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THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

II

[Illustration: Photogravure by Annan & Swan

_E. J. TRELAWNY._

_From a portrait after Severn._

_in the possession of Sir Percy F. Shelley, Bart._

London. Richard Bentley & Son: 1889.]


THE LIFE & LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY

by

MRS. JULIAN MARSHALL

With Portraits and Facsimile

In Two Volumes

VOL. II







London
Richard Bentley & Son
Publishers in Ordinary to Her Majesty the Queen
1889




CONTENTS


                                                                   PAGES

  CHAPTER XVII

  JULY-SEPTEMBER 1822

  1822 (July).--Mary and Mrs. Williams go to Pisa--They can
  learn nothing--Trelawny accompanies them back to Casa
  Magni--The bodies of Shelley and Williams are washed
  ashore--Trelawny brings Mary, Jane, and Clare back to
  Pisa--Mary's endurance--Letters from Godwin--Mary's letter
  to Mrs. Gisborne--The bodies are cremated--Dispute about
  Shelley's heart--It remains with Mary--Mary's decision to
  remain for a time with the Hunts, and to assist them and
  Byron with the _Liberal_--Goes to Genoa--Mrs. Williams goes
  to England--Letter from Mary to Mrs. Gisborne and Clare--
  Letters from Clare and Jane Williams--The Hunts and Byron
  are established at Albaro                                         1-35


  CHAPTER XVIII

  SEPTEMBER 1822-JULY 1823

  1822 (October).--Mary's desolate condition--Her diary--
  Extracts--Discomfort with the Hunts--Byron's antipathy to
  them all--Note from him to Mary--Trelawny's presence a
  refreshment--Letters to and from him--Letter from Godwin--
  Journal--Letter to Clare--Mary's poem "The Choice."

  1823. Trelawny's zealous care for Shelley's tomb--Mary's
  gratitude--She decides on returning to England--Sir Timothy
  Shelley's refusal to assist her--Letter from Godwin--
  Correspondence between Mary and Trelawny--Letter from
  Godwin criticising _Valperga_--Byron is induced to go to
  Greece--Summons Trelawny to accompany him--Mrs. Hunt's
  confinement--Letters from Mary to Jane Williams--She starts
  on her journey to England--Diary                                 36-88


  CHAPTER XIX

  JULY 1823-DECEMBER 1824

  1823. Mary's journey--Letters to the Leigh Hunts--Arrival
  in London--Jane Williams--Her attractiveness--_Frankenstein_
  on the stage--Publication of Shelley's Posthumous Poems.

  1824. Journal--Mary's wish to write for the stage--Godwin
  discourages the idea--Affairs of the _Examiner_ newspaper--
  The Novellos--Mrs. Cowden Clarke's reminiscences of Mary--
  Death of Byron--Profound sensation--Journal--Letters from
  Trelawny--Description of the "Cavern Fortress of Mount
  Parnassus"--Letter from Mary to Trelawny--Letter to Leigh
  Hunt--Negotiation with Sir T. Shelley--Allowance--
  Suppression of the Posthumous Poems--Journal--Medwin's
  Memoirs of Byron--Asks Mary to assist him--Her feelings on
  the subject--Letter to Mrs. Hunt--Journal                      89-129


  CHAPTER XX

  JANUARY 1825-JULY 1827

  1825. Improvement in Mary's prospects--Letter to Miss
  Curran--Letter to Leigh Hunt about his article on Shelley--
  Shelley's portrait arrives--Journal--Trelawny's adventures
  and escape from Greece--Mary's letter to him (February 1826).

  1826. Reminiscences of Lord Byron's projected performance
  of _Othello_ at Pisa--Clare Clairmont's life as a governess
  in Russia--Description of her--Letter from her to Jane
  Williams--Publication of _The Last Man_--Hogg's
  appreciation--Stoppage of Mary's allowance--Peacock's
  intervention in her behalf--Death of Charles Shelley--Mary's
  letter to Leigh Hunt on the subject of Shelley's intended
  legacy--Increase of allowance--Melancholy letter from
  Trelawny.

  1827. Mary's reply--Letter from Clare to Jane Williams--Jane
  Williams' duplicity--Mary becomes aware of it--Her misery--
  Journal                                                        130-167


  CHAPTER XXI

  JULY 1827-AUGUST 1830

  1827. Letter to Mary from Frances Wright presented by
  Robert Dale Owen--Friendly Correspondence--Acquaintance--
  Fanny Wright's history--Her personal appearance--Contrast
  between her and Mrs. Shelley--She returns to America--Letter
  from her--Letter from Godwin to Mary--Mary's stay at
  Arundel--The Miss Robinsons--Letter from Trelawny--
  Explanation with Jane Williams--Letter from Mary--Visit to
  Paris--Mary catches the small-pox--Trelawny arrives in
  England--Letters from him.

  1829. He returns to Italy--Letter to Mary to say he is
  writing his own life--Asks Mary to help him with
  reminiscences of Shelley--She declines--He is angry--Letter
  from Lord Dillon--_Perkin Warbeck_.

  1830. Journal (January)--Mrs. Shelley's "at homes" in
  Somerset Street--T. Moore--_Perkin Warbeck_ a
  disappointment--Need of money--Letter from Clare--Mary
  writes for the _Keepsake_                                      168-203


  CHAPTER XXII

  AUGUST 1830-OCTOBER 1831

  1830. Trelawny's autobiographical adventures to be entitled
  _A Man's Life_--Correspondence with Mary respecting the
  preparation and publication of the book.

  1831. She negotiates the matter--Entreats for certain
  modifications--The title is altered to _Adventures of a
  Younger Son_--The author's vexation--Mary's patience--Horace
  Smith's assistance--Trelawny surmises that "fate" may unite
  him and Mary Shelley some day--"My name will never be
  Trelawny"--Publication of the _Adventures_--Trelawny's later
  _Recollections of Shelley, Byron, and the Author_--His rare
  appreciation of Shelley--Singular discrepancies between the
  first and second editions of the book--Complete change of
  tone in later life with regard to Mrs. Shelley--Conclusions    204-232


  CHAPTER XXIII

  OCTOBER 1831-OCTOBER 1839

  Godwin's _Thoughts on Man_ (1830)--Letter to Mary--Letter
  from Clare--Question of Percy's going to a public school.

  1831. Mary Shelley applies to Sir Timothy for an increase of
  allowance--She is refused.

  1832. Letter from Godwin asking for an idea or suggestion--
  Mary writes "Lives of Italian and Spanish Literary Men" for
  Lardner's _Cyclopædia_--Clare's tale--Cholera in London--
  Mary goes to Sandgate--Trelawny returns--His daughter stays
  with Mary at Sandgate--Death of Lord Dillon--Letter from
  Godwin--His son William dies of cholera--Posthumous novel,
  _Transfusion_--Clare's letters to Jane and Mary.

  1833. Mrs. Shelley goes to live at Harrow--Letter to Mrs.
  Gisborne--Influenza--Solitude--Hard work--Letter from
  1834 Godwin--Letters from Mary to Trelawny and to Mrs.
  Gisborne--Offer of £600 for annotated edition of Shelley's
  works--Difficulties.

  1835. _Lodore_--Its success--Reminiscences of her own
  experiences--Letter from Clare--Melancholy letter from Mary
  to Mrs. Gisborne--"A Dirge"--Trelawny returns from America--
  Mary's friendship with Mrs. Norton--Letter to Mrs.
  Gisborne--Godwin's 1836 death--Efforts to get an annuity for
  his widow--Letters from Mrs. Norton and Trelawny.

  1837. Letters from Mary to Trelawny--Death of the Gisbornes--
  Impediments to Mary's undertaking the biography of her
  father--Her edition of Shelley's works--Painful task.

  1839. Letter from Sir E. L. Bulwer--Fragment from Mrs.
  Norton--The Diplomatic Service--Journal--Bitter Vexations--
  Illness--Recovery                                              233-291


  CHAPTER XXIV

  OCTOBER 1839-FEBRUARY 1851

  1839. Publication of Shelley's prose works--Motto--Letter
  from Carlyle.

  1840. Journal--Brighton--Continental tour with Percy and his
  reading-party--Stay at Como--Mary's enjoyment--Her son takes
  his degree, and receives allowance from his grandfather--
  Letter of congratulation from Mrs. Norton--Mary 1841 and
  Percy go abroad again--Kissingen; Gotha; Weimar; Leipzig;
  Berlin; Dresden; Prague; Linz; Salzburg; Venice--
  Associations--Winter at Florence--Rome--Sorrento--Home again.

  1844. _Rambles in Germany and Italy_--Dedication to Rogers:
  note from him--Death of Sir T. Shelley--Mary's letter to
  Leigh Hunt--Shelley's various legacies--Letter from Hogg--
  Portrait--Mrs. Shelley's literary friendships--Letter from
  Walter Savage Landor--Hogg's _Shelley Papers_--Subsequent
  _Life of Shelley_--Facsimile of fragment in Mary's
  handwriting--Medwin's book inaccurate and objectionable--
  Mary fails to write Shelley's Life--Marriage of Sir 1847
  Percy Shelley--Mary lives with her son and daughter-in-law--
  Her sweetness and unselfishness--Her kindness to her son's
  friends--Clare's visits to Field Place--Her excitability and
  eccentricity--Her death at Florence; 1878.

  1851. Mary Shelley's health declines--Her death--Her grave
  in Bournemouth Churchyard--Retrospect of her history and
  mental development--Extract from Journal of October 1838,
  giving her own views--The success of her life a moral rather
  than an intellectual one--Her nobility of character--Her
  influence on Shelley--Her lifelong devotion to him             292-325




THE LIFE AND LETTERS OF MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY




CHAPTER XVII

JULY-SEPTEMBER 1822


They set off at once, death in their hearts, yet clinging outwardly to any
semblance of a hope. They crossed to Lerici, they posted to Pisa; they
went first to Casa Lanfranchi. Byron was there; he could tell them
nothing. It was midnight, but to rest or wait was impossible; they posted
on to Leghorn. They went about inquiring for Trelawny or Roberts. Not
finding the right inn they were forced to wait till next morning before
prosecuting their search. They found Roberts; he only knew the _Ariel_ had
sailed on Monday; there had been a storm, and no more had been heard of
her. Still they did not utterly despair. Contrary winds might have driven
the boat to Corsica or elsewhere, and information was perhaps withheld.

    "So remorselessly," says Trelawny, "are the quarantine laws enforced
    in Italy that, when at sea, if you render assistance to a vessel in
    distress, or rescue a drowning stranger, on returning to port you are
    condemned to a long and rigorous quarantine of fourteen or more days.
    The consequence is, should one vessel see another in peril, or even
    run it down by accident, she hastens on her course, and by general
    accord not a word is said or reported on the subject."

Trelawny accompanied the forlorn women back to Casa Magni, whence, for the
next seven or eight days, he patrolled the coast with the coastguards,
stimulating them to keep a good look-out by the promise of a reward. On
Thursday, the 18th, he left for Leghorn, and on the next day a letter came
to him from Captain Roberts with the intelligence that the bodies of
Shelley and Williams had been washed ashore. The letter was received and
opened by Clare Clairmont. To communicate its contents to Mary or Jane was
more than she could do: in her distress she wrote to Leigh Hunt for help
or counsel.

    _Friday Evening, 19th July 1822._

    MY DEAR SIR--Mr. Trelawny went for Livorno last night. There came this
    afternoon a letter to him from Captain Roberts--he had left orders
    with Mary that she might open it; I did not allow her to see it. He
    writes there is no hope, but they are lost, and their bodies found
    three miles from Via Reggio. This letter is dated 15th July, and says
    he had heard this news 14th July. Outside the letter he has added, "I
    am now on my way to Via Reggio, to ascertain the facts or _no facts_
    contained in my letter." This then implies that he doubts, and as I
    also doubt the report, because we had a letter from the captain of
    the port at Via Reggio, 15th July, later than when Mr. Roberts writes,
    to say nothing had been found, for this reason I have not shown his
    letter either to Mary or Mrs. Williams. How can I, even if it were
    true?

    I pray you to answer this by return of my messenger. I assure you I
    cannot break it to them, nor is my spirit, weakened as it is from
    constant suffering, capable of giving them consolation, or protecting
    them from the first burst of their despair. I entreat you to give me
    some counsel, or to arrange some method by which they may know it. I
    know not what further to add, except that their case is desperate in
    every respect, and death would be the greatest kindness to us
    all.--Ever your sincere friend,

      CLARE.

This letter can hardly have been despatched before Trelawny arrived. He
had seen the mangled, half-devoured corpses, and had identified them at
once. It remained for him now to pronounce sentence of doom, as it were,
on the survivors. This is his story, as he tells it--

    I mounted my horse and rode to the Gulf of Spezzia, put up my horse,
    and walked until I caught sight of the lone house on the sea-shore in
    which Shelley and Williams had dwelt, and where their widows still
    lived. Hitherto in my frequent visits--in the absence of direct
    evidence to the contrary--I had buoyed up their spirits by maintaining
    that it was not impossible but that the friends still lived; now I had
    to extinguish the last hope of these forlorn women. I had ridden fast
    to prevent any ruder messenger from bursting in upon them. As I stood
    on the threshold of their house, the bearer or rather confirmer of
    news which would rack every fibre of their quivering frames to the
    uttermost, I paused, and, looking at the sea, my memory reverted to
    our joyous parting only a few days before. The two families then had
    all been in the verandah, overhanging a sea so clear and calm that
    every star was reflected on the water as if it had been a mirror; the
    young mothers singing some merry tune with the accompaniment of a
    guitar. Shelley's shrill laugh--I heard it still--rang in my ears,
    with Williams' friendly hail, the general _buona notte_ of all the
    joyous party, and the earnest entreaty to me to return as soon as
    possible, and not to forget the commissions they had severally given
    me. I was in a small boat beneath them, slowly rowing myself on board
    the _Bolivar_, at anchor in the bay, loath to part from what I verily
    believed to have been at that time the most united and happiest set of
    human beings in the whole world. And now by the blow of an idle puff
    of wind the scene was changed. Such is human happiness.

