 
 James's Park, and* walked there, and in the neighbouring 
 parks, for a long time, a very long time. ' These were my 
 jewels ', as Cornelia proudly exclaimed. 
 
 In the beginning, the fair rivals, the dark rivals, quarrelled 
 with one another across me, to whom, however, they were 
 both exceedingly civil — deferential, I may say. The lovely 
 Eliza attacked the foe with haughty contempt ; the bearded 
 preceptress defended herself and offended her enemy with 
 meek contumacy. I never saw Eliza so much alive before 
 or since. I never knew her come out so decidedly. For some 
 time, there was hit for hit delivered on both sides with calm, 
 soft acrimony, but by degrees the jangling abated, and the 
 
47^ Life of Shelley 
 
 angel on my left collapsed ; she relapsed into her normal 
 condition of languor, of languor at the last gasp. I then 
 turned to the angel on my right, and interrogated her about 
 the Rights of Women, respectfully requesting to be informed 
 what they were. She received my request graciously, and 
 immediately complied with it. The accents of wisdom began 
 to flow in a gentle, continuous stream from her bearded lips. 
 I must confess I could not comprehend what these rights were ; 
 or, to speak more correctly, I could not discover what were 
 the obstacles that prevented females, who valued the peculiar 
 whims and fancies termed by her their rights, from indulging 
 them. I represented my view of the matter to the scholastic 
 Minerva, and she could not deny that all women, emancipated 
 from the control of parents and guardians, might act as they 
 pleased in such matters. 
 
 The conversation, which went on agreeably enough with 
 Wisdom on my right side, was extremely distasteful to Beauty 
 on my left. Eliza knew nothing of the Rights of Women, or 
 of anything else. She was therefore condemned to a long 
 and ignominious silence, whilst the grand principles by which 
 feminine felicity is to be ensured were powerfully and elabor- 
 ately expounded. 
 
 * How could you talk to that nasty creature so much ? 
 How could you permit her to prate so long to you ? ' said the 
 lovely Eliza, peevishly, when she took her arm out of mine at 
 the door, on returning home to dinner. * Why did you 
 encourage her ? Harriet will be seriously displeased with 
 you, I assure you ; she will be very angry ! ' 
 
 The indignation of the good Harriet, if it really was excited, 
 must have been too big for utterance : I never heard of it. 
 She merely asked, ' Were you not tired of the Brown Demon ? ' 
 Most infernally ! might have been an arppropriate answer ; 
 and to say the truth, which I did not dare to say, I was equally 
 weary of Angel and Devil. 
 
 Dinner came off tranquilly, and the evening passed away 
 pleasantly enough, for it was fully understood on all sides that 
 she was to take her departure that night, which arrangement 
 apparently was doubtful in the morning. There being little 
 conversation during tea, I ventured to inquire again about 
 the Rights of Women. The Goddess of Reason began incon- 
 tinently to lecture with fluency and animation. Presently 
 Bysshe quitted his chair, and came and stood before her, 
 listening with attention, and looking enthusiastic, as if his 
 
Life of Shelley 477 
 
 former interest had in some measure revived. The sisters 
 eyed him with manifest displeasure, as a person holding 
 treasonable communications with a public enemy. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIV 
 
 At the appointed hour a coach was called, and the Defender 
 of the Faith and of her sex took her leave of us freely, quietly, 
 and civilly ; and being fairly gone with all her boxes and 
 band-boxes never to return — and she never did return — the 
 whole party believed that they were very happy, having 
 had a good deliverance, having been freed from a load that 
 had become of late intolerable. For my own part, not having 
 felt the burthen, I could not participate in their joy. She 
 appeared to me a fair average specimen of a schoolmistress, 
 and well adapted in every respect for the employment, which 
 she had long exercised, and might doubtless long continue to 
 exercise with advantage. Certainly there was nothing about 
 her to justify either the raptures at meeting her, or the exces- 
 sive delight at parting. I could only marvel, as I have con- 
 stantly marvelled, at the thick-coming fancies of my imagin- 
 ative friend. 
 
 I never saw the Brown Demon again ; I never heard more 
 of her. Save that the lovely yet spiteful Eliza, who could 
 not soon forgive, once whispered, ' If you only knew how 
 filthily dirty she is, you would not come near her ! ' This 
 censure might mean no more, than that the unprejudiced, 
 intellectual being does not brush her hair nearly long enough ; 
 does not spend more, would you believe it, than eight hours 
 a day ' in sleeking her soft alluring locks ! ' 
 
 The correspondence shows, that instruction in the Rights 
 of Women was not obtained without a valuable consider- 
 ation ; but the amount does not appear. The regular system 
 of organized plunder, of this hereafter, to which he was after- 
 wards subject until the end of his life, and, indeed, even longer, 
 had not yet commenced. Two or three of his more enlight- 
 ened friends, it is true, advocates of the community of goods, 
 simple creatures, utterly ignorant of the value of money, and 
 sceptics as to the rights of property, had contrived already, 
 now and then, to extract moderate sums out of his ill-furn- 
 ished purse ; and no doubt his Irish allies borrowed of him. 
 
4/8 Life of Shelley 
 
 The wrongs of an oppressed, injured, and insulted country 
 could never be redressed by her patriotic and disinterested 
 sons without a little private peculation, without levying toll. 
 It was difficult, impossible, indeed, to obtain a correct estimate 
 of the spoil, the spoilers were not communicative ; there 
 were a certain secrecy and a mystery about Bysshe, which 
 were impenetrable. 
 
 It is a popular superstition in some countries, that the goat 
 passes one hour of the twenty-four every day in the infernal 
 regions. However attentively that wild and active creature 
 may be watched, it always disappears, it is said, during that 
 period, and it is impossible to find it in its hour of absence, 
 however diligent the search may be ; wherever the goat may 
 be, it always knows the shortest way to the Shades below ; 
 and if it be tied up, or otherwise confined, it is confidently 
 asserted, and this at least is not improbable, that the animal 
 grows exceedingly uneasy and restless. 
 
 I was often reminded of this picturesque and poetical legend 
 by the habits of Shelley. He used to vanish in as abrupt and 
 inexplicable a manner as a goat ; to remove himself as effectu- 
 ally beyond the reach of pursuit, whenever he was at liberty ; 
 and restraint was not less irksome to him than to the free 
 denizen of the mountains. Those who were acquainted with 
 him could entertain no suspicion that his visit was ever paid 
 to the infernal deities ; his course assuredly was not down- 
 wards. The young poet was, peradventure, admitted for a 
 season to celestial converse ; his nature being rather demon- 
 iacal than human, he became the associate of higher intelli- 
 gences ; like the shepherd of Ascra, the Muses themselves 
 were personally present with him. He returned to mortal 
 intercourse awe-stricken, having refreshed his fancy by the 
 sight of glorious things, which he never revealed to others, 
 not even to his most intimate friends, 
 
 I have sometimes seen him standing a long while watching 
 a goat patiently, and following after it, for I had related the 
 superstitious legend to him, and it captivated his fancy and 
 pleased him prodigiously ; and he would eye a goat, that 
 came unexpectedly towards him, eagerly, and inquire with 
 penetrating asking glances ; * What news from Hades ? * 
 
 The goat is a Dionysiacal quadruped ; habitually given to 
 scale Parnassus, to spring boldly from crag to crag on Helicon, 
 to climb with ease to the highest summits of all the mountains 
 of thei^'fpoets ; a sharer in Bacchic, Orphic, Eleusinian, and 
 
Life of Shelley 479 
 
 other mysteries ; it is consentaneous with poetic reason and 
 usages for poets, as well as for the mighty Pan and his satyrs, 
 to trace affinities and similarities with the goat. 
 
 Shelley's delight was to read Homer, and it grew and 
 strengthened with his years. He had a copy of the Gren\dlle 
 Homer, bound in russia, in two volumes, the Iliad in one, and 
 the Odyssey in the other ; one of these volumes was continu- 
 ally in his hand. It would be a curious problem to calculate 
 how many times he read the whole through. He devoured 
 in silence, with greedy eyes, the goodly and legible characters 
 often by firelight, seated on the rug, on a cushion, or a foot- 
 stool, straining his sight, and striking a flame from the coals 
 with the shovel, or whichsoever of the fire-irons he could first 
 seize upon, remaining in front of the fire until the cheek next 
 to it assumed the appearance of a roasted apple. And he 
 would read some sublime passage aloud, if there was any one 
 at hand to listen, with extreme rapidity, animation and energy, 
 raising his shrill voice, until it equalled the crowing of a cock ; 
 nor would he cease before he reached the end of the book, 
 and then closing it, he laid it gently upon the ground, and 
 lifting up his eyes to the ceiling, he exclaimed with heart- 
 felt pleasure, * Hah ! ' remaining for some minutes in an 
 attitude of veneration, wholly absorbed in pleasure and 
 admiration. 
 
 It is for such readers that great poets write ! — In the same 
 unceremonious posture and position he would pore over pages 
 of some moralist, or metaphysician, whether he were an 
 idealist, or a materialist. The close attention which he 
 bestowed upon the advocates of materialism was exemplary. 
 It is so easy, and so agreeable to beUeve, without examina- 
 tion, or inquiry, whatever we hear, and more especially what 
 we read in books, whatever in short we see in print, that we 
 can never be sufficiently grateful to those meritorious persons, 
 who will kindly take the trouble to doubt of, or dispute, any- 
 thing : the claims of scepticism upon our gratitude are not 
 duly recognized. The world is deeply indebted also to epicu- 
 reans and materialists ; it is a great benefit to mankind, that 
 in every generation a small body of innocent, estimable, and 
 apathetical men should be found ready to demonstrate practi- 
 cally, that their narrow sect cannot possibly flourish ; that 
 we cannot live upon this world alone. 
 
 Plato and Aristotle have fed thousands, but to whom did 
 Epicurus ever give a morsel of bread ? — It is a mark of an 
 
480 Life of Shelley 
 
 ignorant, an ill-bred fellow, to argue pertinaciously about 
 facts, and to contradict every assertion respecting ordinary 
 occurrences ; so it is, on the other hand, the test of a scholar 
 and a man of true genius to bring opinions fairly into review, 
 and especially to cause those principles, which are held com- 
 monly to be the most firmly settled, to be discussed anew, by 
 insinuating doubts, or suggesting something, that seems to be 
 inconsistent with them ; and gallantly to encourage the 
 ventilation of the elements, and an examination of the founda- 
 tions of knowledge, by offering to sustain the weaker side. 
 To encourage those who would practise the art of taking aim, 
 if we may allude to a favourite pastime, by throwing up his 
 hat, that they may take a shot at it ; when a person is so 
 courteous, it is surely most unkind, as some churls are wont 
 to do, to discharge a pistol in his face ! 
 
 During his protracted residence in London, and the vicinity 
 of London, in the years 181 3 and 18 14, an auspicious, benefi- 
 cial, and happy period, we had the good fortune to form a 
 most agreeable intimacy with certain amiable and elegant 
 friends and associates, whose favourite studies were the Italian 
 language and literature ; some of whom even had formerly 
 resided in Italy — a privilege which had been less generally 
 enjoyed then, than now ; and that advantage being more 
 rare, they had profited more by it. It was confined in those 
 days almost exclusively to persons of a certain station, of a 
 liberal education, of ample leisure, competent fortune and 
 cultivated minds ; their position in society had been an intro- 
 duction to the first people in the countries which they had 
 visited, and these were of a far higher order than are at present 
 to be met with in a land, that has since been severely scourged 
 by cruel and noxious revolutions and violent political com- 
 motions fraught with ruin to individuals, and manifold and 
 desolating troubles. By their salutary example, by gentle 
 persuasions, and a soft and benign influence, they called the 
 attention of my friend and myself to a participation in their 
 darling pursuits ; and they powerfully promoted by their pre- 
 cious advice, assistance, and instructions, the invitation which 
 we at once readily accepted, and our thoughts and our read- 
 ing soon took the direction pointed out to us by our tasteful 
 guides. I procured a sufiicient apparatus of approved gram- 
 mars and dictionaries, and bestowed much of my leisure upon 
 them ; Bysshe, a King in intellect, had always at his command 
 a short and royal road to knowledge. It seemed to a super- 
 
Life of Shelley 481 
 
 ficial observer, that he rejected and despised the grammar and 
 the dictionary, and all the ordinary aids of a student ; this 
 to a certain extent was the case, but to a certain extent only ; 
 he was impatient of such tardy methods of progression ; never- 
 theless he sometimes availed himself of them, and when he 
 condescended to be taught, like a mere mortal, which assur- 
 edly he was not, his eagle glance, his comprehensive grasp, 
 his inconceivable quickness, and miraculous powers and 
 faculty of apprehension, enabled him to seize and to master 
 in minutes what his less highly gifted fellow-learners acquired 
 in hours, or days, or weeks. 
 
 With much pleasure and profit, and not without a certain 
 edification, we read together the fine poem of Tasso ; and 
 we kept together, side by side, in this our first exploit and 
 invasion of the lovely language of a lovely land. There was 
 nothing in the slow progress of the long siege of the holy city, 
 or in the quiet episodes, by which the principal narrative 
 is varied, to stimulate his intense and insatiable curiosity, or 
 provoke his constitutional impatience. At the termination 
 of our joint perusal, the sUp of paper was carefully placed in 
 the handsome volume to mark our progress, and whenever 
 we resumed our united study, I saw that it had been honoura- 
 bly suffered to remain at the page where we had left off ; there 
 had been no forestalling, no stealing a march. We thus 
 proceeded steadily together, by an equable progression we 
 advanced, and by regular approaches we took the sacred 
 city, and finished the poem, our first task. 
 
 With mingled feelings of pleasure and regret we both quitted 
 the graceful, tender, pious epic, being in our hearts more than 
 half Crusaders, and not altogether indisposed to enlist under 
 the consecrated banners of Godfrey. 
 
 When we came to our second author, it was different — our 
 course of conjoint study no longer ran smooth ; it was de- 
 ranged ; the partnership was broken up. The same slow 
 rate of travelling would no longer satisfy my impatient col- 
 league ; Ariosto had excited, fascinated him. Bysshe soon 
 discovered that the realms of romance and the intercourse of 
 Paladins were his own proper, peculiar element : we could no 
 longer keep together in our chivalry. When I had a spare 
 hour for octave rhymes, and took down the book for our lesson, 
 I found that my adventurous comrade had gone ahead a canto 
 or two ; or, perhaps, that the mark had been transferred to 
 another volume. In reading for the first time a composition 
 
 II 
 
482 Life of Shelley 
 
 of such overpowering, overwhelming interest — exciting, stimu- 
 lating, provoking — it was absolutely impossible to wait for 
 mCj'^or for any one ; for Roland furiously mad through love, 
 or even for the fair AngeUca herself, much more to expect the 
 uncertain and scant leisure of a law student. The Divine 
 Poet eagerly devoured the marvellous production of a brother 
 poet, returning to it incessantly, and reading it through 
 repeatedly, again and again. He spoke of the unparalleled 
 poem with wild rapture during our walks, and read aloud to 
 me detached passages with energy and enthusiastic delight ; 
 but he could not control his feelings enough for us to go 
 through the ' Orlando Furioso ' hand in hand, as we had 
 marched to the conquest and liberation of Jerusalem : he 
 soon left me to find my way, as I best might, out of the en- 
 chanted forest. The easy, flowing style of Ariosto presents 
 fewer difficulties than the elaborate stanzas of Tasso, and 
 was propitious to his speedy way. I proceeded alone steadily 
 and methodically, grammar and dictionary at hand, and by 
 the doubtful light of Hoole's translation, whenever my other 
 occupations permitted, to traverse forty-six cantos, com- 
 prised in six volumes, a long transit, it is true, but the charmed 
 reader wishes it was much longer. 
 
 In extenuation of my comparative indifference and insensi- 
 bility to the enchantments of the divine Ariosto, and in justice 
 to myself, I must be permitted to add, that I was already 
 acquainted, familiar indeed, with the story and incidents, 
 having read the entire poem more than once, as it is rendered 
 by the aforesaid John Hoole ; read it with pleasure in a hand- 
 some 8vo edition, adorned with engravings, and well bound, 
 a prize book won by a school-fellow at some former school ; 
 six goodly volumes pleasant to the memory even now, and 
 still distinctly seen through a long vista of just fifty years. 
 
 To Bysshe it was a novelty, altogether new in matter and 
 manner, in substance and in language ; to me the language 
 alone was unknown ; he was unacquainted with the whole 
 subject, and entirely ignorant of the tale of magic and mar- 
 vels ; it came upon him with all the force of a first impression, 
 and the flood of unheard-of wonders bore him away in an 
 irresistible torrent. We did not undertake to seek for a mean- 
 ing in the abstruse and gloomy sublimity of Dante, until a 
 subsequent period ; of this in its proper place and in due 
 course. 
 
 With respect to th© other one of the four great Italian poets, 
 
Life of Shelley 483 
 
 of whom the numerous short poems can hardly be read through 
 consecutively, we were sweetly and forcibly drawn towards 
 him by a peculiar attraction, and were tied fast to his verses, 
 spell-bound by a potent charm. 
 
 A most engaging lady of our circle had surrendered herself 
 a fair prey to a kind of sweet melancholy, arising, as far as I 
 could discover, from causes purely imaginary ; a pensive, 
 languid sadness, which gave a character, a grace, an interest 
 to her society and conversation, but did not interfere in any 
 way with the enjoyment of life, and the fullest exercise of the 
 mental and animal functions. She required consolation, she 
 said ; she sought it, and found it at last in the poetry of 
 Petrarch ; and therefore she invariably began the day by 
 reading attentively and repeatedly, as soon as she awoke in 
 the morning, often learning it by heart — a sonnet, or can- 
 zone — going thus regularly through the book ; meditating 
 upon it ; revolving it in her mind, and, as it were, feeding 
 upon it in her soul. For a considerable period we saw her 
 almost every day, at some time of the day ; and soon after 
 meeting it was quite in course to inquire, what was the sonnet 
 of the day, and the desponding fair one immediately repeated 
 it with becoming emotion ; or producing her pocket Petrarch, 
 which she always carried about with her, and which by express 
 testamentary direction was to be buried with her, she read it 
 aloud with feeling ; but if it was too touching to be thus given 
 forth, she handed the minute volume to the inquirer, pointing 
 out the proper poetic lesson in Love's scripture appointed for 
 the day. She eloquently and not unskilfully expounded the 
 text, which is frequently obscure and needs exposition, neatly 
 clearing up the difficulties and displaying feelingly the beauties 
 of sentiment and expression. She warmly recommended us, 
 and all with whom she conversed, and who were Hkely to 
 profit by good advice, to begin every day, as she herself did, 
 by a snatch of tenderness. It would cast a pretty and a pleas- 
 ing shade of sadness over the whole day ; upon its business 
 and its pleasures, mellowing and mitigating its joys, and soften- 
 ing and reUeving its sorrows. Like all zealous persons, she 
 sometimes seemed disposed to recommend that, by legislative 
 enactment, all loyal subjects should be enjoined and required 
 to begin in this manner every day of their lives. 
 
 Shelley assured her authoritatively, that when there was 
 a perfect republic, the day would uniformly be opened in this 
 fashion, and the assurance contented her. 
 
484 Life of Shelley 
 
 Besides laying open to us the poem of the day ; unfolding 
 its true signification, and bringing it down to the level of our 
 comprehension, in which kind offices she never failed ; some 
 other choice passage was selected from the pocket volume, or 
 from a larger and more legible edition, and it received, in like 
 manner, a full explanation. Thus were we initiated gradually 
 and efficiently, and in a most agreeable manner, in the mys- 
 teries of the amatory verses of the great poet of love. Petrarch, 
 in a word, was her hero, the best and greatest of men, as Laura 
 de Sades was the happiest of women ; thrice and four times 
 blessed to have been so beloved, besighed, and besonnetted 
 by the prince of poets and of lovers. Bysshe entered at once 
 fully into her views, and caught the soft infection, breathing 
 the tenderest and sweetest melancholy, as every true poet 
 ought. For my own part I was sensible of the value of her 
 teaching, and was grateful for it ; I felt and acknowledged 
 the exquisite beauty, the admirable qualities of the great 
 poet ; and yet, with the levity of youth, I found pleasure in 
 teazing her about her favourite. When she spoke with 
 enthusiasm of Petrarch and his amours, I ventured to hint, 
 that possibly his connexion with Laura was not so pure as 
 she supposed. But this position was untenable ; moreover 
 it was ungenerous to suggest, even in jest, the possibility of 
 frailty in the spotless Laura. I contented myself therefore 
 with advancing, that his passion was very tender and pretty, 
 but it was unreal, a mere poetical figment, moonshine. He 
 was in fact a great, fat prebendary of Padua, who after a 
 hearty breakfast attended to the secular business of the day, 
 particularly to ordering dinner, and went to his cathedral 
 and sang in the choir. He came home, and made as good a 
 dinner as was consistent with his intention of making a still 
 better supper. He took a nap in his easy chair, woke up, 
 and neighing after his neighbour's wife, wrote of his love, his 
 anguish and despair, until the sun went down. He then took 
 a walk in the cool of the evening ; came home and made a 
 tremendous supper, going within a hair's breadth of indiges- 
 tion, and desiring to defy the gout. Having eaten and drunken 
 well, the amorous ecclesiastic took sweet counsel together 
 with a plump, tidy, young housekeeper, who was Ilia and 
 Egeria to him ; all that Laura herself could have been to the 
 thundering canon, and more. Such was his Platonic 
 passion ! 
 
 The lady laughed at the profane sally, but admitted, that, 
 
Life of Shelley 485 
 
 with much gross exaggeration, there might be some little truth 
 in the picture. 
 
 * Yet, can you conceive the author of that exquisite sonnet *, 
 and she repeated it in a most touching manner — * can you 
 conceive him ordering dinner ? ' 
 
 ' Yes, I can, and a very good one too ! ' 
 
 ' Can you imagine the person who composed that canzone ', 
 and she read a part of it, * doing what you said he did ? ' 
 
 ' What ? do you mean kissing his housekeeper ? ' 
 
 ' Yes ! ' 
 
 ' Yes, I can, and very affectionately, too ! ' 
 
 Bysshe looked not a Uttle shocked and hurt at first by what 
 he considered an indecent irrision of the sacred character of 
 the lover-poet ; but he felt and owned at last, that it was not 
 unreasonable or unnatural, in the course of a platonic attach- 
 ment of forty years, that he should require a little of such 
 consolation. Petrarch says himself that he loved Laura for 
 forty years ; he loved her for twenty years hving, and for 
 twenty years dead. And he thought the countenance of the 
 tuneful canon, as represented in the numerous engravings of 
 him after the portrait of the celebrated Giotto, was sensual ; 
 he disUked the expression, and often found fault with it, 
 insisting either that it could not be a faithful Ukeness, or that 
 the subject of the picture was not what he is generally be- 
 lieved to have been. But jokes apart, Petrarch is in truth a 
 divine poet. As he loved and admired his Laura for full forty 
 years, so have I humbly loved and admired him for the Hke, 
 for a still longer period. I am still young enough, thank God ! 
 to be delighted by his immortal verses ; and when I read 
 them, it is impossible not to think with esteem and gratitude 
 of the charming friend, through whose kindness I was first 
 introduced to him. The relative merits, however, of poets are 
 measured by different standards of comparison. * Would you 
 suppose, that much of Mr. Wordsworth's poetry was written 
 in the dark ; in total darkness ? You will hardly credit it, 
 but it is true, perfectly true ! ' A fussy, foolish Uttle fellow, 
 a banker in a country town, once said to me, ' Many of the 
 finest passages in his best poems, were written in the dark, 
 when it was as dark as pitch ; it is truly astonishing ! You 
 do not believe it ; I cannot ask you to beUeve it ; but it is 
 true, he told me so himself ! ' 
 
 He explained by informing me, that the Lake bard was 
 accustomed to place a pencil and paper by his bedside, and 
 
486 ' Life of Shelley 
 
 when a bright thought came to him between the sheets, he 
 wrote it down instantly without striking a hght, wliich was a 
 slow process in an age of tinder-boxes, now obsolete, allowing 
 time for fancies even less volatile than emanations from the 
 lakes to evaporate ; and thus secured it for the benefit of 
 posterity. Through long habit he was able to write correctly 
 and legibly in the dark. 
 
 ' Can anything be more wonderful } ' asked the httle banker, 
 in conclusion. 
 
 * Yes ! To write in one's sleep, and to take short-hand 
 notes of one's dreams '. 
 
 ' Really ! You do not say so ! I do not write short-hand 
 myself, but I know short-hand writers can do most surprising " 
 things '. 
 
 I related this to Bysshe, who was much amused by it, and 
 more taken by the notion of writing in the dark. He spoke 
 more than once of various contrivances for facilitating it, and 
 several times in emulation, or imitation, of Wordsworth 
 carried pencil and paper to bed with him. But he succeeded 
 very ill in his writing ; he usually lost his pencil, or liis paper, 
 or both ; and when he contrived to keep them, the writing was 
 illegible. In these days it would be superfluous to learn to 
 write in the dark ; a light is now procured instantaneously by 
 a lucifer match, and before its contents could leak out of the 
 least retentive memory. As Shelley could not write verses 
 in the dark, he never produced any such poetry as is found in 
 Wordsworth's Night Thoughts. Wordsworth's chilly fancy 
 being warmed by three Witney blankets and a good thick 
 counterpane, he became truly a poet ; his finest thoughts were 
 hatched in bed, having been conceived in utter, palpable 
 darkness. ' Any man, who can write verses in the dark must 
 be a real, genuine poet ; he must have it in him : there is no 
 use in denying it ! ' 
 
 The sagacious little banker added, ' Only think ! just 
 consider ! There are poems in Mr. Wordsworth's works that 
 I am not by any means sure I could have written myself, 
 either in the daylight, or in the evening, with two wax candles 
 before me ; but to have written them in the dark ! There 
 can be no mistake about him ; we know very well what he 
 is!' 
 
 We may be permitted to smile at the nightly cogitations of 
 a poet, and at his solicitude to note them down in his bed ; 
 yet if a permanent condition of bodily bUndness, as in the 
 
Life of Shelley 487 
 
 case of our own Milton, and of Homer, and other blind poets 
 and prophets of antiquity, sharpened the mental vision, a 
 temporary bUndness, caused by the shades of night, may 
 possibly impart a hke acuteness, and night thoughts may 
 really be the most poetical and the most precious. At mid- 
 night, and during the early watches of the morning, may be 
 most rife and ripe the light and slight fictions, which poets and 
 other writers of fables spin and weave out of themselves, like 
 spiders. 
 
 I have often regretted, that my numerous letters have not 
 been preserved ; they described graphically events, the 
 memory of which it is now considered desirable to recall. — I 
 have lately received a scrap of a letter ; I have forgotten to 
 whom it was addressed ; it was written many years after the 
 period to which it refers, but it paints most correctly a certain 
 sprightly bird, to whom we may surely say with Words- 
 worth 
 
 For thy song, lark. 
 Is strong, lark, • 
 
 Like a mountain river ! 
 
 CHAPTER XXV 
 
 May 29, 1841. 
 At the end of March, 1813, Shelley and Harriet came from 
 Killarney in great haste, leaving Miss Westbrook there, with 
 a large Ubrary, but without money, that there might be no 
 temptations to discontinue her studies. 
 
 They remained a few days at a hotel in Dover Street, and 
 then Harriet took lodgings in Half-Moon Street, accounting 
 the situation fashionable ; they stayed there several months, 
 and then went to Pimlico to be near the B.'s, which was 
 esteemed very desirable ; and there, I think, lanthe was born. 
 In August following Shelley came of age. 
 
 There was a little projecting window in Half -Moon Street, 
 in which Shelley might be seen from the street all day long, 
 book in hand, with lively gestures and bright eyes ; so that 
 Mrs. N. said, he wanted only a pan of clear water and a fresh 
 turf to look Uke some young lady's lark, hanging outside for 
 air and song. 
 
 There were vivacious ladies even in those very remote 
 
488 Life of Shelley 
 
 periods, and so it happens that the human race has been 
 continued to our days. 
 
 T. J. H. 
 
 Cooke's Hotel, Wednesday morn {June, 1813). 
 My Dearest Friend, 
 
 Harriet writes in this. I only desire that I were always 
 as anxious to confer on you all possible happiness, as she is. 
 She tells you, that she invites you this evening. It will be 
 better than our lonesome and melancholy interviews. 
 
 Your very affectionate, 
 I' P. B. Shelley. 
 
 I am very sure that Harriet will be as kind as ever. I 
 could see, when I spoke to her (if my eyes were not blinded by 
 love), that it was an error, not of the feelings, but of reason. 
 I entreat you to come this evening. I send this by the 
 servant, that there may be no delay. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 Cooke's Hotel, Friday {July, 1813). 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 Medwin, the attorney of Horsham, stayed so late on 
 the night of my promised visit, that I could not come. Last 
 night your short note arrived, also beyond its hour, and the 
 N.'s had already taken me with them. This night the N.'s 
 have a party to Vauxhall ; if you will call here at nine o'clock 
 we will go together. 
 
 What can your notes mean ; how suspicious you have 
 become. I will not insert one hut. Leonora has arrived. 
 Medwin dines with me. Harriet is quite well, and her infant 
 better. 
 
 Your affectionate friend, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 Vauxhall, as it existed in 181 3, was a pleasant resort enough, 
 two or three times in a season, provided always that there was 
 the fullest assurance of a fine evening. It was quite peculiar, 
 unique, the only thing of the kind. For those who loved to 
 witness a stirring scene, there were motion and gaiety, and an 
 ample occasion of being merry by deputy. If quiet was 
 sought, it might be found in a walk under the fine old elms ; 
 
Life of Shelley 489 
 
 there were retired alleys, where it might be strolled peacefully 
 for hours without interruption. The effect of the illumination, 
 of the numerous lamps under the trees, was striking and 
 pleasing ; the countless twinkhng Httle stars fed by humble 
 oil, surprised eyes not yet pampered and spoiled by the superior 
 brilUancy of gas lights. The music was sprightly and inspir- 
 ing, of a coarse and homely description, but sufficient for the 
 place and purpose, and for the tunes which were played there, 
 and being heard at a distance, was not disagreeable to one 
 predisposed to be amused. It was sweet to witness dancing, 
 which the dancers evidently enjoyed so much, and to see 
 suppers, of which the cockney and country wassailer partook 
 with so conspicuous a relish. Arrack punch was the nectar 
 of these celestial banquets ; a generous hquor. I never drank 
 it at Vauxhall, but at private convivial meetings I have found 
 it a deUghtful beverage ; in moderation harmless, beneficial 
 indeed ; a drink worthy of heroes, if not of Gods. In these 
 Elysian shades the consumption of arrack must have been 
 prodigious ; waiters were running about all the evening in 
 every direction with smoking bowls ; the fragrant fumes filled 
 the air, cheering the brain and strengthening the chest. I was 
 bidden to assist at such a festival as that palace of pleasure, 
 although of long standing and far-spread renown, never cele- 
 brated before or since. It was to be a triumph of female 
 artifice, the most proud, complete, and splendid victory of 
 management and diplomacy that was ever achieved ; the 
 masterpiece, nay, more, the mistresspiece, of consummate 
 guile. Not only Shelley, poet, philosopher, ascetic, hermit, 
 stoic. Spartan, and what not, was to be gulled, to be entrapped 
 and conveyed thither, unconscious of his doom, unsuspect- 
 ing ; but an innocent young quakeress was also to be beguiled. 
 She was to be lured into a carriage under false pretences, 
 driven in the shades of evening with fraud and covin over 
 Westminster Bridge, she knew not whither, and surreptitiously 
 introduced into the gardens of Comus and Circe, into Vanity 
 Fair, the abodes of sin and shame. Our paschal lamb, our 
 sacrifice without spot, was neither to know whither she was 
 going, nor where she was, nor where she had been. 
 