    My reverie was broken by a shriek from the nurse Caterina as, crossing
    the hall, she saw me in the doorway. After asking her a few questions
    I went up the stairs, and unannounced entered the room. I neither
    spoke nor did they question me. Mrs. Shelley's large gray eyes were
    fixed on my face. I turned away. Unable to bear this horrid silence,
    with a convulsive effort she exclaimed--

    "Is there no hope?"

    I did not answer, but left the room, and sent the servant with the
    children to them. The next day I prevailed on them to return with me
    to Pisa. The misery of that night and the journey of the next day, and
    of many days and nights that followed, I can neither describe nor
    forget.

There is no journal or contemporary record of the next three or four
weeks; only from a few scattered hints in letters can any idea be gleaned
of this dark time, when the first realisation of incredible misfortune was
being lived out in detail. Leigh Hunt was almost broken-hearted.

    "Dearest Mary," he wrote from Casa Lanfranchi on the 20th July, "I
    trust you will have set out on your return from that dismal place
    before you receive this. You will also have seen Trelawny. God bless
    you, and enable us all to be a support for one another. Let us do our
    best if it is only for that purpose. It is easier for me to say that I
    will do it than for you: but whatever happens, this I can safely say,
    that I belong to those whom Shelley loves, and that all which it is
    possible to me to do for them now and for ever is theirs. I will
    grieve with them, endure with them, and, if it be necessary, work for
    them, while I have life.--Your most affectionate friend,

      LEIGH HUNT.

    Marianne sends you a thousand loves, and longs with myself to try
    whether we can say or do one thing that can enable you and Mrs.
    Williams to bear up a little better. But we rely on your great
    strength of mind."

Mary bore up in a way that surprised those who knew how ill she had been,
how weak she still was, and how much she had previously been suffering in
her spirits. It was a strange, tense, unnatural endurance. Except to Miss
Curran at Rome, she wrote to no one for some time, not even to her father.
This, which would naturally have been her first communication, may well
have appeared harder to make than any other. Godwin's relations with
Shelley had of late been strained, to say the least,--and then, Mary could
not but remember his letters to her after Williams' death, and the
privilege he had claimed "as a father and a philosopher" of rebuking, nay,
of contemptuously deprecating her then excess of grief. How was she to
write now in such a tone as to avert an answer of that sort? how write at
all? She did accomplish it at last, but before her letter arrived Godwin
had heard of the catastrophe through Miss Kent, sister of Mrs. Leigh Hunt.
His fatherly feeling of anxiety for his daughter was aroused, and after
waiting two days for direct news, he wrote to her as follows--

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    NO. 195 STRAND, _6th August 1822_.

    DEAR MARY--I heard only two days ago the most afflicting intelligence
    to you, and in some measure to all of us, that can be imagined--the
    death of Shelley on the 8th ultimo. I have had no direct information;
    the news only comes in a letter from Leigh Hunt to Miss Kent, and,
    therefore, were it not for the consideration of the writer, I should
    be authorised to disbelieve it. That you should be so overcome as not
    to be able to write is perhaps but too natural; but that Jane could
    not write one line I could never have believed; and the behaviour of
    the lady at Pisa towards us on the occasion is peculiarly cruel.

    Leigh Hunt says you bear up under the shock better than could have
    been imagined; but appearances are not to be relied on. It would have
    been a great relief to me to have had a few lines from yourself. In a
    case like this, one lets one's imagination loose among the
    possibilities of things, and one is apt to rest upon what is most
    distressing and intolerable. I learned the news on Sunday. I was in
    hope to have had my doubts and fears removed by a letter from yourself
    on Monday. I again entertained the same hope to-day, and am again
    disappointed. I shall hang in hope and fear on every post, knowing
    that you cannot neglect me for ever.

    All that I expressed to you about silence and not writing to you again
    is now put an end to in the most melancholy way. I looked on you as
    one of the daughters of prosperity, elevated in rank and fortune, and
    I thought it was criminal to intrude on you for ever the sorrows of an
    unfortunate old man and a beggar. You are now fallen to my own level;
    you are surrounded with adversity and with difficulty; and I no longer
    hold it sacrilege to trouble you with my adversities. We shall now
    truly sympathise with each other; and whatever misfortune or ruin
    falls upon me, I shall not now scruple to lay it fully before you.

    This sorrowful event is, perhaps, calculated to draw us nearer to each
    other. I am the father of a family, but without children; I and my
    wife are falling fast into infirmity and helplessness; and in addition
    to all our other calamities, we seem destined to be left without
    connections and without aid. Perhaps now we and you shall mutually
    derive consolation from each other.

    Poor Jane is, I am afraid, left still more helpless than you are.
    Common misfortune, I hope, will incite between you the most friendly
    feelings.

    Shelley lived, I know, in constant anticipation of the uncertainty of
    his life, though not in this way, and was anxious in that event to
    make the most effectual provision for you. I am impatient to hear in
    what way that has been done; and perhaps you will make me your lawyer
    in England if any steps are necessary. I am desirous to call on
    Longdill, but I should call with more effect if I had authority and
    instructions from you. Mamma desires me to say how truly and deeply
    she sympathises in your affliction, and I trust you know enough of her
    to feel that this is the language of her heart.

    I suppose you will hardly stay in Italy. In that case we shall be near
    to, and support each other.--Ever and ever affectionately yours,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

    I have received your letter dated (it has no date) since writing the
    above; it was detained for some hours by being directed to the care of
    Monro, for which I cannot account. William wrote to you on the 14th of
    June, and I on the 23d of July. I will call on Peacock and Hogg as you
    desire. Perhaps Williams' letter, and perhaps others, have been kept
    from you. Let us now be open and unreserved in all things.

This letter was doubtless intended to be kind and sympathetic, even in the
persistent prominence given to the business aspect of recent events. Yet
it was comical in its solemnity. For when had Godwin held it sacrilege to
trouble his daughter with his adversities, or shown the slightest scruple
in laying before her any misfortune or ruin that may have fallen on him?
and what new prospect was afforded her in the future by his promise of
doing so now? No; this privilege of a father and a philosopher had never
been neglected by him.

Well indeed might he feel anxious as to what provision had been made for
his daughter by her husband. In these matters he had long ceased to have a
conscience, yet it was impossible he should be unaware that the utmost his
son-in-law had been able to effect, and that at the expense of enormous
sacrifices on the part of himself and his heirs, and of all the credit he
possessed with publishers and the one or two friends who were not also
dependents, had been to pay his, Godwin's, perpetual debts, and to keep
him, as long as he could be kept, afloat.

Small opportunity had Shelley's "dear"[1] friends allowed him as yet to
make provision for his family in case of sudden misfortune!

Godwin, however, was really anxious about Mary, and his anxiety was
perhaps increased by his letter; for in three days he wrote again, with
out alluding to money.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    _9th August 1822._

    MY DEAR MARY--I am inexpressibly anxious to hear from you, and your
    present situation renders the reciprocation of letters and
    answers--implying an interval of a month between each letter I receive
    from you to the next--intolerable.

    My poor girl, what do you mean to do with yourself? You surely do not
    mean to stay in Italy? How glad I should be to be near you, and to
    endeavour by new expedients each day to endeavour to make up your
    loss. But you are the best judge. If Italy is a country to which in
    these few years you are naturalised, and if England is become dull and
    odious to you, then stay!

    I should think, however, that now that you have lost your closest
    friend, your mind would naturally turn homeward, and to your earliest
    friend. Is it not so? Surely we might be a great support to each other
    under the trials to which we are reserved. What signify a few outward
    adversities if we find a friend at home?

    One thing I would earnestly recommend in our future intercourse, is
    perfect frankness. I think you are of a frank nature, I am sure I am
    so. We have now no battle to fight,--no contention to maintain,--that
    is over now.

    Above all, let me entreat you to keep up your courage. You have many
    duties to perform; you must now be the father as well as the mother;
    and I trust you have energy of character enough to enable you to
    perform your duties honourably and well.--Ever and ever most
    affectionately yours,

      W. GODWIN.

The stunning nature of the blow she had endured, the uncertainty and
complication of her affairs, and the absence of any one preponderating
motive, made it impossible for Mary to settle at once on any scheme for
the future. Her first idea was to return to England without delay, so as
to avoid any possible risk to her boy from the Italian climate. Her one
wish was to possess herself, before leaving, of the portrait of Shelley
begun at Rome by Miss Curran, and laid aside in an unfinished state as a
failure. In the absence of any other likeness it would be precious, and it
might perhaps be improved. It was on this subject that she had written to
Miss Curran in the quite early days of her misfortune; no answer had come,
and she wrote again, now to request "that favour now nearer my heart than
any other thing--the picture of my Shelley."

    "We leave Italy soon," she continued, "so I am particularly anxious to
    obtain this treasure, which I am sure you will give me as soon as
    possible. I have no other likeness of him, and in so utter desolation,
    how invaluable to me is your picture. Will you not send it? Will you
    not answer me without delay? Your former kindness bids me hope
    everything."

She was awakening to life again; in other words, to pain: with keen
anguish, like that of returning circulation to a limb which has been
frozen and numb, her feelings, her forces, her intellect, began to respond
to outward calls upon them, with a sensation, at times, of even morbid
activity. It was a kind of relief, now, to write to Mrs. Gisborne that
letter which contains the most graphic and connected of all accounts of
the past tragedy.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    _15th August 1822._

    I said in a letter to Peacock, my dear Mrs. Gisborne, that I would
    send you some account of the last miserable months of my disastrous
    life. From day to day I have put this off, but I will now endeavour to
    fulfil my design. The scene of my existence is closed, and though
    there be no pleasure in retracing the scenes that have preceded the
    event which has crushed my hopes, yet there seems to be a necessity in
    doing so, and I obey the impulse that urges me. I wrote to you either
    at the end of May or the beginning of June. I described to you the
    place we were living in--our desolate house, the beauty yet
    strangeness of the scenery, and the delight Shelley took in all this.
    He never was in better health or spirits than during this time. I was
    not well in body or mind. My nerves were wound up to the utmost
    irritation, and the sense of misfortune hung over my spirits. No words
    can tell you how I hated our house and the country about it. Shelley
    reproached me for this--his health was good, and the place was quite
    after his own heart. What could I answer? That the people were wild
    and hateful, that though the country was beautiful yet I liked a more
    _countrified_ place, that there was great difficulty in living, that
    all our Tuscans would leave us, and that the very jargon of these
    _Genovesi_ was disgusting. This was all I had to say, but no words
    could describe my feelings; the beauty of the woods made me weep and
    shudder; so vehement was my feeling of dislike that I used to rejoice
    when the winds and waves permitted me to go out in the boat, so that I
    was not obliged to take my usual walk among the shaded paths, alleys
    of vine festooned trees--all that before I doated on, and that now
    weighed on me. My only moments of peace were on board that unhappy
    boat when, lying down with my head on his knee, I shut my eyes and
    felt the wind and our swift motion alone. My ill health might account
    for much of this. Bathing in the sea somewhat relieved me, but on the
    8th of June (I think it was) I was threatened with a miscarriage, and
    after a week of great ill health, on Sunday, the 16th, this took place
    at 8 in the morning. I was so ill that for seven hours I lay nearly
    lifeless--kept from fainting by brandy, vinegar, and eau-de-Cologne,
    etc. At length ice was brought to our solitude; it came before the
    doctor, so Clare and Jane were afraid of using it, but Shelley
    overruled them, and by an unsparing application of it I was restored.
    They all thought, and so did I at one time, that I was about to die, I
    hardly wished that I had,--my own Shelley could never have lived
    without me; the sense of eternal misfortune would have pressed too
    heavily upon him, and what would have become of my poor babe? My
    convalescence was slow, and during it a strange occurrence happened to
    retard it. But first I must describe our house to you. The floor on
    which we lived was thus--

      +--------------------------------------------+
      |     |                                |     |
      |  5  |  7                             |  3  |
      |     |                                |     |
      |-----|                                |-----|
      |     |                                |     |
      |  6  |               2                |  4  |
      |     |                                |     |
      |-----+--------------------------------+-----|
      |                                            |
      |                     1                      |
      +--------------------------------------------+