 We conspirators were straitly charged and commanded not 
 to tell her ; to give in answer an unvarying ' I do not know * 
 to her inquiries as to what it was, what it all meant. We 
 promised obedience. Shelley saw the snare ; how he dis- 
 covered the intrigue, I did not learn ; most probably from his 
 
490 Life of Shelley 
 
 communications with the children ; they were his intimates 
 and confidants, and from children a secret speedily leaks out. 
 However, he submitted meekly to his fate ; and, like a great 
 and good man, as he was, he determined patiently and cheer- 
 fully to fulfil his destinies. He invited me, indeed, in all 
 simplicity to an entertainment, for which I had long been 
 engaged ; to confess the truth, was deeply immersed and 
 implicated in the guilt of that evening. I think he gave in to 
 the project with less difficulty because he was aware of the 
 deceit that was to be played upon the discreet Rachel. 
 
 I was introduced to the comely and placid offering, and she 
 was placed under my immediate care. She made no resist- 
 ance ; so, without a struggle, she was quickly and quietly 
 launched into the worldling's paradise. She admired the long 
 vista of lamps ; she admired all she saw, and with more 
 warmth and animation than one could have anticipated. 
 She asked me repeatedly what it was. ' I am not at liberty to 
 tell you '. She repeated the inquiry many times, and pressed 
 me to inform her. I was faithful to my promise, to the solemn 
 league and covenant. 
 
 ' Is it not Vauxhall ? ' 
 
 * I am not to tell you ; you are never to know '. 
 
 * Is it so wrong, then ? It is so delightful, it is a great pity 
 it is so wrong ! ' 
 
 We walked about arm in arm ; we went everywhere, saw 
 everything, and the fair victim approved of all she saw : some- 
 times in articulate language, and with a strength of expression 
 that surprised me, but more commonly with a quiet murmur 
 of pleasure, cooing Hke a dove. Yet she was oppressed by 
 a certain timidity ; she kept her hand fast in my arm, often 
 pressing closely against my side : my placid, sleek, well-fed 
 mate imparted to me some of that genial warmth out of the 
 copious stores of animal heat with which her portly person 
 was so abundantly furnished. When she was more especially 
 delighted with the novelty and entertainment of the evening, 
 she whispered in my ear imploringly, and with a pretty 
 beseeching look, ' Friend, thou wilt not remark, lest Friends 
 should observe ! ' Those we met were commonly too much 
 occupied with their own concerns to notice us ; nevertheless, 
 some persons viewed us with astonishment, staring hard at 
 my companion and myself, for she was in full costume. How 
 much soever Friends might observe on other topics, they could 
 not cavil at her dress ; that at least was perfectly uncxcep- 
 
Life of Shelley 491 
 
 tionable and irreproachable. Bysshe, for his part, was very 
 happy ; entirely taken up, engrossed, captivated, by the 
 charming lady through whose contrivance we had been brought 
 to Vauxhall. A mere mundane critic might have declared 
 that there was a most desperate flirtation between them ; a 
 more spiritualized observer, a poet and a philosopher Hke him- 
 self, would discern in their union a strong and close sympathy, 
 and would describe and designate it as such. 
 
 The display of fireworks in those days was but a poor affair, 
 yet the dark shade of the lofty trees gave a strong contrast 
 and relief to the sparks, and flames, and fire. Shelley, as it 
 will be readily believed, was passionately fond of fireworks. 
 He often had a rocket, a Roman candle, a few squibs and 
 Catherine wheels at hand, and he would tempt children, of the 
 like juvenile tastes with himself, into the garden or field to let 
 them off there. He had disappeared stealthily from the 
 drawing-room ; the cracking and fizzing under the window, 
 and the shouts and laughter of the enraptured children, 
 explained the motive of his absence. 
 
 We had exhilarated and fortified ourselves with large 
 potations of generous tea before we set out on our deceitful 
 and treacherous mission, and we returned in good time to an 
 abundant supper, which a long promenade in the cool night 
 air made most acceptable. 
 
 I never met with my sleek, soft, murmuring mate again ; 
 her visit to London was short, her residence was in the country. 
 She confided her history to me during our confidential walk ; 
 there was neither mystery nor romance in it. Rachel's father 
 was a Quaker apothecary of the first magnitude in the west of 
 England. ' Friend, thou wilt not remark, lest Friends should 
 observe ! ' These words were softly whispered in my car a 
 hundred times at least by the plump daughter of Ephraim 
 Smooth, and they seem to be a formula which young Quaker- 
 esses use, when the engaging creatures are conscious that they 
 are doing wrong. 
 
 I once spent some weeks at Christmastide in the country 
 with an agreeable and accomplished family, and there I met 
 a young Quaker lady. In her plain cap, plain kerchief, and 
 plaited conundrums, by which the female Friends are distin- 
 guished from the rest of their sex, she was one of the loveliest 
 creatures I ever beheld ; a being of exquisite and sought out 
 beauty. Hannah was passionately fond of chess, and I had 
 the happiness to play with her for hours ; she frequently 
 
492 Life of Shelley 
 
 murmured with languid delight, and when the game became 
 pecuHarly interesting, she would softly whisper, sometimes 
 almost inaudibly, ' Friend, thou wilt not remark, lest Friends 
 should observe ! ' 
 
 That strict religionists, strict moralists even, should forbid 
 cards and games of hazard, is not unreasonable ; but nobody 
 ever plays at chess for money ; it is purely a contest of skill, 
 chance has no share in the event ; what, then, can there be 
 reprehensible in it ? What is there in the noble game of 
 Kings for Friends to observe upon ? Do the prim observers 
 quarrel with the royal, aristocratic, martial titles of the 
 pieces ? Well, then, let the castles be called windmills ; the 
 knights, mounted millers, sitting on horseback above sacks of 
 wheat ; let the king be a substantial corn-factor, and the 
 queen his wife ; let the bishops be a couple of master bakers 
 from Scotland, thorough rogues in grain ; so that the designa- 
 tions of the several pieces may sound, not in nobility, but in 
 knavery. The pawns might represent the society of Friends 
 and being of sober uniform colours, and unassuming mien, 
 might well stand for ordinary Quakers. 
 
 But what could the contest be ? It must not be a battle, 
 or litigation, both war and law being strictly forbidden ; the 
 struggle might be for one side to overreach the other in ex- 
 changes, to drive the harder bargain, to compel the oppon- 
 ent's king — corn-factor, I should say — to commit an act of 
 bankruptcy, and being unable to avoid, answer, or cover a 
 cheque, to be mated. One of the contending firms might be 
 drab, the other slate-coloured, black and white being decidedly 
 too pronounced. 
 
 Under such harmless conditions, the amiable members of 
 the Society of Friends might safely engage in friendly struggles 
 upon the sixty-four squares of the board of Grinders, not of 
 Kings, with peace to Penn's ashes. 
 
 It is possible that Bysshe was amused at the idea of the hoax 
 that was to be played upon the sweetly placid Rachel, and 
 entered wilHngly into the scheme of mischief, but he took no 
 concern in the execution, or in the event. He had an anti- 
 pathy, a rooted aversion, an utter abhorrence of everything 
 low and vulgar, and there is nothing so vulgar as dissent, as 
 the preposterous impertinence of a Dissenter, who is always to 
 be laughed at, and heartily, but never to be persecuted. I 
 called one morning — it was on a Sunday, I think — at the house 
 of a common friend, to meet Bysshe, by appointment, for 
 
Life of Shelley 493 
 
 some expedition or other ; he did not attend, as was too fre- 
 quently the case with him ; no human being, no poet was ever 
 less punctual : he had no perception, no notion of time ; a 
 divine nature lives not in time, but in eternity. Although I 
 did not meet him on that occasion, I saw a personage of some 
 distinction, for Madame D'Arblay called. She expected to 
 find, or professed to have expected to have found, her very 
 dear friend, Madame de B. ; of course she would have been 
 ravished by hel presence, she was desolated at her absence. 
 
 The favoured novelist had just returned from France, to 
 which country few English went in those days, and from which 
 still fewer returned. Her conversation, therefore, would have 
 been very interesting if she had told us anything to the pur- 
 pose ; but she did not, and it was not so. She returned from 
 an unsuccessful chase after her husband. 
 
 Whenever a Frenchman marries an Englishwoman, for 
 some six years or so, he makes her a most exemplary husband ; 
 and then, all at once, he plants her ; plants her at once and 
 for ever. Thus had the Chevalier served the gifted authoress 
 of Evelina and Cecilia. He, a singularly handsome man, as 
 it was affirmed, for the accustomed period had been a good, 
 almost too good a husband — too good, certainly, to last — 
 and then suddenly he withdrew himself ; withdrew himself, 
 entirely against his inclination, but under the iron influence of 
 some painful, irresistible, and indescribable necessity, as his 
 frequent and very affectionate letters abundantly testified, 
 with often-repeated assurances, that he should never know a 
 moment's peace of mind until his return at some remote and 
 indefinite period. 
 
 The efforts of the most eloquent pen had failed to recall the 
 General, or even to obtain any specific limitation of the prob- 
 able duration of the term of his absence and anguish. 
 
 The forsaken wife at last determined to go in quest of him 
 herself, and to terminate his sufferings by bringing the fugitive 
 back to happiness. With infinite difficulty and after long 
 delays, and by moving heaven and earth, she had obtained a 
 passport and permission to land in France. She gave us the 
 details at great length. She procured, with some trouble, an 
 open boat, and set out with her maid-servant. 
 
 They reached the French coast, at what point I have for- 
 gotten ; as they neared the land the soldiers on the beach 
 made signs to the boat to retire ; and as it still approached 
 the shore, they fired their muskets, and the balls were heard 
 
494 Life of Shelley 
 
 whizzing over their heads. The boatmen resolved to return, 
 Madame was determined to remain ; after some disputes the 
 mistress and her maid were Ufted out of the boat and set down, 
 up to the middle in the water, with their portmanteaus on 
 their heads. When the soldiers perceived that the formidable 
 boat was retreating, they ceased to fire, but they took no notice 
 of the poor women, who remained in the sea, the tide rising 
 gradually until it reached their chins. Just in time however 
 to save them from drowning, a boat came to them from the 
 beach, and they were landed thoroughly wet, but unhurt. 
 
 Profound as the Chevalier's affliction was, it had left no traces 
 behind ; every inquiry was vain, every research fruitless ; 
 no tidings could be heard of the disconsolate husband. It 
 was inconceivable, but it was true, that he still persevered in 
 withdrawing himself from his beloved wife, and from the young 
 pledge of their affections : the General did not choose to 
 redeem the pledge. 
 
 All the affecting and romantic incidents of the unavailing 
 pursuit were related with a copious stream of conjugal eloquence 
 in a discourse that threatened to be interminable. The effect 
 of this celebrated lady's conversation, like her written nar- 
 ratives, was often to inspire astonishment, but certainly not 
 always implicit belief. The feelings of the wife finally gave 
 place to those of the daughter. We had never seen her father ; 
 we had never heard him play on the organ : we had lived 
 therefore in vain. 
 
 It was arranged, that the reproach should be removed 
 forthwith by meeting Evelina on a Sunday afternoon in the 
 chapel at Chelsea Hospital. The appointment was duly kept ; 
 we attended the evening service, heard a heavy voluntary, 
 and some other performances, some of them being very loud, 
 probably to display the power of the instrument ; and we were 
 afterwards presented to the author of the History of Music. 
 It was adjudged and decreed that Bysshe should go with us ; 
 he would be delighted, some said. However he took the liberty 
 of judging for himself ; he thought otherwise ; and of acting 
 for himself also ; he was terrified at the bare proposal of 
 listening to such heavenly strains and intellectual conversation, 
 he eloigned himself, and evaded pursuit as effectually as if 
 he had been a goat, or even General D'Arblay himself. Some- 
 thing being said about the music of the ancients, the organist 
 assured us that it had no merit whatever. 
 
 Some Greek tunes had been found in an old MS. of Pindar ; 
 
Life of Shelley 495 
 
 these proved to be altogether intolerable ; notwithstanding 
 he had not only transposed the ancient notation into the 
 modern form, but had also entirely re-arranged them him- 
 self. The Doctor's hearers were somewhat bigoted in their 
 favourite opinion of the eminent perfection of Grecian art ; 
 on our way home we ventured to conjecture, that possibly the 
 re-arrangement had some share in making the antique melo- 
 dies distasteful to modern ears. It was observed, that if the 
 Iliad of Homer, having been long lost, had been lately found 
 by the immortal Doctor, and he had not only made the poem 
 public, but had taken the trouble to rewrite it himself from 
 beginning to end, it might be doubted, whether the Iliad 
 would have been admired as much in the improved recension, 
 as it had been in the unformed state, in which the world has 
 always possessed it. It was regretted by some of our party 
 needlessly, I thought, that Shelley had missed the opportunity 
 of seeing the famous Madame D'Arblay and of being seen 
 by her. And it was plotted to bring them together ; but the 
 plot, I believe, did not succeed ; and it was quite as well that 
 it did not. They were not suited for each other ; whatever 
 merit Miss Burney had, and no doubt she possessed much, was 
 not to his taste. The daughter of a music-master, who got 
 his bread by giving lessons at Court and to the children of the 
 aristocracy, who had been herself a sort of handmaid to the 
 queen, an unworthy and unpleasant employment, according 
 to her own account of the matter, could be neither more nor 
 less than what she in fact was, a bundle of conventionalities ; 
 and these, however clever and well arranged, would not have 
 proved attractive to the Divine Poet. Her conversation was not 
 without ability, but it was wholly about herself, and the self 
 not being at all interesting, the conversation could not be so. 
 
 ' The New Zealander must have had a good appetite who 
 wanted to eat you, Burney ! ' said Charles Lamb. 
 
 This remark was not much less applicable to the other 
 members of that distinguished family whom I have seen, than 
 it was to the gallant admiral to whom it was addressed ; by 
 whose misplaced confidence and misplaced obstinacy, as we 
 read in the account of Cooke's first voyage, sixteen men out 
 of a boat's crew of thirty and upwards, commanded by 
 Lieutenant Burney, were captured, roasted and devoured. 
 
 Nurses say to their young charges, ' I could eat you up ! I 
 love you so much, I could eat you all up ! ' 
 
 I cannot think that the author of Queen Mah would have 
 
496 Life of Shelley 
 
 wished to eat the author of Cecilia, however nicely roasted 
 and^done brown. 
 
 It has been said by critics who reasoned from false analogies, 
 and were not acquainted with Shelley, ' that it was in him to 
 have walked towards the French Revolution over seas of 
 blood '. For my part, and I knew him well, I am convinced 
 that it was not. We cannot be quite sure, it is true, how any 
 man would have acted in a particular case, unless he had 
 been tried ; but severe measures, persecution, and the shedding 
 of blood, were contrary to his gentle nature. Besides, he 
 was entirely without self-conceit ; he had nothing of the hard, 
 arrogant self-conceit of Citizen Brissot and his fellows ; he 
 was never a doctrinaire. His course was discussion, not doctrine, 
 not dogmatism, not the stern dogmatism of an iron des- 
 potism. 
 
 The French revolutionists were eminently and conspicuously 
 dogmatical ; they could not bear contradiction. Shelley 
 delighted in it. To contradict him flatly, and to dispute with 
 him, endeared the disputant to him. He never proposed 
 to form a code, he never would have accomplished, he never 
 would have attempted it ; he would never have got beyond 
 the project of a code ; interminable, endless discussion re- 
 specting a future code. He never would have set a going the 
 guillotine, as has been inconsiderately affirmed, or kept it 
 going ; with him it was all doubt, disputation, discussion : his 
 theories were unformed, incomplete, and especially unpractical. 
 Socrates, as he is delineated by Plato, and whose boast it was 
 that he knew nothing, was his prototype ; we cannot conceive 
 Socrates, under any circumstances, playing the part of Danton, 
 or'of Robespierre, and sending victims to the scaffold. 
 
 I often attempted myself, as others did, to make Shelley 
 acquainted with such of my friends, as I thought might be 
 useful or agreeable to him ; from whose society he might have 
 derived amusement or instruction ; but the attempt was hardly 
 ever successful. I have sometimes endeavoured to gratify 
 those, who were desirous, naturally and laudably desirous, to 
 cultivate the acquaintance of so remarkable a person, by 
 introducing him to them, by taking him to their houses, or by 
 inviting them to meet him ; but my efforts were almost always 
 abortive ; these schemes ended in vexation and disappointment. 
 On these occasions only have I been very angry with him ; 
 that he should annoy myself alone by his irregularity I could 
 readily pardon, I was accustomed to it ; it was our ordinary 
 
Life of Shelley 497 
 
 course of business ; but it was difficult to be equally patient 
 when he compromised me with others. 
 
 People would get up a dinner party, or other entertainment, 
 purely and solely on his account ; others would remain in 
 town for days, for a week or two, even ; or would come from 
 a distance to some point, where he had promised to be found, 
 for the sake of meeting him ; and when they discovered, that 
 this trouble had been taken in vain, and so many inconveni- 
 ences endured, without gaining the much-desired result, they 
 were vexed and offended, especially the ladies, who ill brook 
 disappointment in any matter upon which their hearts are 
 set. I was the more disconcerted in such cases, because I 
 was conscious that I had most reason to be angry with myself, 
 and with my own folly and credulity in trusting that which 
 was by no means to be trusted. And to be angry and to 
 expostulate on account of such failure and breach of promise, 
 was to chide a waterfall ; to inveigh against the wind, the sea, 
 fire. 
 
 It is necessary in this life to pay a price exactly, fully equal 
 to every advantage received by us ; the advantage of the 
 society of my incomparable friend was great, immense ; but 
 it is not to be denied that the price was heavy, and it was 
 rigorously demanded, and punctually paid in full. He took 
 strange caprices, unfounded frights and dislikes, vain appre- 
 hensions and panic terrors, and therefore he absented himself 
 from formal and sacred engagements. He was unconscious 
 and oblivious of times, places, persons and seasons ; and falling 
 into some poetic vision, some day-dream, he quickly and com- 
 pletely forgot all that he had repeatedly and solemnly promised ; 
 or he ran away after some object of imaginary urgency and 
 importance, which suddenly came into his head, setting off 
 in vain pursuit of it, he knew not whither. When he was 
 caught, brought up in custody, and turned over to the ladies, 
 with. Behold your King ! to be caressed, courted, admired 
 and flattered, the king of beauty and fancy would too com- 
 monly bolt ; slip away, steal out, creep off ; unobserved and 
 almost magically he vanished ; thus mysteriously depriving 
 his fair subjects of his much coveted, long looked for com- 
 pany : 
 
 Making it momentary, as a sound ; 
 
 Swift, as a shadow ; short, as any dream ; 
 
 Brief, as the lightning. 
 
498 Life of Shelley 
 
 CHAPTER XXVI 
 
 At a late hour, when the assembly was breaking up, and some 
 guests even had gone home, it has happened, although rarely, 
 that he was again in the midst of us ; the poor fellow, looking 
 amazed and terrified, as if he had just come from Heaven, and 
 had there heard God's angels singing before the throne. His 
 flight from society was usually surreptitious and stealthy, but 
 I have observed him to start up hastily, to declare publicly 
 that his presence was imperatively required elsewhere on 
 matters of moment ; and to retreat with as much noise and 
 circumstance as an army breaking up its camp. 
 
 We used to meet in our circles some foreign society, especi- 
 ally many French emigrants. I had seen something of these 
 exiles before, and so had Bysshe. His aunt, that is to say, 
 the wife of his father's half-brother, John Shelley, showed 
 much hospitality to the emigrant nobility, and filled the house 
 at Penshurst with disagreeable and unprofitable guests. He 
 spoke with distaste of his visits to Penshurst, except that he 
 greatly admired the place itself, and warmly lauded it. The 
 emigrants, with very few exceptions, seemed to be just the 
 people to be sent out of a country with advantage, but not 
 by any means the people whom any sane man would recall 
 or restore. Their chief characteristic was utter imbecility, 
 rendered still more odious and imbecile by prodigious 
 and exacting pretensions. Some of them doubtless were 
 worthy men, but poor, feeble, helpless creatures ; and many 
 of their clergy were distinguished for a sincere and con- 
 spicuous piety, a merit above all human praise. These would 
 go straight to Heaven with their martyred King, the child of 
 St. Louis, and they would be quite at home there ; it was pre- 
 cisely the place for them : but in this wicked world they were 
 very much in the way. 
 
 * Shelley seldom observed peculiarities of dress, but there 
 was amongst these unfortunates an old fellow, he was a French 
 duke, I believe, whose costume was so extraordinary that even 
 he noticed it, and laughed heartily at the strange disguise. 
 My Lord, the duke, was strongly possessed by Anglomania, 
 which he continued to indulge, although he was paying so 
 dearly for it in purse and in person, and for his countrymen's 
 love of constitutional freedom. He was particularly ambi- 
 tious to dress exactly like an Englishman, so that he might be 
 taken for one, and after divers failures, he succeeded at last 
 
Life of ShcUcy 499 
 
 completely. This was his type ; the purely English, or Anglo- 
 maniacal, habit was this. His coat was of cloth, of that kind 
 of grey called pepper and salt, very light, indeed, much salt, 
 with very little pepper. The waistcoat was of pepper and 
 salt also, but darker, with more pepper. His shorts were of a 
 like material, the pepper predominating, and therefore being 
 darker than the waistcoat ; and his long gaiters were still 
 darker, the darkest of all, being almost entirely pepper, with 
 scarcely any salt. 
 
 We were ushered one morning into a room, where this figure 
 of fun was sitting alone. After sundry -profound reverences 
 and an exhortation not to despair, for ou^; friends, he was 
 assured and could assure us, would soon appear, he gravely 
 asked me, if he did not look exactly like an Englishman ? 
 If I could possibly suspect that he was a foreigner, a French- 
 man ? ' My lord, the duke, does us a very great honour in 
 desiring so much to resemble us, and so closely ! ' My answer 
 was accepted by the Anglomaniac as altogether satisfactory ; 
 but Bysshe broke forth into a shrieking peal of laughter, and 
 rushed headlong out of the room. 
 
 * Is your friend taken ill, sir ? ' 
 
 ' He is afflicted with a spasmodic cough *. 
 
 ' Poor fellow ! Poor young man ! ' 
 
 And the good-natured, unsuspecting peer seriously recom- 
 mended that Eau de Luce should be frequently rubbed on his 
 chest by a soft, warm hand. 
 
 * Eau de Luce is easily procured, but where will he find the 
 soft, warm hand ? * 
 
 ' Oh ! with his truly charming physiognomy, he will very 
 easily find that ! ' 
 
 I repeated the gracious and graceful compliment to the 
 culprit with the deserved warning : 
 
 ' If you laugh at the poor old fellow's fashionable English 
 suit again, you will be an ingrate, a thorough wretch ! I 
 will not shelter you any more. You shall repair his wounded 
 honour ; you shall meet him in Hyde Park, and empty your 
 quarrel with the single rapier ! ' 
 
 The unexpected, vehement, and irrepressible bursts of 
 laughter were often distressing, and, indeed, perilous. 
 
 I found Shelley one day in Chancery Lane, standing in the 
 middle of the street in front of the gateway of Lincoln's Inn, 
 and staring about him, as if some Genie had just set him down 
 in the middle of an unknown city. I took his arm, and led 
 
500 Life of Shelley 
 
 him into the common dinning-hall of Lincoln's Inn. The 
 first and ancient Vice-Chancellor, Sir Thomas Plumer, was 
 sitting on the bench, looking, as usual, exceedingly freckled, 
 red-haired, hircose, and sordid. Half-a-dozen attorneys were 
 seated with their backs to him in listless apathy, occasionally 
 putting forth a leg by way of a change, and looking at the 
 shoe, as if they had never seen one before, and yawning in 
 immense oscitancy. Three or four dullards, the duller portion 
 of a dull bar who practised in his court, were addressing his 
 Honour in turns, or squabbling altogether at once. Presently 
 one of them said, with a certain deadly liveliness, as if he 
 were uttering something new : * I am very sure your Honour 
 will not open a door ; for if your Honour were once to open a 
 door, the door being open, as your Honour very well knows 
 
 ' And thereupon, not without a certain resolute warmth, 
 
 the Court interposed : * Sir, you are perfectly right ; of one 
 thing at least I am quite clear ; I am determined I will never 
 open a door ! ' This was too much : with a sharp shriek of 
 fiendish laughter Bysshe darted wildly out of the hall. To 
 do him justice, Sir Thomas was a good-natured man : he 
 looked compassionately towards the flying, mirth- stricken 
 deer, and seemed to say to himself : ' Poor fellow ! He has 
 been taken ill ; it is some fit ! But I will never open a door for 
 all that : I am quite determined '. And he continued to 
 prose and to prate on in confirmation of his fixed determination. 
 I stole out quietly in the midst of the old draughtsman's 
 tautology and endless repetitions, spun-yarns of foxy, picked- 
 oakum eloquence, and joined the fugitive. I found him musing 
 before the door of the hall : he said to me very seriously : ' How 
 strange it is, one wanders over half the world, comes back again, 
 and always finds the same people in the same places saying the 
 selfsame things ; and saying a thousand times things not 
 worth saying once ! ' 
 
 If all the world 
 Should in a pet of temperance feed on pulse. 
 
 Shelley fed much on pulse at different periods, and for a long 
 time together, but never in a pet ; on the contrary, through 
 a calm, deliberate choice, and a sincere conviction of the pro- 
 priety and superior salubrity of such food. His letters inform 
 us, that he had occasionally restricted himself in great meas- 
 ure, if not entirely, to a vegetable diet. What first suggested 
 to him the abstinence from flesh does not anywhere appear ; 
 
Life of Shelley 501 
 
 whether his own feeHngs and reflections, or the advice of others 
 given orally, or in books. It was not until the spring of the 
 year 1813 that he entered upon a full and exact course of 
 vegetable diet. His Pythagorean, or Brahminical, existence, 
 and his intimate association with the amiable and accomplished 
 votaries of a Return to Nature, was perhaps the prettiest and 
 most pleasing portion of his poetical, philosophical, and lovely 
 life. His nutriment had ever been, and always was, simple ; 
 consisting, as has been already mentioned, principally of bread 
 eaten by itself, or with some very slight and frugal condiment. 
 Spirituous liquors he never tasted ; beer, rarely. He never 
 called for, purchased, or drew, wine for his own drinking ; but 
 if it came in his way, and the company was not disagreeable 
 to him, he would sit at table a while after dinner, and take two 
 or three glasses of any white wine, uniformly selecting the 
 weakest. I will not be hard upon him, and say that he 
 absolutely disliked port wine — what Oxford man ever did ? — 
 but he had unpleasant associations with it. The sight of port 
 wine reminded Mm of his father, who loved it dearly, and drank 
 it freely ; not to any reprehensible excess, but as a country 
 gentleman and a justice of peace ought to drink it. 
 
 I have often thought, and I have now and then even hinted, 
 that if he could only bring himself to drink a bottle of choice 
 port with his father, to sit sociably with him for an hour or 
 two, and patiently to hear the old squire extol his wine and 
 himself, they would get on much better together, and many 
 serious difficulties and inconveniences would be avoided. But 
 it was all in vain ; my efforts as a peace-maker were thrown 
 away. The alliance was impracticable — impossible. It may 
 be very well to pour oil and wine into wounds, they may heal ; 
 but it is useless to stir the two liquors together, they will 
 never mix. 
 
 Poor Bysshe was doomed to encounter many of those severe 
 trials which wring the heart and wring it so hard. As the 
 happiest period of his life was that spent at Oxford, so also 
 was it the j oiliest. He partook of the Oxonian potation, negus, 
 with a real relish, and drank it freely, like a true and studious 
 Academic, as he was. 
 
 After reading for many hours, and walking for many hours, 
 during the livelong day, indeed, the peripatetic student could 
 not but enjoy his supper ; and after supper — for the Genius 
 of the place would admit of no denial, or excuse — two tum- 
 blers of hot negus, each containing two full glasses of sherry, 
 
502 Life of Shelley 
 
 followed quietly and in order, as the silent planets pursue their 
 nightly courses. He did this then, did it freely, and thought no 
 evil — ^in mental blindness. Afterwards, his eyes were opened. 
 For I have reminded him of it ; proposing, once in a way, 
 a recurrence to old habits. But the child of light wondered 
 how he could have been guilty of such a piece of odious and 
 disgusting sensuality, sometimes adding, * I ought to have been 
 shot for it ! ' 
 
 Sobriety was the exception, not the rule, at our very learned 
 and most orthodox University. The college servants at Ox- 
 ford were good, but muzzy, as the best servants often are, with 
 an abiding and perennial muzziness, being constantly inspired 
 with the soft inspiration of strong, sound ale, which flowed 
 copiously from the buttery. When the ascetic young poet 
 returned to Nature, alcohol in every shape — even in the 
 subdued shape of negus — was strictly prohibited. 
 
 If his diet, fluid and soHd, was cool, not less cool was his 
 dress. I never remember to have seen Bysshe in a great-coat 
 or cloak, even in the coldest weather. He wore his waistcoat 
 much or entirely open ; sometimes there was an elUpsis of his 
 waistcoat ; it was not expressed, but understood. Unless 
 he was compelled to cover it by main force, he had his throat 
 bare ; the neckcloth being cast aside, lost, over the hills and 
 far away, and the collar of his shirt unbuttoned. In the 
 street or road he reluctantly wore a hat, but in fields and 
 gardens his little round head had no other covering than his 
 long, wild, ragged locks. 
 
 The poor, imaginative, creative head was plunged several 
 times a-day into a basonful of cold water, which he invariably 
 filled brimful, in order to throw as much water as possible on 
 his feet and the floor. That the dripping locks might dry, he 
 thrust, ever and anon, the fingers of both hands through them, 
 and set them on end 
 
 With hair upstaring then, like reeds, not hair. 
 
 However, the abstinence from wraps, from great-coats and 
 cloaks, was a characteristic of the age as well as of the individual. 
 In the last of his notes on Queen Mab, as a commentary on 
 the lines 
 
 No longer now 
 He slays the lamb, that looks him in the face, 
 And horribly devours his mangled flesh, 
 
Life of Shelley 503 
 
 the author has set forth his views on the subject of vegetable 
 diet ; it would be presumptuous, therefore, for another to 
 discuss it ; if it were not so indeed, most assuredly I am 
 altogether inadequate to the task ; and it is needless to 
 reprint here what is in the hands of every reader. My impres- 
 sion is, that the matter contained in this long note was pub- 
 lished originally in a separate, independent form. Whether I 
 ever received a copy of the httle work, if there was any such 
 work, I do not remember ; it is certain that I cannot lay my 
 hand upon it at present. For some months, for some years, 
 I was in the thick of it, for I lived much with a select and most 
 estimable society of persons, who had returned to nature, and 
 of course I heard much discussion on the topic of vegetable 
 diet. I never presumed to take a part myself in their argu- 
 ments, for two reasons : first, because I heard quite enough 
 of the matter, to say the least, without entering into the 
 controversy ; secondly, and principally, because I did not 
 understand it, and was not qualified to arrive at a sound 
 conclusion. That some persons may be competent to deter- 
 mine the question, I do not deny ; I will only affirm that 
 I never was so fortunate as to fall in with even one of them. 
 I did more than discuss, I conformed ; not through faith, 
 but for good fellowship, and because it was an agreeable experi- 
 ment, if that can be called an experiment by which nothing 
 is to be tried or discovered ; perhaps I should rather say, 
 that it was an agreeable change. Solomon says, and he says 
 wisely : ' Better is a dinner of herbs where love is, than a 
 stalled ox and hatred therewith '. My kind friends asserted, 
 and they were wise in their generation — whether also in their 
 choice of diet, I cannot decide — that a dinner of herbs, a 
 vegetable dinner, is better than roast beef and love and friend- 
 ship therewith. Certainly their vegetable dinners were 
 delightful ; elegant and excellent repasts ; looking only to 
 the table and the viands placed upon it, and not to those who 
 sat round it 
 
 In solemn troops and sweet societies. 
 
 Flesh, fowl, fish, game, never appeared ; nor eggs bodily 
 in their individual capacity, nor butter in the gross : the two 
 latter articles were admitted into cookery, it is true, but as 
 sparingly as possible, and their presence was provisional, 
 interlocutory, under protest, as culinary aids not approved of, 
 and soon to be dispensed with. The injunction extended to 
 
504 Life of Shelley 
 
 shell-fish. John Home Tooke proposed shrimps and treacle 
 to one of the fathers of the church vegetant here on earth ; 
 the treacle might have been accepted, but every individual 
 shrimp would have been black-balled. We had soups in 
 great variety, that seemed the more delicate from the absence 
 of meat. There were vegetables of every kind, the finest and 
 best of the kind, dressed with care and skill ; either plainly or 
 stewed, and otherwise artfully and scientifically arranged and 
 disguised. Puddings, tarts, confections, sweets, abounded. 
 Cheese was under the ban — anathematized, excommunicate. 
 Milk and cream might not be taken unreservedly; however, 
 they were allowed to form ingredients in puddings, and to be 
 poured sparingly into tea, as an indulgence to the weakness 
 of neophytes, tender plants. Fruits of every description were 
 welcomed — hailed rapturously, received with plaudits, as if 
 the goddess, Nature, herself stood bodily before her votaries. 
 We luxuriated, ran riot in tea and coffee, and sought variety 
 occasionally in cocoa and chocolate. Bread and butter and 
 buttered toast were eschewed ; but bread-cakes, plain seed- 
 cakes, were liberally divided amongst the faithful. 
 
 An epicure, fond of variety, would do well to adopt vegetable 
 diet, now and then, for a day or two, as a change, for the mere 
 gratification ; as ' a piece of odious and disgusting sensuality '. 
 It ought not to be concealed, that to be agreeable, at least to a 
 person of refined habits, vegetable fare must be good ; con- 
 sisting of the best materials after their kind, perfectly well 
 prepared. Otherwise it degenerates into fasting and mortifi- 
 cation. This species of self-denial, these ascetic restraints, 
 may have their use in a spiritual aspect, and for the soul's 
 health, but that is altogether a different consideration, and 
 not at all to the present purpose. The country is better suited 
 to the practice of the bloodless regimen than a city. A well- 
 stocked garden, furnishing fresh vegetables in profusion, an 
 orchard yielding ripe fruit in unlimited abundance for present 
 consumption, and for the winter's store, will feed luxuriously 
 a hundred Pythagoreans. The climate of the South would be 
 propitious, and its varied produce. Naples, as it struck me 
 most forcibly, being present there, the fertile and fair island of 
 Sicily doubtless — in a word, the lovely kingdom of the two 
 Sicilies — would be the true Eden, the earthly Paradise, the 
 very home for the penitent prodigal son, who had grace enough 
 to return to his all-bountiful mother. On the shores of the 
 Mediterranean flesh is not tempting, the fish is seldom inviting 
 
Life of Shelley 505 
 
 to a Northern palate, but the pleasant regions are most rich in 
 inanimate aliments. Macaroni and the other pastes of Italy- 
 were valuable helps. Onions, variously concocted, and rendered 
 as mild and innocuous as the dogmas of Pythagoras, were the 
 staple seasoning ; and mushrooms and their cryptogamous 
 congeners, were zests of inestimable value. The vegetable 
 table is not economical, at least in London, even after making 
 a liberal deduction for the absence of all fermented liquors, if 
 it be spread in a comfortable and satisfactory style. In the 
 country, probably, it is otherwise. In Italy, at Croton, where 
 Pythagoras Uved and taught, it is certain that his discipHne 
 was not less exemplary and commendable for thrift, than for 
 humanity and temperance. 
 
 In all opinions, in every sect, there is uniformly an extreme 
 party, and so was it with the votaries of vegetable diet. Some 
 held that the effect of fire on aliment was to render it insalu- 
 brious. Man should live, they told us, on raw vegetable 
 substances : on salads, apples, peas, beans, and cauliflowers, 
 uncooked ; on raw meal, raw carrots, turnips, and potatoes. 
 They rejected the discovery, or the theft, of Prometheus, 
 banishing fire from their kitchens. Every church has its 
 miracles : I was credibly informed that the patriarch, who 
 was very far in advance of his age, once actually ate a raw 
 potato. I never heard that he ate a second ; and the Ration- 
 alists indeed affirm, that he only talked of eating the first. 
 There are, moreover, contrarieties and contradictions in all 
 schools of philosophers, and not the fewest, or the least start- 
 ling, are apparent amongst the champions of the extreme 
 party. According to the advocates of absolute, universal 
 crudity, nothing was to be cooked, except that which does not 
 require cookery — water. Water was to be distilled, to be 
 subjected to the violent action of otherwise forbidden fire, 
 which rendered it disagreeable, odious. Water thus prepared 
 had a disgusting taste ; it was gravely pronounced to be only 
 an empyreuma, but it was not more palatable after this hard 
 name had emanated from authority. The Magi, the water 
 kings, found, or fancied they had found, after a clumsy and 
 tedious analysis, a small bit of lead in the water, which was 
 derived, they said, from the leaden pipes, in which water, to 
 our utter destruction, was conveyed. I saw the trophy, for 
 it was exhibited in triumph. To eyes only partially unsophis- 
 ticated, it looked hke a single pellet of dust-shot : if it had been 
 sent forth as a missile, it might have proved formidable to a 
 
5o6 Life of Shelley 
 
 fly, but would not have knocked a wren off her perch ; yet was 
 it to kill and murder half London. Nay, more : the presence 
 of arsenic had been detected in the most limpid spring water ; 
 half a grain of the metal in several tons of water. Arsenic, 
 we are taught, may be found, although in infinitely small 
 quantities, in almost all substances. In minute, infinitesimal 
 doses, it is not poisonous, not injurious, we are assured, but 
 salutary. One Sunday morning, we actually assisted at an 
 arsenic hunt : we dropped in upon the patriarch who, ever 
 zealous in the good cause, had extemporized a laboratory in 
 his parlour. He was certainly by no means blood-thirsty, 
 but a mild and most merciful man — the best of men ; never- 
 theless, he had made himself look like a tiger ; he had given 
 himself the aspect of a royal Bengal tiger. He was dressed 
 in a suit of black, of rusty black : coat, waistcoat, shorts and 
 gaiters, were all of cloth, which, in the good old times, had 
 been black. He was busy with his alembics, in hot pursuit 
 of arsenic, luting his retorts with pipe clay ; and he had been 
 wiping the clay off his fingers, from time to time, all the 
 morning, not with a towel, but by drawing his hands across his 
 clothes ; so that when we entered the study of the alchemist, 
 he was barred and brindled all over with white stripes, on a 
 dark ground. He had completely satisfied himself, he said, 
 of the insalubrity and dcleteriousness of water undistilled, 
 and he undertook to convince us of the correctness of his 
 conclusions, but chiefly, I must say, by nods and winks, and 
 mysterious signs. So awkward and credulous a chemist, by 
 experiments so clumsily conducted, and with so imperfect an 
 apparatus, ought surely to be able to find anything in any- 
 thing. 
 
 I heard of small parties vegetating in the country, dotted 
 about here and there, who had adopted the vegetable diet, 
 and were steadily pursuing it ; and I even met with some 
 specimens of them. They were good, simple people enough, 
 I dare say, but of no talents, note, or mark ; for the most 
 part Dissenters, I believe, and far gone in Dissent, and 
 consequently ready and ripe for any crotchets. 
 
 Joe Ritson was before my time, I think ; certainly I never 
 .fell in with him. He had some business as a conveyancer, 
 some reputation as an antiquary ; but as a feeder on vegetable 
 substances, he put forward his theories with such vehemence 
 and wild extravagance, as to be stigmatized, perhaps unjustly, 
 as a wretched maniac. He called sheep, oxen, and pigs ' our 
 
Life of Shelley 507 
 
 fellow creatures ', as undeniably they are in a certain sense ; 
 and he inferred from that appellation, that we ought not to 
 eat their flesh, or put them to death. A flea, a bug, a louse, 
 or a tapeworm, is also a fellow creature ; and what then ? 
 So likewise is a cabbage : Horace speaks of slaying a leek and 
 an onion. 
 
 So long as I observed the vegetable rule myself, I observed 
 it very exactly, according to the canons which I had received 
 from the doctors of the gentle, tolerant, bloodless church, 
 because my mind was naturally disposed for precision and 
 strictness. But Shelley was a creature of impulses ; so long 
 as he was in company with the authorities, his practice was 
 unexceptionable ; but not so, it is to be feared, when he was 
 left to himself to pursue unimpeded his own erratic course. 
 He could follow no other laws than the golden law of doing 
 instantly whatever the inclination of the moment prompted. 
 I have heard that during the period when he was pointed out 
 as an exemplary Pythagorean, he was one day found in the 
 lake district, where he had been wandering alone on foot, in 
 a very small room at a very small inn, with a very small 
 circular table before liim, and upon this was an enormous round 
 of cold boiled beef, from which the famished philosopher was 
 helping himself freely, as if it had been a brown loaf, or a 
 piece of canonical seed-cake. At this deflection from the path 
 of rectitude, nobody who knew him could be surprised ; but 
 I confess I was somewhat astonished at the aberration of 
 another high authority, a defender of the faith, which I my- 
 self witnessed. After a long walk one Sunday in the summer, 
 we called upon our friend to take tea with him, which we had 
 promised to do, for his family was absent, and he was left 
 quite alone : it would be an act of charity. When we arrived 
 he was still at table ; by some casualty the hour of dinner had 
 been postponed. We were shown into the dining-room ; he 
 was not a Uttle disconcerted, and not without reason. There 
 was a sufficient supply of vegetables on the board, no doubt, 
 but there was also a fine roast fillet of veal, and upon this he 
 was experimentaUzing with a carving-knife and fork. For 
 some moments he sat mute ; when he had recovered a little, he 
 said : ' My servants are carnivorous, they are cannibals ; this 
 meat is for them ; but I had it brought up just to look at it, 
 to see how they are treated, poor things ! ' 
 
 * But you have been eating it ! ' Bysshe exclaimed, with as 
 much horror as if it had been the body of Pelops. 
 
So8 ~ Life of Shelley 
 
 ' Why, as it was here, 1 thought there could be no great 
 harm whatever in just tasting the stuffing. Veal stuffing, 
 you know, is merely bread and herbs and spices, and other 
 little matters chopped up together '. 
 
 He had tasted the stuffing, evidently, and in cutting it his 
 knife must have sHpped, or he had not nicely discriminated 
 between the stuffing and the meat. 
 
 There was another remarkable instance of transgression ; 
 it was at headquarters. I did not see it, but I heard of it ; 
 we all heard of it, and it made the ears of the elect tingle. 
 The wife of the patriarch, the primate of all vegetables, was 
 brought to bed, most auspiciously of course ; disease and 
 death had no more dominion over her. The prescribed regi- 
 men during her confinement was cold pease-pudding with a 
 slice of dry bread ; and with this simple fare she was going on 
 prosperously, charmingly. Mrs. A. called to see her friend, 
 as soon as one lady may call upon another in such a case, and 
 was gratified with the pleasing aspect of such a rapid recovery. 
 It was most important to mothers ; a rule had been obtained 
 to show cause, why the curse of Eve should not be set aside. 
 It was time to dine, under the salubrious system of anti- 
 phlogistic diet punctuality was essential. With a surgeon's 
 wife there is no need of apologies, and all ceremony in a sick- 
 room is quite out of place. Dinner was served. The lady 
 in the straw ate a mouthful or two of the cold pease-pudding, 
 and crumbled the bread to the wonder and edification of her 
 visitor. The latter took her leave, and on her way downstairs 
 she met something not less wonderful, but far less edifying, a 
 plump roast fowl went smoking on, as it was being carried 
 incautiously from the cold vegetable kitchen to the lady's 
 bedroom. What news for Bedford Row ! What a treat for 
 Bedford Row ! The blunt surgeon was no friend to vegetable 
 diet ; it was affirmed that he was even exceedingly hostile to 
 its assertors and defenders. Consequently, as soon as the 
 emperor and autocrat of all the blue pills heard of the mission 
 of the roast fowl, and he heard of it very soon, the carnivorous 
 maUgnant spread the glad tidings far and wide. Medical 
 people swarmed about the meek followers of vegetable diet, 
 like wasps about a pot of honey ; whether as spies to see the 
 nakedness of the land, or to observe more nearly the regimen, 
 that was to cure and to prevent all diseases. 
 
 To such as had adopted this mode of living with sanatory 
 views, supposing it would benefit their health, that is to say 
 
Life of Shelley 509 
 
 to the greater number of the modern Pythagoreans, and were 
 so credulous as to believe that the professors of the art of heal- 
 ing knew more of the matter, than those who know nothing 
 whatever, they were welcome : they encouraged their advances 
 and cultivated their acquaintance. Consequently, I saw 
 something at that period of medical society ; I cannot say 
 that, upon the whole, it was agreeable. Some of the thera- 
 peutics were tolerably good company, but not one of them, so 
 far as I remember, was particularly pleasant. For the most 
 part, they were mere prigs, living glossaries of hard words, 
 conceited, intolerant, and dogmatical, to a ludicrous excess, 
 on points which, at best, were extremely doubtful. They 
 were given up helplessly and hopelessly to the last new whim 
 of the day ; ascribed and bound as serfs to some recent, new- 
 fangled crotchet : half-taught or quarter-taught — sometimes 
 considerably less than quarter-taught. Jealous, envious, 
 illiberal, and quarrelsome ; detracting from and backbiting 
 each other ; and too frequently epicureans, obtruding and 
 thrusting in men's faces a low, offensive, and shallow material- 
 ism. When these people are content steadily to follow the 
 established praxis, they can cure some diseases and mitigate 
 others ; but if they begin to generaUze, to write, or discourse, 
 of the healthful in the abstract, they are sadly to seek. On that 
 head all mankind are equally ignorant ; unprofessional persons 
 do not venture far, and therefore they do not expose them- 
 selves much ; but adepts, as they esteem themselves, are 
 bolder ; they go far out to sea, out of sight of land, and are 
 wrecked and drowned in the unfathomable ocean of error. 
 
 Sir Joseph Banks, discoursing about the propriety and 
 expediency of excluding medical applicants, as far as it was 
 practicable, from the Royal Society, said : * Their love of 
 science is commonly all stuff and sham. The privilege of 
 placing three letters of the alphabet after the name is con- 
 sidered of importance, and is only sought as a puff and adver- 
 tisement. It is but newly gilding the pestle and mortar over 
 the door of the shop, in order to attract customers '. This 
 rule, as it was laid down by the president — a golden rule, it 
 should seem — has been pretty steadily adhered to, I have 
 heard ; whereat these very crusty folks are often in high 
 dudgeon, and sometimes explode in a very diverting manner. 
 
 In law, physic, and divinity, it is universally acknowledged 
 that extensive, sweeping, and fundamental changes are equally 
 required, and can no longer be refused ; but of no profession 
 
5 TO Life of Shelley 
 
 will the members ever reform themselves ; amendments must 
 always come from without : 
 
 By foreign hands those dying eyes were closed, 
 By foreign hands those decent limbs composed. 
 
 I fancy eyes are to be closed, any shops of injustice and iniquity 
 to be shut up ; if any limbs, decent or indecent, are to be set 
 in order, it is plain that it can only be effected by foreign 
 hands : 
 
 By strangers honoured, and by strangers mourned. 
 
 They must be utter strangers, foreigners from a far, distant, 
 and very strange land indeed, who honour certain subsisting 
 abuses, and who would mourn them when they had been 
 completely and finally removed. Whilst I pursued the pure 
 and most merciful diet, I was often asked : ' How can you be 
 so cruel to yourself ? ' There was no cruelty in the case. 
 When I had abandoned it, the question was : ' Why did you 
 ever relinquish what you found to be so agreeable ? Why 
 did you ever give it up ? ' I answered, half in jest, half in 
 earnest : * Because I found that I was growing too good for 
 this wicked world ; getting too moral, too wise, too pure, too 
 virtuous to live in a faithless and perverse generation '. My 
 answer was always received with laughter, and indeed it was 
 laughable and ridiculous enough ; and yet there was some 
 truth in it, as there often is in sayings that provoke laughter. 
 Why does a man ever give anything up ? Why does lie ever 
 take to anything new ? These are questions more easily 
 asked than answered. The intellect and the senses, physical 
 and moral, arc lighter, as it were, under the influence of a light 
 diet. A complete renunciation of all fermented, stimulating, 
 intoxicating liquors was coupled with the abstinence from 
 flesh. The nonsense usually talked after dinner was too 
 insupportably nonsensical, unless the faculties of the hearer 
 were dimmed as well as those of the speaker. The ordinary 
 commonplaces of life seemed too commonplace to be borne by 
 an understanding that is always clear and cloudless. Sym- 
 pathy is indispensable to a sentient being, and, in order to 
 sympathize with dull fellows, a certain amount of dulness is 
 demanded. Possibly the mind needs repose as well as the 
 body : to rest, to sleep, not only during the night, but in the 
 working hours of day ; and the soporifics of a heavy diet, and 
 
Life of Shelley 511 
 
 composing, sedative, stupefying drinks have their office and 
 use. 
 
 CHAPTER XXVII 
 
 The sale of Home Tooke's library caused a lively interest, 
 because it had been his habit to write notes in his books. 
 From the specimens which I met with, these annotations 
 would seem to be of no great value. Always trifling, often 
 scurrilous and abusive, they did not reflect much credit on 
 the annotator. Nevertheless, public curiosity was strong, 
 and people bid with spirit against one another, to obtain 
 possession of the annotated volumes. Mr. N. had presented 
 his friend with an early copy of The Return to Nature ; and 
 he was most anxious to procure the important work, enriched 
 with the important notes of a distinguished scholar, philo- 
 logist, and philosopher. Accordingly, he commissioned a 
 friend, who was to attend the sale, to purchase it for him, 
 and to go as far as fifty guineas. The anxious author lay 
 awake the whole of the night before the day when his work 
 was to be put up, thinking of the severe competition that 
 would so soon ensue ; and as soon as it was light, he dis- 
 patched a note, authorizing his friend, should it be necessary, 
 as most probably it would, to offer one hundred guineas. 
 In the course of the morning, it occurred to him that it would 
 be a pity to lose an inestimable treasure through ill-timed 
 parsimony : he hastened to the house of his mandatary, to 
 request him to extend the bidding to two hundred guineas. 
 He could not expect to obtain it for less ; and, in truth, it 
 would be dirt cheap at that price. To his dismay, he came 
 too late ; his friend was already gone ; the opportunity was 
 lost, lost for ever ! He returned home in great agitation, 
 but gradually comforted himself by believing that Government 
 would most assuredly purchase it for an enormous sum, and 
 then he might hope to get a sight of it. Surely his college 
 friend. Canning, would procure for him that gratification. 
 
 In the midst of his hopes and fears, his friend entered the 
 room, with a thin octavo volume in his hand. 
 
 * Well, N., I have got your book for you ! Here it is ! * 
 
 ' Did you really get it for one hundred guineas ? ' 
 
 ' No ! no ! ' 
 
512 Life of Shelley 
 
 * I am glad you did not let it pass you. Two hundred 
 guineas, I suppose. I shall never forget your kindness'! 
 Stop, I will write you a cheque for the money ! ' 
 
 * You need not do that. It is a six shilling book, you know ; 
 it was put up at one shilling. Nobody bid for it ;^so'I offered 
 eighteenpence, and it was knocked down to me instantly. 
 Here it is, as good as new ! It has never been cut open '. 
 
 The self-satisfaction of an author may be checked for a 
 moment, but happily it cannot be killed ; if it be nipped a 
 while in the bud, speedily, by the wise dispensation of a merci- 
 ful Providence, it doth revive again. His mercy, fortunately 
 for us, is over all his works, and more particularly over all the 
 works of all his writing creatures — good, bad, and indifferent. 
 In a short time, therefore, after this cheap purchase, we 
 heard : 
 
 * My poor friend, John Home Tooke, was the wisest and 
 best of men, in thought, word, and deed ; a true philosopher, 
 always consistent, always like himself ! Look here ', and the 
 uncut, unopened volume was adduced in proof. * He would 
 not read such a work as this in a cursory way. He could 
 never bring himself to skim it over ; he felt its importance, 
 and the importance of the subject ; he intended to take it in 
 hand, to go regularly through it, to weigh every argument, 
 to illustrate it with an ample commentary ; and, until he 
 could find leisure, it would have taken him a long time, a very 
 long time, to have done it justice ; so, until then, he would 
 not even cut it open. There it is ! Look at it ! It was just 
 like him ! It was his way ! Poor fellow ! ' 
 
 To draw an illustration in a like matter from a similar 
 neglect of an author — one not breathing the elegance of Eton, 
 or of the classical Christ Church, but of a rough, wild disciple 
 of some Scottish University — I will add one more instance : 
 
 I once took up a book in the reading-room of the British 
 Museum : it was the only copy I ever saw. I never read the 
 work myself, but I have been told that it is rather a sensible 
 production, and treats fairly enough of the West India Islands, 
 proves the benefits of Slavery, and shows, faithfully and 
 fairly, that the Blacks were then, and not without reason, 
 contented and happy. It was a presentation copy from a 
 F.R.S. to the venerable President — to Sir Joseph Banks — 
 whose library was acquired after his death by the British 
 Museum. There was a complimentary flourish on a blank 
 leaf at the beginning, in the hand-writing of the author. Never- 
 
Life of Shelley 513 
 
 theless, this volume also was unopened, and probably for the 
 self-same reason. That great and good man, and distinguished 
 naturalist — and such Sir Joseph undoubtedly was in his 
 special department — had not cut open a page, or read a single 
 line, and never intended to do so until he should happen to 
 find himself in a position to treat the volume as it deserved 
 to be treated : if not carefully to weigh and perpend the 
 writer's statements, and to light them up by a lucid and 
 ample commentary. 
 
 Did you ever see John Home Tooke ? Who ever saw him ? 
 I says the fly, with my little eye, I saw John Home Tooke. 
 With my own eyes, little or great, I saw him once. He was 
 a fine, venerable old man — a gentleman polite with the polite- 
 ness of the old school. I was walking with a friend, one day, 
 on Wimbledon Common, near his house, and we fell in with 
 him. He greeted my friend cordially, shaking hands with 
 him heartily. ' I have not seen you for a long time ; you never 
 come near me now ! Come and dine with me some Sunday — 
 any Sunday. And bring your young friend with you ; I 
 shall be glad to see him '. And he bowed to me in the antique 
 style, taking his hat quite off his head, like a fine old English 
 gentleman, one of the old school. * You know where to find 
 me, and at what hour I dine. But, let me see, I shall hardly 
 know how to entertain you ! You have returned to Nature, 
 
 little N , have you not ? You have withdrawn into the 
 
 wilderness, like your precursor ; and you live, like him, upon 
 locusts and wild honey, do you not ? I have no locusts and 
 wild honey for you, but I will come as near as I can. You 
 
 shall have shrimps, and treacle, little N , and plenty of 
 
 them, I promise you, and these will do nearly as well. So 
 mind you come soon '. 
 
 With regret I add that the visit was never paid. It was 
 proposed, moreover, to introduce Bysshe to him. He will be 
 delighted with Shelley, and Shelley will be delighted with 
 him. This was very probable, but unfortunately the author 
 of the Diversions of Purley died before the meeting was 
 brought about. 
 
 'Did you notice that he called me " Little N ? " He 
 
 always called me so ; it was a term of endearment with him. 
 He always addressed William Godwin as "Little Godwin".* 
 The epithet ' Little ' was more applicable to William Godwin 
 than to my friend. ' Did you know John Home Tooke ? 
 Did you ever see him ? ' I once asked a lady of unusual 
 
 L L 
 
514 Life of Shelley 
 
 attainments, who had been acquainted with many of the men 
 of talent and celebrity of her day. ' I did not know him. 
 I only saw him once ; and that was casually, and by a mere 
 accident. Mr. Fenwick took me one morning into the House 
 of Lords, to see the place, which I had never entered before. 
 There was a gentleman standing by the bar, engaged in earnest 
 conversation — disputing, I may say — with a bishop. * ' Do 
 you see that person talking with the bishop ? It is the cele- 
 brated John Home Tooke ". I immediately drew near him, 
 to catch, if possible, what he said. I heard but little ; how- 
 ever, that little was characteristic. "It is a gerund, sir ! " 
 said the bishop. " A gerund ! Impossible ! There is no 
 such thing as a gerund, my lord. There are no gerunds in 
 any language, I assure you. There is no such thing as a 
 gerund ! " ' 
 
 The following anecdote was generally current soon after 
 the death of the illustrious etymologist. It was believed by 
 many ; what truth there is in it I know not. John Home 
 Tooke had published, long ago, the first part of the Diversions 
 of Purley. It was read with wonder and delight. A second 
 part appeared after a considerable interval ; it was upon 
 the same plan as the former portion, but it was certainly far 
 less amusing. It was understood that he was occupied for 
 several years in the composition of the third, the last and the 
 most important part ; in which he was to unfold the nature 
 of the chief word in every sentence ; of the word, the verb. 
 It was long before he could content himself with his own pecu- 
 liar mode of handling this difficult division of grammar ; but 
 at last the third volume also was finished. He delivered the 
 precious manuscript in a sealed packet to his friend and pupil. 
 Sir Francis Burdett, an interlocutor in the Purley dialogues, 
 under the initial B., with a strict injunction to publish the 
 book immediately after the decease of the author, but on no 
 account sooner ; the discoveries in grammatical science being 
 far too weighty to be communicated to the world during the 
 life of the inventor. A short time — a very few days only, 
 some said, before his death, he desired B. to bring the 
 packet. It was brought to him accordingly. He took it 
 out of his pupil's hands, threw it instantly upon the fire, 
 standing over it until it was entirely consumed, without 
 uttering a word. The matter was frequently and sometimes 
 vehemently discussed. The disappointed curiosity of the 
 learned censured B. sharply, and probably unjustly. He did 
 
Life of Shelley 515 
 
 not know for what purpose the deposit was demanded. If 
 he had known — if the command had been, * Bring the manu- 
 script, that I may destroy it ' — he might have expostulated, 
 but could he have withheld it ? Consequently, through one 
 man's obedience, we are ignorant what the verb really is ; 
 probably we shall never know. We only know with certainty 
 that there is no such thing as a gerund. With this scrap of 
 knowledge we must even be contented ; the rest is a sealed 
 book to us, and worse, it is a book sealed up and burned. 
 
 I have been informed by persons acquainted with the 
 habits of study of John Home Tooke, that he used to carry 
 in his pocket a card-case containing cards of the size of visit- 
 ing-cards, but blank : whenever a thought struck him, when 
 an important reference was made, a valuable authority cited, 
 or some inquiry suggested itself to his mind, or was suggested by 
 others, he wrote a brief memorandum with his pencil on 
 a card, and replaced it in its case. The inscribed cards he 
 slipt through a slit into his desk — ' put it into the post-office ' 
 was his phrase — that the matter might be taken up afterwards, 
 and pursued by him at leisure. This ingenious advice in aid 
 of memory caught Shelley's fancy, but I am not aware 
 that he ever adopted it ; his cards, I fear, would have gone 
 astray, like the prophetic leaves of the Cumaean Sibyl. 
 
 Another anecdote of the mode of taking notes by another 
 illustrious personage pleased him still more ; on this account, 
 if not for the sake of its intrinsic worth, it is worthy to be 
 repeated and remembered. For in hero-worship, nothing 
 that relates to the object of adoration is trifling to the adorers. 
 Blaise Pascal, to whom Shelley, however different in some 
 respects, bore in others a striking resemblance, was fond of 
 radishes ; and he loved to draw them himself fresh from the 
 ground in his sister's garden, as we are gravely assured by an 
 admiring Jansenist : let it be known, then, to posterity that 
 Shelley delighted in honey, and more especially in honeycomb. 
 And so it is in demonworship, demonology, or demonography ; 
 a recent biographer informs us that Robespierre was a vora- 
 cious devourer of oranges. At the carpenter's house, where he 
 boarded, there was always a large dish of oranges for him 
 after dinner, and the empty skins piled upon Maximilian's 
 plate attested, that the miscreant was not less thirsty of 
 orange-juice than of human blood. But to return to the 
 anecdote. Our kind friend, J. F. N., informed us that some 
 old gentleman of his acquaintance, whose name I have forgotten 
 
5i6 Life of Shelley 
 
 came over from France in the packet with Rousseau and 
 David Hume. The Scotch philosopher was sick, and kept 
 below, but the citizen of Geneva was quite well and lively, 
 and remained on deck. He was sociable, talkative and 
 inquisitive, and asked many questions. Observing this gen- 
 tleman writing upon a substance that was new to him, he begged 
 to know what it might be. It was ass's-skin, a substance 
 much used formerly in pocket-books, but now seldom to be 
 seen. The nature of the tablet was explained to him ; how 
 well it received and retained the marks of a black-lead pencil, 
 and how readily the characters were effaced when it was 
 wetted. Rousseau was much surprised at the novelty ; upon 
 which the gentleman presented him with the pocket-book, 
 and it was accepted with great and almost childish eagerness. 
 During the remainder of the voyage, with the infantine 
 simplicity of genijis, the most eloquent of philosophers was 
 constantly playing with his new toy ; busily writing upon 
 the ass's-skin, wiping out, and writing again. Nevertheless, 
 it is by no means impossible that the fanciful, capricious, 
 suspicious man soon afterwards might take offence at the gift, 
 imagine that some treachery lurked in it ; that there was a 
 snake in the grass, that the smooth tablet was contrived 
 purposely to betray and ruin him, poisoned by the deceitful 
 David, and thereupon it might be committed to the flames. 
 A subtle poison infused by the envenomed malice of the jealous, 
 insidious Hume into the ass's-skin, gradually ascending up 
 the pencil into the fingers, and proceeding thence along the 
 arm, and finally arriving at the heart, and thereupon instan- 
 taneous death, or perhaps a more picturesque wasting, languish- 
 ing, perishing by slow but inevitable decay : the bare idea of 
 such an incident was charming to Shelley, and every tablet 
 of ass's-skin was a page of romance. 
 
 To mention a third remarkable man, and one of the same 
 leaven with the two former, if not of the leaven of the Phari- 
 sees — Thomas Paine, whose style his admirers affirm is so 
 correct, so pure, so plain, so distinct, so English, never made 
 any alterations in his writing. There was not a single correc- 
 tion, never one erasure in his MS. His manner of composing, 
 as I have heard persons who had known him relate, was this. 
 He walked backwards and forwards about the room until he 
 had completed a sentence to his satisfaction ; he then wrote 
 it down entire and perfect and never to be amended. When 
 the weather was fair, if there was a garden, a field, a courtyard 
 
Life of Shelley 517 
 
 at hand, he walked about out of doors for a while, and then 
 came in and put down the sentence which he had arranged 
 mentally, and went out again and walked until he was ready- 
 to be delivered of another. 
 