    1 is a terrace that went the whole length of our house and was
    precipitous to the sea; 2, the large dining-hall; 3, a private
    staircase; 4, my bedroom; 5, Mrs. Williams' bedroom; 6, Shelley's; and
    7, the entrance from the great staircase. Now to return. As I said,
    Shelley was at first in perfect health, but having over-fatigued
    himself one day, and then the fright my illness gave him, caused a
    return of nervous sensations and visions as bad as in his worst times.
    I think it was the Saturday after my illness, while yet unable to
    walk, I was confined to my bed--in the middle of the night I was awoke
    by hearing him scream and come rushing into my room; I was sure that
    he was asleep, and tried to waken him by calling on him, but he
    continued to scream, which inspired me with such a panic that I jumped
    out of bed and ran across the hall to Mrs. Williams' room, where I
    fell through weakness, though I was so frightened that I got up again
    immediately. She let me in, and Williams went to Shelley, who had been
    wakened by my getting out of bed--he said that he had not been asleep,
    and that it was a vision that he saw that had frightened him. But as
    he declared that he had not screamed, it was certainly a dream, and no
    waking vision. What had frightened him was this. He dreamt that, lying
    as he did in bed, Edward and Jane came in to him; they were in the
    most horrible condition; their bodies lacerated, their bones starting
    through their skin, their faces pale yet stained with blood; they
    could hardly walk, but Edward was the weakest, and Jane was supporting
    him. Edward said, "Get up, Shelley, the sea is flooding the house, and
    it is all coming down." Shelley got up, he thought, and went to his
    window that looked on the terrace and the sea, and thought he saw the
    sea rushing in. Suddenly his vision changed, and he saw the figure of
    himself strangling me; that had made him rush into my room, yet,
    fearful of frightening me, he dared not approach the bed, when my
    jumping out awoke him, or, as he phrased it, caused his vision to
    vanish. All this was frightful enough, and talking it over the next
    morning, he told me that he had had many visions lately; he had seen
    the figure of himself, which met him as he walked on the terrace and
    said to him, "How long do you mean to be content?" no very terrific
    words, and certainly not prophetic of what has occurred. But Shelley
    had often seen these figures when ill; but the strangest thing is that
    Mrs. Williams saw him. Now Jane, though a woman of sensibility, has
    not much imagination, and is not in the slightest degree nervous,
    neither in dreams nor otherwise. She was standing one day, the day
    before I was taken ill, at a window that looked on the terrace, with
    Trelawny. It was day. She saw, as she thought, Shelley pass by the
    window, as he often was then, without a coat or jacket; he passed
    again. Now, as he passed both times the same way, and as from the side
    towards which he went each time there was no way to get back except
    past the window again (except over a wall 20 feet from the ground),
    she was struck at her seeing him pass twice thus, and looked out and
    seeing him no more, she cried, "Good God, can Shelley have leapt from
    the wall? Where can he be gone?" "Shelley," said Trelawny, "no Shelley
    has passed. What do you mean?" Trelawny says that she trembled
    exceedingly when she heard this, and it proved, indeed, that Shelley
    had never been on the terrace, and was far off at the time she saw
    him. Well, we thought no more of these things, and I slowly got
    better. Having heard from Hunt that he had sailed from Genoa, on
    Monday, 1st July, Shelley, Edward, and Captain Roberts (the gentleman
    who built our boat) departed in our boat for Leghorn to receive him. I
    was then just better, had begun to crawl from my bedroom to the
    terrace, but bad spirits succeeded to ill health, and this departure
    of Shelley's seemed to add insufferably to my misery. I could not
    endure that he should go. I called him back two or three times, and
    told him that if I did not see him soon I would go to Pisa with the
    child. I cried bitterly when he went away. They went, and Jane, Clare,
    and I remained alone with the children. I could not walk out, and
    though I gradually gathered strength, it was slowly, and my ill
    spirits increased. In my letters to him I entreated him to return;
    "the feeling that some misfortune would happen," I said, "haunted me."
    I feared for the child, for the idea of danger connected with him
    never struck me. When Jane and Clare took their evening walk, I used
    to patrol the terrace, oppressed with wretchedness, yet gazing on the
    most beautiful scene in the world. This Gulf of Spezzia is subdivided
    into many small bays, of which ours was far the most beautiful. The
    two horns of the bay (so to express myself) were wood-covered
    promontories, crowned with castles; at the foot of these, on the
    farthest, was Lerici, on the nearest San Terenzo; Lerici being above a
    mile by land from us, and San Terenzo about a hundred or two yards.
    Trees covered the hills that enclosed this bay, and their beautiful
    groups were picturesquely contrasted with the rocks, the castle, and
    the town. The sea lay far extended in front, while to the west we saw
    the promontory and islands, which formed one of the extreme boundaries
    of the Gulf. To see the sun set upon this scene, the stars shine, and
    the moon rise, was a sight of wondrous beauty, but to me it added only
    to my wretchedness. I repeated to myself all that another would have
    said to console me, and told myself the tale of love, peace, and
    competence which I enjoyed; but I answered myself by tears--Did not my
    William die, and did I hold my Percy by a firmer tenure? Yet I thought
    when he, when my Shelley, returns, I shall be happy; he will comfort
    me, if my boy be ill he will restore him, and encourage me. I had a
    letter or two from Shelley, mentioning the difficulties he had in
    establishing the Hunts, and that he was unable to fix the time of his
    return. Thus a week passed. On Monday, 8th, Jane had a letter from
    Edward, dated Saturday; he said that he waited at Leghorn for Shelley,
    who was at Pisa; that Shelley's return was certain; "but," he
    continued, "if he should not come by Monday, I will come in a felucca,
    and you may expect me Tuesday evening at farthest." This was Monday,
    the fatal Monday, but with us it was stormy all day, and we did not at
    all suppose that they could put to sea. At 12 at night we had a
    thunderstorm; Tuesday it rained all day, and was calm--wept on their
    graves. On Wednesday the wind was fair from Leghorn, and in the
    evening several feluccas arrived thence; one brought word that they
    had sailed on Monday, but we did not believe them. Thursday was
    another day of fair wind, and when 12 at night came, and we did not
    see the tall sails of the little boat double the promontory before
    us, we began to fear, not the truth, but some illness--some
    disagreeable news for their detention. Jane got so uneasy that she
    determined to proceed the next day to Leghorn in a boat, to see what
    was the matter. Friday came, and with it a heavy sea and bad wind.
    Jane, however, resolved to be rowed to Leghorn (since no boat could
    sail), and busied herself in preparations. I wished her to wait for
    letters, since Friday was letter day. She would not; but the sea
    detained her; the swell rose so that no boat could venture out. At 12
    at noon our letters came; there was one from Hunt to Shelley; it said,
    "Pray write to tell us how you got home, for they say that you had bad
    weather after you sailed Monday, and we are anxious." The paper fell
    from me. I trembled all over. Jane read it. "Then it is all over," she
    said. "No, my dear Jane," I cried, "it is not all over, but this
    suspense is dreadful. Come with me, we will go to Leghorn; we will
    post to be swift, and learn our fate." We crossed to Lerici, despair
    in our hearts; they raised our spirits there by telling us that no
    accident had been heard of, and that it must have been known, etc.,
    but still our fear was great, and without resting we posted to Pisa.
    It must have been fearful to see us--two poor, wild, aghast creatures
    driving (like Matilda) towards the sea, to learn if we were to be for
    ever doomed to misery. I knew that Hunt was at Pisa, at Lord Byron's
    house, but I thought that Lord Byron was at Leghorn. I settled that we
    should drive to Casa Lanfranchi, that I should get out, and ask the
    fearful question of Hunt, "Do you know anything of Shelley?" On
    entering Pisa, the idea of seeing Hunt for the first time for four
    years, under such circumstances, and asking him such a question, was
    so terrific to me, that it was with difficulty that I prevented myself
    from going into convulsions. My struggles were dreadful. They knocked
    at the door, and some one called out, _chi è?_ It was the Guiccioli's
    maid. Lord Byron was in Pisa. Hunt was in bed; so I was to see Lord
    Byron instead of him. This was a great relief to me. I staggered
    upstairs; the Guiccioli came to meet me, smiling, while I could
    hardly say, "Where is he--Sapete alcuna cosa di Shelley?" They knew
    nothing; he had left Pisa on Sunday; on Monday he had sailed; there
    had been bad weather Monday afternoon. More they knew not. Both Lord
    Byron and the lady have told me since, that on that terrific evening I
    looked more like a ghost than a woman--light seemed to emanate from my
    features; my face was very white; I looked like marble. Alas! I had
    risen almost from a bed of sickness for this journey; I had travelled
    all day; it was now 12 at night, and we, refusing to rest, proceeded
    to Leghorn--not in despair--no, for then we must have died; but with
    sufficient hope to keep up the agitation of the spirits, which was all
    my life. It was past 2 in the morning when we arrived. They took us to
    the wrong inn; neither Trelawny nor Captain Roberts were there, nor
    did we exactly know where they were, so we were obliged to wait until
    daylight: we threw ourselves drest on our beds, and slept a little,
    but at 6 o'clock we went to one or two inns, to ask for one or the
    other of these gentlemen. We found Roberts at the "Globe." He came
    down to us with a face that seemed to tell us that the worst was true,
    and here we learned all that occurred during the week they had been
    absent from us, and under what circumstances they had departed on
    their return.

    Shelley had passed most of the time at Pisa, arranging the affairs of
    the Hunts, and screwing Lord Byron's mind to the sticking place about
    the journal. He had found this a difficult task at first, but at
    length he had succeeded to his heart's content with both points. Mrs.
    Mason said that she saw him in better health and spirits than she had
    ever known him, when he took leave of her, Sunday, July 7, his face
    burnt by the sun, and his heart light, that he had succeeded in
    rendering the Hunts tolerably comfortable. Edward had remained at
    Leghorn. On Monday, July 8, during the morning, they were employed in
    buying many things, eatables, etc., for our solitude. There had been a
    thunderstorm early, but about noon the weather was fine, and the wind
    right fair for Lerici. They were impatient to be gone. Roberts said,
    "Stay until to-morrow, to see if the weather is settled;" and Shelley
    might have stayed, but Edward was in so great an anxiety to reach
    home, saying they would get there in seven hours with that wind, that
    they sailed; Shelley being in one of those extravagant fits of good
    spirits, in which you have sometimes seen him. Roberts went out to the
    end of the mole, and watched them out of sight; they sailed at 1, and
    went off at the rate of about seven knots. About 3, Roberts, who was
    still on the mole, saw wind coming from the Gulf, or rather what the
    Italians call _a temporale_. Anxious to know how the boat would
    weather the storm, he got leave to go up the tower, and, with the
    glass, discovered them about ten miles out at sea, off Via Reggio;
    they were taking in their topsails. "The haze of the storm," he said,
    "hid them from me, and I saw them no more. When the storm cleared, I
    looked again, fancying that I should see them on their return to us,
    but there was no boat on the sea."

    This, then, was all we knew, yet we did not despair; they might have
    been driven over to Corsica, and not knowing the coast, have gone God
    knows where. Reports favoured this belief; it was even said that they
    had been seen in the Gulf. We resolved to return with all possible
    speed; we sent a courier to go from tower to tower, along the coast,
    to know if anything had been seen or found, and at 9 A.M. we quitted
    Leghorn, stopped but one moment at Pisa, and proceeded towards Lerici.
    When at two miles from Via Reggio, we rode down to that town to know
    if they knew anything. Here our calamity first began to break on us; a
    little boat and a water cask had been found five miles off--they had
    manufactured a _piccolissima lancia_ of thin planks stitched by a
    shoemaker, just to let them run on shore without wetting themselves,
    as our boat drew four feet of water. The description of that found
    tallied with this, but then this boat was very cumbersome, and in bad
    weather they might have been easily led to throw it overboard,--the
    cask frightened me most,--but the same reason might in some sort be
    given for that. I must tell you that Jane and I were not alone.
    Trelawny accompanied us back to our home. We journeyed on and reached
    the Magra about half-past 10 P.M. I cannot describe to you what I felt
    in the first moment when, fording this river, I felt the water splash
    about our wheels. I was suffocated--I gasped for breath--I thought I
    should have gone into convulsions, and I struggled violently that Jane
    might not perceive it. Looking down the river I saw the two great
    lights burning at the _foce_; a voice from within me seemed to cry
    aloud, "That is his grave." After passing the river I gradually
    recovered. Arriving at Lerici we were obliged to cross our little bay
    in a boat. San Terenzo was illuminated for a festa. What a scene! The
    waving sea, the sirocco wind, the lights of the town towards which we
    rowed, and our own desolate hearts, that coloured all with a shroud.
    We landed. Nothing had been heard of them. This was Saturday, July 13,
    and thus we waited until Thursday July 18, thrown about by hope and
    fear. We sent messengers along the coast towards Genoa and to Via
    Reggio; nothing had been found more than the _Lancetta_; reports were
    brought us; we hoped; and yet to tell you all the agony we endured
    during those twelve days, would be to make you conceive a universe of
    pain--each moment intolerable, and giving place to one still worse.
    The people of the country, too, added to one's discomfort; they are
    like wild savages; on festas, the men and women and children in
    different bands--the sexes always separate--pass the whole night in
    dancing on the sands close to our door; running into the sea, then
    back again, and screaming all the time one perpetual air, the most
    detestable in the world; then the sirocco perpetually blew, and the
    sea for ever moaned their dirge. On Thursday, 18th, Trelawny left us
    to go to Leghorn, to see what was doing or what could be done. On
    Friday I was very ill; but as evening came on, I said to Jane, "If
    anything had been found on the coast, Trelawny would have returned to
    let us know. He has not returned, so I hope." About 7 o'clock P.M. he
    did return; all was over, all was quiet now; they had been found
    washed on shore. Well, all this was to be endured.

    Well, what more have I to say? The next day we returned to Pisa, and
    here we are still. Days pass away, one after another, and we live
    thus; we are all together; we shall quit Italy together. Jane must
    proceed to London. If letters do not alter my views, I shall remain in
    Paris. Thus we live, seeing the Hunts now and then. Poor Hunt has
    suffered terribly, as you may guess. Lord Byron is very kind to me,
    and comes with the Guiccioli to see me often. To-day, this day, the
    sun shining in the sky, they are gone to the desolate sea-coast to
    perform the last offices to their earthly remains, Hunt, Lord Byron,
    and Trelawny. The quarantine laws would not permit us to remove them
    sooner, and now only on condition that we burn them to ashes. That I
    do not dislike. His rest shall be at Rome beside my child, where one
    day I also shall join them. _Adonais_ is not Keats', it is his own
    elegy; he bids you there go to Rome. I have seen the spot where he now
    lies,--the sticks that mark the spot where the sands cover him; he
    shall not be there, it is too near Via Reggio. They are now about this
    fearful office, and I live!

    One more circumstance I will mention. As I said, he took leave of Mrs.
    Mason in high spirits on Sunday. "Never," said she, "did I see him
    look happier than the last glance I had of his countenance." On Monday
    he was lost. On Monday night she dreamt that she was somewhere, she
    knew not where, and he came, looking very pale and fearfully
    melancholy. She said to him, "You look ill; you are tired; sit down
    and eat." "No," he replied, "I shall never eat more; I have not a
    soldo left in the world." "Nonsense," said she, "this is no inn, you
    need not pay." "Perhaps," he answered, "it is the worse for that."
    Then she awoke; and, going to sleep again, she dreamt that my Percy
    was dead; and she awoke crying bitterly--so bitterly, and felt so
    miserable--that she said to herself, "Why, if the little boy should
    die, I should not feel it in this manner." She was so struck with
    these dreams, that she mentioned them to her servant the next day,
    saying she hoped all was well with us.

    Well, here is my story--the last story I shall have to tell. All that
    might have been bright in my life is now despoiled. I shall live to
    improve myself, to take care of my child, and render myself worthy to
    join him. Soon my weary pilgrimage will begin. I rest now, but soon I
    must leave Italy, and then there is an end of all but despair. Adieu!
    I hope you are well and happy. I have an idea that while he was at
    Pisa, he received a letter from you that I have never seen; so not
    knowing where to direct, I shall send this letter to Peacock. I shall
    send it open; he may be glad to read it.--Yours ever truly,

      MARY W. S.