 Whenever he came in from a walk, from the streets or the 
 road, he for the most part went immediately to his desk, and 
 set down a finished sentence or two ; sometimes a whole 
 paragraph, a just paragraph, that needed no repentance. It 
 appears to me, I confess, that there is nothing wonderful, 
 or admirable, in this. It matters little whether corrections 
 are made in the head or upon paper. A blotted and blurred 
 page is offensive to a man of precise and neat habits ; and the 
 author of the Rights of Man was very likely such, having 
 been bred a Quaker. Besides, a person believing in imme- 
 diate inspiration, cannot well tolerate emendations ; for what- 
 ever has been inspired directly from above cannot need 
 correction, or indeed admit of it. It was probably through 
 the force of early habit that Friend Paine continued to the last 
 to pen his conceptions in faultless, immaculate, unamended 
 writing. 
 
 It was in the year 1 8 1 3 that I first became acquainted with 
 William Godwin. I saw him frequently in the course of that 
 year, and in the year following ; and afterwards I met him 
 more or less frequently, according to circumstances. I had 
 expressed a wish to know him, and I was soon invited by a 
 charming family, with whom he was intimate, to dine at their 
 house, where I should find him and Bysshe. I repaired 
 thither, to a somewhat early dinner, in accordance with the 
 habits of the philosopher. I was not on any account to be 
 late, for it was unpleasant to him to dine later than four 
 o'clock. 
 
 It was a fine Sunday. I set out betimes, and arrived at 
 the appointed place at half-past three. I found a short, 
 stout, thickset old man, of very fair complexion, and with a 
 bald and very large head, in the drawing-room, alone, where 
 he had been for some time by himself, and he appeared to be 
 rather uneasy at being alone. He made himself known to 
 me as William Godwin ; it was thus he styled himself. His 
 dress was dark, and very plain, of an old-fashioned cut, even 
 for an old man. His appearance, indeed, was altogether 
 that of a dissenting minister. He informed me that our 
 hospitable host and his family had been called away suddenly 
 into the country, and that we should not have their company, 
 
Si8 Life of Shelley 
 
 but that Mr. Shelley was expected every moment. He consulted 
 several times a large old silver watch, and wondered greatly 
 that he had not come ; but he would doubtless be with us 
 immediately. He spoke confidently on a subject, which, to 
 say the least, was doubtful. Bysshe, as was not uncommonly 
 the case with him, never came near us. Why he made default, 
 nobody ever knew, least of all did he know himself. 
 
 * Had Mr. Shelley mistaken the day, the hour ? Did he 
 not know the place ; surely he must know it, and know it 
 well ? ' 
 
 I could only say, on behalf of my absent friend, that he often 
 failed to observe his engagements and appointments. It 
 was his habit ; a disagreeable and most inconvenient one, 
 certainly. Why and how he had formed it, I could not tell, 
 although I was much interrogated and cross-examined on that 
 head. It had been the way with him ever since I had known 
 him, and it was only too probable that it always would be so. 
 I could not explain, excuse, defend, or justify it ; I could 
 merely affirm that so it was. 
 
 At four o'clock, I rang the bell, and ordered dinner. To 
 this order there were objections and expostulations. 
 
 ' We ought, in common civility, to wait awhile. Mr. 
 Shelley could not fail to be with us shortly '. 
 
 The objections were overruled, and we two went to dinner ; 
 and we two were a multitude, to judge from the number of 
 dishes on the table. Vegetable fare was the rule of the house, 
 and I observed the rule myself ; but meat of various kinds had 
 been prepared in various ways for the cannibal guest. He 
 dined carnivorously, but very moderately, paying little 
 attention to the plates of vegetables, which he seemed to 
 contemn, as well as the lore by which they were zealously 
 and learnedly recommended. 
 
 William Godwin, according to my observation, always ate 
 meat, and rather sparingly, and little else besides. He drank 
 a glass or two of sherry, wherein I did not join him. Soon 
 after dinner, a large cup of very strong green tea — of gunpowder 
 tea, intensely strong — was brought to him ; this he took with 
 evident satisfaction, and it was the only thing that he appeared 
 to enjoy, although our fare was excellent. Having drunken 
 the tea, he set the cup and saucer forcibly upon the table, at 
 a great distance from him, according to the usages of that 
 old school of manners, to which he so plainly belonged. He 
 presently fell into a sound sleep, sitting very forward in his 
 
Life of SKelley 519 
 
 chair, and leaning forward, so that at times he threatened 
 to fall forward ; but no harm came to him. Not only did the 
 old philosopher sleep soundly, deeply, but he snored loudly. 
 
 I got a book, and retiring to the window sat reading for 
 half an hour, or longer, until he awoke. He awoke suddenly, 
 and appeared to be refreshed. ' Had Mr. Shelley arrived ? ' 
 It was his first thought on waking. He would not take any 
 more wine ; he would not walk. It was a lovely evening, 
 but he should have quite enough of walking in coming and 
 in returning. He would go to the drawing-room, and we 
 went up stairs. 
 
 Sir William Cell's description of the island of Ithaca had 
 just come out ; a handsome quarto volume with engravings ; 
 and it lay upon the table. We looked it over together ; it 
 was new to both of us, and it interested us greatly. He 
 discoursed much of Ithaca, of Greece, of Ulysses, of Troy, of 
 Homer, and of Chapman's * Homer ' : it was manifest that 
 his acquaintance with the poems of Homer was chiefly, if 
 not entirely, derived from Chapman's translation. However, 
 he was quite familiar with the story, the characters, the 
 manners of the Odyssey. We spoke nearly all the time we 
 were together of the many extraordinary things, of many 
 things hard to be understood, which are found in that ancient 
 and wonderful poem. The tea-things were brought in. I 
 made tea ; I forget whether my com.panion partook of it. 
 Tea was always most acceptable to me, particularly whilst 
 I was a Pythagorean. Poor dear Pythagoras, with all his 
 wisdom he did not know how to make himself a good cup of 
 tea ; or where he might purchase a pound of passable Pekoe, 
 or of satisfactory Souchong. During the whole course of our 
 conversation and operations, my respected associate ever and 
 anon recurred, uneasily and impatiently, to a matter which 
 distressed him sorely — the absence of Mr. Shelley. 
 
 Mr. Shelley and William Godwin — such was to be the form 
 of speech : he persisted as pertinaciously in dubbing Bysshe 
 Mister, as in rejecting the title for himself. He questioned me 
 again and again on the subject, and I thought with a certain 
 air of lurking suspicion, as if I knew more than I chose to tell ; 
 as if I were privy to the plot, and that there was some deep 
 design in his non-attendance. If he really beheved that I was 
 in the confidence of the motives and the secret of his absence, 
 he did me a great injustice. 
 
 I ventured to say a few words concerning his famous work on 
 
520 Life of Shelley 
 
 Political Justice ; but the topic did not appear to be an 
 agreeable one. The author spoke of it slightingly and dis- 
 paragingly, either through modesty and politeness, or because 
 he really had come to consider his theories and speculations on 
 government and morals, crude, unformed, and untenable. 
 Whenever that publication had been mentioned to him in my 
 hearing, he uniformly treated the child of his brain like a step- 
 father. Possibly he felt that his offspring had turned out ill, 
 and had not requited the patience and anxiety that a fond 
 parent had bestowed upon an ingrate. At last he was reluc- 
 tantly convinced that we should not see the truant. ' Perhaps 
 he was unwell ? Did I believe that Mr. Shelley had been 
 taken ill ? ' On the contrary, I firmly believed that he was as 
 well, and as unpunctual, as he had ever been in his life. 
 
 William Godwin took leave of me somewhat early, at ten 
 o'clock precisely by the old watch, charging me earnestly and 
 repeatedly to say a great many things to Mr. Shelley, whom 
 most probably I should see first, by way of reprehension, 
 admonition, and well-merited censure for his unwarrantable 
 neglect. I promised to inform the offender of his disappoint- 
 ment and dissatisfaction. I did not know in what direction 
 the grave reprover's homeward course lay, or whether he 
 might desire any more of my society, and therefore I did not 
 offer to accompany him, as I frequently did at our subsequent 
 meetings. The next morning I saw Bysshe. He was delighted 
 to learn that I had met with William Godwin. 
 
 ' What did he say ? What did. we do ? What did I think 
 of him ? How did I like him ? ' 
 
 He devoured me with greedy questions, and listened to my 
 answers with eager curiosity and enthusiastic pleasure. But 
 when, to keep my promise with the sage, I reported the pro- 
 ceedings of the preceding day, and inquired, in my turn, why 
 he had been nonsuited at our sittings, and had lost his writ of 
 Nisi Prius, the rocks are never more deaf to naked, ship- 
 wrecked mariners than his locked-up ears were to the interro- 
 gatories and reproaches which I faithfully conveyed to him. 
 
 In the same comfortable house, which looked upon a plain, 
 at that time green and open with spacious fields, but now 
 fashionable with Belgravia, I soon met William Godwin again. 
 I entered the drawing-room one evening, and found him 
 seated on the sofa ; not alone, as before, but in a circle. He 
 was stoutly maintaining, against several ladies, that hair and 
 moss are the same substance, both growing in the same situa- 
 
Life of Shelley 52 1 
 
 tion, and in precisely the same manner. His arguments were 
 not successful ; his paradox was not prosperous ; he entirely 
 failed to convince. I apprehend that the discussion arose out 
 of consideration of vegetable diet, and that he was endeavour- 
 ing to show, that there is no essential difference between animal 
 and vegetable substances. In society he was usually reserved, 
 shy, and silent ; yet did he always inspire a certain interest. 
 Whatever he said, when he chose to be communicative, was 
 listened to with attention, and was always worth hearing. He 
 appeared to myself and to others to be a perpetual contradic- 
 tion. He was at once pleasant and unpleasant, agreeable and 
 disagreeable. His conversation was yielded so sparingly that 
 it could never offend by excess, or seem intrusive ; his speech 
 was abrupt and curt, but every remark had its value, and was 
 peculiar and characteristic. His works, the best of them at 
 least, as Caleb Williams and St. Leon, are read with pleasure 
 and with pain. The mind of the reader is strongly arrested 
 and highly gratified ; and yet he rises from the powerful volume 
 not without a certain uncomfortable feeling ; and the like 
 impressions were produced by personal intercourse with the 
 highly-gifted author. His articulation was indistinct ; his 
 utterance was not easy, but impeded by a sort of effort or 
 catch, sharp and dry. It seemed to be painful to the speaker 
 as well as to the hearer. This it certainly was to a stranger ; 
 but one got accustomed to it by degrees, and then one found in 
 it peculiarity, individuality, and character ; and these qualities 
 would be wanting, if the quality of his voice were less grating 
 and inharmonious. 
 
 He was cherished by the kind and amiable family through 
 whose favour I first knew him, and treated with politeness and 
 deference, and his company was courted. Having been put up 
 to it probably at home, he seemed to labour to introduce his 
 family also to their notice ; but in this attempt he was not 
 encouraged. 
 
 At our second meeting he was in no hufry to depart ; it was 
 long after the old watch had pointed to ten that he rose to take 
 his leave. The lady of the house informed him that I was 
 going in the same direction, and that I would attend him. As 
 soon as we found ourselves in the street, he put his arm through 
 mine, and we trudged homewards together. He proceeded to 
 the City, to Skinner Street ; I wished him a good-night, or a 
 good-morning, in Lincoln's-Inn-Fields. I have frequently 
 walked the same distance with him — a considerable distance. 
 
522 Life of Shelley 
 
 especially by the side of a short-legged old man, who got over 
 the ground slowly. 
 
 Head to head, as the French have it, he was by no means 
 silent, as he was in mixed societies. He was communicative, 
 conversible ; he chatted as he walked with short, tardy steps, 
 but without interruption or intermission. When I reached 
 my lodgings I went instantly to bed to sleep ; for however late 
 the hour of taking rest might be, I never failed to rise punc- 
 tually at seven. I should have acted a wiser part — I should 
 have discharged the functions of a Boswell better — if I had sat 
 up for half-an-hour, and had committed to paper notes of what 
 I had just heard. But I went to sleep — to forgetfulness ; and 
 therefore my recollections of the Diversions^ not of Purley, 
 but of Piccadilly and Long Acre, are now but meagre and 
 scanty. 
 
 ' What is your principal line of reading ? * 
 
 * Law '. 
 
 This course of study was not approved of. The Caliph, 
 Ebubekr, said, ' that women are an evil, and that they are a still 
 greater evil because they are a necessary evil *. So my legal 
 studies were disapproved of all the more because they were 
 inevitable. 
 
 * What else do you read besides Law ? ' 
 
 * Greek and Latin, French and Italian, the classics and 
 modern languages'. 
 
 * Do you never read English books ? ' 
 
 * Yes, sometimes *. 
 ' Of what kind ? ' 
 
 * Voyages and travels, history, and biography * 
 ' All of them modern ? ' 
 
 ' Almost entirely new publications '. 
 
 * Have you read none of our old English writers ? 
 
 * Very few. Shakespeare ; little besides '. 
 
 I was strongly and seriously advised to take the old English 
 authors in hand. Several of them were indicated and recom- 
 mended. The father of English literature, of English poetry, 
 was especially introduced to my notice, and urged upon me. 
 
 * But I should not understand his language ; his English 
 must be so antiquated, that I could not comprehend it '. 
 
 * By no means ; you will find no difficulty. There are a few 
 antique, obsolete words in his poems, no doubt, but very few ; 
 far fewer than you would suppose ; and there are glossaries 
 to explain these ; you find no difficulty whatever.* 
 
Life of SKelley 523 
 
 The illustrious poet, whose life and times William Godwin set 
 forth in detail, and in a ponderous quarto, was so constantly 
 and perseveringly pressed upon me, that I promised, as soon 
 as I had leisure, to begin to read his poems ; and ere long I 
 fulfilled my promise. 
 
 ' Godwin ', said Charles Lamb to his friend, ' you have read 
 more books that are not worth reading than any man in 
 England ! * There is some truth and much exaggeration in all 
 such sallies of wit. But this is not the place for a disquisition 
 on the old English poets, dramatists, and prose-writers ; it 
 is needless to discuss at length their , merits and defects 
 here. 
 
 The importance of the treatise on Political Justice has surely 
 been greatly over-rated. The notion that any serious danger 
 was to be apprehended from its influence on the public mind 
 was perfectly preposterous. Utter impracticability is the 
 most striking feature of the work. It is incredible that any 
 one, however weak and timorous, really considered it dangerous 
 and mischievous. It suited the ends of trading alarmists to 
 affect to believe, and to represent, that it was a formidable 
 production ; for during the infectious terror diffused around by 
 the French Revolution the trade in alarm was carried on to a 
 great extent : it was sometimes lucrative, and, moreover, it 
 was very easy, for a man incapable of anything else could at 
 least pretend to be frightened. On the other hand, the merits 
 of the book were much too highly estimated by its admirers. 
 There is little of novelty in it ; it contains nothing so absurd 
 as not to have been said already by some of the philosophers — 
 of the French philosophers. The style and composition are 
 cold, crude, indigested ; it is never so frigid, although always 
 frigid, as when the author desires to be warm ; and 
 it never crawls and creeps so low as when he would rise on 
 high, and seeks to soar. I used sometimes to presume to 
 laugh at it, to turn it to ridicule, to the great annoyance of 
 Shelley, who struggled vehemently to defend the style, as well 
 as to prop up the speculations and sophisms of the halting sage. 
 * There are more Its in it ', I boldly affirmed, * than in any other 
 book of the same bulk '. I sometimes counted the number in a 
 page, in proof of my assertion. * It was a mere Iteration ', 
 I said ; ' an incessant iteration of the word it from the begin- 
 ning to the end '. Yet, with all its many and great defects, it is 
 a work of considerable merit, containing various ingenious 
 problems, speculations, theories, and doubts, well worthy of a 
 
524 Life of Shelley 
 
 careful perusal, and calm and patient consideration. So 
 also is The Enquirer, a subsequent work by the same author, of 
 smaller dimensions, less pretentious, and which attracted less 
 attention and produced less hostility. 
 
 This passage from Political Justice was at one time in every- 
 body's mouth ; it was illustrative of the completion which the 
 endless perfectiblity of the human species would some day 
 receive upon earth. ' It is by no means clear, to make use of 
 a familiar instance, that hereafter a plough may not be turned 
 into a field, and perform its office without the need of super- 
 intendence '. ' And that a needle ', it was likewise said, 
 ' might not in like manner be turned loose upon a piece of 
 linen, and it would one day make a shirt of itself '. These 
 expectations, if such they may be called, were quoted in those 
 days as extreme and laughable instances of presumption, 
 credulity, and insanity. Nevertheless, we now read of steam- 
 ploughs, and we may view sewing-machines, by which, to a 
 considerable extent, forebodings once deemed dangerous, 
 impious, and revolutionary, have been realized. The recent 
 triumphs of modern mechanical art, of mind over matter, have 
 thrown ancient ingenuity, even of the highest order, sadly 
 into the shade : let us take one instance. ' In Egypt I saw 
 Cleopatra's Needle ', a young lady returning from her school in 
 England to her home in India, wrote lately to her friends, ' but 
 I thought very little of it, I assure you, after having seen the 
 sewing-machine in London '. 
 
 People are used to talk very positively of Shelley's principles, 
 and solemnly to assure the world, which does not care a straw 
 about the matter, that they do not participate or concur in 
 them. I knew Shelley more intimately than any man, but I 
 never could discern in him any more than two fixed principles. 
 The first was a strong, irrepressible love of liberty ; of liberty 
 in the abstract, and somewhat after the pattern of the ancient 
 republics, without reference to the English constitution, 
 respecting which he knew little and cared nothing, heeding it 
 not at all. The second was an equally ardent love of toleration 
 of all opinions, but more especially of religious opinions ; of 
 toleration, complete, entire, universal, unlimited ; and, as a 
 deduction and corollary from which latter principle, he felt an 
 intense abhorrence of persecution of every kind, public or pri- 
 vate. He certainly was at all times prone to discuss, to attack, 
 or defend the curious speculations which abound in the writings 
 of William Godwin, and of divers French authors of that age, 
 
Life of Shelley 525 
 
 but he never seriously and in good earnest adopted their 
 startUng and unhealthy paradoxes. 
 
 Bysshe's uncle, John Shelley, who was his father's half- 
 brother and was much younger, nearly twenty years younger, 
 than ' old Timotheus ', called on him several times. He was a 
 short, dumpy man, of a plain and rather common appearance, 
 and far inferior to his elder brother in stature and vigour. 
 He treated Bysshc with kindness, with marked civility and 
 respect ; and he seemed to have the good sense and penetra- 
 tion to perceive, that his family had reason to be proud of a 
 young poet and philosopher of divine promise. He regretted 
 that he was not on better terms with his father, and that the 
 latter was so unreasonable, and he invited his nephew to visit 
 him at Penshurst, who was not inclined to accept the invita- 
 tion. He disUked his aunt, and complained of her pride and 
 inordinate pretensions, with what foundation I know not ; and 
 that she was mean and stingy, except for purposes of ostenta- 
 tion, as in entertaining the French emigrant nobility. In 
 estimating his judgment of his relatives, as well as of other 
 persons, I express in this instance a caution, which is always 
 implied, that considerable allowance ought to be made for a 
 poetic and imaginative temperament. Mr. T. Shelley suffered 
 at times severely from gout. On one occasion he was very 
 seriously indisposed, in considerable danger indeed, from a 
 sharp attack of gout in the stomach. He occupied, during his 
 illness, a small room on the ground-floor at Field Place. 
 Bysshe's sisters told me, that they well remembered seeing 
 their brother several times a day watching and listening at 
 the door of the sick-room, to try to discover how his father was, 
 how he was getting on ; he was then about fourteen years of 
 age, and at that time he was exceedingly fond of his father. 
 The poor Eton boy, in his filial solicitude and tender anxiety, 
 standing thus on the watch, is a pleasing and natural picture. 
 Surely it was not well done ; it was injudicious, and worse, 
 by a harsh, intemperate, despotical exercise of paternal autho- 
 rity, to aUenate a youth of such kindly feelings, and to lose 
 for ever so warm and affectionate a heart. When he was 
 not crossed, Mr. T. Shelley is represented by those who 
 knew him best, to have been a kind man. Acts of kindness 
 towards Tom Med win have been related to me, and also 
 towards other persons. 
 
 It was early in the summer of the year 18 13, and, I believe, 
 under the tranquil auspices of the able and mute Quaker 
 
526 Life of Shelley 
 
 physician, with whom I had a silent interview two or three 
 months previously, that the elder of Harriet's two children came 
 into the world, and nearly two years after her marriage. I 
 have not got the exact date of this important event. I have 
 read in some periodical that it took place at Cooke's Hotel, in 
 Dover Street ; this I think is a mistake. They removed from 
 Half Moon Street to a small house in a quiet back street in 
 Pimlico, of which I have forgotten the name. I called there 
 pretty frequently, taking it in my way, to inquire after the 
 mother and daughter, and I always received a favourable 
 report of their well being. All the matrons, prophetesses, pre- 
 dicted that as the good Harriet got over it so quickly and so 
 well, she must be a strong little woman, and would certainly 
 live a long time, and have a very large family. The first time 
 I called there, was so soon after the birth of the child, that it is 
 hardly possible to suppose that she could have been removed 
 thither from Dover Street. The situation had been chosen in 
 order to be near a very agreeable lady, to whom Bysshe was 
 warmly attached, and who had lodgings a few doors off in the 
 same retired street. 
 
 I never set foot in the house ; my visits did not extend 
 beyond the door. They did not remain there long — not above 
 a month, I think. The little girl was named lanthe Eliza. She 
 received the latter name, doubtless, in honour of the guardian 
 angel, who still continued to officiate, occasionally at least, in 
 that capacity. lanthe, violet flower, or violet, is a name of 
 Greek origin, fetched immediately from Ovid's Metamorphoses, 
 being the name of a girl, to possess whom another girl, Iphis, 
 was transformed into a youth : 
 
 potiturque sua puer Iphis lanthe. 
 
 The fable is pleasing, and the name pretty ; yet as the young 
 father had so many. good old names amongst the ladies of his 
 own family, it is a pity that he did not prefer one of them to 
 so fantastical an appellation. The Yankee Cockney practice 
 of bestowing flowers of fancy names has a vulgarity, affecta- 
 tion, and pretension about it, and was unworthy of him. It 
 was better adapted for the issue of a metropolitan rhymster 
 than for a gentleman's daughter. This accession to his family 
 did not appear to afford him any gratification, or to create 
 an interest. He never spoke of his child to me, and to this 
 hour I never set eyes on her. This I regret, as I believe she is a 
 most estimable person, and in every respect worthy of her 
 
Life of Shelley 527 
 
 parents, and, moreover, suitably married ; lanthe the second 
 having found a second Iphis, it is presumed, without any trans- 
 formation. I often asked Harriet to let me see her little girl, 
 but she always made some excuse. She was asleep, being 
 dressed, or had gone out, or was unwell. The child had some 
 blemish, though not a considerable one, in one of her eyes ; and 
 this, I believe, was the true and only reason why her mother 
 did not choose to exhibit her. She could not bear, herself a 
 beauty, that I should know, such was her weakness, that one so 
 nearly connected with herself was not perfectly beautiful. 
 
 Although I did not visit the young cock bird in his breeding- 
 cage during the few weeks he inhabited it,' I sometimes met him 
 at the house of our common friends, and several times in 
 particular at the adjacent lodgings of the lady friend, for whose 
 sake he had emigrated to Pimlico. She was an amiable and 
 accomplished old lady, and tolerably agreeable, but too much 
 of the French school to be quite so, and the greater part of her 
 associates were odious. I generally found there two or three 
 sentimental young butchers, an eminently philosophical 
 tinker, and several very unsophisticated medical practitioners, 
 or medical students, all of low origin, and vulgar and offensive 
 manners. They sighed, turned up their eyes, retailed philo- 
 sophy, such as it was, and swore by William Godwin and Political 
 Justice ; acting, moreover, and very clumsily, the parts of 
 Petrarchs, Werters, St. Leons, and Fleetwoods. This strange 
 selection was made, this queer medley was brought together, 
 partly from a certain French love of presiding over, ruling, 
 forming, and managing, and it was imagined — a great mistake 
 — that low people would prove the most tractable and submis- 
 sive ; and partly through the love of equality, of levelling, and 
 fraternizing. 
 
 I bore with the rabble rout for a little while, on account of my 
 friend, and because I could there enjoy his precious society ; 
 and they had made him believe that their higgledy-piggledy 
 ways were very right and fine, and conducive to progress and 
 perfectibility. However, a young English gentleman, of a 
 liberal education, an Etonian and Oxonian, soon grew weary of 
 persons so ill-suited to his aristocratical feelings and habits, and 
 began to train off. 
 
 The last pilgrimage I made to the abode of perfect republi- 
 can equality, I met Bysshe near the door, towards which he was 
 advancing with mighty strides and his wonted rapidity. I 
 seized his arm, and said, ' Come along ; let us take a walk to- 
 
528 Life of Shelley 
 
 gether ; let us leave the sentimentalists to ripen for the gallows 
 by themselves ! ' 
 
 He laughed so long and so loud at a sally that strongly 
 arrested his sympathies, and I joined him so heartily in the 
 mirthful and contemptuous explosion, that several of the good 
 people of the quiet street opened their windows, and looked out 
 to discover the cause of the unusual disturbance. Whilst he 
 was hesitating, I still kept hold of his arm, and finally I carried 
 him off as lawful prize. We had a long walk to the westward, 
 through fields, and afterwards we enjoyed a cup of strong tea, 
 or rather, to tell the whole truth, many cups, in a still coffee- 
 room, at Kensington. 
 
 * How I wish I could be as fastidious and exclusive as you 
 are *, he sighed forth, as we walked ; ' but I cannot ' 
 
 A good-humoured, paternal old waiter brought the kettle 
 to our table so often, which he always kindly assured us was 
 * byling ' — and the kettle fully confirmed his assurance, — 
 that he was provoked to remark : ' You like your tea, gentle- 
 men, I think ! ' 
 
 We finished our tea at last, but not until we had sworn in 
 our cupS to cut the unprejudiced, levelling confraternity. 
 
 From the quiet street in Pimlico they retired to Bracknell, 
 a still quieter place, where Shelley took a small house with 
 the attractive title, ' High Elms,' with his ordinary purpose 
 of remaining in it for ever. I did not visit him, because I 
 was about to proceed to the North, to spend the long vaca- 
 tion there, as usual, before he was well settled in his pleasant 
 retirement. 
 
 High Elms, Bracknell, July 27, 181 3. 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I was disappointed at being unable to call on you on 
 Sunday morning. My presence was required at home, but 
 as I shall be in town in a few days, I expect still to have the 
 pleasure of seeing you before your journey to the North. 
 
 Tell me when you depart from London. I am anxious to 
 see you, or if I cannot, to write to you at greater length. It 
 is far most probable that we shall remain here until the Spring. 
 I know you will be happy even to receive these few lines, 
 and therefore I do not wait until to-morrow, when I should 
 write a longer letter. 
 
 Your very affectionate Friend, 
 
 Percy B. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
Life of Shelley 5^9 
 
 CHAPTER XXVIII 
 
 One evening, at the commencement of August, I took my 
 seat on the box, or top, of the Edinburgh mail, and in due 
 course, by a progress which in those days we were so unenUght- 
 ened as to consider rapid, I reached my destination. That 
 amount of vacation which I annually gave to myself, I fully 
 and freely imparted to my law-books ; pleading and pleaders, 
 with all their counts, common and uncommon, and pleas, 
 general and special, I left behind me with my books in London, 
 to keep holiday also, or to do worse. 1 usually devoted my 
 vacation to a careful study of the Greek classics, but this 
 autumn I had to redeem two pledges. I had undertaken, at 
 the suggestion of a lady, to read Sir Charles Grandison, and 
 promised William Godwin to take Geoffrey Chaucer in hand. 
 The day after my arrival I borrowed Grandison of my aunt, 
 my father's sister, who lent me the numerous, well-thumbed 
 volumes joyfully ; observing, that it was a good sign in a 
 young person to desire to read that excellent work. The 
 same morning I took down from its shelf in my father's library, 
 a fine old edition in folio and black-letter, a volume which I 
 had never opened before of Chaucer's Works. I found the 
 proceedings of the most exemplary, faultless personages in 
 Richardson's famous novel extremely tiresome, and I passed 
 over the early portion of the long-winded narrative too rapidly 
 for edification ; but my attention was powerfully arrested, 
 riveted, by the Lady Clementina and her family. I experi- 
 enced little difficulty with Chaucer, less even than the assur- 
 ances of my adviser had led me to expect. The Canterbury 
 Tales delighted me ; so much, indeed, that I read them a 
 second time some five or six years afterwards, in Tyrwhitt's 
 edition, on the summer circuit. The other poems of Chaucer 
 contain many striking passages of infinite poetical merit, but 
 on the whole they proved tedious ; yet I persevered, and 
 steadily read the Romance of the Rose, and so on, quite to the 
 end of the big book. I looked into sundry old English writers 
 subsequently, at different times, through the like suggestions. 
 It really seemed to me that these good people were dead, 
 quite dead, fairly dead ; they had died a natural death, and 
 it was vain to try to resuscitate them. 
 
 That spirited publisher, William Caxton, selected the pro- 
 ductions of his unrivalled press with great judgment, no doubt, 
 
 M M 
 
530 Life of Shelley 
 
 and in accordance with the taste of the fifteenth century, but 
 not by any means of the nineteenth. Jane Shore probably 
 found them agreeable reading, I did not : to dispute con- 
 cerning tastes is a vain thing. If the lovely Jane had repaired 
 to Skinner Street with one of Caxton's new volumes, wet from 
 the press, under her arm, and had read it aloud to William 
 Godwin, as the lovely Harriet was accustomed to read aloud 
 to me, the venerable sage, in sooth, would have thought it 
 most amusing, and truly delightful. 
 
 . I did not receive any letters from Bysshe, or any account of 
 his proceedings, from himself or Harriet, during the period 
 of nearly three months, which I passed in the North. I heard 
 afterwards that he spent some weeks agreeably at High Elms ; 
 but he did not remain there for ever, or even until the Spring, 
 by reason of his own inherent restlessness and the pernicious 
 action of disturbing forces. He had a long visit from an 
 amiable and interesting family, to whom he was warmly 
 attached, and who doated upon him. They came to him in 
 a body — father, mother, and five fine children. His visitors 
 were devoted, heart and soul, to the return to Nature and to 
 vegetable diet, which we may readily believe was faithfully 
 observed whilst his orthodox friends were under his hospitable 
 roof. He had also two or three neighbours, in whose 
 superior, society he found pleasure and amusement. 
 
 The cheerful village, where the wanderer had pitched his 
 tent, was within a pleasant walk of London, according to our 
 estimation of distance in those youthful days, and with our 
 habits and practice of walking. There was every motive to 
 induce him to remain content and comfortable in his present 
 position, and none whatever for changing it. I also followed 
 exactly the canonical observances of the vegetable church of 
 Nature ; and I found them far from disagreeable in the coun- 
 try, and during the summer and autumn. I did not stumble 
 upon anybody who was disposed to follow my example, how- 
 ever excellent or edifying it might seem. It is true that I 
 did not seek to proselytize, or desire to attract followers or 
 make converts. Nevertheless, nobody objected. I represented 
 my singular fare merely as a whim — a fancy ; such, in truth 
 it was, and I was freely permitted to follow my fancy. 
 
 I sought exercise and amusement in shooting, and I devoted 
 much time to that diversion, as I did for several years. I 
 shot, during this season, game which I was not to eat. My 
 way of gaining an appetite was in direct opposition to my 
 
Life of Shelley 53 T 
 
 mode of satisfying it. A striking incongruity — a patent con- 
 tradiction ; and such my existence — at once blood-thirsty 
 and bloodless — would certainly have been, if I had taken up 
 my Une of feeding on the principles of Pythagoras, or of the 
 Brahmins, or perhaps upon any principles whatever. But 
 I was commonly contented to leave their fine, fixed principles 
 to wiser heads than my own ; to slay or to scare partridges 
 from sunrise to sunset, for three or four days in every week ; 
 and to return home at dusk and refresh and restore myself, 
 first, with vegetables and fruit, and finally with copious 
 potations of tea. 
 
 On the intervening days of rest I read Chaucer's ponderous, 
 black-letter tome. It occupied much of my time, yet I did 
 not altogether neglect the Greek Classics. On the contrary, 
 I found leisure to read carefully, and with unspeakable delight, 
 nine of the eleven comedies of Aristophanes ; the other two 
 plays I had read before. For that purpose I borrowed a nice, 
 readable edition in octavo of a friend, who had devoted him- 
 self exclusively to Greek literature. The painfully minute 
 characters of my little pocket Aristophanes were too trying 
 even for eyes that had then seen only twenty-one years and 
 a few months. 
 
 I have sometimes compared the calm, stationary, I may 
 almost say retrograde, life of the owner of the octavo edition 
 of the one inestimable sample of the old comedy that alone 
 remains to us, with the troubled, restless, innovating career 
 of the roving occupant of High Elms. I am now attempting 
 to delineate the eccentric orbit of the latter luminary ; let 
 the former describe for himself his steady revolution during 
 a triennial period round a single centre and sun of Grecian 
 learning. The marked diversity in the motions of two dis- 
 tinguished scholars will be curious, amusing, and possibly 
 not without instruction. 
 
 The very obliging lender of Brunck's Aristophanes was 
 formerly a member, not without distinction, of a college of 
 high repute in Oxford. 
 
 ' I rise early ; I always did ; and I take one mouthful of 
 air before breakfast — no more. I begin to read immediately 
 after breakfast, that I may get a walk and appetite before 
 dinner, which is essential.' 
 
 He spoke modestly of his dinner, but we will hope that he 
 invariably made such a meal, as, in a wealthy establishment, 
 a clerk in holy orders ought to make. 
 
532 Life of Shelley 
 
 * I have my tea pretty soon after dinner ; it freshens me 
 up. I cannot read again until I have had my tea.- When I 
 have finished my book, in the summer — in the winter it would 
 be ridiculous — I take a turn round the garden, when I am at 
 home ; when I am by the sea-side, on the sands close to the 
 sea. I am not much of a supper-man ; I never was ; but I 
 love just to play with a crab before going to bed ; or with 
 something of the kind, and to swallow a spoonful or two of 
 warm negus. 
 
 ' I read nothing but Greek. I have a three-years' course 
 of Greek authors, which I go over every three years '. 
 
 He promised to give me a list of the authors, with dates 
 showing the time which he gave to each. I reproach myself 
 for letting the opportunity slip ; for never having procured 
 what I might then have obtained at any time. 
 
 M read a few pages of Virgil and of Cicero two or three 
 times in the year, just to satisfy myself that although they 
 are very clever, very good in their way certainly, they are not 
 to be compared with the Greek writers, but are immeasurably 
 inferior in all respects ; that it is a waste of time for a man 
 who can read Greek to read their writings. 
 
 ' On Sunday it is different. I do not read the classical 
 authors ; it would not be proper. I look over the newspaper 
 very lightly ; once a-week is enough. I read the Septuagint, 
 the New Testament, and perhaps a homily or two of Chrysos- 
 tom ; in the original, of course. 
 
 * A newspaper once a-week, and very little of it, is sufficient 
 surely. I will not say absolutely, that since the age of Pericles 
 nothing has happened in the world, that a man of sense ought 
 to care about. But since the publication of the last Greek 
 author of acknowledged merit — I will not say the last classic, 
 for I would not be illiberal or too restrictive — there has been 
 no event that we need trouble ourselves much about. Of 
 course, I except our blessed religion — that is a thing quite 
 apart ; I say nothing about that now ; I speak only of pro- 
 fane matters — of secular affairs. When two or three scholars 
 get together, we talk, you know, like heathens. 
 
 ' Homer is an exception to my three-years ' course — the 
 only one. I read him every year. 
 
 ' I reside in a country town ; and I go every year to the 
 sea-side in the summer, during the long days, for a month. 
 I read a book of the Iliad every day before dinner, and a 
 book of the Odyssey daily after dinner. In a month there 
 
Life of Shelley 533 
 
 are twenty-four week-days ; there being twenty-four books 
 in each poem, it just does it. 
 
 * The sea-side is the proper place to read Homer ; he speaks 
 so much of the sea. I throw in the Hymns — there are com- 
 monly two or three rainy days in the four weeks, when I 
 cannot take a walk ; so I always contrive to throw in the 
 Hymns and the Frogs and Mice. 
 
 ' I always use the Oxford Homer, as it is called. The Greek 
 text, in four volumes octavo ; without the Latin interpre- 
 tation, but with the Greek scholia of Didymus, or whoever 
 he was. I make use of common editions,' he showed me 
 several of them, * without many notes ; for if I had to read 
 many notes I should never get through. I use no other lexicon 
 than Scapula ; I find it quite sufficient '. 
 
 He produced a folio edition of Scapula, in which by long 
 use he had worn a hole that would have contained a pair of 
 stockings. He continued his triennial course of reading with- 
 out interruption for thirty years, and consequently read 
 Homer through thirty times ; the other Greek classics ten 
 times. 
 
 ' I have looked into the translations of Homer ; they are 
 very poor affairs. I have heard much of a German trans- 
 lation, by Voss, but I do not understand German ; I am quite 
 content with the original. I have looked into Cowper's : I 
 like his translation of Homer as little as I like his religion ! 
 I never published anything ; I never wrote a line for publi- 
 cation. I have always been most unwilling to increase the 
 sum of human errors : it is large enough already, to say the 
 least '. 
 
 To have written a good book on the Tranquillity of Life, 
 as the Scotchman, Volusenus Wilson, did, is something, but 
 it is far more to have actually and so admirably practised it. 
 I repeat my regret that I did not get from him his Itinerary 
 of three years' journey and progress through the principal 
 Greek authors ; it would have been a literary curiosity, and 
 interesting to many students, as the regular orbit of an ordinary 
 mind, although of a very high order, to whom the erratic 
 course of a transcendent genius — of a comet that blazes across 
 the zenith once in a century, would be perplexing and incom- 
 prehensible. 
 
 This excellent scholar and clergyman had no family ; his 
 clerical duties were none, or trifling ; he was not a man to 
 neglect any duty, of superior, or inferior, obligation ; and 
 
534 Life of Shelley 
 
 he had a competent, a moderate income derived from private 
 sources, and independent of ecclesiastical stipends and benefices. 
 
 Chester Street, Oct. 21, 18 13. 
 
 After allowing your elegant and friendly letter to remain 
 so long unanswered, you will perhaps suspect that I am incap- 
 able of making a due estimate of its merits ; but the truth is, 
 I am a reluctant writer, unless stimulated to the use of my 
 pen by painful emotions. This peculiarity of my nature will, 
 I trust, at least acquit me of not receiving pleasure from your 
 ready compliance with my request ; for I do not forget that 
 Clementina's woes were introduced to your acquaintance at 
 my suggestion, and that I likewise urged you to favour me 
 with your opinion of this celebrated composition, of which 
 the episode is incomparably the most interesting part. 
 
 In your estimate of the character of Grandison, you must 
 keep in view that Richardson designed to paint a perfect 
 civilized being, whose passions are always obedient to his 
 reason. She never for one moment quits the helm — a dis- 
 gusting object enough, I will confess, contrasted with the wild 
 and beautiful starts of passion so conspicuous in his fair mis- 
 tress. But the fidelity and consistency with which his hero 
 is delineated and supported throughout the work, proves, 
 indeed, what has never been denied to Richardson — the true 
 character of genius. 
 
 In reading this voluminous novel, we never confound one 
 object with another, and the images remain indelibly impressed 
 on the mind. This, at least, was the judgment I formed of 
 it years ago, for it is long since I wept over the artificial woes 
 of Clementina, whose madness is the most touching picture 
 of the kind, I believe, in the literature of any country. We 
 have, indeed, the authority of an excellent scholar on this 
 subject, Dr. Warton, who concludes his encomium on this 
 masterly performance by saying that he questions whether 
 it would not be pedantry to prefer the madness of Orestes to 
 Clementina's, or whether even Lear's has so many strokes of 
 genuine passion. The author, who does not yield the palm 
 to Euripides, or Shakespeare, has surely the strongest claim 
 to our admiration and respect. 
 
 From this subject I turn to one, I am persuaded, not less 
 interesting to you : your friends, the Shelleys, who were all 
 well when we parted. Since their arrival in the North, where, 
 I imagine, necessity will fix them for some time, we have had 
 
Life of Shelley 535 
 
 no tidings of them. The lady, whose welfare must be so 
 important in your estimation, was, as usual, very blooming 
 and very happy, during the whole of our residence at Brack- 
 nell : lanthe grown surprisingly, and Miss Westbrook 
 ever smiling and serene. They have made an addition to 
 their party, in the person of a cold scholar, who, I think, has 
 neither taste nor feeling. This Shelley will perceive, sooner 
 or later ; for his warm nature craves sympathy, and I am 
 convinced he will not meet with it in his new acquaintance. 
 
 My sister, who would be flattered by your inquiries, if she 
 knew of them, was quite well a fortnight since. We all look 
 with pleasure to your return ; not omitting Mr. Lawrence, 
 who always speaks of you as you deserve. 
 
 That the temper and habits of your associates do not meet 
 all your wishes, is far from surprising me. I never yet found 
 in the country of this distinguished isle enlightened and agree- 
 able persons of either sex ; they are too scattered for one to 
 light upon them by accident. Even the capital is not too 
 rich in unprejudiced thinkers ; and upon those, society, with 
 its frauds, lays so firm a claw, that half their merit is of 
 necessity cast into the shade. 
 
 I read the first part of an early work of yours, and see it 
 was the production of a very young man, some portions of 
 which your mature judgment will not confirm. When we 
 meet I will venture to discuss with you its beauties and 
 defects. 
 
 Mr. N. has already acquitted himself of his agreeable debt 
 to you, and, having of course talked of his health, it only 
 remains for me to speak of the other members of my family, 
 who would be pleased by your inquiries, if they were old 
 enough to estimate the value of them. Octavia and Camilla, 
 I think, you will find improved ; my elder son progressing 
 towards scholarship, and the younger boy fast into breeches ; 
 and Coraly light and nimble as a fairy. 
 
 I hope you will eat your Christmas dinner with us, whether 
 you continue one of the holy or not, for no change of habits 
 of such a nature can alter the esteem with which I subscribe 
 myself 
 
 Your very sincere friend, 
 
 To T. J. H., Norton. Cornelia N. 
 
 It was from my fair correspondent that I first learnt that 
 my young friends had taken themselves off to Edinburgh. 
 
536 Life of Shelley 
 
 I ignorantly supposed that Bysshe was living happily in his 
 peaceful abode in Berkshire, and I wondered, so far as I could 
 ever wonder at any of his proceedings, at his protracted 
 silence, and vainly speculated on the possible causes of it. 
 No doubt I addressed at least one letter to Bracknell, to be 
 read only by the winds that played in the tops of the High 
 Elms. I confess I was surprised at the unexpected intelU- 
 gence of his sudden and absurd flight, of his second and cause- 
 less visit to the metropolis of Scotland ; where, of course, he 
 would remain for ever, as usual ; or, it was imagined at least, 
 that necessity would fix them there for some time. It was 
 falsely pretended that necessity had driven them thither. 
 The journey was performed, I believe, in that carriage for the 
 price of which I had been arrested in the spring. As a measure 
 of rigid economy and a matter of strict necessity, they had 
 posted four hundred miles at an enormous expense. I mar- 
 velled at the rash and extravagant delusion, and was curious 
 to discover by what evil counsellor it had been put into their 
 heads, but I could never find it out. 
 
 At the end of October, and soon after the receipt of the 
 charming letter which brought to me the unwelcome tidings 
 of this overt act of folly, I returned to London. I resumed 
 my professional duties and legal education in the Temple. 
 I consecrated my evenings, whenever I was at liberty, and 
 my Sundays invariably, to the delightful society of my amiable, 
 accomplished, and intellectual friends. Nobody could give 
 me any news of the fugitive, whose absence from our circles 
 was deeply deplored ; and the ruthless marauders were 
 bitterly execrated who had cruelly despoiled us of our beloved 
 companion, and choicest and most exquisite ornament. I 
 was constantly reminded of the choice of Hercules ; of that 
 fable, or apologue, in which the half-god is placed between 
 Virtue and Vice, who contend for the possession of him. Thus 
 was it with our three-quarter god ; there was always a con- 
 test for him, between forward, spunging vulgarity, that would 
 live out of him, on the one hand — and on the other, the 
 modest, fostering elegance, that cherished him, and would 
 cheerfully have maintained him, had it been needful. Unfor- 
 tunately, and by reason of the fourth part of mortality's 
 frailty, that clogged and weighed down his otherwise divine 
 nature, the poor fellow, unlike Hebe's husband, did not on 
 every occasion make the more eligible selection. Our uneasy 
 speculations were at last terminated by a letter, which came 
 
Life of Shelley 537 
 
 to hand one calendar month, after my return. Here it is ; 
 may it be as acceptable to every reader as it was to us ! 
 
 Edinburgh, Nov. 26, 181 3. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I have written to you several times since I received your 
 letter at Bracknell. My letters were directed to you at Stop- 
 ton in Durham, but I suppose that you had nothing particular 
 to communicate in return — as, indeed, their contents were 
 not of extraordinary importance. 
 
 I am happy to hear that you have returned to London, 
 as I shall shortly have the pleasure of seeing you again. I 
 shall return to London alone. My evenings will often be spent 
 at the N.'s, where, I presume, you are no unfrequent visitor. 
 
 Your novel is now printed. I need not assure you with what 
 pleasure this extraordinary and animated tale is perused by 
 me. Every one to whom I have shown it agrees with me in 
 admitting, that it bears indisputable marks of a singular and 
 original genius. Write more like this. Delight us again 
 with a character so natural and energetic as Alexy — vary 
 again the scene with an uncommon combination of the most 
 natural and simple circumstances : but do not persevere in 
 writing after you grow weary of your toil ; * aliquando bonus 
 dormitat Homerus ' ; and the swans and the Eleutherarchs 
 are proofs that you were a little sleepy. 
 
 I have for some time given myself to study. I have read 
 Tacitusy many of Cicero's philosophical works (who is, in my 
 estimation, one of the most admirable characters the world 
 ever produced), and Homer's Odyssey. I am now studying 
 Laplace, SysUme du Monde, and am determined not to relax 
 until I have attained considerable proficiency in the physical 
 sciences. 
 
 I have examined Hume's reasonings with respect to the 
 non-existence of external things, and, I confess, they appear 
 to me to follow from the doctrines of Locke. What am I 
 to think of a philosophy which conducts to such a conclusion ? 
 — Sed hcBC hactenus. 
 
 A new acquaintance is on a visit with us this winter. He 
 is a very mild, agreeable man, and a good scholar. His 
 enthusiasm is not very ardent, nor his views very comprehen- 
 sive ; but he is neither superstitious, ill-tempered, dogmatical, 
 or proud. 
 
 I have translated the two Essays of Plutarch, ir^pl aapKO' 
 
538 Life of Shelley 
 
 cfyayias, which we read together. They are very excellent. 
 I intend to comment upon them, and to reason in my preface 
 concerning the Orphic and Pythagoric system of diet. Adieu ! 
 Believe me to be ever sincerely attached to you. My dear 
 friend, 
 
 I am yours affectionately, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 When will the Dead Letter Office give up her dead ? At that 
 joyful resurrection of lost, departed thoughts we may read not 
 only the several letters so strangely misdirected to me at 
 Stopton in Durham, but many other of my friend's precious 
 communications, which, on other occasions, unfortunately 
 miscarried. We see, however, from this single letter, the small 
 remnant that was saved, how true he had been to his nature — 
 an ardent, sedulous, enthusiastic student. We perceive also 
 that, with the like truth, he v/as in as great a hurry to quit Edin- 
 burgh as he had ever been to reach it. He was desirous to 
 quit it by himself ; to swim to the shore alone, to get speedily 
 out of that ocean of delights into which he had inconsiderately 
 plunged. This he was not permitted to do. 
 
 Not very long after the receipt of his letter, but how long 
 I do not remember, he came back to London — not a solitary, 
 as he had proposed, and free, but in custody. He entered, 
 most unexpectedly, one of our evening circles, together with 
 some of his associates, and with an abruptness on the part of 
 the latter that was not altogether relished. Upon the like 
 principles of philosophical frugality the return to London had 
 also been performed by post. On their way to or from Scot- 
 land, I think, the party had made some deviation into the 
 Lake district. I never heard the details of his second north- 
 ern progress. Bysshe never spoke to me on the subject ; 
 he seemed to have no pleasure in the retrospect. He looked 
 forward with fervid eagerness, and seldom did he review the 
 past with satisfaction. I must except his sojourn at Oxford ; 
 to this he always recurred with mingled feeUngs of pleasure and 
 regret : there only did I ever see him completely at home. 
 Time wears on, passing by with an equal foot, whether we sit 
 still in an easy-chair in our study, conning over the Greek Clas- 
 sics in a mazy round, thrumming and thumbing Scapula, and 
 traveUing only to the end, wind and weather permitting, of 
 the broad gravel-walk in the vicarage garden ; or whether, 
 
Life of Shelley 539 
 
 flying off at a tangent, we dash away on the instant to the 
 farthest corners and most hidden nooks of Wales, Scotland, 
 and Ireland, in order that we may rush wildly back again, 
 posting up to London in utter destitution and with four horses. 
 
 The year 18 14 had come upon us. In that year — and at the 
 beginning of the year, I think — Shelley published a work en- 
 titled, A Refutation of Deism : in a Dialogue. It is hand- 
 somely, expensively, and very incorrectly printed, in octavo. 
 It was published in a legal sense, unquestionably ; whether 
 it was also published in a pubUsher's sense, and offered for sale, 
 I know not, but I rather think, that it was : the preface in- 
 forms us that it was intended it should be. I never heard that 
 anybody bought a copy ; the only copy I ever saw is that which 
 my friend kindly sent to me : it is inscribed by his own hand on 
 the title-page : ' To his friend, T. Jefferson Hogg, from P. B. 
 S.' I never heard it mentioned any farther than this, that 
 two or three of the author's friends told me, that it had been 
 sent as a present. It is a short dialogue, comprised in loi 
 pages of large print. Eusebes and Theosophus discourse 
 together, and dispute with each other, much as the author 
 himself loved to dispute, when he could find an opponent ; 
 whenever Eusebes could find a Theosophus and get up an 
 antagonistic dialogue. It is written in his powerful, energetic, 
 contentious style, but it contains nothing new or important, 
 and was composed and printed also, in a hurry. He never 
 spoke of it to me, or in my presence. It attracted no atten- 
 tion ; and doubtless Shelley himself soon discovered that 
 it did not merit it. The subject of vegetable diet is brought 
 in, dragged in, and in a crude, undigested form. The whole 
 matter is disposed of briefly, triumphantly, and dogmatically, 
 in a single paragraph, in these words : 
 
 ' It is the necessary consequence of the organization of man 
 that his stomach should digest his food. It inevitably results 
 also from his gluttonous and unnatural appetite for the flesh 
 of animals, that his frame be diseased, and his vigour impaired. 
 But in neither of these cases is adaptation of means to end to 
 be perceived. Unnatural diet, and the habits consequent upon 
 its use, are the means, and every compUcation of frightful 
 disease is the end. But to assert that these means were adapted 
 to this end by the Creator of the world, or that human caprice 
 can avail to traverse the precautions of omnipotence, is absurd. 
 These are the consequences of the properties of organized 
 matter, and it is a strange perversion of the understanding, to 
 
540 Life of Shelley 
 
 argue that a certain sheep was created to be devoured by a 
 certain individual of the human species, when the conforma- 
 tion of the latter, as is manifest to the most superficial student 
 of comparative anatomy, classes him with those animals who 
 feed on fruit and vegetables *. 
 
 A long quotation is given in a note from Plutarch's treat- 
 ise on eating flesh. It is in the original Greek, without any 
 translation either in English or in Latin ; a convincing proof 
 that the dialogue was not addressed to unlearned readers. 
 Plutarch shows very clearly that the internal structure of a 
 human being is not suited to digest raw flesh, nor is the out- 
 ward form of man so constructed that he can conveniently 
 seize upon, and worry, and devour a stag, or a bullock, or even 
 a kid, or a lamb, after the manner of a lion, a bear, or a wolf. 
 This is perfectly true, but this is not the question. It would 
 take a good many Plutarchs and Porphyrys to prove, even 
 with the powerful aid of Joe Ritson and Dr. Lambe, that man 
 may not add a little cooked meat to his vegetables. A squire 
 first catches his hare by his greyhound ; secondly, he dresses it 
 by his cook ; and, thirdly, he eats it with a mealy potato and 
 a slice of bread, by the assistance of a friend ; and, fourthly 
 and lastly, he digests it at his ease, in the same good company, 
 pouring a glass or two of good old port wine upon it. 
 
 This comfortable mode of living, say the philosophers, being 
 universally adopted by the gentry and clergy throughout 
 merry England, is the fruitful parent of physical and moral 
 suffering. It is the cause that a flea-bitten Scotchman has 
 the itch ; that a dog has the mange ; and that an Irish 
 hodman, having taken too much whiskey overnight, at 
 waking his mother, and falling from a ladder, pitching upon 
 his head, and fracturing his skull, dies upon the spot. You 
 cannot cut down a fir tree with your teeth, and saw it into 
 lengths with your nails. Therefore, says Plutarch, in spite of 
 your axes and saws, you shall have no planks, no inch deals ! 
 
 Whether the immortal Goethe could have produced the 
 poems of the Divine Shelley, I will not presume to decide, or 
 even to inquire ; but I will assert confidently that Shelley 
 could not have written Goethe's novels. Whilst he was still 
 a boy — a boy of magnificent promise — he threw off hastily 
 two extravagant romances, and published them as hastily. 
 He never brought forth another novel, but he was often nib- 
 bling at one : he had commonly some tale on the anvil. He used 
 to transmit choice passages to me, an ill-natured Aristarchus, a 
 
Life of Shelley 541 
 
 very Zo'ilus ; for he said that I discouraged him. I am in part, 
 not wholly, guilty. I encouraged and exhorted him to pro- 
 ceed, but to proceed, for the most part, in a more sober, sub- 
 dued tone ; to give a little repose and respite to the nerves, 
 spirits, and feelings of the harassed reader. A raging sea, an 
 eruption, an earthquake, a whirlwind, must not last for ever ; 
 not even for a long time. He was fascinated by The Sorrows 
 of Werter, who has not been ? and he was of opinion that a 
 continuation, or rather an enlargement and amplification of 
 the narrative, was demanded. Albert certainly ought to 
 have made a splash ; on the contrary, he exhibited a culpable 
 indifference, in taking things coolly, like an honest German as 
 he was. His wife was dear to him, no doubt, and with abund- 
 ant reason ; but so also were his sausage with cabbage, his 
 Rhenish wine, his Bavarian beer, and especially his pipe. If 
 therefore, by an undue sensibility to the young ladies' vagaries, 
 he had brought on an indigestion, or broken in upon the hours 
 sacred to his tranquil enjoyments, he would have disturbed 
 that balance and equipoise of soul which constitute the per- 
 fection of reason. 
 
 I appended my impertinent remarks, and sent the papers 
 back, as he desired. They were destroyed, or lost. However, 
 I found one morsel, it appears, to relate to the amplification 
 of Werter ; and the worthy Albert is supposed to be doing the 
 right sort of thing, in the right way. I had omitted to return 
 it. Would that I had been as negligent on other occasions ! 
 It is in Shelley's hand-writing : it has never been published, 
 and the subject is familiar and popular. 
 
 CHAPTER XXIX 
 
 FRAGMENT OF A NOVEL 
 
 You deceive yourself terribly, my friend ; it is another source 
 of proof to me that you should have written to Charlotte, as 
 you have. 
 
 It convinces me at the same time of your real sincerity, 
 great, self-deceptive, continued vehemence of passion, which 
 borrows respect, deference from distance. It convinces me 
 more forcibly than ever how unfit it is that you should live 
 near us ; it convinces me that I, by permitting it, should act 
 
542 Life of Shelley 
 
 a subservient part in the promotion of yours and Charlotte's 
 misery. I am more and more convinced, that from a connec- 
 tion such as this, even intellectual, nothing but misery can 
 arise : your passions impose upon your reason, if this is not 
 evident to your apprehension. I either actually do, or merely 
 affect to put self out of the question ; this we will not discuss ; 
 if similar effects, follow, the consideration of causes must be 
 useless labour. You say you fear that you have lost my good 
 opinion. * Good opinion ' is very comprehensive, certainly. 
 I no longer estimate your powers of resisting passion so highly as 
 once I did. Certainly, I no longer consider your reason as 
 superior to the sophistry of feeling, as once it was. How can 
 I ? to what have you yielded ? How terrible, how complete 
 has been the perversion of that reason I once almost fancied 
 omnipotent. I admit the distinction which you make between 
 mistake and crime. I heartily acquit you of the latter. Yet 
 how great has been your mistake ; even now does it continue. 
 You never could think it virtue to act as you desired. You 
 might, indeed, have been so far imposed upon by feeling as to 
 imagine that virtue did not forbid it. I said I thought you 
 were insincere — true. I do not wonder that you shudder at 
 the accusation. It appears to me perfectly natural that you 
 should at the same time be disguising, veiling, palliating ; you 
 should think yourself the pattern of disinterestedness, which 
 once you were, which once I hope again to behold you. I said 
 you were insincere. I said so because I thought so. I still 
 think so ; but you are imposed upon by feeling the contamin- 
 ation of falsehood is far, far from you. One expression in 
 your long letter, your last letter, convinces me that you are 
 still enthralled by feeling. It is merely an instance. * I 
 must, I will convince you, etc. I must, — or, the alternative 
 is terrible but decided. You shall believe, etc., or, when too 
 late, you shall feel '. This gives me pain. This proves to 
 me that, so far from being now under the guidance of reason, 
 you wish to enforce my belief in you by an act, which itself 
 is inadequate to the excitement of any belief, but that of 
 your selfishness, or to revenge my want of it by this very act, 
 which you know would embitter my existence. Else what 
 means ' you shall feel when too late ? ' 
 
 This, my friend, is not convincing. It might be enough 
 (supposing I thought you remained in the state of mind which 
 dictated that) to make me say, I believe in you, but not to make 
 me believe in you. What will then make me again believe 
 
Life of Shelley 543 
 
 you to be what you were ? Simply to resume that character 
 which once gained the credence, the loss of which you com- 
 plain of. Think, reason, methodize. Your present incapacity 
 for all these ; my conviction that your exposure to Charlotte's 
 attractions would augment that incapacity, are the limits 
 of the change of my opinion regarding you. It appears to 
 me that I am acting as your friend — your disinterested 
 friend — by objecting to your living near us at present. 
 Certainly, I am depriving myself of the very great pleasure 
 of your society : this, however, is necessary ; to this I 
 submit. 
 
 You hint in your letter to Charlotte your obligation to me 
 for introducing you to her. Certainly, if I deserve any dis- 
 service at your hands, it is for unwittingly exposing you to the 
 temptation and consequent misery of this very intercourse. 
 Here, again, I see that feeling peeping out which would destroy 
 our hopes again. Think not that I am otherwise than your 
 friend ; a friend to you, now more fervent, more devoted than 
 ever, for misery endears to us those whom we love. You are, 
 you shall be my bosom friend. You have been so but in one 
 instance, and there you have deceived yourself. Still, let 
 us continue what we have ever been. I will remain unchanged, 
 so shall you hereafter. Let us forget this affair ; let us erase 
 from the memory that ever it had being. Consider what 
 havoc one year, the last year of our lives, has made in memory. 
 How can you say, then, that good will not come ; that we shall 
 not again be what we were ! Good and evil are in an ever- 
 varying routine of change. If I am wretched this month, the 
 arising of another may see me happy. 
 
 You will say, perhaps, that it is well for me to reason ; I 
 am cold, phlegmatic, unfeeling, that I compromise for those 
 sins which I love, by railing against those, which are matters 
 of indifference. In the first part of this charge there may be 
 some truth, I have more than once felt the force of this. Is 
 constitutional temperament the criterion of morality ? Be- 
 lieve me, that this more than excuses to me the present irra- 
 tionality, incongruity, and inconsistency of your words and 
 actions ; I cannot avoid, however, seeing, that they are in- 
 congruous, nor seeing it, avoid earnestly desiring, that they 
 may be otherwise. 
 
 Prove to me satisfactorily, that virtue exists not, that it is 
 a fabric as baseless as a schoolboy's vision — then take life, I will 
 po more with it. I would not consent to live, to breathe, to 
 
544 Life of Shelley 
 
 vegetate, if this vegetation simply went on to imbibe for no 
 other end, than its own proper nutriment the juices, which 
 surrounded it. Does the vegetable reason on the good it does 
 to the air, when it absorbs azote ? does the panther destroy 
 the antelope for the public good ? does the lion love the lioness 
 for his sake or her own ? Prove, that man too is necessarily 
 this ; my last act may be an act of this very selfishness, but 
 it would be an act precluding the possibility of more of it, 
 and I would leave the world to such, as could bear to inhabit 
 its surface. Prove this, and I will say you have acted wisely. 
 The argument concerning morality mentioned in your last 
 letter was intended for this. But though I think you insincere 
 (though without being conscious of it), I do not think that this 
 is your opinion now ; yet, stay, what did I remark in your letter 
 to Charlotte ? It proves, at the same time, the sincerity, un- 
 disguisedness of your passion. Yet the insincerity, which 
 I have remarked as secretly betraying you. 
 
 Your talk of female excellence, female perfection. Man is 
 in your declamation a being infinitely inferior, whose proudest 
 efforts at virtue are but mockeries of his impotence. Char- 
 lotte is the personification of all this contrast to man, the 
 impassionateness of the most ardent passion, that ever burned 
 in human breast could never have dictated a compliment (I 
 will not say, a piece of flattery) more excessive. She perceived 
 it (for she has shown me your letter), and remarked with much 
 indignation on the repetition of that continued flattery, which 
 you had made your theme ever since she knew you. I wish 
 you would investigate the sources of this passion, my dear 
 friend ; you would find it derived its principal source from 
 sensation. 
 
 Let your * too, too great susceptibility of beauty ', your 
 very own sincere expression in your letter to Charlotte suffice 
 to convince you of the true state of your feehngs. This 
 caused your error primarily : nor can I wonder. I do not 
 condemn, I pity ; nor do I pity with contempt, but with 
 sympathy, real sympathy. I hope I have shown you that I 
 do not regard you as a smooth-tongued traitor ; could I choose 
 such for a friend ; could I still love him with affection una- 
 bated, perhaps increased ? Reason, plain reason, would tell 
 you this could not be. How far gone must you have been 
 in sophistry, self-deception, to think sensation in this, in any 
 instance laudable. 
 
 I am not happy, I tell you so. My last letter was written 
 
Life of Shelley 545 
 
 in the acuteness of feeling ; but do you wish that I should be 
 happy ? Reassure yourself, and then be assured, that not 
 a wish of my heart will remain ungratified, as respects you. 
 I have but one other wish beside ; to that, at present, I will 
 not allude more. Charlotte will write to you to-morrow. May 
 I require, that, as one proof of self-conquest, you will throw 
 the letter into the fire, suppressing all thoughts of adoration, 
 which I strongly suspect to arise from mere sensation, sen- 
 timent. But the letter will arrive first : it will be pressed 
 to the lips, folded to the heart, imagination will dwell upon the 
 hand, that wrote it ; how easy the transition to the wildest 
 reveries of ungratified desire ! 
 