    PISA, _15th August 1822_.

    I shall probably write soon again. I have left out a material
    circumstance. A fishing-boat saw them go down. It was about 4 in the
    afternoon. They saw the boy at mast-head, when baffling winds struck
    the sails. They had looked away a moment, and, looking again, the boat
    was gone. This is their story, but there is little doubt that these
    men might have saved them, at least Edward, who could swim. They could
    not, they said, get near her; but three-quarters of an hour after
    passed over the spot where they had seen her. They protested no wreck
    of her was visible; but Roberts, going on board their boat, found
    several spars belonging to her: perhaps they let them perish to obtain
    these. Trelawny thinks he can get her up, since another fisherman
    thinks that he has found the spot where she lies, having drifted near
    shore. Trelawny does this to know, perhaps, the cause of her wreck;
    but I care little about it.

All readers know Trelawny's graphic account of the burning of the bodies
of Shelley and Williams. Subsequent to this ceremony a painful episode
took place between Mary and Leigh Hunt. Hunt had witnessed the obsequies
(from Lord Byron's carriage), and to him was given by Trelawny the heart
of Shelley, which in the flames had remained unconsumed. This precious
relic he refused to give up to her who was its rightful owner, saying
that, to induce him to part with it, her claim must be maintained by
"strong and conclusive arguments." It was difficult to advance arguments
strong enough if the nature of the case was not in itself convincing. He
showed no disposition to yield, and Mary was desperate. Where logic,
justice, and good feeling failed, a woman's tact, however, succeeded. Mrs.
Williams "wrote to Hunt, and represented to him how grievous it was that
Shelley's remains should become a source of dissension between his dearest
friends. She obtained her purpose. Hunt said she had brought forward the
only argument that could have induced him to yield."

Under the influence of a like feeling Mary seems to have borne Hunt no
grudge for what must, at least, have appeared to her as an act of most
gratuitous selfishness.

But Mary Shelley and Jane Williams had, both of them, to face facts and
think of the future. Hardest of all, it became evident that, for the
present, they must part. Their affection for each other, warm in happier
times, had developed by force of circumstances into a mutual need; so much
nearer, in their sorrow, were they to each other than either could be to
any one else. But Jane had friends in England, and she required to enlist
the interest of Edward's relations in behalf of his orphan children.

Meanwhile, if Mary had for the moment any outward tie or responsibility,
it was towards the Leigh Hunts, thus expatriated at the request and desire
of others, with a very uncertain prospect of permanent result or benefit.
Byron, having helped to start the _Liberal_ with contributions of his own,
and thus fulfilled a portion of his bond, might give them the slip at any
moment. Shelley, although little disposed toward the "coalition," had
promised assistance, and any such promise from him would have been sure to
mean, in practice, more, and not less, than it said. Mary had his MSS.;
she knew his intentions; she was, as far as any mortal could be, his
fitting literary representative. She had little to call her elsewhere. The
Hunts were friendly and affectionate and full of pity for her; they were
also poor and dependent. All tended to one result; she and they must for
the present join forces, so saving expense; and she was to give all the
help she could to the _Liberal_. Lord Byron was going to Genoa. Mary and
the Hunts agreed to take a house together there for several months or a
year.

Once more she wrote from Pisa to her friend.

    MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    PISA, _10th September 1822_.

    And so here I am! I continue to exist--to see one day succeed the
    other; to dread night, but more to dread morning, and hail another
    cheerless day. My Boy, too, is alas! no consolation. When I think how
    he loved him, the plans he had for his education, his sweet and
    childish voice strikes me to the heart. Why should he live in this
    world of pain and anguish? At times I feel an energy within me to
    combat with my destiny; but again I sink. I have but one hope for
    which I live, to render myself worthy to join him,--and such a feeling
    sustains one during moments of enthusiasm, but darkness and misery
    soon overwhelm the mind when all near objects bring agony alone with
    them. People used to call me lucky in my star; you see now how true
    such a prophecy is! I was fortunate in having fearlessly placed my
    destiny in the hands of one who, a superior being among men, a bright
    "planetary" spirit enshrined in an earthly temple, raised me to the
    height of happiness. So far am I now happy, that I would not change my
    situation as his widow with that of the most prosperous woman in the
    world; and surely the time will at length come when I shall be at
    peace, and my brain and heart no longer be alive with unutterable
    anguish. I can conceive of but one circumstance that could afford me
    the semblance of content, that is the being permitted to live where I
    am now, in the same house, in the same state, occupied alone with my
    child, in collecting his manuscripts, writing his life, and thus to go
    easily to my grave. But this must not be! Even if circumstances did
    not compel me to return to England, I would not stay another summer in
    Italy with my child. I will at least do my best to render him well and
    happy, and the idea that my circumstances may at all injure him is the
    fiercest pang my mind endures.

    I wrote you a long letter containing a slight sketch of my sufferings.
    I sent it directed to Peacock, at the India House, because accident
    led me to fancy that you were no longer in London. I said in that,
    that on that day (15th August) they had gone to perform the last
    offices for him; however, I erred in this, for on that day those of
    Edward were alone fulfilled, and they returned on the 16th to
    celebrate Shelley's. I will say nothing of the ceremony, since
    Trelawny has written an account of it, to be printed in the
    forthcoming journal. I will only say that all, except his heart (which
    was inconsumable), was burnt, and that two days ago I went to Leghorn
    and beheld the small box that contained his earthly dross; those
    smiles, that form--Great God! no, he is not there, he is with me,
    about me--life of my life, and soul of my soul; if his divine spirit
    did not penetrate mine I could not survive to weep thus.

    I will mention the friends I have here, that you may form an idea of
    our situation. Mrs. Williams, Clare, and I live all together; we have
    one purse, and, joined in misery, we are for the present joined in
    life. She, poor girl, withers like a lily; she lives for her children,
    but it is a living death. Lord Byron has been very kind; the Guiccioli
    restrains him. She, being an Italian, is capable of being jealous of a
    living corpse, such as I. Of Hunt I will speak when I see you. But the
    friend to whom we are eternally indebted is Trelawny. I have, of
    course, mentioned him to you as one who wishes to be considered
    eccentric, but who was noble and generous at bottom. I always thought
    so, even when no fact proved it, and Shelley agreed with me, as he
    always did, or rather I with him. We heard people speak against him on
    account of his vagaries; we said to one another, "Still we like
    him--we believe him to be good." Once, even, when a whim of his led
    him to treat me with something like impertinence, I forgave him, and I
    have now been well rewarded. In my outline of events you will see how,
    unasked, he returned with Jane and me from Leghorn to Lerici; how he
    stayed with us poor miserable creatures[2] five days there,
    endeavouring to keep up our spirits; how he left us on Thursday, and,
    finding our misfortune confirmed, then without rest returned on Friday
    to us, and again without rest returned to Pisa on Saturday. These were
    no common services. Since that he has gone through, by himself, all
    the annoyances of dancing attendance on Consuls and Governors for
    permission to fulfil the last duties to those gone, and attending the
    ceremony himself; all the disagreeable part, and all the fatigue, fell
    on him. As Hunt said, "He worked with the meanest and felt with the
    best." He is generous to a distressing degree. But after all these
    benefits to us, what I most thank him for is this. When on that night
    of agony, that Friday night, he returned to announce that hope was
    dead for us; when he had told me that his earthly frame being found,
    his spirit was no longer to be my guide, protector, and companion in
    this dark world, he did not attempt to console me--that would have
    been too cruelly useless,--but he launched forth into, as it were, an
    overflowing and eloquent praise of my divine Shelley, till I was
    almost happy that thus I was unhappy, to be fed by the praise of him,
    and to dwell on the eulogy that his loss thus drew from his friend. Of
    my friends I have only Mrs. Mason to mention; her coldness has stung
    me; yet she felt his loss keenly, and would be very glad to serve me;
    but it is not cold offers of service one wants; one's wounded spirit
    demands a number of nameless slight but dear attentions that are a
    balm, and wanting these, one feels a bitterness which is a painful
    addition to one's other sufferings.

    God knows what will become of me! My life is now very monotonous as to
    outward events, yet how diversified by internal feeling! How often in
    the intensity of grief does one instant seem to fill and embrace the
    universe! As to the rest, the mechanical spending of my time: of
    course I have a great deal to do preparing for my journey. I make no
    visits, except one once in about ten days to Mrs. Mason. I have not
    seen Hunt these nine days. Trelawny resides chiefly at Leghorn, since
    he is captain of Lord Byron's vessel, the _Bolivar_; he comes to see
    us about once a week, and Lord Byron visits me about twice a week,
    accompanied by the Guiccioli; but seeing people is an annoyance which
    I am happy to be spared. Solitude is my only help and resource;
    accustomed, even when he was with me, to spend much of my time alone,
    I can at those moments forget myself, until some idea, which I think
    I would communicate to him, occurs, and then the yawning and dark
    gulph again displays itself, unshaded by the rainbow which the
    imagination had formed. Despair, energy, love, desponding and
    excessive affliction are like clouds driven across my mind, one by
    one, until tears blot the scene, and weariness of spirit consigns me
    to temporary repose.

    I shudder with horror when I look back on what I have suffered, and
    when I think of the wild and miserable thoughts that have possessed me
    I say to myself, "Is it true that I ever felt thus?" and then I weep
    in pity of myself; yet each day adds to the stock of sorrow, and death
    is the only end. I would study, and I hope I shall. I would write, and
    when I am settled I may. But were it not for the steady hope I
    entertain of joining him, what a mockery would be this world! without
    that hope I could not study or write, for fame and usefulness (except
    as regards my child) are nullities to me. Yet I shall be happy if
    anything I ever produce may exalt and soften sorrow, as the writings
    of the divinities of our race have mine. But how can I aspire to that?

    The world will surely one day feel what it has lost when this bright
    child of song deserted her. Is not _Adonais_ his own elegy? and there
    does he truly depict the universal woe which should overspread all
    good minds since he has ceased to be their fellow-labourer in this
    worldly scene. How lovely does he paint death to be, and with what
    heartfelt sorrow does one repeat that line--

      But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart.

    How long do you think I shall live? as long as my mother? Then eleven
    long years must intervene. I am now on the eve of completing my five
    and twentieth year; how drearily young for one so lost as I. How young
    in years for one who lives ages each day in sorrow. Think you that
    these moments are counted in my life as in other people's? Oh no! The
    day before the sea closed over mine own Shelley he said to Marianne,
    "If I die to-morrow I have lived to be older than my father; I am
    ninety years of age." Thus, also, may I say. The eight years I passed
    with him was spun out beyond the usual length of a man's life, and
    what I have suffered since will write years on my brow and intrench
    them in my heart. Surely I am not long for this world; most sure
    should I be were it not for my boy, but God grant that I may live to
    make his early years happy.

    Well, adieu! I have no events to write about, and can, therefore, only
    scrawl about my feelings; this letter, indeed, is only the sequel of
    my last. In that I closed the history of all events that can interest
    me; that letter I wish you to send my Father, the present one it is
    best not.

    I suppose I shall see you in England some of these days, but I shall
    write to you again before I quit this place. Be as happy as you can,
    and hope for better things in the next world; by firm hope you may
    attain your wishes. Again, adieu!--Affectionately yours,

      M. S.

    Do not write to me again here, or at all, until I write to you.

Within a day or two after this letter was written, Mary, with Jane
Williams and their children, quitted Pisa; Clare only remaining behind.

From a letter--a very indignant one--of Mrs. Mason's, it may be inferred
that appeals for a little assistance had been made on Clare's behalf to
Byron, who did not respond. He had been, unwittingly, contributing to her
support during the last few weeks of Shelley's life; Shelley having
undertaken to get some translations (from Goethe) made for Byron, and
giving the work secretly to Clare. The truth now came out, and she found
more difficulty than heretofore in getting paid. Dependent for the future
on her own exertions, she was going, according to her former resolution,
to Vienna, where Charles Clairmont was now established. Mary's departure
left her dreadfully solitary, and within a few hours she despatched one of
her characteristic epistles, touched with that motley of bitter cynicism
and grotesque, racy, humour which developed in her later letters.

    _Half-past 2, Wednesday Morning._

    MY DEAR MARY--You have only been gone a few hours. I have been
    inexpressibly low-spirited. I hope dear Jane will be with you when
    this arrives. Nothing new has happened--what should? To me there seems
    nothing under the sun, except the old tale of misery, misery!

           *       *       *       *       *


    _Thursday._

    I am to begin my journey to Vienna on Monday. Mrs. Mason will make me
    go, and the consequence is that it will be double as much, as I am to
    go alone. Imagine all the lonely inns, the weary long miles, if I do.
    Observe, whatever befalls in life, the heaviest part, the very dregs
    of the misfortune fall on me.

      Alone, alone, all, all alone,
        Upon a wide, wide sea,
      And Christ would take no mercy
        Upon my soul in agony.

    But I believe my Minerva[3] is right, for I might wait to all eternity
    for a party. You may remember what Lord Byron said about paying for
    the translation; now he has mumbled and grumbled and demurred, and
    does not know whether it is worth it, and will only give forty crowns,
    so that I shall not be overstocked when I arrive at Vienna, unless,
    indeed, God shall spread a table for me in the wilderness. I mean to
    chew rhubarb the whole way, as the only diversion I can think of at
    all suited to my present state of feeling, and if I should write you
    scolding letters, you will excuse them, knowing that, with the
    Psalmist, "Out of the bitterness of my mouth have I spoken."

           *       *       *       *       *

    Kiss the dear little Percy for me, and if Jane is with you, tell her
    how much I have thought of her, and that her image will always float
    across my mind, shining in my dark history like a ray of light across
    a cave. Kiss her children also with all a grandmother's love. Accept
    my best wishes for your happiness. Dio ti da, Maria, ventura.--Your
    affectionate

      CLARE.

Mary answered this letter from Genoa.

    FROM MARY TO CLARE.

    GENOA, _15th September 1822_.

    MY DEAR CLARE--I do not wonder that you were and are melancholy, or
    that the excess of that feeling should oppress you. Great God! what
    have we gone through, what variety of care and misery, all close now
    in blackest night. And I, am I not melancholy? here in this busy
    hateful Genoa, where nothing speaks to me of him, except the sea,
    which is his murderer. Well, I shall have his books and manuscripts,
    and in those I shall live, and from the study of these I do expect
    some instants of content. In solitude my imagination and ever-moving
    thoughts may afford me some seconds of exaltation that may render me
    both happier here and more worthy of him hereafter.

    Such as I felt walking up a mountain by myself at sunrise during my
    journey, when the rocks looked black about me, and a white mist
    concealed all but them. I thought then, that, thinking of him and
    exciting my mind, my days might pass in a kind of peace; but these
    thoughts are so fleeting; and then I expect unhappiness alone from all
    the worldly part of my life--from my intercourse with human beings. I
    know that will bring nothing but unhappiness to me, if, indeed, I
    except Trelawny, who appears so truly generous and kind.

    But I will not talk of myself, you have enough to annoy and make you
    miserable, and in nothing can I assist you. But I do hope that you
    will find Germany better suited to you in every way than Italy, and
    that you will make friends, and, more than all, become really attached
    to some one there.

    I wish, when I was in Pisa, that you had said that you thought you
    should be short of money, and I would have left you more; but you
    seemed to think 150 francesconi plenty. I would not go on with Goethe
    except with a fixed price per sheet, to be paid regularly, and that
    price not less than five guineas. Make this understood fully through
    Hunt before you go, and then I will take care that you get the money;
    but if you do not _fix_ it, then I cannot manage so well. You are
    going to Vienna--how anxiously do I hope to find peace; I do not hope
    to find it here. Genoa has a bad atmosphere for me, I fear, and
    nothing but the horror of being a burthen to my family prevents my
    accompanying Jane. If I had any fixed income I would go at least to
    Paris, and I shall go the moment I have one. Adieu, my dear Clare;
    write to me often, as I shall to you.--Affectionately yours,

      MARY W. S.

    I cannot get your German dictionary now, since I must have packed it
    in my great case of books, but I will send it by the first
    opportunity.

Jane and her children were the next to depart, and for a short time Mary
Shelley and her boy were alone. Besides taking a house for the Hunts and
herself, she had the responsibility of finding one for Lord Byron. People
never scrupled to make her of use; but any object, any duty to fulfil, was
good for her in her solitary misery, and she devoted some of her vacant
time to sending an account of her plans to Mrs. Gisborne.

    MARY SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    GENOA, _17th September 1822_.

    ... I am here alone in Genoa; quite, quite alone! J. has left me to
    proceed to England, and, except my sleeping child, I am alone. Since
    you do not communicate with my Father, you will perhaps be surprised,
    after my last letter, that I do not come to England. I have written to
    him a long account of the arguments of all my friends to dissuade me
    from that miserable journey; Jane will detail them to you; and,
    therefore, I merely say now that, having no business there, I am
    determined not to spend that money which will support me nearly a year
    here, in a journey, the sole end of which appears to me the necessity
    I should be under, when arrived in London, of being a burthen to my
    Father. When my crowns are gone, if Sir Timothy refuses, I hope to be
    able to support myself by my writings and mine own Shelley's MSS. At
    least during many long months I shall have peace as to money affairs,
    and one evil the less is much to one whose existence is suffering
    alone. Lord Byron has a house here, and will arrive soon. I have taken
    a house for the Hunts and myself outside one of the gates. It is large
    and neat, with a _podere_ attached; we shall pay about eighty crowns
    between us, so I hope that I shall find tranquillity from care this
    winter, though that may be the last of my life so free, yet I do not
    hope it, though I say so; hope is a word that belongs not to my
    situation. He--my own beloved, the exalted and divine Shelley--has
    left me alone in this miserable world; this earth, canopied by the
    eternal starry heaven--where he is--where, oh, my God! yes, where I
    shall one day be.

    Clare is no longer with me. Jane quitted me this morning at 4. After
    she left me I again went to rest, and thought of Pugnano, its halls,
    its cypresses, the perfume of its mountains, and the gaiety of our
    life beneath their shadow. Then I dozed awhile, and in my dream saw
    dear Edward most visibly; he came, he said, to pass a few hours with
    us, but could not stay long. Then I woke, and the day began. I went
    out, took Hunt's house; but as I walked I felt that which is with me
    the sign of unutterable grief. I am not given to tears, and though my
    most miserable fate has often turned my eyes to fountains, yet oftener
    I suffer agonies unassuaged by tears. But during these last sufferings
    I have felt an oppression at my heart I never felt before. It is not a
    palpitation, but a _stringimento_ which is quite convulsive, and, did
    I not struggle greatly, would cause violent hysterics. Looking on the
    sea, or hearing its roar, his dirge, it comes upon me; but these are
    corporeal sufferings I can get over, but that which is insurmountable
    is the constant feeling of despair that shadows me: I seem to walk on
    a narrow path with fathomless precipices all around me. Yet where can
    I fall? I have already fallen, and all that comes of bad or good is a
    mere mockery.

    Those about me have no idea of what I suffer; none are sufficiently
    interested in me to observe that, though my lips smile, my eyes are
    blank, or to notice the desolate look that I cast up towards the sky.
    Pardon, dear friend, this selfishness in writing thus. There are
    moments when the heart must _sfogare_ or be suffocated, and such a
    moment is this--when quite alone, my babe sleeping, and dear Jane
    having just left me, it is with difficulty I prevent myself from
    flying from mental misery by bodily exertion, when to run into that
    vast grave (the sea) until I sink to rest, would be a pleasure to me,
    and instead of this I write, and as I write I say, Oh God, have pity
    on me. At least I will have pity on you. Good-night, I will finish
    this when people are about me, and I am in a more cheerful mood.
    Good-night. I will go look at the stars. They are eternal, so is he,
    so am I.

    You have not written to me since my misfortune. I understand this; you
    first waited for a letter from me, and that letter told you not to
    write. But answer this as soon as you receive it; talk to me of
    yourselves, and also of my English affairs. I am afraid that they will
    not go on very well in my absence, but it would cost more to set them
    right than they are worth. I will, however, let you know what I think
    my friends ought to do, that when you talk to Peacock he may learn
    what I wish. A claim should be made on the part of Shelley's executors
    for a maintenance for my child and myself from Sir Timothy. Lord Byron
    is ready to do this or any other service for me that his office of
    executor demands from him; but I do not wish it to be done separately
    by him, and I want to hear from England before I ask him to write to
    Whitton on the subject. Secondly, Ollier must be asked for all MSS.,
    and some plan be reflected on for the best manner of republishing
    Shelley's works, as well as the writings he has left. Who will allow
    money to Ianthe and Charles?

    As for you, my dear friends, I do not see what you can do for me,
    except to send me the originals or copies of Shelley's most
    interesting letters to you. I hope soon to get into my house, where
    writing, copying Shelley's MSS., walking, and being of some use in the
    education of Marianne's children will be my occupations. Where is that
    letter in verse Shelley once wrote to you? Let me have a copy of it.
    Is not Peacock very lukewarm and insensible in this affair? Tell me
    what Hogg says and does, and my Father also, if you have an
    opportunity of knowing. Here is a long letter all about myself, but
    though I cannot write, I like to hear of others. Adieu, dear
    friends.--Your sincerely attached,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

The fragment that follows is from Mrs. Williams' first letter, written
from Geneva, where she and Edward had lived in such felicity, and where
they had made friends with Medwin, Roberts, and Trelawny: a happy,
light-hearted time on which it was torture to look back.

    JANE WILLIAMS TO MARY SHELLEY.

    GENEVA, _September 1822_.

    I only arrived this day, my dearest Mary, and find your letter, the
    only friend who welcomes me. I will not detail all the misery I have
    suffered, let it be added to the heap that must be piled up; and when
    the measure is brimful, it needs must overflow; and then, peace! What
    have been my feelings to-day? I have gazed on that lake, still and
    ever the same, rolling on in its course, as if this gap in creation
    had never been made. I have passed that place where our little boat
    used to land, but where is the hand stretched out to meet mine, where
    the glad voice, the sweet smile, the beloved form? Oh! Mary, is my
    heart human that I endure scenes like this, and live? My arrival at
    the inn here has been one of the most painful trials I have yet
    undergone. The landlady, who came to the door, did not recognise me
    immediately, and when she did, our mutual tears prevented both
    interrogation and answer for some minutes. I then bore my sorrowful
    burden up these stairs he had formerly passed in all the pride of
    youth, hope, and love. When will these heartrending scenes be
    finished? Never! for, when they cease, memory will furnish others.

           *       *       *       *       *

    God bless you, dearest girl; take care of yourself. Remember me to the
    Hunts.--Ever yours,

      JANE.

Not long after this Byron arrived at Genoa with his train, and the Hunts
with their tribe.

    "All that were now left of our Pisan circle," writes Trelawny,
    "established themselves at Albaro,--Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Mrs.
    Shelley. The fine spirit that had animated and held us together was
    gone. Left to our own devices, we degenerated apace."




CHAPTER XVIII

SEPTEMBER 1822-JULY 1823


An eminent contemporary writer, speaking of Trelawny's writings, has
remarked: "So long as he dwells on Shelley, he is, like the visitants to
the _Witch of Atlas_, 'imparadised.'" This was true, in fact not as to the
writings, but the natures, of all who had friendly or intimate relations
with Shelley. His personality was like a clear, deep lake, wherein the sky
and the surrounding objects were reflected. Now and again a breeze, or
even a storm, might sweep across the "watery glass," playing strange,
grotesque pranks with the distorted reflections. But in general those who
surrounded it saw themselves, and saw each other, not as they were, but as
they appeared,--transfigured, idealised, glorified, by the impalpable,
fluid, medium. And like a tree that overhangs the water's edge, whose
branches dip and play in the clear ripples, nodding and beckoning to their
own living likeness there, so Mary had grown up by the side of this, her
own image in him,--herself indeed, but "imparadised" in the immortal
unreality of the magic mirror.

Now the eternal frost had fallen: black ice and dreary snow had
extinguished that reflection for ever, and the solitary tree was left to
weather all storms in a wintry world, where no magic mirror was to be hers
any more.

Mary Shelley's diary, now she was alone, altered its character. In her
husband's lifetime it had been a record of the passing facts of every day;
almost as concise in statement as that of her father. Now and then, in
travelling, she would stereotype an impression of beautiful scenery by an
elaborate description; sometimes, but very rarely, she had indulged (as at
Pisa) on reflections on people or things in general.

The case was now exactly reversed. Alone with her child, with no one else
to live for; having no companion-mind with which to exchange ideas, and
having never known what it was to be without one before, her diary became
her familiar,--or rather her shadow, for it took its sombre colouring from
her and could give nothing back. The thoughts too monotonously sad, too
harrowing in their eloquent self-pity to be communicated to other people,
but which filled her heart, the more that heart was thrown back on itself,
found here an outlet, inadequate enough, but still the only one they had.
In thus recording her emotions for her own benefit, she had little idea
that these melancholy self-communings would ever be gathered up and
published for the satisfaction of the "reading world"; a world that loves
nothing so well as personal details, and would rather have the object of
its interest misrepresented than not represented at all. Outwardly
uneventful as Mrs. Shelley's subsequent life was, its few occurrences are,
as a rule, not even alluded to in her journal. Such things for the most
part lost their intrinsic importance to her when Shelley disappeared; it
was only in the world of abstractions that she felt or could imagine his
companionship. Her journal, in reality, records her first essay in living
alone. It was, to an almost incredible degree, a beginning.

Her existence, from its outset, had been offered up at the shrine of one
man. To animate his solitude, to foster his genius, to help--as far as
possible--his labours, to companion him in a world that did not understand
him,--this had been her life-work, which lay now as a dream behind her,
while she awakened to find herself alone with the solitude, the work, the
cold unfriendly world, and without Shelley.

Could any woman be as lonely? All who share an abnormal lot must needs be
isolated when cut adrift from the other life which has been their _raison
d'être_; and Mary had begun so early, that she had grown, as it were, to
this state of double solitude. She had not been unconscious of the slight
hold they had on actualities.

    "Mary," observed Shelley one day at Pisa, when Trelawny was present,
    "Trelawny has found out Byron already. How stupid we were; how long it
    took us!"

    "That," she observed, "is because he lives with the living and we with
    the dead."

And as a fact, Shelley lived with the immortals; finite things were
outside his world; in his contemporaries it was what he would have
considered their immortal side that he cared for. There are conjurors who
can be tied by no knot from which they cannot escape, and so the
limitations of practical convention, those "ideas and feelings which are
but for a day," had no power to hold Shelley.

And Mary knew no world but his. Now, young,--only twenty-five,--yet with
the past experience of eight years of chequered married life, and of a
simultaneous intellectual development almost perilously rapid, she stood,
an utter novice, on the threshold of ordinary existence.