 Oh ! how the sophistry of the passions has changed you ! 
 The sport of a woman's whim, the plaything of her inconsist- 
 encies, the bauble with which she is angry, the footstool of 
 her exaltation ! Assert yourself, be what you were.^Love, 
 adore ; it will exalt your nature, bid you, a man, be a God ! 
 Combine it, if you will, with sensation, perhaps they are in- 
 separable ; be it so. But do not love one, vfho' cannot return 
 it, who if she could, ought to stifle her desire to do so. Love 
 is not a whirlwind, that it is unvanquishable ! 
 
 This epistle from Albert to Werter is forcibly written, with 
 great power and energy ; but it wants the warmth, the tender- 
 ness, of Goethe and Rousseau. The tone is rather that of the 
 novels of William Godwin, or Holcroft ; it is cold, bald, 
 didactic, declamatory, frigid, rigid. 
 
 It is a real pleasure, a tranquil, contemplative, long-drawn 
 pleasure, to write a novel ; a great luxury ! I speak from 
 experience, for I once indulged in it myself ; and, during a 
 long vacation, which I passed in London, I composed a novel. 
 I walked every morning from the extreme west to the Temple, 
 a distance of some five miles ; I was always seated at my desk 
 by nine o'clock, and I continued writing until the clock struck 
 four, when I walked home to dinner. This I did every day, 
 except Sunday, for three or four months. It was in three 
 volumes. I wrote it off freely, with scarcely a single erasure 
 or alteration. The neat and natty Quaker, Thomas Paine, 
 could hardly have produced fairer copy ; but our valued 
 friend would have written in a very different strain ; no 
 fictions, but only what he esteemed truths, home truths. 
 Moreover, I wrote the whole of it with the same pen, just 
 
 N N 
 
54^ Life of Shelley 
 
 nibbing it from time to time, but not often, and it was only a 
 stump when I began to write with it. Cardinal Chigi wrote 
 for three years with the same pen ; the Earl of Chesterfield, 
 who relates the anecdote, says it was a proof of a little mind 
 in his Eminence to notice such a trifle. We may congratu- 
 late ourselves, therefore, that little minds are still to be found 
 amongst us. 
 
 The novel was never published. Several years after I had 
 written it, I was asked to contribute to the Monthly Chronicle. 
 I sent some articles composed expressly for that periodical, 
 and afterwards, not having leisure to write more such, I gave 
 portions of my unpublished novel. The greater part — almost 
 the whole, I believe, of the first volume — was printed thus ; 
 and if the Monthly Chronicle had not been discontinued, most 
 probably the whole work would have appeared. It com- 
 mences with No. 30, and terminates with No. 40, for then the 
 Chronicle ceased, under the title Some Recollections of Child- 
 hood ; a title not by any means applicable to the novel, but 
 which was continued from some previous contributions, of 
 which it was sufficiently descriptive. It attracted no notice 
 or attention, I think ; it was either too good, or not good 
 enough for the public taste ; the Monthly Chronicle itself, 
 indeed, did not prosper ; not being trashy enough for the 
 readers of magazines. 
 
 However this may be, it is a great gratification to an author 
 to write a work of fiction, and I wish that Shelley had enjoyed 
 it also, as well as myself, and more than once. It is sweet for 
 a sensitive mind to take refuge in imaginary scenes ; and by 
 writing much he would have learned at last to write with 
 moderation and calmness, as a horse too fresh at starting 
 becomes, in the end, temperate through his own violence. I 
 have sometimes thought of writing another tale, but I have 
 always been distracted and diverted from this my diversion by 
 other occupations and engagements, more lucrative, but less 
 attractive. , 
 
 To turn from the dominions of imagination to sober, sad 
 realities, and to look back for a moment. Shelley had pub- 
 lished anonymously, and without a date, in the preceding year, 
 I think, in a small neatly printed pamphlet of twenty-three 
 pages, his celebrated Letter to Lord Ellenboroughy occasioned 
 by the sentence which he passed on Mr. D. I. Eaton, as pub- 
 lisher of the third part of Paine's Age of Reason. It is written 
 with force, fervour, and energy, and unflinching boldness — 
 
Life of Shelley 547 
 
 possibly, we should add, with a burning zeal on behalf of the 
 freedom of speech, of the pen and the press ; and the author 
 resolutely and eloquently enforces the motto of his title-page — 
 that religious opinions are of too high a nature for human 
 interference, Deorum offensa Diis curae — on the extreme prin- 
 ciples of absolute, universal, unUmited toleration. It would be 
 impossible to satisfy a liberal curiosity by extracts, it is only 
 by a perusal of the work itself, that its nature, scope, and 
 purpose can be fully understood ; and it ought to be read with 
 a due consideration of the circumstances under which it was 
 composed, in times before it was generally recognized, that 
 persecution for the expression of opinions on matters of reli- 
 gion, in whatever manner expressed, invariably defeats its 
 object. Now let us return to our flock. 
 
 The good Harriet had fully recovered from the fatigues of 
 her first effort of maternity, and, in fact, she had taken it 
 easily. She was now in full force, vigour, and effect ; roseate 
 as ever, at times, perhaps, rather too rosy. She had entirely 
 relinquished her favourite practice of reading aloud, which 
 had been formerly a passion. I do not remember hearing 
 her read even once after the birth of her child ; the accus- 
 tomed exercise of the chest had become fatiguing, or she was 
 weary of it. Neither did she read much to herself ; her 
 studies, which had been so constant and exemplary, had 
 dwindled away to nothing, and Bysshe had ceased to express 
 any interest in them, and to urge her, as of old, to devote her- 
 self to the cultivation of her mind. When I called upon her, 
 she proposed a walk, if the weather was fine, instead of the 
 vigorous and continuous readings of preceding years. 
 
 The walk commonly conducted us to some fashionable 
 bonnet-shop ; the reading, it is not to be denied, was some- 
 times tiresome, the contemplation of bonnets was always so. 
 However, there is a variety, a considerable variety and diver- 
 sity in the configuration of bonnets. When we descended 
 into the region of caps, their sameness and insipidity I found 
 intolerable. They appeared to me all ahke, equally devoid 
 of interest ; I could not bring myself to care whether there 
 were two or three more sprigs in the crown, or a little more or 
 less lace on the edge. Besides, a cap was never quite right ; 
 it must be altered on the spot, taken in, or let out ; that could 
 be done in a minute ; the minute was a long one. And, 
 uniformly, too much or too little had been effected by the 
 change ; it was to be altered again in another and a longer 
 
548 Life of Shelley 
 
 minute. I rebelled against this, so I was left outside the shop, 
 like a wicked rebel, for one moment. 
 
 To loiter in the street on a cold day, for the indefinite and 
 interminable period of one moment, was a punishment too 
 severe even for rebellion and high treason, for treason against 
 a high-crowned cap. So the walking, as well as the reading, 
 came to an end. 
 
 When I called on Bysshe, Harriet was often absent ; she 
 had gone out with Eliza, — gone to her father's. Bysshe him- 
 self was sometimes in London, and sometimes at Bracknell, 
 where he spent a good deal of his time in visiting certain friends, 
 with whom, at that period, he was in very close alliance, and 
 upon terms of the greatest intimacy, and by which connection 
 his subsequent conduct, I think, was much influenced. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1814, I changed the scene of my 
 professional avocations and legal education from the Temple 
 to Gray's Inn ; to a sufficiently uninviting locality command- 
 ing a full view of Gray's Inn Lane. I had already passed one 
 year with a conveyancer at York, and two years in the Temple 
 at the chambers of a special pleader under the bar. I was 
 now about to employ a fourth year with a barrister of consider- 
 able standing and eminence, who had much pleading business, 
 but of a laborious, rather than of a lucrative description. It 
 was said of him with a certain forensic facetiousness, that he 
 had all the bones to pick. Cases of difficulty and intricacy 
 were placed almost exclusively in his hands. 
 
 My position, therefore, with him was esteemed an enviable 
 one, as being highly instructive, and so no doubt it was, so 
 far as matters of that kind can afford any instruction. He 
 had, moreover, the distinguished honour and happiness to be 
 what is familiarly called the Devil of the Attorney-General, 
 and consequently we had an abundant, never-failing supply 
 of tiresome indictments, interminable criminal informations, 
 and other wearisome crown-business. 
 
 He had four pupils. Of these the first was a younger son 
 of a high judicial functionary : he fully confiding in his father's 
 opportunities and inclination to job him at the commencement 
 of professional life into lucrative offices, that were properly 
 designed to afford consolation to persons of merit at the other- 
 wise unrequited conclusion of it ; relying entirely upon the 
 wonted sordid and shameless rapacity, the necessary result of 
 over-payment, never once saw the interior of his instructor's 
 dingy chambers, and indeed they were not inviting. 
 
Life of Shelley 549 
 
 The second pupil came once to chambers, to get out of the 
 way of his father, who had come up from Bath with the avowed 
 purpose of ear-wigging his son for some indiscretion ; and the 
 young gentleman judged, that wherever else his father might 
 seek him, he would never look for him at chambers : and he 
 judged rightly. 
 
 The third attended pretty regularly, but he never chose to 
 draw anything ; he employed himself diligently in copying all 
 the precedents of indictments that he could lay his hands 
 upon, and they were many ; of these he made a considerable 
 collection. He was a baronet, and a> man of good landed 
 estate : what advantage he expected to derive from his MS. 
 indictments, I could never learn, or even conjecture. 
 
 Consequently, whatever drawing was to be done fell entirely 
 upon the fourth pupil, and the amount was by no means 
 trifling. My mornings were fully occupied in covering quire 
 after quire of draught-paper with endless repetitions and 
 fatiguing tautology. The whole duty was laid upon the 
 willing horse, and he was worked hard, but not to death. 
 
 My ancient and laudable master, who wore the aspect of an 
 immemorial usage incarnate in the flesh, or rather vested in 
 skin and bones, shaken together incessantly by a choking, 
 husky cough, which was older and more inveterate than the 
 period of legal memory, was detained all day in the courts at 
 Westminster. He had more to attend to there than he could 
 possibly have coughed through, slowly after his wont, during 
 the full end and term of two thousand years, if it had been 
 devoted solely to clearing off arrears, without a single new 
 entry. It was only in the evening that he could do duty at 
 chambers ; accordingly, we were employed together in going 
 over what I had committed to paper during the morning, 
 whilst he was shaking the arsenal, fulmining over Westminster 
 Hall, and struggling to choke himself, without being absolutely 
 suffocated, by his chronic spasmodic bursts of eloquence. 
 
 I was kept, therefore, almost every evening at chambers, 
 often until a late hour, in settling our ponderous, voluminous 
 masses of nonsensical jargon. The occupation was the more 
 tedious, because my husky old Trebonian was dark through 
 excess of brightness ; his mastery of law was so complete, that 
 his certain science had become doubt, and he knew so much, 
 that he knew nothing, like those who most truly know. In 
 the midst of our elaborate settling, some doubt would present 
 itself. He stated it modestly, and began on the instant to 
 
550 Life of Shelley 
 
 take down his books, one after another ; to find authorities, 
 to lay the open volumes upon the tables and chairs, and often 
 upon the floor around us. When he had collected matter 
 enough for a month's hard reading, he looked at the accumu- 
 lated references in despair. 
 
 ' Well ! Well ! Time presses ; I am afraid we must pro- 
 ceed. We must leave it as it is ; they will lose the term else. 
 We will clear up the doubt another time'. 
 
 We went on pretty smoothly for a while, the chronic cough 
 permitting ; but presently another doubt arose. 
 
 * Stay, stay ; stop a^moment ! ' 
 
 Another set of books v/as taken down, opened and laid in a 
 second, and not less formidable tier upon the former, until he 
 had satisfied himself that the second Gordian knot was as 
 insoluble as the first ; and the solution of this was postponed 
 likewise. 
 
 ' Let us go on ; the defendants are in a hurry, they want 
 their plea ; we must try it for once as it is. We will ckar up 
 the matter another time'. 
 
 When the nightly sittings terminated, we were literally 
 hemmed in on all sides with books, lying one upon another, and 
 to be put back into their shelves unread by the old clerk next 
 morning, in order to clear a passage to the next evening's seat 
 of doubt. 
 
 O most egregious of black-letter judges, you have been sit- 
 ting for some years now by the side of Minos, Rhadamanthus, 
 and ^acus, have you made an appointment yet ? Have you 
 at last fixed that other time. Old Boy, when all the matters 
 which we left undecided are to be cleared up ; when all those 
 points of pleading, questions, and doubts, are to be decided 
 and set at rest ? 
 
 Such were the Diversions, not of Purley, or of Long Acre, 
 but of Holborn Court, Gray's Inn ! They interfered sadly 
 with my attendance in our select circles and elegant society ; 
 however, it was very instructive. 
 
 My irksome duties were all the more irksome, inasmuch as 
 no printed book of precedents, no printed forms, were ad- 
 mitted within the dingy walls of the dark chambers ; all was 
 in manuscript. The most perplexed and complicated trans- 
 actions, upon due examination, often resolved themselves into 
 the common forms of pleading, and these were to be painfully 
 written out, as well as the most special matters. It was doubt- 
 Ici^s the true course to keep the lovely, beneficent science of 
 
Life of Shelley 551 
 
 special pleading in its pristine and perfect purity, but it was 
 not the way to make money. 
 
 My frequent breach of engagements of pleasure, and my 
 inevitable absence from our favourite and accustomed places 
 of resort, gave great umbrage to Bysshe, who blamed my 
 devotion to pursuits abhorrent to the Muses and Graces. 
 
 He inveighed in no measured terms against my self-sacrifice, 
 my base preference of a dim peep through a blackened, un- 
 cleaned window at Gray's Inn Lane, to the full view of the 
 glories of nature and art, which we might have enjoyed together. 
 * I am fully convinced, as far as human experience extends, 
 and it extends a great way in every direction, both in time and 
 in space, that lawyers, not priests, are true enemies of know- 
 ledge. Learned, meaning thereby most ignorant, is the 
 designation, which they have adopted, and freely bestow upon 
 each other : a learned friend, a learned brother, a learned 
 judge, the learned gentleman. To be learned in the law, meanc 
 to be unlearned and deeply ignorant of everything besides ; 
 learned only in the law ; learned precisely as a mule, or a 
 bullock, is learned ; stubborn, stupid, and intractable '. The 
 poor fellow seemed to prove by his bitterness, that he had 
 already, in the slang of certain metaphysicians, a pure, antici- 
 pated, precognition of the favours and benefits, which he was 
 destined ere long to receive at the hands of lawyers. But of 
 this hereafter. Moreover, I have been told that Shelley had 
 met with some unfavourable specimens in his own neighbour- 
 hood, hence he conceived so early in life an intense and abiding 
 dislike of lawyers. 
 
 If I saw less of my incomparable friend during my bondage 
 in Holborn Court, if we met less frequently than both of us 
 eagerly desired, our pleasure was all the more vivid, when, 
 triumphing over untoward circumstances and overcoming 
 difficulties, we were able occasionally to come together. 
 
 It became necessary to perform some surgical operation on 
 lanthe, the excision of a tumour, I believe. The operation 
 was successfully performed the able surgeon who operated, 
 told me he expected that the young mother would leave the 
 room ; he hinted, and finally suggested that she ought to 
 go away, saying plainly, that it would be too painful for her 
 to witness it. But, no ; she thought proper to remain, and 
 the business proceeded. She stood by her infant, narrowly 
 observing all that was done, and to the astonishment of the 
 operator, and of all who were present, never betrayed, from 
 
552 Life of Shelley 
 
 first to last, any — the smallest signs of emotion. In the whole 
 course of his experience, he declared he never met with such 
 another female ; she could have no feehng whatever. And he 
 farther remarked, that a person who was able to discourse so 
 calmly, so apathetically of suicide, could not possibly feel, 
 under any circumstances, either for herself or for others. 
 
 Whether his conclusions were correct, I will not presume to 
 affirm, or to deny ; I simply state the observations which he 
 made to me, and which had been elicited by this singular 
 manifestation of fortitude, of passive fortitude, or of Spartan 
 insensibility. 
 
 In the spring of the year 1814, Shelley spent much of 
 his time, as has been already related, at Bracknell ; coming 
 occasionally to London, and going continually backwards 
 and forwards. 
 
 The following elegant epistle, conceived and penned some- 
 what in the French taste, will throw light upon his proceedings 
 there, and show the nature of his existence, amidst the fumes 
 of a slightly sickly sentimentality : 
 
 Bracknell, March 11, 18 14. 
 Your most agreeable and welcome letter is a bribe, which 
 will hardly let me tell you how much I was startled at the 
 assertion to which I owe it. I cannot, now I am sober, confirm 
 what you say I maintained the other night, ' that, to follow 
 our inclinations on all occasions is the first and great command- 
 ment '. Look round, and you will see that I could not mean 
 this ; at least, as a general rule. And here is a new proof, 
 which I wanted not, that from the warmth of argument never 
 springs, or can spring, anything but misstatement and mis- 
 conception. If I should grant anything like what you say, I 
 must load it with such limitations, exceptions, and explana- 
 tions, as will amount to a lawyer's interpretation, and that you 
 will not thank me for. Perhaps the following precept of 
 Champfort, taken in its best sense, will satisfy you, and cer- 
 tainly comes much nearer to my meaning : * Jouis ct fais jouir 
 sans faire dc mal a pcrsonne ; voila toute la morale '. This I 
 have always maintained against a dear and ingenious sophist, 
 who labours hard to persuade us, that in concerns of the heart, 
 * s'abstenir c'est jouir ' ; and that it is wisdom to shut it against 
 every feeling that can possibly bring with it any pain ; as if 
 everything worth having must not be purchased at this price, 
 which (to use the words of an arch friend of mine) ' God in his 
 
Life of Shelley 553 
 
 infinite mischief ' has been pleased to set on every pleasure he 
 grants to us, his poor suffering children, whom in his love he 
 chasteneth. 
 
 When I have been delighted by the beauty and fragrance 
 of the rose, I have sometimes doubted whether we could strip 
 it of its thorns without injuring its beauty ; and certainly I 
 have never doubted whether it would be wise to renounce such 
 beauty and fragrance because of the thorns that guard it. 
 Alas ! yes ! Joys can and do pass away, and we must lament 
 over them for ever ; but that which does not pass away is the 
 susceptibility of pure joys ; which, with- a lavish hand, nature 
 scatters eveiywhere around her favoured children, to whom 
 she gives, to make amends for all their sorrows, the power of 
 going out of themselves for pleasure. A loving soul bears 
 about within itself a living spring of affections, which keeps it 
 fresh in spite of bUghts from evil things and evil men, and 
 suffers no good feeling to wither and to die. 
 
 I will not have you despise homespun pleasures. Shelley is 
 making a trial of them with us, and Ukes them so well, that he 
 is resolved to leave off rambUng, and to begin a course of them 
 himself. Seriously, I think his mind and body want rest. His 
 journeys after what he has never found, have racked his purse 
 and his tranquillity. He is resolved to take a little care of the 
 former in pity to the latter, which I applaud, and shall second 
 with all my might. He has deeply interested us. In the course 
 of your intimacy he must have made you feel what we now feel 
 for him. He is seeking a house close to us ; and, if he suc- 
 ceeds, we shall have an additional motive to induce you to 
 come among us in the summer. 
 
 If old Salomon had not his bewitching musical talent, his 
 lively feeling, to which, by the bye, he owes it, would seize 
 upon our affections, and hold them fast. Certain strains sung 
 by my sister make me so melancholy I cannot bear them ; 
 and, if anything could make me a convert to his iron philosophy, 
 it would be to hear her sing, and to think that she has never been 
 happy. I hear at this distance the heart-rending complaint 
 of Ariadne, and feel that the world is a desert. With such a 
 feeling as this Mademoiselle de I'Espinasse is closely connected. 
 Her sufferings, often so forcibly and naturally expressed, inter- 
 est me deeply. Read the long letter to the contemptible 
 object of her unhappy passion, soon after his marriage, contain- 
 ing her character of him, and pity the woman, whose under- 
 standing so plainly saw his unworthiness, and yet was so 
 
554 Life of Shelley 
 
 impotent in the struggle with her passion. This speedy answer 
 to your letter says plainly, that whenever you feel inclined to 
 favour me with a letter, it will be right for you to follow 
 your inclination, which must be productive of great pleasure 
 to me. My sister never writes ; scold her for me, if you can. 
 At all times I can ill bear her silence, and less well now than 
 ever, when I suspect it proceeds from low spirits. Thirty 
 miles cannot separate me from my friends. That is not the 
 worst evil of absence, for those we love we bear about in our 
 hearts ; but, the groundless apprehensions which spring up 
 to alarm us, when we might be tranquil, are very hard to bear. 
 Next month we shall come to town to pass some weeks, when 
 I hope we shall see you often. Shelley will write to you the 
 first day he is in the humour for writing ; in the meantime he 
 unites with every member of this family in kind regards, to 
 which I can only add the assurance of my cordial and friendly 
 attachment. Harriet B. 
 
 Excuse a thousand blunders and much confusion of expres- 
 sion, for I write, talking occasionally to Shelley of twenty 
 different subjects. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 Bracknell, March i6, 1814. 
 
 My dear Friend, 
 
 I promised to write to you, when I was in the humour. 
 Our intercourse has been too much interrupted for my con- 
 solation. My spirits have not sufficed to induce the exertion 
 of determining to write to you. My value, my affection for 
 you have sustained no diminution ; but I am a feeble, waver- 
 ing, feverish being, who requires support and consolation, 
 which his energies are too exhausted to return. 
 
 I have been staying with Mrs. B. for the last month ; I have 
 escaped, in the society of all that philosophy and friendship 
 combine, from the dismaying solitude of myself. They 
 have revived in my heart the expiring flame of life. I have 
 felt myself translated to a paradise, which has nothing of 
 mortality, but its transitoriness ; my heart sickens at the 
 view of that necessity, which will quickly divide me from 
 the delightful tranquillity of this happy home — for it has 
 become my home. The trees, the bridge, the minutest objects, 
 have already a place in my affections. 
 
 My friend, you are happier than I. You have the pleasures 
 
Life of Shelley 555 
 
 as well as the pains of sensibility. I have sunk into a pre- 
 mature old age of exhaustion, which renders me dead to every- 
 thing, but the unenviable capacity of indulging the vanity 
 of hope, and a terrible susceptibiUty to objects of disgust and 
 hatred. 
 
 My temporal concerns are slowly rectifying themselves ; 
 I am astonished at my own indifference to their event. I 
 live here hke the insect that sports in a transient sunbeam, 
 which the next cloud shall obscure for ever. I am much 
 changed from what I was. I look with regret to our happy 
 evenings at Oxford, and with wonder at the hopes which in 
 the excess of my madness I there encouraged. Burns says, 
 you know, 
 
 Pleasures are like poppies spread. 
 
 You seize the flower — the bloom is fled ; 
 
 Or like the snow-falls in the river, 
 
 A moment white — then lost for ever. 
 
 EUza is still with us — not here ! — but will be with me when 
 the infinite malice of destiny forces me to depart. I am now 
 but little inclined to contest this point. I certainly hate her 
 with all my heart and soul. It is a sight which awakens an 
 inexpressible sensation of disgust and horror, to see her caress 
 my poor little lanthe, in whom I may hereafter find the con- 
 solation of sympathy. I sometimes feel faint with the fatigue 
 of checking the overflowings of my unbounded abhorrence for 
 this miserable wretch. But she is no more than a blind and 
 loathsome worm, that cannot see to sting. 
 
 I have begun to learn Italian again. I am reading ' Beccaria 
 dei dilitti e pene '. His essay seems to contain some excellent 
 remarks, though I do not think that it deserves the reputation 
 it has gained. CorneUa assists me in this language. Did I 
 not once tell you, that I thought her cold and reserved ? 
 She is the reverse of this, as she is the reverse of everything 
 bad. She inherits all the divinity of her mother. 
 
 What have you written ? I have been unable even to 
 write a common letter. I have forced myself to read Beccaria 
 and Dumont's Bentham. I have sometimes forgotten that 
 I am not an inmate of this delightful home — that a time will 
 come which will cast me again into the boundless ocean of 
 abhorred society. 
 
 I have written nothing, but one stanza, which has no mean 
 ing, and that I have only written in thought : 
 
5S6 Life of Shelley 
 
 Thy dewy looks sink in my breast ; 
 
 Thy gentle words stir poison there ; 
 Thou hast disturbed the only rest 
 
 That was the portion of despair ! 
 Subdued to Duty's hard control, 
 
 I could have borne my wayward lot : 
 The chains that bind this ruined soul 
 
 Had cankered then — but crushed it not. 
 
 This is the vision of a deUrious and distempered dream, 
 which passes away at the cold clear light of morning. Its 
 surpassing excellence and exquisite perfections have no more 
 reality than the colour of an autumnal sunset. Adieu ! 
 
 Believe me truly and affectionately yours, 
 
 P. B. Shelley. 
 
 I hear that you often see the N.'s. Present my kindest 
 regards to Mrs. N. ; remember me also to her husband, who 
 you know, has quarrelled with me, although I have not 
 consented to quarrel with him. 
 
 To T. J. H. 
 
 In this most touching, melancholy letter only did Shelley 
 ever mention to me the children of his first marriage ; and 
 here he speaks of lanthe merely incidentally, and rather to 
 show his dislike for another, than his love of her. I never 
 heard any explanation of the cause of the intense aversion to 
 which he gives utterance in such bitter terms. Every allow- 
 ance and deduction being made for the fervour and fire of his 
 poetic temperament, and for his sensitive, impressible, imagin- 
 ative nature, his strong language will still seem far too strong. 
 His violent antipathy was probably not less unreasonable 
 than his former excess of deference, and blind compliance 
 and concessions towards a person, whose counsels and direction 
 could never have been prudent, safe, or judicious. 
 
 Bysshe was completely fascinated with his paradise in 
 Berkshire, of which an eye-witness will presently attempt to 
 give a sketch. He always called the presiding divinity 
 ' Meimoune '. Why he gave her this name, I could never 
 learn. She did not resemble the heroine of the oriental tale 
 in appearance, conduct, or opinions, A lady, who was an 
 inmate of an eastern harem, would be little versed in French 
 sentimentality ; certainly Meimoune never read Wieland's 
 Agathon in the French translation, or in the German original ; 
 and never held or taught, that love, to be true, genuine, and 
 
Life of Shelley 557 
 
 no counterfeit, of which beware, must be purely a sentiment, 
 neither more, nor less. 
 
 CHAPTER XXX 
 
 It was the Spring Circuit, the absence of my Common Law 
 Mentor on the Northern Circuit gave me some short respite 
 of leisure ; the dark Chambers were shut up ; but that my 
 legal mind might not perish of inanition, lacking wholesome 
 intellectual food, he kindly lent me, as a special favour, for 
 my necessary sustenance, whilst he was away, a thick folio 
 volume of his MS. Precedents. I patiently transcribed the 
 most tempting of these in the morning at my lodgings. I 
 was finishing the task of the day and about to go forth to 
 dinner, when transcription and dinner were suddenly put an 
 end to by a strange and unexpected apparition. A friend 
 entered the room in a state of extreme agitation. 
 
 ' What is the matter ? ' 
 
 ' You must proceed to Bracknell instantly '. 
 
 ' But why ? ' 
 
 ' You must go instantly ! ' 
 
 ' Instantly, I have not dined '. 
 
 ' It is of no consequence '. 
 
 It was of no consequence whatever to him certainly, and of 
 but little to myself. * To-day, it is late ; will it not be better 
 to go to-morrow morning ? Will not that do as well ? ' 
 
 * No ! You must go at once ; to-day, instantly, or you will 
 not get a conveyance '. 
 
 To set out so abruptly, on so short a notice, was rather 
 inconvenient ; however, the distance was trifling, the journey 
 not formidable, and I should find Bysshe there, and my 
 friend's anxiety would not brook a refusal, or even a brief 
 delay. 
 
 " You need not take anything with you ; you will find all 
 you can want there '. 
 
 He seized my arm and marched me off to some coach- 
 office in the city. I gathered from my uneasy companion on 
 our way, that his lady was at Bracknell, staying with the same 
 family, as Shelley ; that she had lately gone thither, and had 
 been taken very ill ; so ill that she would not say how ill she 
 was. She asserted indeed, that she was not at all ill, which 
 
558 Life of Shelley 
 
 was the more alarming. Her letters were most unsatisfactory. 
 * So you must go and see how she is, and return and report to 
 me the condition in which you find her '. The mission was 
 a delicate and embarrassing one, far more unpleasant than 
 the sudden journey. * I am no judge of the illness of a lady, 
 nor indeed of any one. I do not understand such matters. 
 She may be ill, and not like to tell me what is the nature of 
 her complaint ; if she tells me, I shall not half comprehend her. 
 If it be a serious illness, she will be in bed, and then, of course, 
 I shall not be allowed to see her. Send some medical man ! ' 
 I named two, or three. ' Any one of these will go ; will 
 go as a friend, if you wish it.' 
 
 * I have no confidence in any of them, but much in you ; 
 none in anybody else. You must go ; I cannot go myself, 
 I dare not leave my children.' 
 
 He urged his suit with such a passionate, pitiable earnestness 
 and mournful vehemence, that it was impossible to refuse. 
 
 * You will get there in good time, it is only thirty miles ; 
 they will give you dinner, you need be in no apprehension 
 about that. Stay there a whole day, stay over to-morrow. 
 They will be charmed to have you with them. See as much 
 of my poor wife as you can ; be as much with her as possible ; 
 and then come back the next day, dine with me at six, and 
 tell me what you think of things.' 
 
 For this slight service, which he esteemed so important, 
 his gratitude would be eternal, and would know no bounds. 
 Submission was inevitable. I was placed on the top of a 
 heavy coach, which went as far as Englefield Green, and 
 would leave me there. It was close to Bracknell ; anybody 
 would tell me the way ; I should be there in a moment. It 
 was a heavy coach indeed, and a wondrous slow one ; we 
 tarried in Piccadilly so long, that it seemed as if the prescribed 
 period of absence was to be spent at the White Horse Cellar. 
 But it was not so, however ; we stopt at every pothouse on 
 the road, so that it was quite dark, when we reached at last 
 our ultimate destination. It had been a tedious journey, 
 but we have accomplished it at last. So now for Bracknell ; 
 it is close at hand ; I shall be there in a moment ; so now for 
 Bracknell and dinner ! 
 
 I inquired the way. 
 
 * Have you never been there before ? ' 
 
 * Never '. 
 
 ' Then you will not be able to find the way ; you must have 
 
Life of Shelley 559 
 
 somebody to go with you. The ostler would go, but he must 
 have five shillings for his trouble '. 
 
 * Five shillings ! It is close at hand '. 
 
 * It is six long miles off and more '. 
 
 I thought the fellow augmented the distance in order to 
 augment his pay. However it was a trifle ; the man shall 
 have his money ; and in truth I began to suspect that in reality 
 Bracknell was not quite so close at hand as my anxious, 
 uxorious friend in his eagerness to dispatch me had supposed, 
 or asserted. 
 