    _Journal, October 2._--On the 8th of July I finished my journal. This
    is a curious coincidence. The date still remains--the fatal 8th--a
    monument to show that all ended then. And I begin again? Oh, never!
    But several motives induce me, when the day has gone down, and all is
    silent around me, steeped in sleep, to pen, as occasion wills, my
    reflections and feelings. First, I have no friend. For eight years I
    communicated, with unlimited freedom, with one whose genius, far
    transcending mine, awakened and guided my thoughts. I conversed with
    him, rectified my errors of judgment; obtained new lights from him;
    and my mind was satisfied. Now I am alone--oh, how alone! The stars
    may behold my tears, and the wind drink my sighs, but my thoughts are
    a sealed treasure which I can confide to none. But can I express all I
    feel? Can I give words to thoughts and feelings that, as a tempest,
    hurry me along? Is this the sand that the ever-flowing sea of thought
    would impress indelibly? Alas! I am alone. No eye answers mine; my
    voice can with none assume its natural modulation. What a change! O my
    beloved Shelley! how often during those happy days--happy, though
    chequered--I thought how superiorly gifted I had been in being united
    to one to whom I could unveil myself, and who could understand me!
    Well, then, now I am reduced to these white pages, which I am to blot
    with dark imagery. As I write, let me think what he would have said
    if, speaking thus to him, he could have answered me. Yes, my own
    heart, I would fain know what to think of my desolate state; what you
    think I ought to do, what to think. I guess you would answer thus:
    "Seek to know your own heart, and, learning what it best loves, try to
    enjoy that." Well, I cast my eyes around, and, looking forward to the
    bounded prospect in view, I ask myself what pleases me there. My
    child;--so many feelings arise when I think of him, that I turn aside
    to think no more. Those I most loved are gone for ever; those who held
    the second rank are absent; and among those near me as yet, I trust to
    the disinterested kindness of one alone. Beneath all this, my
    imagination never flags. Literary labours, the improvement of my mind,
    and the enlargement of my ideas, are the only occupations that elevate
    me from my lethargy: all events seem to lead me to that one point, and
    the courses of destiny having dragged me to that single resting-place,
    have left me. Father, mother, friend, husband, children--all made, as
    it were, the team which conducted me here, and now all, except you, my
    poor boy (and you are necessary to the continuance of my life), all
    are gone, and I am left to fulfil my task. So be it.

    _October 5._--Well, they are come;[4] and it is all as I said. I awoke
    as from sleep, and thought how I had vegetated these last days; for
    feeling leaves little trace on the memory if it be, like mine,
    unvaried. I have felt for, and with myself alone, and I awake now to
    take a part in life. As far as others are concerned, my sensations
    have been most painful. I must work hard amidst the vexations that I
    perceive are preparing for me, to preserve my peace and tranquillity
    of mind. I must preserve some, if I am to live; for, since I bear at
    the bottom of my heart a fathomless well of bitter waters, the
    workings of which my philosophy is ever at work to repress, what will
    be my fate if the petty vexations of life are added to this sense of
    eternal and infinite misery?

    Oh, my child! what is your fate to be? You alone reach me; you are the
    only chain that links me to time; but for you, I should be free. And
    yet I cannot be destined to live long. Well, I shall commence my task,
    commemorate the virtues of the only creature 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.

    _October 7._--I have received my desk to-day, and have been reading my
    letters to mine own Shelley during his absences at Marlow. What a
    scene to recur to! My William, Clara, Allegra, are all talked of. They
    lived then, they breathed this air, and their voices struck on my
    sense; their feet trod the earth beside me, and their hands were warm
    with blood and life when clasped in mine, where are they all? This is
    too great an agony to be written about. I may express my despair, but
    my thoughts can find no words.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I would endeavour to consider myself a faint continuation of his
    being, and, as far as possible, the revelation to the earth of what he
    was, yet, to become this, I must change much, and, above all, I must
    acquire that knowledge and drink at those fountains of wisdom and
    virtue from which he quenched his thirst. Hitherto I have done
    nothing; yet I have not been discontented with myself. I speak of the
    period of my residence here. For, although unoccupied by those studies
    which I have marked out for myself, my mind has been so active that
    its activity, and not its indolence, has made me neglectful. But now
    the society of others causes this perpetual working of my ideas
    somewhat to pause; and I must take advantage of this to turn my mind
    towards its immediate duties, and to determine with firmness to
    commence the life I have planned. You will be with me in all my
    studies, dearest love! your voice will no longer applaud me, but in
    spirit you will visit and encourage me: I know you will. What were I,
    if I did not believe that you still exist? It is not with you as with
    another, I believe that we all live hereafter; but you, my only one,
    were a spirit caged, an elemental being, enshrined in a frail image,
    now shattered. Do they not all with one voice assert the same?
    Trelawny, Hunt, and many others. And so at last you quitted this
    painful prison, and you are free, my Shelley; while I, your poor
    chosen one, am left to live as I may.

    What a strange life mine has been! Love, youth, fear, and fearlessness
    led me early from the regular routine of life, and I united myself to
    this being, who, not one of _us_, though like to us, was pursued by
    numberless miseries and annoyances, in all of which I shared. And then
    I was the mother of beautiful children, but these stayed not by me.
    Still he was there; and though, in truth, after my William's death
    this world seemed only a quicksand, sinking beneath my feet, yet
    beside me was this bank of refuge--so tempest-worn and frail, that
    methought its very weakness was strength, and, since Nature had
    written destruction on its brow, so the Power that rules human affairs
    had determined, in spite of Nature, that it should endure. But that is
    gone. His voice can no longer be heard; the earth no longer receives
    the shadow of his form; annihilation has come over the earthly
    appearance of the most gentle creature that ever yet breathed this
    air; and I am still here--still thinking, existing, all but hoping.
    Well, I close my book. To-morrow I must begin this new life of mine.

    _October 19._--How painful all change becomes to one, who, entirely
    and despotically engrossed by [his] own feelings leads, as it were, an
    _internal_ life, quite different from the outward and apparent one!
    Whilst my life continues its monotonous course within sterile banks,
    an under-current disturbs the smooth face of the waters, distorts all
    objects reflected in it, and the mind is no longer a mirror in which
    outward events may reflect themselves, but becomes itself the painter
    and creator. If this perpetual activity has power to vary with endless
    change the everyday occurrences of a most monotonous life, it appears
    to be animated with the spirit of tempest and hurricane when any real
    occurrence diversifies the scene. Thus, to-night, a few bars of a
    known air seemed to be as a wind to rouse from its depths every
    deep-seated emotion of my mind. I would have given worlds to have sat,
    my eyes closed, and listened to them for years. The restraint I was
    under caused these feelings to vary with rapidity; but the words of
    the conversation, uninteresting as they might be, seemed all to convey
    two senses to me, and, touching a chord within me, to form a music of
    which the speaker was little aware. I do not think that any person's
    voice has the same power of awakening melancholy in me as Albé's. I
    have been accustomed, when hearing it, to listen and to speak little;
    another voice, not mine, ever replied--a voice whose strings are
    broken. When Albé ceases to speak, I expect to hear _that other_
    voice, and when I hear another instead, it jars strangely with every
    association. I have seen so little of Albé since our residence in
    Switzerland, and, having seen him there every day, his voice--a
    peculiar one--is engraved on my memory with other sounds and objects
    from which it can never disunite itself. I have heard Hunt in company
    and in conversation with many, when my own one was not there.
    Trelawny, perhaps, is associated in my mind with Edward more than with
    Shelley. Even our older friends, Peacock and Hogg, might talk
    together, or with others, and their voices suggest no change to me.
    But, since incapacity and timidity always prevented my mingling in the
    nightly conversations of Diodati, they were, as it were, entirely
    _tête-à-tête_ between my Shelley and Albé; and thus, as I have said,
    when Albé speaks and Shelley does not answer, it is as thunder without
    rain,--the form of the sun without light or heat,--as any familiar
    object might be shorn of its best attributes; and I listen with an
    unspeakable melancholy that yet is not all pain.

    The above explains that which would otherwise be an enigma--why Albé,
    by his mere presence and voice, has the power of exciting such deep
    and shifting emotions within me. For my feelings have no analogy
    either with my opinion of him, or the subject of his conversation.
    With another I might talk, and not for the moment think of Shelley--at
    least not think of him with the same vividness as if I were alone;
    but, when in company with Albé, I can never cease for a second to have
    Shelley in my heart and brain with a clearness that mocks
    reality--interfering even by its force with the functions of
    life--until, if tears do not relieve me, the hysterical feeling,
    analogous to that which the murmur of the sea gives me, presses
    painfully upon me.

    Well, for the first time for about a month, I have been in company
    with Albé for two hours, and, coming home, I write this, so necessary
    is it for me to express in words the force of my feelings. Shelley,
    beloved! I look at the stars and at all nature, and it speaks to me of
    you in the clearest accents. Why cannot you answer me, my own one? Is
    the instrument so utterly destroyed? I would endure ages of pain to
    hear one tone of your voice strike on my ear!

For nearly a year--not a happy one--Mary lived with the Hunts. A bruised
and bleeding heart exposed to the cuffs and blows of everyday life, a
nervous temperament--too recently strained to its utmost pitch of
endurance--liable to constant, unavoidable irritation, a nature sensitive
and reserved, accustomed to much seclusion and much independence, thrown
into the midst of a large, noisy, and disorderly family,--these conditions
could hardly result in happiness. Leigh Hunt was nervous, delicate,
overworked, and variable in mood: his wife an invalid, condemned by the
doctors on her arrival in Italy, now expecting her confinement in the
ensuing summer, an event which she was told would be, for good or evil,
the crisis of her fate. Six children they had already had, who were
allowed--on principle--to do exactly as they chose, "until such time as
they were of an age to be reasoned with."

The opening for activity and usefulness would, at another time, have been
beneficial to Mary, and, to some extent, was so now; but it was too early,
the change from her former state was too violent; she was not fit yet for
such severe bracing. She met her trials bravely; but it was another case
where buoyancy of spirits was indispensable to real success, and buoyancy
of spirits she had not, nor was likely to acquire in her present
surroundings.

There was another person to whom these surroundings were even more
supremely distasteful than to her, and this was Byron. Small sympathy had
he for domestic life or sentiment even in their best aspects, and this
virtuous, slipshod, cockney Bohemianism had no attraction for him
whatever. The poor man must have suffered many things while the Hunts were
in possession of his _pian terreno_ at Pisa; he was rid of them now, but
the very sight of them was too much for him.

    LORD BYRON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _6th October 1822._

    The sofa--which I regret is _not_ of your furniture--it was purchased
    by me at Pisa since you left it.

    It is convenient for my room, though of little value (about 12 pauls),
    and I offered to send another (now sent) in its stead. I preferred
    retaining the purchased furniture, but always intended that you should
    have as good or better in its place. I have a particular dislike to
    anything of Shelley's being within the same walls with Mrs. Hunt's
    children. They are dirtier and more mischievous than Yahoos. What they
    can't destroy with their filth they will with their fingers. I presume
    you received ninety and odd crowns from the wreck of the _Don Juan_,
    and also the price of the boat purchased by Captain R., if not, you
    will have _both_. Hunt has these in hand.

    With regard to any difficulties about money, I can only repeat that I
    will be your banker till this state of things is cleared up, and you
    can see what is to be done; so there is little to hinder you on that
    score. I was confined for four days to my bed at Lerici. Poor Hunt,
    with his six little blackguards, are coming slowly up; as usual he
    turned back once--was there ever such a _kraal_ out of the Hottentot
    country before?

      N. B.

Among those of their former acquaintance who now surrounded Mary, the one
who by his presence ministered most to the needs of her fainting moral
nature was Trelawny. Leigh Hunt, when not disagreeing from her, was
affectionate, nay, gushing, and he had truly loved Shelley, but he was a
feeble, facetious, feckless creature,--a hypochondriac,--unable to do
much to help himself, still less another. Byron was by no means
ill-disposed, especially just now, but he was egotistic and indolent, and
too capricious,--as the event proved,--to be depended on.

Trelawny's fresh vigorous personality, his bright originality and rugged
independence, and his unbounded admiration for Shelley, made him
wonderfully reviving to Mary; he had the effect on her of a gust of fresh
air in a close crowded room. He was unconventional and outspoken, and by
no means always complimentary, but he had a just appreciation of Mary's
real mental and moral superiority to the people around her, and a frank
liking for herself. Their friendship was to extend over many years, during
which Mary had ample opportunity of repaying the debt of obligation she
always felt she owed him for his kindness to her and Mrs. Williams at the
time of their great misery.

The letters which follow were among the earliest of a long and varied
correspondence.

    MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    _November 1822._

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--I called on you yesterday, but was too late for you.
    I was much pained to see you out of spirits the other night. I can in
    no way make you better, I fear, but I should be glad to see you. Will
    you dine with me Monday after your ride? If Hunt rides, as he
    threatens, with Lord Byron, he will also dine late and make one of
    our party. Remember, you will also do Hunt good by this, who pines in
    this solitude. You say that I know so little of the world that I am
    afraid I may be mistaken in imagining that you have a friendship for
    me, especially after what you said of Jane the other night; but
    besides the many other causes I have to esteem you, I can never
    remember without the liveliest gratitude all you said that night of
    agony when you returned to Lerici. Your praises of my lost Shelley
    were the only balm I could endure, and he always joined with me in
    liking you from the first moment we saw you. Adieu.--Your attached
    friend,

      M. W. S.

    Have you got my books on shore from the _Bolivar_? If you have, pray
    let me have them, for many are odd volumes, and I wish to see if they
    are too much destroyed to rank with those I have.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _November 1822._

    DEAR MARY--I will gladly dine on Monday with you. As to melancholy, I
    refer you to the good Antonio in Shylock. "Alas! I know now why I am
    so sad. It is time, I think." You are not so learned in human dealings
    as Iago, but you cannot so sadly err as to doubt the extent or truth
    of my friendship. As to gain esteem, I do not think it a word
    applicable to such a lawless character. Ruled by impulse, not by
    reason, I am satisfied you should like me upon my own terms--impulse.
    As to gratitude for uttering my thoughts of him I so loved and
    admired, it was a tribute that all who knew him have paid to his
    memory. "But weeping never could restore the dead," and if it could,
    hope would prevent our tears. You may remember I always in preference
    selected as my companion Edward, not Jane, and that I always dissented
    from your general voice of her being perfection. I am still of the
    same opinion; nothing more. But I have and ever shall feel deeply
    interested, and would do much to serve her, and if thinking on those
    trifles which diminish her lustre in my eyes makes me flag, Edward's
    memory and my perfect friendship for him is sufficient excitement to
    spur me on to anything. It is impossible to dislike Jane; but to have
    an unqualified liking, such as I had for Edward, no--no--no! Talking
    of gratitude, I really am and ought to be so to you, for bearing on,
    untired, with my spleen, humours, and violence; it is a proof of real
    liking, particularly as you are not of the sect who profess or
    practise meekness, humility, and patience in common.

      T.

Mary had not as yet been successful in getting possession of the
half-finished portrait of Shelley. Her letters had followed Miss Curran to
Paris, whence, in October, a reply at last arrived.