 ' Are you ready, Sir ? It is rather a, long step, but I will 
 I ake you the shortest way ! Any how it is a long six miles ! 
 Where is your luggage ? * 
 
 ' I have none '. I could see by the light of the stable 
 lantern, that the good man was disappointed. It would have 
 been more respectable, more satisfactory to himself, more in 
 accordance with strict professional etiquette, more comfort- 
 able, to have carried a huge trunk on his shoulder all the 
 way, than to walk empty-handed with a passenger, 
 who had no luggage. Notwithstanding his disappoint- 
 ment, we set out together ; it was a dark night, dark as pitch ; 
 I never was out in a darker night ; the sky was overcast ; no 
 traces of sun, or moon, not a star was to be seen. I could not 
 discern any object ; I could not see my guide. I followed, 
 as well as I could, the sound of his footsteps, to catch which 
 I listened with painful attention ; and when from the nature 
 of the ground they were inaudible, I spoke to him, that the 
 sound of his voice might lead me. I could only advance 
 slowly therefore, and timidly, for I did not know where I 
 might plunge the next step. The distance seemed infinite ; 
 sixty times six miles and more. We are on Ascot Heath, he 
 informed me more than once. I have never seen that cele- 
 brated spot. I have never set foot on it before, or since. It 
 might have been Christchurch Meadows, Salisbury Plain, the 
 racecourse at York, Doncaster, or Epsom, or the Steppes of 
 Tartary, for anything that I could discover. A gay, noisy, 
 busy, crowded scene, swarming with life, and brilliant with 
 fashion ; such was my idea of Ascot Heath, how different did 
 I find the reality from what I imagined, in this and other 
 passages through life. It was a land of darkness, of thick, 
 black darkness, of solitude, stillness, and silence. We met 
 no one, heard no greeting, no voice, no sound ; we saw no 
 light, until at last we came to a few scattered lights and to 
 
560 Life of Shelley 
 
 Bracknell. It was my fortune to visit another place of 
 pleasure of even greater celebrity some ten, or twelve, years 
 afterwards, in the midst of darkness not less intense. I 
 would gladly have seen something of the locality of Capua, 
 renowned even to a proverb ; I passed through that city twice 
 with the Courier, but on both occasions in the middle of 
 winter and in the middle of the night. It was covered with the 
 same impenetrable veil of thick darkness, which hung over 
 Ascot Heath, but it did not lie hushed in the Uke silence. I 
 heard a mighty noise in my guarded progress through the 
 vast and impregnable fortress ; the raising and lowering 
 of drawbridges ; the opening and shutting of gates ; the 
 loud, vociferous, and unceasing challenges of the sentinels, 
 and the clattering of the hoofs of our strong escort of light 
 horsemen ; for in 1825 robberies were rife, the banditti were 
 going a-head in the south of Italy. 
 
 A few scattered lights cheered me ; I was at Bracknell. 
 We found the house without difficulty ; the ostler had well 
 earned his five shillings, he received his money cheerfully and 
 civilly. Our approach was noiseless ; a neat handmaiden 
 opened the door, and passed me without a word into the 
 sitting-room. If the ghost of Samuel had found his way 
 from Endor, and walking across Ascot Heath, without luggage, 
 had stood before them, the ladies, for all present were ladies, 
 could not have been more amazed. Bysshe was not there ; 
 he was absent in London. This was too bad. Who coming 
 on purpose to see him, and by express appointment, could 
 ever expect to find him ? But my visit was unlooked for ; 
 he had no right to go away ; it was not fair ! I had break- 
 fasted at eight and slightly, for I was to write all the morning, 
 and to dine, as I supposed, betimes ; I had not taken food all 
 day, and it was now late, ten o'clock, or more. Dinner was 
 not to be named : so gross a piece of sensuality was not to be 
 thought of ; at least, at that hour. But there was tea, excel- 
 lent tea ; tea in large cups, and in abundance, and thick 
 bread and butter. There were three charming ladies, waiting 
 upon me, like ministering angels, and much charming con- 
 versation ; what was wanting, then, to make it a perfect 
 paradise ? Nothing, surely ; heavenly harpings would only 
 have been an interruption ! 
 
 We sat up frightfully late ; they severally expounded 
 the scriptures of life and love, and elegance ; and my heart 
 burnt within me. It really seemed that, after Bysshe his 
 
Life of Shelley 561 
 
 fashion, and like the shepherds of the East, we were to watch 
 all night. 
 
 Why we parted ; how we got to bed ; why the party ever 
 broke up, and are not sitting together in Bracknell at this 
 hour, is a mystery which I could never unravel. Neverthe- 
 less, I found myself, somehow or other, in Bysshe's bedroom. 
 His clothes were scattered about ; there was much to remind 
 me of him, although I could never forget him ; in particular, 
 there were books on all sides ; wherever a book could be laid, 
 was an opened book, turned down on its face to keep his place. 
 It is sweet to sit up late ; but it is not -sweet to rise late. It 
 was fully eleven o'clock before I was allowed to set my longing 
 eyes on tea and bread and butter for the second time. I had 
 risen in pretty good time, and I tried to still my hunger by 
 dipping into such books as were lying about the room ; they 
 were chiefly French. 
 
 I did not perceive that much was the matter with the inter- 
 esting invalid, nor did she profess to be seriously indisposed. 
 In the course of the day a walk was proposed to me. It was 
 my first visit to Bracknell ; I ought to see something of the 
 neighbourhood, it was pleasant. I assented : the invalid 
 would attend me ; she would show me High Elms, where 
 Shelley had resided, and much besides. 
 
 Upon this offer a veto was authoritatively put on the 
 instant. The whole constitution was so terribly shattered, 
 the nerves were in such a debilitated state, that to go out 
 of doors would be an act of madness, of suicide. The inhibition 
 was submitted to with an ill grace ; if the sympathy engen- 
 dered by imputed sickness was agreeable, the restraints which 
 it brought with it were not so. There was a youth with us, 
 who had been educated abroad, in France ; he was extremely 
 polite, and sadly to seek ; the common result of such an 
 education. He alone was to accompany me, the third party 
 being under injunction to stay at home. 
 
 * Never mind ', said the fair sufferer, somewhat contumaci- 
 ously, as we sallied forth, * I shall soon return to London, and 
 then we will have a good long walk together in Kensington 
 Gardens.' 
 
 On the hill opposite Bracknell is a village, called Hamstead, 
 or Hampstead ; we walked thither. It was pleasant enough, 
 but the Berkshire Hampstead is infinitely inferior to the 
 Hampstead of Middlesex. We called at the house of a spinster 
 of stout maturity ; she welcomed us cordially, and began pre- 
 
 00 
 
562 Life of Shelley 
 
 sently to discourse vigorously concerning the Rights of Women. 
 The Frenchman stared, and I was silent ; in truth, her flowing 
 and rapid delivery did not allow answer, or interpellation. 
 My juvenile companion pointed out Shelley's house. ' Mr. 
 Shelley is a man of splendid talents and overwhelming elo- 
 quence, but he is very eccentric ; a most extraordinary being ! ' 
 He told me several anecdotes, which in themselves and from 
 his mode of relating them were whimsical enough. One in 
 particular, illustrative of the mania for navigation was chara- 
 teristic. At the bottom of the garden at Bracknell was a 
 ditch, or riverlet, flowing into the Loddon, a tributary stream 
 of the Thames. Pope's Pastoral has made the Loddon, under 
 the name Lodona, a classical stream ; the tributary's tribu- 
 tary, the nameless ditch, was not deemed unworthy of the 
 notice of a divine poet. Bysshe went to sea upon it stealthily 
 in one of the washing-tubs of his amiable hostess, rowing, or 
 punting his frail bark with a stick used in washing, until the 
 bottom came out. He then freely took possession of another 
 vessel, until the whole fleet of tubs had suffered shipwreck. 
 When the great and terrible day of washing arrived, when 
 every tub was required to give an account of itself, they had 
 all vanished, and as the too fearless navigator had vanished 
 likewise, it was some time before they discovered what had 
 become of them. And Calypso and her attendant nymphs sighed 
 in vain for a clean shift. The purple vintage of the grape 
 has its own peculiar results, and so has the white vintage of 
 the wash. 
 
 At some hour of the day we had dinner ; but it was not 
 much ; it was irregular, unpunctual, uncomfortable, incon- 
 clusive, according to the ordinary course of proceedings in 
 such matters, which were slightly regarded by this family. In 
 the evening there was the same gallant tea-drinking as before. 
 After a plain, scanty, homely, almost uneatable dinner, good, 
 strong, excellent tea in large breakfast-cups, without stint 
 or limit, restored the balance of power, of trade, and of the 
 constitution. The ladies were never weary of the sweet 
 courtesies of making tea, and of handing it about to us graci- 
 ously and gracefully ; and there was thick bread and butter 
 in abundance, in well filled, well piled, horns of plenty, and 
 thereby chiefly was life sustained. Here extremes met ; the 
 simple fare of the poorest old woman, of the starved labourer 
 and his children, through a stern, iron necessity, was the 
 diet, through free will and deliberate choice, of the most 
 
Life of Shelley 563 
 
 refined, elegant, accomplished, intellectual specimens of 
 humanity ; of humanity nearly approaching to divinity. A 
 young lady never looks so like an angel, I observed to Bysshe, 
 as when she is handing one a large cup of good strong 
 tea. 
 
 ' Oh ! you wretch ', he exclaimed ; ' what a horridly sensual 
 idea ! ' 
 
 A lovely young creature gave him cup after cup. He was 
 greedily swallowing the nectar, discussing and disputing the 
 while, and trembling with emotion ; and pouring the precious 
 liquor into his bosom, upon his knees, and into his shoes, and 
 spilling it on the carpet. She stood before him ; and, when 
 he had emptied his cup, she gently wiped him with a white 
 cambric handkerchief. 
 
 ' Was I so far wrong, then ? ' I asked him in a whisper. 
 For once, the philosopher was impatient of the truth, and 
 returned no answer. 
 
 In the palace of the daughter of the Sun, Circe ; in the cave 
 of Calypso, the Calypso of Telemachus, not of Ulysses ; where, 
 to clasp the hands in agony, to sigh profoundly, and to turn 
 up the eyes in passionate anguish, was bliss, after the ordi- 
 nances of the French school of sentiment, by which Shelley 
 was at that period somewhat caught, his presence seemed 
 indispensable. We greatly needed Bysshe that evening. 
 We sat up late again, had no beauty-sleep ; excessively late 
 — half the night. The penalty paid for the indulgence was, 
 rising fearfully late in the morning, or rather daytime, and 
 waiting one's patience out of joint for breakfast. Such were 
 the delights of Shelley's paradise in Bracknell. 
 
 The prescribed period of my visit of inspection had expired ; 
 my mission was fulfilled ; it was incumbent upon me to 
 return and make my report. Monsieur very obligingly con- 
 ducted me by a pleasant walk upon the road from Bagshot to 
 London. A coach soon came by, and he politely bowed me 
 up to the roof. I arrived at the house of my friend in time 
 for dinner. I found him calm and contented, and my report 
 was satisfactory — and so was a good dinner. I had been fed 
 plentifully on sighs and smiles ; these stay the stomach, but 
 do not fill it ; and after feeding for two days on angels' food , 
 on the celestial manna of refined sentiment, a good dinner, 
 through the force of contrast, had more than usual attraction 
 It may be true, notwithstanding, as an abstract proposition, 
 that dinner, to be quite pure, ought to be purely a sentiment • 
 
564 Life of Shelley 
 
 if we sit down to table at all, we should sit down, not to eat 
 and drink, but to weep. 
 
 Wieland's Agathon was the leading classic, the text-book, 
 in that university ; the work in which all who would graduate 
 were to be examined, which it was necessary to master in 
 order to obtain a degree, which all who ventured to contend 
 for a prize must take up. Agathon was read, not in the 
 original, for the German language was not cultivated or 
 understood by the professors, but as Histoire d* Agathon, in 
 the French translation of Citizen Pernay. It is in three 
 volumes only, not in four, and contains about three-quarters 
 of the original work. The translator says, in his preface : 
 * Nous avons suivi I'original aussi pres que possible ; mais 
 nous nous sommes permis d'abreger quelques chapitres, et de 
 supprimer des longueurs : pent etre M. Wieland aurait-il 
 agi de meme, s'il avait ecrit pour des Fran9ais. Le gout de 
 la nation Allemande est si different du notre, qu'il est possible 
 qu'on nous reproche encore d'avoir conserve des passages, que 
 nous n'avons pas eu le courage de faire disparaitre '. This 
 book was immediately put into the hands of a neophyte. 
 Shelley devoured it eagerly ; he was fascinated with it, indeed. 
 I read it with pleasure in the French version, for it was the 
 first time I had met with it. I have read it twice, at least, 
 with augmented gratification, long afterwards, in the original 
 language. I know not whether it has ever been rendered 
 into English ; I never met with an English translation. In 
 omitting the ' longueurs ', the citizen translator has left out 
 the most valuable portions. I ventured to remark to my 
 charming preceptresses, when they taught on the authority 
 of this work, as well as on their own, that love should be purely 
 a sentiment ; that this admirable doctrine was not inculcated 
 throughout the whole of the history. At the commencement, 
 certainly, Agathon was rather fast. They answered, that the 
 opening chapters of his tale did Wieland no credit ; it would 
 have been far better, on every account, if he had omitted 
 them. The reader ought to attend to the latter books only, 
 and entirely to disregard the commencement. This may be 
 sage advice, no doubt, but it is not easy for a young man 
 always to bear it in mind, and duly and discreetly to attend 
 to it. Besides, the conclusion of the classical romance would 
 hardly be intelligible to one who had not read the earlier 
 adventures. 
 
 The glowing young Platonic poet embraced the elegant and 
 
Life of Shelley 565 
 
 learned fiction with ardour, and accepted it with entire faith, 
 as the testament of Platonic love. 
 
 Bracknell, April 18, 18 14. 
 
 Do you forgive my silence, for I cannot forgive myself, and 
 yet it has been quite impossible to write. My mind has not 
 been free one hour since you were here ; and even now I only 
 send a few words to say, that you must wait for an answer to 
 your letter till I come to town, when I shall have the pleasure 
 of telUng you how entirely and unavoidably I have been 
 engaged. 
 
 Mrs. N. is wonderfully recovered. Air and exercise, and 
 friendly conversation, are just restoring her good looks. 
 Shelley is again a widower ; his beauteous half went to town 
 on Thursday with Miss Westbrook, who is gone to live, I 
 believe, at Southampton. 
 
 All here unite in kind remembrance ; and I entreat you to 
 excuse this abrupt and hasty scrawl, which does not satisfy 
 my conscience or inclination, but which is all I can command 
 time for to-day. I will let you know when we arrive in town ; 
 in the meanwhile, I am, very sincerely yours, 
 
 To T. J. H. Harriet B. 
 
 A criminal information against Lord Cochrane and three 
 other persons of less note, for what was familiarly called the 
 Stock Exchange Hoax, was the most remarkable of sundry 
 exploits in special pleading that were achieved in our murky 
 den at Gray's Inn. It was performed under the auspices of 
 the Solicitor-General of the day, a deaf man, as deaf as a post, 
 but by no means inconsiderable for legal attainments, and not 
 ungentlemanlike. He evinced extraordinary zeal in the 
 matter. The prosecution was conducted through pure 
 political motives, in order to get rid of a troublesome Member 
 of Parliament — a bold, uncompromising reformer ; and under 
 an exaggerated notion of the effects of a conviction for a 
 conspiracy, some antiquated crotchets about the villainous 
 judgment, which it was imagined, might be pronounced against 
 the defendants ; and that the spurs, so hardly won by the 
 gallant and patriotic officer, might be hacked off with a cleaver, 
 so that he would thereby be for ever incapacitated from sitting 
 in the House of Commons, A conviction and a severe sen- 
 tence were obtained ; but in other respects, the prosecution. 
 
 J 
 
566 Life of Shelley 
 
 like all other political persecutions, failed in its principal object. 
 The victim was accounted a martyr for the popular cause ; 
 the people, whom he served, stood by him firmly, and a penny 
 subscription paid the fine imposed upon him ; and he was a 
 greater favourite with the mob than he had ever been before 
 he was attacked by the Government. However, we performed 
 our part well ; the genius of special pleading triumphed over all 
 technical and other difficulties. We did the trick : right or 
 wrong, we did the trick ! The defendants could not escape 
 from the net which we spread for them, and in the event threw 
 over them. It was not in vain, that this right hand wrote a 
 thousand times : ' The said Charles Random de Berenger, the 
 said John Cawthorne Butt, the said Alexander Cochrane 
 Johnson, and the said Alexander Cochrane, commonly called 
 Lord Cochrane, being such evil disposed persons, as aforesaid '. 
 My industrious fellow-pupil declared, if the information had 
 been an indictment, he would certainly have copied it. It 
 was well for him that it was not ; he had a fortunate escape. 
 He said, that we were bound to go into court to hear the event 
 of my voluminous draft ; and, accordingly, on the day of the 
 trial, we walked to the City together, and entered the crowded 
 court. 
 
 Lord EUenborough had come to Guildhall to get a verdict 
 at all hazards. He was rolling about on the bench Uke a 
 stormy sea, that seemed somehow to desire to calm itself. His 
 head was tossed up and down as a cockboat in the surf ; like 
 the white buoy on the bar amidst the breakers. He was 
 clumsily courteous to the jury, to the defendants, to every- 
 body ; roughly bland in an awkward fashion, like a pet bear, 
 and freely rejecting immaterial evidence with conspicuous 
 impartiality. The appearance of the defendants certainly 
 was not prepossessing. The three first-named seemed to be at 
 home, but the noble and gallant admiral was ill at ease ; it 
 was quite plain that he did not like to be thus aground, stranded,, 
 but heartily wished himself afloat again. As regards Lord 
 Cochrane, at least, it was not a creditable proceeding, I con- 
 fess, although I drew the information myself ; but to discuss, 
 the matter here would be inopportune, even if its interest had 
 not long since passed away. On the level floor of the old 
 court of King's Bench it was impossible to hear, or to see, with 
 advantage. The old courts at Guildhall were disgraceful to- 
 the administration of justice and to the city of London. To 
 eat and drink and job away their funds, not to erect suitable 
 
Life of Shelley 567 
 
 buildings for public purposes, was in those days esteemed the 
 paramount, the sole duty of a municipal corporation. 
 
 I stood in the court for an hour or two, amongst the crowd 
 on the floor, and then withdrew ; my fellow-pupil remained. 
 I contrived to gather from the bench that I should leave the 
 affair in very good hands ; that my criminal information was 
 pretty safe. In Cheapside I fell in with Shelley : I spoke to 
 him of the trial that was depending. He rarely took an 
 interest in such matters, and he expressed no curiosity as to 
 the result. We walked westward, through Newgate Street. 
 When we reached Skinner Street, he said ' I must speak with 
 Godwin ; come in, I will not detain you long '. 
 
 I followed him through the shop, which was the only entrance, 
 and upstairs. We entered a room on the first floor ; it was 
 shaped like a quadrant. In the arc were windows ; in one 
 radius a fire-place, and in the other a door, and shelves with 
 many old books. William Godwin was not at home. Bysshe 
 strode about the room, causing the crazy floor of the ill-built, 
 unowned dwelling-house to shake and tremble under his 
 impatient footsteps. He appeared to be displeased at not 
 finding the fountain of Political Justice. * Where is God- 
 win ? ' he asked me several times, as if I knew. I did not 
 know, and, to say the truth, I did not care. He continued 
 his uneasy promenade ; and I stood reading the names of old 
 English authors on the backs of the venerable volumes, 
 when the door was partially and softly opened. A thrill- 
 ing voice called ' Shelley ! ' A thrilling voice answered, 
 * Mary ! ' And he darted out of the room, hke an 
 arrow from the bow of the far-shooting king. A very 
 young female, fair and fair-haired, pale indeed, and with a 
 piercing look, wearing a frock of tartan, an unusual dress in 
 London at that time, had called him out of the room. He 
 was absent a very short time — a minute or two ; and then 
 returned. * Godwin is out ; there is no use in waiting *. So 
 we continued our walk along Holborn. 
 
 ' Who was that, pray ? ' I asked ; ' a daughter ? ' 
 
 ' Yes.' 
 
 ' A daughter of William Godwin ? ' 
 
 'The daughter of Godwin and Mary.' 
 
 This was the first time, on the day of Lord Cochrane 's trial, 
 that I beheld a very distinguished lady, of whom I have much 
 to say hereafter. It was but the glance of a moment, through 
 a door partly opened. Her quietness certainly struck me, 
 
568 Life of Shelley 
 
 and possibly also, for I am not quite sure on this point, her 
 paleness and piercing look. Nothing more was said on either 
 side about the young female. ' Do you think he loved her ? ' 
 First impressions are indelible ; and in them alone are the 
 truth and reality of things for the most part to be found. 
 Truth lives at the bottom of a well ; perhaps, rather, at the 
 fountain head. It may be well, therefore, to trace my earliest 
 impressions on this subject to their source. I spent five or six 
 years of my boyhood at a public school in an old cathedral 
 city. The young flock, of which I was a member, and even- 
 tually the captain, were styled by ourselves, and designated 
 universally by others, ' The Grammar Boys '. In the German 
 universities, all who are not students, youths, or otherwise 
 matriculated in the university, are termed Philistines. For 
 all other lads in the town, be they who they might, we had a 
 still less courteous appellation ; they were known to us only 
 as * the Blackguards '. Of their existence our fists might be 
 accounted the final cause ; they had been created solely that 
 they might be licked by us, whenever an opportunity and a 
 pretence offered ; consequently, they had the discretion to 
 keep out of the way of the Grammar Boys as much as possible. 
 
 The ecclesiastical corporation was wealthy ; one of the 
 richest. There were bishops, and deans, and prebendaries, 
 and archdeacons in plenty ; but these, our court and trump 
 cards, were only turned up occasionally. They came to the 
 audits, and to be handsomely paid for feasting sumptuously, 
 and entertaining hospitably during a residence of three weeks 
 a-piece in every year ; in a word, the grandees only came when 
 something was to be gotten. The constant quantities were 
 stars of a lesser magnitude ; and they, like the poor, were 
 always with us. Precentors, sacristans, librarians, minor 
 canons, vicars choral, choristers, organists ; in short, the whole 
 staff of a cathedral of the first class, and many parochial clergy 
 who held livings in the city, or the neighbourhood, small 
 benefices, and, for the most part, the options of the minor 
 canons. The higher ecclesiastics were not deficient in hos- 
 pitality and attention to those boys with whom they were 
 acquainted, and a slight acquaintance sufficed ; but their 
 visits were few and far between, as the visits of angels. 
 
 The roast pigs, the roast geese, the roast hares ; the loins of 
 veal and hams ; the overflowing dishes of green peas, asparagus 
 and new potatoes ; the well-sugared, juicy, fruit-pies, with 
 their attendant custards ; plum-pudding with its brandy 
 
Life of Shelley 569 
 
 sauce — according to the vicissitudes of the seasons — were set 
 out on Sundays punctually at two o'clock on the boards of the 
 poorer clergy, to cheer their famished families and friends : 
 so copious and nutritious was the milk of the dun cow ! How 
 many a genial Sunday dinner did the hungry grammar boy 
 share with these humble, apostolical men ; to look back upon 
 their simple, but succulent fare, through the long vista of half 
 a century, is almost as satisfying as a full meal. Why, in God's 
 name, and in the name of our holy religion, did they sacrileg- 
 iously plunder those venerable institutions, and suppress or 
 diminish them, instead of restoring them to their pristine 
 efficiency, by enforcing residence, exorcizing the demons of 
 pluralities, jobbing, and nepotism. 
 
 In a cathedral, the precentor is the genius of the place, the 
 coryphaeus of the choir. He appoints the musical services, 
 chooses the anthem, and sings aloud the first verse of the 
 Psalms as a quick chaunt in D. minor, or a slow measure in 
 any other key he may please to select ; and it is worse than 
 sacrilege to swerve half a tone from his irresponsible guidance. 
 The mighty organ itself, with its ten thousand tongues, and 
 infinitely varying voices, dares to speak only as he bids it. 
 A huge cauliflower wig, well whitened, surmounted by a por- 
 tentous shovel hat, is a crown of glory to the aged, the spec- 
 tacles being of a like majesty, vast pebbles in ponderous silver 
 frames, glittering like the lamps of a carriage. An ample black 
 coat, with large buttons, a lapelled waistcoat, black shorts, 
 square-toed shoes, bright silver buckles on the instep and at 
 the knee, and a gold-headed cane of a solid structure, are the 
 proper accompaniments and consolations of our declining 
 years. The externals of old age have been given up, and with 
 them all due reverence. Nowadays an old man must needs 
 dress himself like a boy, in order that he may look like an old 
 fool, and be treated as one. 
 
 By the worthy pastor, who imprinted my name upon my 
 forehead at the baptismal font, I was furnished with an intro- 
 duction to the estimable precentor. I took the letter to his 
 house. An old housekeeper, whose dress harmonized with 
 the costume of her master, came to the door. She wore a 
 flowered gown of chintz, radiant with colossal flowers of the 
 brightest hues ; such as I have subsequently seen Dutch 
 matrons wearing in Holland. ' Master is not at home ; but 
 the girls are, they will be glad to see you. Pray walk in ! ' 
 That was well. The precentor might have inquired after the 
 
570 Life of Shelley 
 
 supine of some Latin verb ; or have required the praeteritum 
 perfectum passivum of a Greek barytone ; with the girls there 
 could be nothing worse than battledore and shuttlecock, more 
 puzzling than hide and seek. The reverend leader of the 
 choir had no son living, but he was blessed with three daugh- 
 ters. To them I was ushered in, to the tall, gaunt, bony, 
 pale-eyed virgins of forty or fifty summers. The worthy 
 housekeeper had known them ever since they were born, 
 before indeed, and she persisted steadfastly in calling them 
 * the girls ', in spite of Time himself. They were Blues and, 
 more, learned ladies ; so learned, that it makes the head ache, 
 even now, to think how learned they were. 
 
 ' Take a seat. Could Homer write ? Wolfius, in his 
 Prologomena, says he could not. What do you say, sir ? ' 
 
 ' I do not know ; but our vicar can, and here is his letter of 
 introduction.' 
 
 It was a come off, but it would not do. The letter was laid 
 unopened upon a desk. I must pass my examination. It 
 seemed as if I was sitting for the gold-medal, and had three 
 examining masters upon me at once, so mercilessly did they 
 pluck me. I heard then, for the first time, what I have often 
 heard since, that Herodotus was the father of history ; and 
 I heard much besides — some things, I believe, that I never 
 heard before or since. I was invited to dine next Sunday. 
 The precentor was a merry, good-natured old man, and with- 
 out exception the best and happiest punster I ever met with ; 
 and what was still better, he had made over, without any 
 reservation, all his learning to his daughters. 
 
 To call in the course of the week, after dining on Sunday, 
 was the rule. ' They are out, except the youngest of the 
 girls. Miss Debby ; you can go into her '. Miss Deborah was 
 sitting by herself with a small volume in her hand ; she laid 
 it down open on the table. ' Did he love her ? Do you think 
 he loved her ? ' That was a poser ! It was the stiffest ques- 
 tion they ever put. When they confined themselves to the 
 ancient world, I could give some sort of a guess answer ; but 
 when they descended to modern literature, which they con- 
 descended to read, and it was a great condescension, I was 
 quite lost. She put the book into my hand — Godwin's 
 Memoirs of Mary ; a work, which at that time was a novelty, 
 at least in a provincial town. ' Of course, you have read 
 this ? ' Of course, I had not. I had never even heard of 
 William Godwin, or Mary WoUstonecraft : how should I ? 
 
Life of Shelley 57 1 
 
 She read several passages aloud to me, and concluded with 
 the question, ' Did he love her ? Do you think he loved her ' ? 
 
 I looked at her beseechingly, and would have said : ' Ask 
 me anything you Uke about rvTrTrw. I am pretty strong in the 
 verbs ; and I can make you a Greek tree ; but I am a novice 
 in love ' ! She was moved by my supplicating looks, and so 
 the kind creature let me go. When I saw, for the first time, 
 the daughter of the little book, with whose birth it concludes ; 
 of the little book that had scared me so cruelly ; how vividly 
 did the sight of her recall my adventure with ' the girl ' De- 
 borah ! I could not answer your question then, dearest Debby, 
 being only in my thirteenth year ; but I can now. If you 
 meant to ask, as I have no doubt you did, whether there is any 
 peculiar advantage in the new philosophy of love, I can assure 
 you, confidently, my good girl, that there is none whatever. 
 
 Let us take one more peep at Field Place ; one more only, 
 and it will be the last, for it was Bysshe's last visit to his pater- 
 nal hearth and native home. In the beginning of the summer 
 of 1 8 14, he walked one day alone from Bracknell to Horsham. 
 A long and a pleasant walk, I should imagine. He was in 
 an excited state, and had revelations by the way, and saw 
 celestial visions, of which more hereafter. 
 
 A young ofi&cer in a marching regiment had been quartered 
 some little time at Horsham ; he met with hospitality and 
 kindness, as others did, at Field Place. He assisted at the 
 brief return of the prodigal son ; he was present at the last 
 visit, and he has given us a written account of it, from whicji 
 I will extract such particulars as are interesting. It is 
 strangely interlarded with laudations of his benefactors ; such 
 rapturous gratitude is creditable to his feehngs ; but in mercy 
 to all persons concerned, it is expedient to omit his demonstra- 
 tions of it. One may infer from the tune and temper of 
 Bysshe's last letter to myself, that his family might have had 
 him then on reasonable, on easy terms, had they known how 
 to negotiate a treaty of peace. They might probably have 
 lured the wild hawk, the peregrine falcon, back to his perch 
 without difficulty. Possibly they did not know it ; certainly 
 they did not know how to set about it ; and the young wan- 
 derer was reserved for other, and for higher and more impor- 
 tant destinies : man proposes, but man seldom disposes. It 
 is a strange and a sad picture of the fruits of stubborn, intract- 
 able, wrong-headed violence to contemplate his mother and 
 sisters timidly entertaining for the last time the divine poet 
 
572 Life of Shelley 
 
 disguised as a soldier. The friendly reception of the young 
 ofi&cer at Field Place is related, and the narrative proceeds 
 thus. 
 
 * At this time I had not seen Shelley, but the servants, 
 especially the old butler, Laker, had spoken of him to me. 
 He seemed to have won the hearts of the whole household. 
 Mrs. Shelley often spoke to me of her son ; her heart yearned 
 after him with all the fondness of a mother's love. It was 
 during the absence of his father and the three youngest 
 children, that the natural desire of a mother to see her son 
 induced her to propose that he should pay her a short visit. 
 At this time he resided somewhere in the country with his 
 first wife and their only child, lanthe. He walked from his 
 house, until within a very few miles of Field Place, when a 
 farmer gave him a seat in his travelling cart. As he passed 
 along, the farmer, ignorant of the quality of his companion, 
 amused Bysshe with descriptions of the country and its inhabi- 
 tants. When Field Place came in sight, he told whose seat 
 it was ; and as the most remarkable incident connected with 
 the family, that young Master Shelley seldom went to church. 
 The poor fellow arrived at Field Place exceedingly fatigued. 
 I came there the following morning to meet him. I found 
 him with his mother and his two elder sisters in a small room 
 off the drawing-room, which they had named Confusion Hall. 
 He received me with frankness and kindliness, as if he had 
 known me from childhood, and at once won my heart. I 
 fancy I see him now, as he sat by the window, and hear his 
 voice, the tones of which impressed me with his sincerity and 
 simplicity. His resemblance to his sister, Ehzabeth, was as 
 striking as if they had been twins. His eyes were most 
 expressive, his complexion beautifully fair ; his features 
 exquisitely fine ; his hair was dark, and no pecuhar attention 
 to its arrangement was manifest. In person he was slender 
 and gentleman-like, but inclined to stoop ; his gait was decid- 
 edly not military. The general appearance indicated great 
 delicacy of constitution. One would at once pronounce of 
 him, that he was something different from other men. There 
 was an earnestness in his manner, and such perfect gentleness 
 of breeding and freedom from everything artificial as charmed 
 every one. I never met a man who so immediately won upon 
 me. The generosity of his disposition and utter unselfishness 
 imposed upon him the necessity of strict self-denial in personal 
 comforts.. Consequently he was obhged to be most econo- 
 
Life of Shelley 573 
 
 mical in his dress. He one day asked us, how we Hked his 
 coat, the only one he had brought with him. We said it was 
 very nice, it looked as if new. Well, said he, it is an old black 
 coat, which I have had done up, and smartened with metal 
 buttons and a velvet collar. As it was not desirable that 
 Bysshe's presence in the country should be known, we arranged 
 that on walking out he should wear my scarlet uniform, and 
 that I should assume his outer garments. So he donned the 
 soldier's dress, and sallied forth. His head was so remarkably 
 small, that though mine be not large, the cap came down over 
 his eyes, the peak resting on his nose, and it had to be stuffed 
 before it would fit him. His hat just stuck on the crown of 
 my head. He certainly looked Uke anything but a soldier. 
 