    "I am sorry," Miss Curran wrote, "I am not at Rome to execute your
    melancholy commission. I mean to return in spring, but it may be then
    too late. I am sure Mr. Brunelli would be happy to oblige you or me,
    but you may have left Pisa before this, so I know not what to propose.
    Your picture and Clare's I left with him to give you when you should
    be at Rome, as I expected, before you returned to England. The one you
    now write for I thought was not to be inquired for; it was so ill
    done, and I was on the point of burning it with others before I left
    Italy. I luckily saved it just as the fire was scorching, and it is
    packed up with my other pictures at Rome; and I have not yet decided
    where they can be sent to, as there are serious difficulties in the
    way I had not adverted to. I am very sorry indeed, dear Mary, but you
    shall have it as soon as I possibly can."...

This was the early history of that portrait, which was recovered a year or
two later, and which has passed, and passes still, for Shelley's likeness,
and which, bad or good, is the only authentic one in existence.

Mary now began to feel it a matter of duty as well as of expediency to
resume literary work, but she found it hard at first.

    "I am quite well, but very nervous," she wrote to Mrs. Gisborne; "my
    excessive nervousness (how new a disorder for me--my illness in the
    summer is the foundation of it) is the cause I do not write."

She made a beginning with an article for the _Liberal_. Shelley's _Defence
of Poetry_ was, also, to be published in the forthcoming number, and the
MS. of this had to be got from England. She had reason to believe, too,
that Ollier, the publisher, had in his keeping other MSS. of Shelley's,
and she was restlessly desirous to get possession of all these, feeling
convinced that among them there was nothing perfect, nothing ready for
publication exactly as it stood. In her over-anxiety she wrote to several
people on this subject, thereby incurring the censure of her father, whom
she had also consulted about her literary plans. His criticisms on his
daughter's style were not unsound; she had not been trained in a school of
terseness, and, like many young authors, she was apt to err on the side of
length, and not to see that she did so.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    NO. 195 STRAND, _15th November 1822_.

    MY DEAR MARY--I have devoted the last two days to the seeing everybody
    an interview with whom would best enable me to write you a
    satisfactory letter. Yesterday I saw Hogg and Mrs. Williams, and
    to-day Peacock and Hanson junior. From Hogg I had, among other things,
    to learn Mrs. Williams' address, for, owing to your neglect, she had
    been a fortnight in London before I knew of her arrival. She appeared
    to be in better health and better spirits than I expected; she did not
    drop one tear; occasionally she smiled. She is a picturesque little
    woman, and, as far as I could judge from one interview, I like her.

    Peacock has got Ollier's promise to deliver all Shelley's manuscripts,
    and as earnest, he has received _Peter Bell_ and _A Curse on L.E._,
    which he holds at your disposal. By the way, you should never give one
    commission but to one person; you commissioned me to recover these
    manuscripts from Ollier, you commissioned Peacock, and, I believe,
    Mrs. Gisborne. This puts us all in an awkward situation. I heard of
    Peacock's applying just in time to prevent me from looking like a
    fool. Peacock says he cannot make up a parcel for you till he has been
    a second time to Marlow on the question, which cannot be till about
    Christmas. He appears to me, not lukewarm, but assiduous. Mrs.
    Williams told me she should write to you by this day's post. She had
    been inquiring in vain for Miss Curran's address--you should have
    referred her to me for it, but you referred her to me for nothing.
    This, by the way, is another instance of your giving one commission to
    more than one person. You gave the commission about Miss Curran to
    Mrs. Williams and to me. I received your letter, inclosing one to Miss
    Curran, 21st October, which I immediately forwarded to her by a safe
    hand, through her brother. You have probably heard from her by this
    time; she is in Paris.... I have a plan upon the house of Longman
    respecting _Castruccio_, but that depends upon coincidences, and I
    must have patience.

    You ask my opinion of your literary plans. If you expect any price,
    you must think of something new: _Manfred_ is a subject that nobody
    interests himself about; the interest, therefore, must be made, and no
    bookseller understands anything about that contingency. A book about
    Italy as it is, written with any talent, would be sure to sell; but
    I am afraid you know very little about the present race of Italians.

    As to my own affairs, nothing is determined. I expected something
    material to have happened this week, but as yet I have heard nothing.
    If the subscription fills, I shall perhaps be safe; if not, I shall be
    driven to sea on a plank.

    Perhaps it may be of some use to you if I give you my opinion of
    _Castruccio_. I think there are parts of high genius, and that your
    two females are exceedingly interesting; but I am not satisfied.
    _Frankenstein_ was a fine thing; it was compressed, muscular, and
    firm; nothing relaxed and weak; no proud flesh. _Castruccio_ is a work
    of more genius; but it appears, in reading, that the first rule you
    prescribed to yourself was, I will let it be long. It contains the
    quantity of four volumes of _Waverley_. No hard blow was ever hit with
    a woolsack! Mamma desires me to remember her to you in the kindest
    manner, and to say that she feels a deep interest in everything that
    concerns you. She means to take the earliest opportunity to see Mrs.
    Williams, both as she feels an earnest sympathy in her calamity, and
    as she will be likely to learn a hundred particulars respecting the
    dispositions and prospects of yourself and Jane, which she might in
    vain desire to learn in any other quarter. You asked Mamma for some
    present, a remembrance of your mother. She has reserved for you a ring
    of hers, with Fanny Blood's hair set round with pearls.

    You will, of course, rely on it that I will send you the letters you
    ask for by Peacock's parcel. Miss Curran's address is Hotel de
    Dusseldorf Rue Petits St. Augustin, à Paris.--Believe me, ever your
    most affectionate Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

    My last letter was dated 11th October.


    _Journal, November 10._--I have made my first probation in writing,
    and it has done me much good, and I get more calm; the stream begins
    to take to its new channel, insomuch as to make me fear change. But
    people must know little of me who think that, abstractedly, I am
    content with my present mode of life. Activity of spirit is my sphere.
    But we cannot be active of mind without an object; and I have none. I
    am allowed to have some talent--that is sufficient, methinks, to cause
    my irreparable misery; for, if one has genius, what a delight it is to
    be associated with a superior! Mine own Shelley! the sun knows of none
    to be likened to you--brave, wise, noble-hearted, full of learning,
    tolerance, and love. Love! what a word for me to write! yet, my
    miserable heart, permit me yet to love,--to see him in beauty, to feel
    him in beauty, to be interpenetrated by the sense of his excellence;
    and thus to love singly, eternally, ardently, and not fruitlessly; for
    I am still his--still the chosen one of that blessed spirit--still
    vowed to him for ever and ever!

    _November 11._--It is better to grieve than not to grieve. Grief at
    least tells me that I was not always what I am now. I was once
    selected for happiness; let the memory of that abide by me. You pass
    by an old ruined house in a desolate lane, and heed it not. But if you
    hear that that house is haunted by a wild and beautiful spirit, it
    acquires an interest and beauty of its own.

    I shall be glad to be more alone again; one ought to see no one, or
    many; and, confined to one society, I shall lose all energy except
    that which I possess from my own resources; and I must be alone for
    those to be put in activity.

    A cold heart! Have I a cold heart? God knows! But none need envy the
    icy region this heart encircles; and at least the tears are hot which
    the emotions of this cold heart forces me to shed. A cold heart! yes,
    it would be cold enough if all were as I wished it--cold, or burning
    in the flame for whose sake I forgive this, and would forgive every
    other imputation--that flame in which your heart, beloved, lay
    unconsumed. My heart is very full to-night.

    I shall write his life, and thus occupy myself in the only manner
    from which I can derive consolation. That will be a task that may
    convey some balm. What though I weep? All is better than inaction
    and--not forgetfulness--that never is--but an inactivity of
    remembrance.

    And you, my own boy! I am about to begin a task which, if you live,
    will be an invaluable treasure to you in after times. I must collect
    my materials, and then, in the commemoration 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, if you leave me, my task being
    fulfilled. I have lived; rapture, exultation, content--all the varied
    changes of enjoyment--have been mine. It is all gone; but still, the
    airy paintings of what it has gone through float by, and distance
    shall not dim them. If I were alone, I had already begun what I had
    determined to do; but I must have patience, and for those events my
    memory is brass, my thoughts a never-tired engraver.
    France--Poverty--A few days of solitude, and some uneasiness--A
    tranquil residence in a beautiful
    spot--Switzerland--Bath--Marlow--Milan--the Baths of
    Lucca--Este--Venice--Rome--Naples--Rome and
    misery--Leghorn--Florence--Pisa--Solitude--The Williams'--The
    Baths--Pisa: these are the heads of chapters, and each containing a
    tale romantic beyond romance.

    I no longer enjoy, but I love. Death cannot deprive me of that living
    spark which feeds on all given it, and which is now triumphant in
    sorrow. I love, and shall enjoy happiness again. I do not doubt that;
    but when?

These fragments of journal give the course of her inward reflections; her
letters sometimes supply the clue to her outward life, _au jour le jour_.

    MARY SHELLEY TO CLARE CLAIRMONT.

    _20th December 1822._

    MY DEAR CLARE--I have delayed writing to you so long for two reasons.
    First, I have every day expected to hear from you; and secondly, I
    wished to hear something decisive from England to communicate to you.
    But I have waited in vain for both things. You do not write, and I
    begin to despair of ever hearing from you again. A few words will tell
    you all that has been done in England. When I wrote to you last, I
    think that I told you that Lord Byron had written to Hanson, bidding
    him call upon Whitton. Hanson wrote to Whitton desiring an interview,
    which Whitton declined, requesting Hanson to make his application by
    letter, which Hanson has done, and I know no more. This does not look
    like an absolute refusal, but Sir Timothy is so capricious that we
    cannot trust to appearances.

    And now the chapter about myself is finished, for what can I say of my
    present life? The weather is bitterly cold with a sharp wind, very
    unlike dear, _carissima_ Pisa; but soft airs and balmy gales are not
    the attributes of Genoa, which place I daily and duly join Marianne in
    detesting. There is but one fireplace in the house, and although
    people have been for a month putting up a stove in my room, it smokes
    too much to permit of its being lighted. So I am obliged to pass the
    greater part of my time in Hunt's sitting-room, which is, as you may
    guess, the annihilation of study, and even of pleasure to a great
    degree. For, after all, Hunt does not like me: it is both our faults,
    and I do not blame him, but so it is. I rise at 9, breakfast, work,
    read, and if I can at all endure the cold, copy my Shelley's MSS. in
    my own room, and if possible walk before dinner. After that I work,
    read Greek, etc., till 10, when Hunt and Marianne go to bed. Then I am
    alone. Then the stream of thought, which has struggled against its
    _argine_ all through the busy day, makes a _piena_, and sorrow and
    memory and imagination, despair, and hope in despair, are the winds
    and currents that impel it. I am alone, and myself; and then I begin
    to say, as I ever feel, "How I hate life! What a mockery it is to
    rise, to walk, to feed, and then go to rest, and in all this a statue
    might do my part. One thing alone may or can awake me, and that is
    study; the rest is all nothing." And so it is! I am silent and
    serious. Absorbed in my own thoughts, what am I then in this world if
    my spirit live not to learn and become better? That is the whole of my
    destiny; I look to nothing else. For I dare not look to my little
    darling other than as--not the sword of Damocles, that is a wrong
    simile, or to a wrecked seaman's plank--true, he stands, and only he,
    between me and the sea of eternity; but I long for that plunge! No, I
    fear for him pain, disappointment,--all, all fear.

    You see how it is, it is near 11, and my good friends repose. This is
    the hour when I can think, unobtruded upon, and these thoughts,
    _malgré moi_, will stain this paper. But then, my dear Clare, I have
    nothing else except my nothingless self to talk about. You have
    doubtless heard from Jane, and I have heard from no one else. I see no
    one. The Guiccioli and Lord Byron once a month. Trelawny seldom, and
    he is on the eve of his departure for Leghorn....

           *       *       *       *       *

    Marianne suffers during this dreadfully cold weather, but less than I
    should have supposed. The children are all well. So also is my Percy,
    poor little darling: they all scold him because he speaks loud _à
    l'Italien_. People love to, nay, they seem to exist on, finding fault
    with others, but I have no right to complain, and this unlucky stove
    is the sole source of all my _dispiacere_; if I had that, I should not
    tease any one, or any one me, or my only one; but after all, these are
    trifles. I have sent for another _ingeniere_, and I hope, before many
    days are elapsed, to retire as before to my hole.

    I have again delayed finishing this letter, waiting for letters from
    England, that I might not send you one so barren of all intelligence.
    But I have had none. And nothing new has happened except Trelawny's
    departure for Leghorn, so that our days are more monotonous than ever.
    The weather is drearily cold, and an eternal north-east whistles
    through every crevice. Percy, however, is far better in this cold than
    in summer; he is warmly clothed, and gets on.

    Adieu. Pray write. My love to Charles; I am ashamed that I do not
    write to him, but I have only an old story to repeat, and this letter
    tells that.--Affectionately yours,

      MARY SHELLEY.


    _Journal, December 31._--So this year comes to an end. Shelley,
    beloved! the year has a new name from any thou knewest. When spring
    arrives leaves you never saw will shadow the ground, and flowers you
    never beheld will star it; the grass will be of another growth, and
    the birds sing a new song--the aged earth dates with a new number.

    Sometimes I thought that fortune had relented towards us; that your
    health would have improved, and that fame and joy would have been
    yours, for, when well, you extracted from Nature alone an endless
    delight. The various threads of our existence seemed to be drawing to
    one point, and there to assume a cheerful hue.

    Again, I think that your gentle spirit was too much wounded by the
    sharpness of this world; that your disease was incurable, and that in
    a happy time you became the partaker of cloudless days, ceaseless
    hours, and infinite love. Thy name is added to the list which makes
    the earth bold in her age and proud of what has been. Time, with
    unwearied but slow feet, guides her to the goal that thou hast
    reached, and I, her unhappy child, am advanced still nearer the hour
    when my earthly dress shall repose near thine, beneath the tomb of
    Cestius.

It must have been at about this time that Mary wrote the sad,
retrospective poem entitled "The Choice."

  THE CHOICE.