 ' The metamorphosis was very amusing ; he enjoyed it 
 much, and made himself perfectly at home in his unwonted 
 garb. We gave him the name of Captain Jones, under which 
 name we used to talk of him after his departure ; but, with 
 all our care, Bysshe's visit could not be kept a secret. I 
 chanced to mention the name of Sir James Mackintosh, of 
 whom he expressed the highest admiration. He told me Sir 
 James was intimate with one to whom, as he said, he owed 
 everything ; from whose book. Political Justice, he had 
 derived all that was valuable in knowledge and virtue. He 
 discoursed with eloquence and enthusiasm ; but his views 
 seemed to me exquisitely metaphysical, and by no means clear, 
 precise, or decided. He told me he had already read the 
 Bible in Hebrew four times. He was then only twenty-two 
 years of age. Shelley never learnt Hebrew ; he probably 
 said, in Greek, for he was much addicted to reading the 
 Septuagint. He spoke of the Supreme Being as of infinite 
 mercy and benevolence. He disclosed no fixed views of 
 spiritual things ; all seemed wild and fanciful. He said, 
 that he once thought the surrounding atmosphere was peopled 
 with the spirits of the departed. He reasoned and spoke as 
 a perfect gentleman, and treated my arguments, boy as I 
 was — I had lately completed my sixteenth year — with as 
 much consideration and respect as if I had been his equal in 
 ability and attainments. Shelley was one of the most sensi- 
 tive of human beings ; he had a horror of taking life, and 
 looked upon it as a crime. He read poetry with great empha- 
 sis and solemnity : one evening, he read aloud to us a transla- 
 tion of one of Goethe's poems, and at this day I think I hear 
 him. In music he seemed to delight, as a medium of associa- 
 
574 Life of Shelley 
 
 tion : the tunes which had been favourites in boyhood charmed 
 him. There was one, which he played several times on the 
 piano with one hand, that seemed to absorb him ; it was an 
 exceedingly simple air, which, I understand, his earliest love 
 was wont to play for him. Poor fellow ! He soon left us, 
 and I never saw him afterwards, but I can never forget him. 
 It was his last visit to Field Place. He was an amiable, gentle 
 being.' 
 
 Torquay, Feh. i6, 1857. 
 
 My dear H., 
 
 It is very difficult, after so long a time, to remember 
 with accuracy events which occurred so long ago. The first 
 time I ever saw Bysshe was when I was at Harrow. I was 
 nine years old ; my brother George, ten. We took him up at 
 Brentford, where he was at school, at Dr. Greenlaw's ; a 
 servant of my father's taking care of us all. He accompanied 
 us to Feme, and spent the Easter holidays there. The only 
 circumstance I can recollect in connexion with that visit was, 
 that Bysshe, who was some few years older than we were, 
 thought it would be good service to play carpenters, and 
 under his auspices, we got the carpenters' axes, and cut down 
 some of my father's young fir-trees in the park. My father 
 often used to remind me of that circumstance. 
 
 I did not meet Bysshe again after that till I was fifteen, the 
 year I left the navy, and then I went to Field Place, with my 
 father, mother, Charlotte, and Harriet. Bysshe was there, 
 having just left Eton, and his sister, Elizabeth. Bysshe was 
 at that time more . attached to my sister Harriet than I can 
 express, and I recollect well the moonlight walks we four had 
 at Strode, and also at St. Irving's ; that, I think, was the name 
 of the place, then the Duke of Norfolk's, at Horsham. (St. 
 Irving's Hills, a beautiful place, on the right hand side as you 
 go from Horsham to Field Place, laid out by the famous Capa- 
 bility Brown, and full of magnificent forest-trees, waterfalls, 
 and rustic seats. The house was Elizabethan. All has been 
 destroyed.) That was in the year 18 10. After our visit at 
 Field Place, we went to my brother's house in Lincoln's Inn 
 Fields, where Bysshe, his mother, and Elizabeth joined us, 
 and a very happy month we spent. Bysshe was full of life 
 and spirits, and very well pleased with his successful devotion 
 to my sister. In the course of that summer, to the best of my 
 recollection, after we had retired into Wiltshire, a continual 
 
Life of Shelley 575 
 
 correspondence was going on, as, I believe, there had been 
 before, between Bysshe and my sister Harriet. But she 
 became uneasy at the tone of his letters on speculative sub- 
 jects, at first consulting my mother, and subsequently my 
 father also, on the subject. This led at last, though I cannot 
 exactly tell how, to the dissolution of an engagement between 
 Bysshe and my sister, which had previously been permitted, 
 both by his father and mine. 
 
 In the autumn of 18 10 Bysshe went to Oxford, to reside at 
 University College, where he became acquainted with Mr. 
 Hogg, and formed an intimate friendship with him. He found 
 in him a kindred spirit as to his studies and speculations on 
 various subjects, and it was not long ere Bysshe began to 
 write on these. During the Christmas vacation of that year, 
 and in January, 1 8 1 1 , I spent part of it with Bysshe at Field 
 Place, and when we returned to London, his sister Mary sent 
 a letter of introduction with a present to her schoolfellow, 
 Miss Westbrook, which Bysshe and I were to take to her. 
 I recollect we did so, calling at Mr. Westbrook's house. I 
 scarcely know how it came about, but from that time Bysshe 
 corresponded with Miss Westbrook. And not long after, for 
 it was very soon after the Lent term had commenced, a little 
 controversial work was published at Oxford. The pamphlet 
 had not the author's name, but it was suspected in the Univer- 
 sity who was the author ; and the young friends were dis- 
 missed from Oxford, for contumaciously refusing to deny 
 themselves to be the authors of the work. 
 
 Bysshe and his friend then came to London, his father at 
 that time refusing to receive Bysshe at Field Place He 
 came, therefore, to my brother's house in Lincoln's-inn Fields. 
 I was then in town, attending Mr. Abernethy's anatomical 
 lectures. The thought of anatomy, especially after a few 
 conversations with my brother, became quite delightful to 
 Bysshe, and he attended a course with me, and sometimes 
 went also to St. Bartholomew's Hospital. At that time 
 Bysshe and his friend took a lodging in Poland-street, where 
 they continued for some time ; I think, a great part of the 
 spring, and I spent a part of every day with them. No particu- 
 lar incident occurred at the time ; at least I do not recollect 
 any. They both, but especially Bysshe, were occupied all 
 the mornings in writing ; and after the anatomical lecture, 
 we used sometimes to walk in St. James's Park, where Bysshe 
 used to express his dislike of soldiers ; objecting to a stand- 
 
576 Life of Shelley 
 
 ing army, as being calculated to fetter the minds of the 
 people. 
 
 In the course of the spring, when his father was attending 
 Parliament, an effort was made by the Duke of Norfolk to 
 persuade my cousin to become a politician, under his auspices. 
 By the Duke's invitation Bysshe met his father, at dinner 
 at Norfolk House, to talk over a plan for bringing him in as 
 member for Horsham, and to induce him to exercise his talents 
 in the pursuit of politics. I recollect the indignation Bysshe 
 expressed after that dinner, at what he considered an effort 
 made to shackle his mind, and introduce him into life as a 
 mere follower of the Duke. His father was puzzled what to 
 do when that plan failed. 
 
 In the meantime, my brother Thomas, and his first wife, 
 a very nice person, came to town for a few weeki, and became 
 acquainted with Bysshe. He had heard much of Cwm Elan, 
 in Radnorshire (at that time belonging to my brother, but 
 since sold), from my sister, Harriet, and wishing much to see 
 the place, he received an invitation from my brother Tom and 
 his wife to go there that summer, which he did. Whilst on 
 the visit, his continued correspondence with Miss W. led to 
 his return to London, and subsequent elopement with her. 
 He corresponded with me also, during this period, and wrote 
 me a letter concerning what he termed his summons to link 
 his fate with another, closing his communication thus : ' Hear 
 it not, Percy, for it is a knell, which summons thee to heaven 
 or to hell ! ' I sometimes think I have that letter locked up 
 at S. If I go there in the summer, and find it, I will send it 
 to you. 
 
 When Bysshe finally came to town to elope with Miss W., 
 he came, as usual, to Lincoln's-inn Fields, and I was his com- 
 panion on his visits to her, and finally accompanied them 
 early one morning — I forget now the month, or the date, but 
 it might have been September — in a hackney-coach to the 
 Green Dragon, in Gracechurch-street, where we remained all 
 day, till the hour when the mailcoachcs start, when they 
 departed in the northern mail for York. The following spring 
 I saw Bysshe and Mrs. Shelley in London. They spent the 
 summer of that year, 1812, with my brother and sister at 
 Cwm Elan. Mrs. G. was very much pleased with Mrs. Shelley, 
 and sorry when they left them. They intended at that time 
 to settle in Wales, but I think they went to the Lakes instead, 
 Bysshe having become acquainted with Southey. From that 
 
Life of Shelley 577 
 
 time I never saw Bysshe again. My brother may have seen 
 something of him, either in town, or in Edinburgh, but I do 
 not quite recollect how that was. 
 
 I am afraid I have not been able to remember anything 
 of Bysshe 's early Ufe that will prove of use. Though I spent 
 many an afternoon and evening with Bysshe and Mr. H., at 
 almost every coffee-house in London, for they changed their 
 dining place daily for the sake of variety, I cannot recapitu- 
 late the conversations, though vividly recollecting the scenes. 
 BeHeve me, my dear H., 
 
 Your affectionate cousin, 
 
 C. H. G. 
 
 To H. S. 
 
 Torquay, Feb, 25, 1857. 
 
 My dear H., 
 
 I am indeed glad to hear of the favourable reception 
 given to my few early recollections of Bysshe. I remember 
 on the occasion of our going to the Duke of Norfolk's house. 
 Hills, at Horsham, Bysshe's putting on a working man's 
 dress, and coming to my sister as a beggar, and also his taking 
 up one of those very Httle chests of drawers, pecuUar to old 
 houses, such as Hills was, and carrying it off part of the way 
 back to Field Place ; and EUzabeth's being in a state of 
 consternation lest her father should meet with us. But 
 Bysshe had the power of entering so thoroughly into the spirit 
 of his own humour, that nothing could stop him when once 
 his spirits were up, and he carried you along with him in 
 his hilarious flight, and made you a sharer in his mirth, in a 
 manner quite irresistible. 
 
 During my intercourse with Bysshe, this was his one happy 
 fear. I never saw him after that, but with some care on his 
 mind. I forgot to mention before, that during the early part 
 of the summer which Bysshe spent in town, after leaving Ox- 
 ford, the Prince Regent gave a splendid fete at Carlton House, 
 in which the novelty was introduced of a stream of water, in 
 imitation of a river, meandering down the middle of a very 
 long table, in a temporary tent erected in Carlton Gardens. 
 This was much commented upon in the papers, and laughed at 
 by the Opposition. Bysshe also was of the number of those 
 who disapproved of the fete and its accompaniments. He 
 wrote a poem on the subject of about fifty lines, which he 
 published immediately, wherein he apostrophized the Prince 
 
 P P 
 
578 Life of Shelley 
 
 as sitting on the bank of his tiny river ; and he amused him- 
 self with throwing copies into the carriages of persons going 
 to Carlton House after the fete. 
 
 Believe me, etc. 
 
 C. H. G. 
 To H. S. 
 
INDEX 
 
 Abingdon: 112 
 
 Address to the Irish People, An : 
 
 318, 327, 338 
 Albertus Magnus : 345 
 Alnwick Castle : 272 
 America : 359 
 Amesbury : 113 
 Ariosto : 481, 482 
 Aristophanes : 531 
 Aristotle : 154, 479 
 Aristotle's Organon : 69 
 Athens : 345 
 
 Bacon : 325 
 
 Bagley Wood : 81 
 
 Banks, Sir Joseph : 509, 512, 513 
 
 Barnstaple : 347, 351 
 
 Barrnel's History of Jacobinism : 
 
 379 
 Berkeley : 356, 420 
 Bishopsgate : 296 
 Boccaccio : 15 
 
 Boswell's Life of Johnson : 38 
 Bracknell: 536, 548, 552, 557, 560, 
 
 563 
 Brentford : 28 
 Brutus : 161, 357 
 Buffon, M. : 265 
 Bulwer, E. L., letter to T. J. H. 
 
 Temple : 6 
 Buonaparte : 383 
 Burdett, Sir Francis : 365, 514 
 Burdon, Mr. : 230 
 Bums: 555 
 Byron : 179 
 
 Caliban : 217 
 
 Capel Cerrig : 384, 385 
 
 Canterbury Tales : 529 
 
 Castle Goring : 298, 304 
 
 Castlereagh, Lord : 383 
 
 Cat in Distress, A ; quoted in full : 
 
 28 
 Caxton, William : 529 
 CencirThe: 7 
 
 Chaucer, Geofirey : 529, 531 
 Christ, 221 
 Cicero: 132, 149. 347, 468, 532, 
 
 537 
 Claire (TAlbe : 265 
 Clapham : 26 
 Clewer : 40 
 Cochrane, Lord : 567 
 Coleridge . 14 
 Coleridge, S. T. ; views on Shelley : 
 
 301-2 
 Cooke, Captain : 495 
 Cooke's Hotel, Dover Street : 526 
 Cottin, Madame : 265, 301 
 Cottle : 14 
 
 Co vent Garden : 150, 152 
 Cranmer, Archbishop : 171 
 Cuckfield Park : 27, 230, 246 
 Curran, Mr. : 312, 321, 325, 328, 
 
 333, 339, 340, 343 
 Cwm Elan : 225 
 
 Dan : 390, 392, 393 
 Dante . 482 
 Danton : 496 
 
580 
 
 Index 
 
 D'Arblay, Madame (Fanny Bur- 
 ney) : 493. 495 
 
 D'Arblay's Cecilia : 493 
 
 D'Arblay's Evelina : 493 
 
 Davy's, Sir Humphrey, Elements of 
 Chemical Philosophy : 359 
 
 Darwin's Loves of the Plants : 466 
 
 Dares the Lama; quoted in full: 207-8 
 
 Dayrell, Mr. : 94 
 
 Demosthenes' De Corona : 69 
 
 Don Quixote : 83 
 
 Doughty, Mrs. : 237 
 
 Drummond, Sir William : 375, 376 
 
 Drummond's, Sir William : Acade- 
 mical Questions : 420 
 
 Du Barry, Mr. : 27 
 
 Dublin: 318, 328, 333, 360, 394, 
 405. 412 
 
 Dumont's Bentham : 555 
 
 Edinburgh Review : 211, 251 
 Eldon, Lord : 155 
 EUenborough, Lord : 383, 566 
 Ellesmere : 200 
 Emmett, Robert : 337, 368 
 English Bards and Scottish Re- 
 viewers : 179 
 Epicurus : 221, 479 
 Essay on Friendship : 29, 303 
 Essay on Love : 311 
 Eton : 13, 28, 31, 40, 308, 314 
 Eton, Mr. : 348, 350, 352, 353. 354 
 Euripides : 85 
 Euclid : 69 
 Enquirer, The : 524 
 Examiner : 376 
 
 Field Place : 12, 17. 20, 31, 34, 91, 
 99, 100, 184, 193, 216, 232, 246, 
 525, 571, 572, 574 
 
 Franklin, Dr. : 434, 435 
 
 French Revolution : 333 
 
 Garden Court : 180 
 
 Gell, Sir WilUam : 519 
 
 George, St. : 257, 258 
 
 George III : 91, 160 
 
 Giotto : 485 
 
 Godwin, Fanny : 351 
 
 Godwin, Mary : 567 
 
 Godwin, Mrs. : 333, 344, 347, 354 
 
 Goethe : 540, 545, 573 
 
 Goethe's The Sorrows of Werther : 
 
 546 
 Godwin, William : 94, 216, 305, 
 
 306, 315, 336, 337, 339» 347. 373. 
 
 374. 379. 455. 456, 474. 5i3. 5i7. 
 
 518, 519, 520, 522, 523. 527. 529. 
 
 545» 567 ; conversation with 
 
 Hogg : 522 ; letters to Shelley : 
 
 353-5 
 Godwin's, WiUiam, Caleb Williams : 
 
 315, 521 ; Essay on Sepulchres : 
 
 362 ; Memoirs of Mary : 570 ; 
 
 Political Justice : 305, 307, 322, 
 
 327. 337. 351. 356. 357, 524. 527. 
 
 573: St. Leon, 311, 521. 
 Goodall, Dr. : 41 
 Graham, Dr. : 298, 299, 300 
 Graham, Mr. : 182, 183, 366, 459, 
 
 460, 461 
 Greece : 347. 356 
 Greenlaw, Dr. : 20, 28, 574 
 Grenville, Lord : 154 
 Grove, Harriet : 26 • ^ /V 
 Grove, John : 204, 225 
 Grove, Mrs. : 227 
 
 Half-Moon Street : 487, 526 
 Halliday, Walter S., letter about 
 
 Shelley : 40 
 Hartley : 359 
 Helvetius : 356, 357 
 Hemans, Mrs. : 24 
 Herodotus : 373 
 High Elms : 5 30. 53 1 
 
Index 
 
 581 
 
 Hogg, T. J., letter to Dawson Tur- 
 ner : 123 ; letter to Harriet Shel- 
 ley : 417 ; mistaken for Shelley, 
 469, 470 ; see also under Shelley, 
 P. B., for other references 
 
 Hohenlinden : 189 
 
 Holcroft : 272, 545 
 
 Homer : 479. 487, 532, 533. 537 
 
 Hopes that dwell in youthful Breasts ; 
 quoted in full ; 333 
 
 Horace : 373 
 
 Horsham : 27, 100, 577 
 
 Hume : 165, 516 
 
 Hume's Essays : 70, i6<i 
 
 Ilfracombe : 349 
 Ireland : 330 
 
 Johnson, Dr. : 246 
 Jones, Gales : 196 
 Jonson, Ben : 173 
 
 Kant : 373. 374. 375. 445 
 Keate, Dr. : 41, 42, 133, 3i5, 429 
 Keswick : 283, 288, 289, 363, 451 
 Killamey : 406, 413, 418, 419, 487 
 
 • L. T. ' : LETTER TO Mrs. Shel- 
 
 LEY, II 
 
 Laker, Mr. : 572 
 
 Lamb, Charles : 523 
 
 Lambe, Dr. : 540 
 
 Landor, Walter Savage : 127 
 
 Landor's, Walter Savage, Gebir : 127 
 
 Lawless, John ; 418 ; letter to Hogg : 
 
 417 
 Lawrence's The Empire of the 
 
 Nairs : 360, 446, 447 
 Letter to Lord Ellenborough ; 546 
 
 Lincoln's Inn Fields : 180 
 
 Lind, Dr. James : 13, 34, 91, 92 
 
 Lind, Miss t 91 
 
 Linnaeus : 75 
 
 Livy : 133, 149 
 
 Llangollen : 201 
 
 Locke : 70, 121, 163, 165, 192, 240 
 
 London : in 
 
 Luson, Mr. : 391 
 
 Lymouth : 347, 349, 350, 362 
 
 Mackintosh, Sir James : 573 
 
 Madocks, Mr. : 369, 371, 372, 393 
 
 Malthus : 327 
 
 Marcus Antoninus : 373 
 
 Matthews, the Comedian . 24 
 
 Medwin, Tom : 525 
 
 Menai Straits : 415 
 
 Miller's Hotel : 181 
 
 Milton : 325, 487 
 
 Milton's Contus : 462 ; Paradise 
 
 Lost: 38, 464 ; Prose Works: 359; 
 
 Samson Agonistes: 385. 
 Mirabaud's, La Systime de la 
 
 Nature: 345, 360 
 Monk Lewis' Poems : 25 
 Monthly Chronicle : 546 
 Moore, Tom : 447 
 
 Nantgwilt : 342, 350, 351 
 Necessity of Atheism, The : 220 
 Newbury : 118 
 New Monthly Magazine ; referred to 
 
 by Hogg: 5, 11 
 Nicholson, Peg : 160 
 Norfolk, Duke of : 290, 370, 379, 
 
 381, 423, 574. 576 
 Norton House : 119 
 
 Oh I take the pure gem; quoted in 
 full : 103 
 
582 
 
 Index 
 
 O'Neil, Miss : 410 
 
 Opie's, Mr?., Mother and Daughter : 
 
 226 
 Ovid : 133, 134 
 
 Ovid's Metamorphoses : 386, 526 
 Owenson's, Miss, Missionary : 
 
 233 
 Oxford : 43, 143, 156, 173, 174, 175, 
 
 176, 177, 191, 501 
 Oxford, Countess of : 423, 424, 426, 
 
 427 
 Oxford, Earl of : 423 
 Oxford Street : 179 
 
 PdLjUJtCi^t 
 
 Paine, Tom : 465, 516, 545 
 
 Paine's Age of Reason : 190, 546 
 
 Paley : 167, 184, 192 
 
 Paracelsus : 345 
 
 Parr, Dr. : 426, 427, 428, 429, 
 
 430 
 Pascal, Blaise : 515 
 Peace of Amiens : 35 
 Petrarch : 484, 485 
 Peyton, Mr. : 228 
 Pilfold, Charles : 18, 203, 204 
 Pimlico : 526, 527 
 Pindar : 154, 494 
 Piozzi, Mr. : 246 
 Plato : 72, 73, 85, 120, 129, 132, 
 
 147, 154, 165, 295» 373. 464. 479, 
 
 496 
 Plato's Dialogues : 145, 316 ; 
 
 Phcedo: 72, 121 ; Republic. 121 
 
 301 
 Pliny : 149, 268 
 Plumer, Sir Thomas : 322, 500 
 Plutarch : 85, 373, 537, 540 
 Poland Street : 177, 575 
 Posthumous Works, The : 12 
 Prettyman, Bishop : 94 
 Prometheus Vinctus : 69 
 Pythagoras : 519 
 
 Queen Mob: 122, 360, 375, 376, 
 463, 464, 466, 502 
 
 Ray: 75 
 
 Refutation of Deism, ^ : 539 
 Return to Nature, The : 511 
 Reynolds, Sir Joshua . 429 
 Revolt of Islam, The : 13 
 Rhayader : 225, 227, 342 
 Richardson, Samuel : 534 
 Richardson's, Samuel, Sir Charles 
 
 Grandson : 529 
 Ritson, Joe : 540 
 Robespierre : 161, 496, 515 
 Romance of the Rose : 529 
 Rome : 347, 356 
 Rousseau : 325, 516, 545 
 Rousseau's Confessions : 219 
 
 ' S.', Dr : 421, 422 
 
 Sackville Street : 228 
 
 St. Irvyne: 94, 307, 311, 327, 
 
 329 
 St. Leonard's Forest : 109 
 St. Paul : 9 
 Salisbury : 114 
 Sallust : 133 
 Scott, Sir Walter : 463 
 Scott's, Sir Walter, Rokeby : 446 
 Seneca : 373 
 Septuagint : 85, 532, 573 
 Sergison, Colonel : 27 
 Shakespeare : 25 
 Sharp, Granville : 472, 473, 474 
 Shelley, Sir Bysshe : 91, 297, 
 
 301 
 Shelley, Elizabeth : 18, 31, 96, 98, 
 
 102, 126, 226, 229, 243, 244, 248, 
 
 574» 577 
 Shelley, Sir Guy on de : 18 
 
Index 
 
 583 
 
 Shelley Harriet : 261, 263, 265, 
 266, 267, 271. 272, 275> 278, 279' 
 280, 281, 290, 333, 352, 363, 368, 
 369. 382, 384, 385, 388, 417, 420, 
 423. 43I' 447, 448, 45i» 475, 476, 
 487, 488, 526, 527, 530, 548, 
 576 
 
 Shelley, Harriet ; letters to Hogg: 
 418, 552-4, 565 
 
 Shelley, Helen : 18 ; letters to 
 Jane : 19-28, 30-1 
 
 Shelley, lanthe : 556 
 
 Shelley, John : 18, 22, 498, 525 
 
 Shelley, Margaret : 18, 22 
 
 Shelley, Mary : 18 ; letter to Hogg: 
 
 3 
 
 Shelley's, Mary, The Last Man : 12 
 Shelley, Mrs., sen. : 572 
 Shelley, P. B., characteristics of : 2 ; 
 his Journal referred to: 8; his 
 religious opinions : 14 ; date of 
 birth: 17; his retentive memory: 
 21; goes to school at Sion House, 
 Brentford: 28; goes to school at 
 Eton : 31 ; translates half of 
 Pliny's Natural History : 32 ; 
 forms friendships at Eton : 33 ; 
 anecdotes of: 33-7, 63-5, 76-8, 
 86,135-7, 141-3, 143-6, 147-8, 177, 
 262-3, 339, 367, 430, 442, 461, 
 499, 507, 527; goes to Oxford : 44 ; 
 description of, at Oxford: 44, 46; 
 conversations with Hogg: 44, 
 47-50, 51, 52-3, 66-8, 68-9, 79- 
 80, 82, 85, 86, 135-7, 140, 151, 
 158-9, 168-71, 255, 256, 257, 259' 
 274, 296-7, 440-1, 450, 468; 
 contents of his Rooms at Oxford: 
 54 ; habit of sleeping in front of 
 the Fire, at Oxford: 58; habits at 
 Oxford: 58-63, 72 ; his sym- 
 pathies easily aroused: 68 
 juvenile poems quoted: 123-6 
 tastes in eating at Oxford: 87 
 
 letters to Hogg: 93-100, 119-20, 
 202-8, 211-45, 24^: 2^5-9, 381-6, 
 416-7, 488, 528, 537-8, 554-6; 
 his Political Creed summarized: 
 127 ; his gentiUty : 130 ; remark 
 on him by Byron : 131 ; fondness 
 for the Plantonic Philosophy : 
 146; expelled from Oxford: 170 ; 
 describes his expulsion to Hogg; 
 168-71 ; goes to London with 
 Hogg : 177 ; letter to Mr. Hogg, 
 sen.: 196; goes to Field Place: 
 218 ; goes to Rhayader, in Rad- 
 norshire, to stay with the Groves : 
 224 ; at Cuckfield, staying with 
 'Capt. Pilfold: 230; back in Lon- 
 don : 243 ; elopes with Harriet 
 Westbrook, to Edinburgh: 248 
 goes "to York : 270-3 ; goes to 
 Keswick: 285 ; conversation with 
 Southey : 295 ; letters to God- 
 win: 305-14, 319-35, 343-7. 
 350-3, 355-9 ; goes to Dublin : 
 318; goes to Wales: 341, 342; 
 goes to Lymouth in Devonshire : 
 347 ; his treatment of books: 361 ; 
 goes to London: 367; letters to 
 Mr. Williams : 371-2, 394 ; goes 
 to Tanyrallt in Carnarvonshire : 
 371, 372 ; letter to Leigh Hunt : 
 380-1 ; on " lUuminism " : 380 ; 
 his attempted assassination at 
 Tanyrallt: 388-94; letters to 
   H. T.' : 388, 389, 391 ; goes 
 again to Dublin : 394 ; goes again 
 to London : 418 ; his food and 
 manner of eating it: 449-52 ; his 
 main principles of life : 524 ; goes 
 to Bracknell: 528 ; fragment of an 
 unfinished novel by; quoted: 
 541-5 ; first description of, with 
 Mary Godwin : 567 
 Shelley, Sir Richard : 19 
 Shelley, Sir Timothy : 12 
 
584 
 
 Index 
 
 Shelley, Mr. Timothy : 182 ; letter 
 to Hogg : 185 ; letters to Mr. 
 Hogg, sen. : 185-6, 187-8, 270-1 ; 
 letter to P. B. Shelley : 186-7 
 
 Shelley Papers : 7, 8, 10 
 
 Shore, Jane : 530 
 
 Shotover Hill : 60, 145 
 
 Sion House : 28, 29 
 
 Skinner Street : 362, 567 
 
 Smith, Sidney : 210, 211 
 
 Smith's Theory of Moral Senti- 
 ments : 420 
 
 Snowdon : 204 
 
 Socrates : 57, 72, 316, 347, 496 
 
 Some Recollections of Childhood : 546 
 
 Southey, Robert : 247, 283, 291, 
 292, 293, 294, 295 
 
 Southey's Chronicle of the Cid : 346, 
 420 ; Thalaha : 385 ; The Curse 
 of Kehama : 294 
 
 Southey, Mrs. : 448, 451 
 
 Spinoza : 108, 373, 374 
 
 Stockdale, Mr. : 94 
 
 Stoke Park : 40 
 
 Stonehenge : 113 
 
 Strood : 23 
 
 Sweet Star ; quoted in full : 233 
 
 Swift, Dean : 324, 411 
 
 Tacitus : 537 
 
 Tanyrallt : 371, 374. 3S1. 3^8. 391. 
 
 393. 419 
 Tasso : 482 
 
 Thaddeus of Warsaw : 177 
 Thrale, Mrs. : 246 
 Thucydides : 154, 373 
 Thy dewy look sinks in my Breast ; 
 
 stanza, quoted: 556 
 Times, The : 379 
 Tintern Abbey : 354 
 Tiro: 468 
 Tooke, Home: 426, 504, 511, 512, 
 
 5i3»5i4. 515 
 
 Tooke's Diversions of Purley : 513 
 
 514 
 Tonson's Milton : 38 
 To the Moonbean ; quoted in full 
 
 222 
 Tiremadoc : 369, 370, 372 
 Tristram Shandy : 38 
 
 Vauxhall : 488, 490, 491 
 Virgil : 466, 532 
 Volney's Ruins : 376, 420 
 Voltaire : 181 
 
 Voltaire's Dictionnaire Philoso- 
 phique: 216 
 
 Walsh, Mr. : 322 
 
 Wandering Jew, The : 122 
 
 Wandsworth : 178 
 
 Warburton, Bishop : 212 
 
 ' Warne, Miss ' : 279» 280, 281, 
 290, 343» 420, 447 
 
 Warnham Church : 35 
 
 Wamham Pond : 20 
 
 Weekly Messenger : 329 
 
 Westbrook, Harriet : 30, 203, 205, 
 226, 227, 228, 235, 247, 575- See 
 also Mrs. Shelley 
 
 Westbrook, Miss : 203, 216, 217, 
 220, 222, 223, 235, 243, 276, 278, 
 279» 333. 368, 369, 382, 417. 419. 
 420, 447, 475, 476, 477, 487, 555, 
 565 
 
 Westbrook, Mr. : 237, 271 
 
 Whitton, William; letter to Shel- 
 ley : 277 
 
 Why is it that thou canst not live; 
 quoted in full : 215 
 
 Wieland : 556, 564 
 
 Winchester : 112 
 
 Windsor : 40 
 
Index 
 
 585 
 
 Wordsworth, William : 283, 485, 
 
 486 
 Whitton, William : 202 
 
 Yes ! the arms of Britannia ; quoted 
 
 in full : 106 
 York : 209, 245, 270 
 
 Xenophon : 132, 201, 373 
 Xenophon's Anabasis : 118 ; Mem- 
 orabilia : 57 
 
 Zastrozzi : 307, 311, 327, 329 
 
£i^^ 
 
 1^4 
 
 n ^ "' nJ.