  My Choice!--My Choice, alas! was had and gone
  With the red gleam of last autumnal sun;
  Lost in that deep wherein he bathed his head,
  My choice, my life, my hope together fled:--
  A wanderer here, no more I seek a home,
  The sky a vault, and Italy a tomb.
  Yet as some days a pilgrim I remain,
  Linked to my orphan child by love's strong chain;
  And, since I have a faith that I must earn,
  By suffering and by patience, a return
  Of that companionship and love, which first
  Upon my young life's cloud like sunlight burst,
  And now has left me, dark, as when its beams,
  Quenched in the might of dreadful ocean streams,
  Leave that one cloud, a gloomy speck on high,
  Beside one star in the else darkened sky;--
  Since I must live, how would I pass the day,
  How meet with fewest tears the morning's ray,
  How sleep with calmest dreams, how find delights,
  As fireflies gleam through interlunar nights?

  First let me call on thee! Lost as thou art,
  Thy name aye fills my sense, thy love my heart.
  Oh, gentle Spirit! thou hast often sung,
  How fallen on evil days thy heart was wrung;
  Now fierce remorse and unreplying death
  Waken a chord within my heart, whose breath,
  Thrilling and keen, in accents audible
  A tale of unrequited love doth tell.
  It was not anger,--while thy earthly dress
  Encompassed still thy soul's rare loveliness,
  All anger was atoned by many a kind
  Caress or tear, that spoke the softened mind.--
  It speaks of cold neglect, averted eyes,
  That blindly crushed thy soul's fond sacrifice:--
  My heart was all thine own,--but yet a shell
  Closed in its core, which seemed impenetrable,
  Till sharp-toothed misery tore the husk in twain,
  Which gaping lies, nor may unite again.
  Forgive me! let thy love descend in dew
  Of soft repentance and regret most true;--
  In a strange guise thou dost descend, or how
  Could love soothe fell remorse,--as it does now?--
  By this remorse and love, and by the years
  Through which we shared our common hopes and fears,
  By all our best companionship, I dare
  Call on thy sacred name without a fear;--
  And thus I pray to thee, my friend, my Heart!
  That in thy new abode, thou'lt bear a part
  In soothing thy poor Mary's lonely pain,
  As link by link she weaves her heavy chain!--
  And thou, strange star! ascendant at my birth,
  Which rained, they said, kind influence on the earth,
  So from great parents sprung, I dared to boast
  Fortune my friend, till set, thy beams were lost!
  And thou, Inscrutable, by whose decree
  Has burst this hideous storm of misery!
  Here let me cling, here to the solitudes,
  These myrtle-shaded streams and chestnut woods;
  Tear me not hence--here let me live and die,
  In my adopted land--my country--Italy.

  A happy Mother first I saw this sun,
  Beneath this sky my race of joy was run.
  First my sweet girl, whose face resembled _his_,
  Slept on bleak Lido, near Venetian seas.
  Yet still my eldest-born, my loveliest, dearest,
  Clung to my side, most joyful then when nearest.
  An English home had given this angel birth,
  Near those royal towers, where the grass-clad earth
  Is shadowed o'er by England's loftiest trees:
  Then our companion o'er the swift-passed seas,
  He dwelt beside the Alps, or gently slept,
  Rocked by the waves, o'er which our vessel swept,
  Beside his father, nurst upon my breast,
  While Leman's waters shook with fierce unrest.
  His fairest limbs had bathed in Serchio's stream;
  His eyes had watched Italian lightnings gleam;
  His childish voice had, with its loudest call,
  The echoes waked of Este's castle wall;
  Had paced Pompeii's Roman market-place;
  Had gazed with infant wonder on the grace
  Of stone-wrought deities, and pictured saints,
  In Rome's high palaces--there were no taints
  Of ruin on his cheek--all shadowless
  Grim death approached--the boy met his caress,
  And while his glowing limbs with life's warmth shone,
  Around those limbs his icy arms were thrown.
  His spoils were strewed beneath the soil of Rome,
  Whose flowers now star the dark earth near his tomb:
  Its airs and plants received the mortal part,
  His spirit beats within his mother's heart.
  Infant immortal! chosen for the sky!
  No grief upon thy brow's young purity
  Entrenched sad lines, or blotted with its might
  The sunshine of thy smile's celestial light;--
  The image shattered, the bright spirit fled,
  Thou shin'st the evening star among the dead.
  And thou, his playmate, whose deep lucid eyes,
  Were a reflection of these bluest skies;
  Child of our hearts, divided in ill hour,
  We could not watch the bud's expanding flower,
  Now thou art gone, one guileless victim more,
  To the black death that rules this sunny shore.

  Companion of my griefs! thy sinking frame
  Had often drooped, and then erect again
  With shows of health had mocked forebodings dark;--
  Watching the changes of that quivering spark,
  I feared and hoped, and dared to trust at length,
  Thy very weakness was my tower of strength.
  Methought thou wert a spirit from the sky,
  Which struggled with its chains, but could not die,
  And that destruction had no power to win
  From out those limbs the soul that burnt within.

  Tell me, ye ancient walls, and weed-grown towers,
  Ye Roman airs and brightly painted flowers,
  Does not his spirit visit that recess
  Which built of love enshrines his earthly dress?--
  No more! no more!--what though that form be fled,
  My trembling hand shall never write thee--dead--
  Thou liv'st in Nature, Love, my Memory,
  With deathless faith for aye adoring thee,
  The wife of Time no more, I wed Eternity.

  'Tis thus the Past--on which my spirit leans,
  Makes dearest to my soul Italian scenes.
  In Tuscan fields the winds in odours steeped
  From flowers and cypresses, when skies have wept,
  Shall, like the notes of music once most dear,
  Which brings the unstrung voice upon my ear
  Of one beloved, to memory display
  Past scenes, past hopes, past joys, in long array.
  Pugnano's trees, beneath whose shade he stood,
  The pools reflecting Pisa's old pine wood,
  The fireflies beams, the aziola's cry
  All breathe his spirit which can never die.
  Such memories have linked these hills and caves,
  These woodland paths, and streams, and knelling waves
  Past to each sad pulsation of my breast,
  And made their melancholy arms the haven of my rest.

  Here will I live, within a little dell,
  Which but a month ago I saw full well:--
  A dream then pictured forth the solitude
  Deep in the shelter of a lovely wood;
  A voice then whispered a strange prophecy,
  My dearest, widowed friend, that thou and I
  Should there together pass the weary day,
  As we before have done in Spezia's bay,
  As though long hours we watched the sails that neared
  O'er the far sea, their vessel ne'er appeared;
  One pang of agony, one dying gleam
  Of hope led us along, beside the ocean stream,
  But keen-eyed fear, the while all hope departs,
  Stabbed with a million stings our heart of hearts.
  The sad revolving year has not allayed
  The poison of these bleeding wounds, or made
  The anguish less of that corroding thought
  Which has with grief each single moment fraught.
  Edward, thy voice was hushed--thy noble heart
  With aspiration heaves no more--a part
  Of heaven-resumèd past thou art become,
  Thy spirit waits with his in our far home.

Trelawny had departed for Leghorn and his favourite Maremma, _en route_
for Rome, where, by his untiring zeal for the fit interment of Shelley's
ashes, he once more earned Mary's undying gratitude. The ashes, which had
been temporarily consigned to the care of Mr. Freeborn, British Consul at
Rome, had, before Trelawny arrived, been buried in the Protestant
cemetery: the grave was amidst a cluster of others. In a niche--formed by
two buttresses--in the old Roman wall, immediately under an ancient
pyramid, said to be the tomb of Caius Cestius, Trelawny (having purchased
the recess) built two tombs. In one of these the box containing Shelley's
ashes was deposited, and all was covered over with solid stone. The
details of the transaction, which extended over several months, are
supplied in his letters.

    TRELAWNY TO MARY SHELLEY.

    PIOMBINO, _7th_ and _11th January 1823_.

      Thus far into the bowels of the land
      Have we marched on without impediment.

    DEAR MARY SHELLEY--Pardon my tardiness in writing, which from day to
    day I have postponed, having no other cause to plead than idleness. On
    my arrival at Leghorn I called on Grant, and was much grieved to find
    our fears well founded, to wit, that nothing definitely had been done.
    Grant had not heard from his correspondent at Rome after his first
    statement of the difficulties; the same letter that was enclosed me
    and read by you he (Grant) had written, but not received a reply. I
    then requested Grant to write and say that I would be at Rome in a
    month or five weeks, and if I found the impediments insurmountable, I
    would resume possession of the ashes, if on the contrary, to
    personally fulfil your wishes, and in the meantime to deposit them
    secure from molestation, so that, without Grant writes to me, I shall
    say nothing more till I am at Rome, which will be early in February.
    In the meantime Roberts and myself are sailing along the coast,
    shooting, and visiting the numerous islands in our track. We have been
    here some days, living at the miserable hut of a cattle dealer on the
    marshes, near this wretched town, well situated for sporting.
    To-morrow we cross over to Elba, thence to Corsica, and so return
    along the Maremma, up the Tiber in the boat, to Rome....

    ... I like this Maremma, it is lonely and desolate, thinly populated,
    particularly after Genoa, where human brutes are so abundant that the
    air is dense with their garlic breath, and it is impossible to fly the
    nuisance. Here there is solitude enough: there are less of the human
    form here in midday than at Genoa midnight; besides, this vagabond
    life has restored my health. Next year I will get a tent, and spend my
    winter in these marshes....

    ... Dear Mary, of all those that I know of, or you have told me of,
    as connected with you, there is not one now living has so tender a
    friendship for you as I have. I have the far greater claims on you,
    and I shall consider it as a breach of friendship should you employ
    any one else in services that I can execute.

      My purse, my person, my extremest means
      Lye all unlocked to your occasion.

    I hope you know my heart so well as to make all professions needless.
    To serve you will ever be the greatest pleasure I can experience, and
    nothing could interrupt the almost unmingled pleasure I have received
    from our first meeting but you concealing your difficulties or wishes
    from me. With kindest remembrances to my good friends the Hunts, to
    whom I am sincerely attached, and love and salaam to Lord Byron, I am
    your very sincere

      EDWARD TRELAWNY.


    "Indeed, I do believe, my dear Trelawny," wrote Mary in reply, on the
    30th of January 1823, "that you are the best friend I have, and most
    truly would I rather apply to you in any difficulty than to any one
    else, for I know your heart, and rely on it. At present I am very well
    off, having still a considerable residue of the money I brought with
    me from Pisa, and besides, I have received £33 from the _Liberal_.
    Part of this I have been obliged to send to Clare. You will be sorry
    to hear that the last account she has sent of herself is that she has
    been seriously ill. The cold of Vienna has doubtless contributed to
    this,--as it is even a dangerous aggravation of her old complaint. I
    wait anxiously to hear from her. I sent her fifteen napoleons, and
    shall send more if necessary and if I can. Lord B. continues kind: he
    has made frequent offers of money. I do not want it, as you see."


    _Journal, February 2nd._--On the 21st of January those rites were
    fulfilled. Shelley! my own beloved! you rest beneath the blue sky of
    Rome; in that, at least, I am satisfied.

    What matters it that they cannot find the grave of my William? That
    spot is sanctified by the presence of his pure earthly vesture, and
    that is sufficient--at least, it must be. I am too truly miserable to
    dwell on what at another time might have made me unhappy. He is
    beneath the tomb of Cestius. I see the spot.

    _February 3._--A storm has come across me; a slight circumstance has
    disturbed the deceitful calm of which I boasted. I thought I heard my
    Shelley call me--not my Shelley in heaven, but my Shelley, my
    companion in my daily tasks. I was reading; I heard a voice say,
    "Mary!" "It is Shelley," I thought; the revulsion was of agony. Never
    more....

Mrs. Shelley's affairs now assumed an aspect which made her foresee the
ultimate advisability, if not necessity, of returning to England. Sir
Timothy Shelley had declined giving any answer to the application made to
him for an allowance for his son's widow and child; and Lord Byron, as
Shelley's executor, had written to him directly for a decisive answer,
which he obtained.

    SIR TIMOTHY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

    FIELD PLACE, _6th February 1823_.

    MY LORD--I have received your Lordship's letter, and my solicitor, Mr.
    Whitton, has this day shown me copies of certificates of the marriage
    of Mrs. Shelley and of the baptism of her little boy, and also, a
    short abstract of my son's will, as the same have been handed to him
    by Mr. Hanson.

    The mind of my son was withdrawn from me and my immediate family by
    unworthy and interested individuals, when he was about nineteen, and
    after a while he was led into a new society and forsook his first
    associates.

    In this new society he forgot every feeling of duty and respect to me
    and to Lady Shelley.

    Mrs. Shelley was, I have been told, the intimate friend of my son in
    the lifetime of his first wife, and to the time of her death, and in
    no small degree, as I suspect, estranged my son's mind from his
    family, and all his first duties in life; with that impression on my
    mind, I cannot agree with your Lordship that, though my son was
    unfortunate, Mrs. Shelley is innocent; on the contrary, I think that
    her conduct was the very reverse of what it ought to have been, and I
    must, therefore, decline all interference in matters in which Mrs.
    Shelley is interested. As to the child, I am inclined to afford the
    means of a suitable protection and care of him in this country, if he
    shall be placed with a person I shall approve; but your Lordship will
    allow me to say that the means I can furnish will be limited, as I
    have important duties to perform towards others, which I cannot
    forget.

    I have thus plainly told your Lordship my determination, in the hope
    that I may be spared from all further correspondence on a subject so
    distressing to me and my family.

    With respect to the will and certificates, I have no observation to
    make. I have left them with Mr. Whitton, and if anything is necessary
    to be done with them on my part, he will, I am sure, do it.--I have
    the honour, my Lord, to be your Lordship's most obedient humble
    servant,

      T. SHELLEY.

Granting the point of view from which it was written, this letter, though
hard, was not unnatural. The author of _Adonais_ was, to Sir Timothy, a
common reprobate, a prodigal who, having gone into a far country, would
have devoured his father's living--could he have got it--with harlots; but
who had come there to well-deserved grief, and for whose widow even husks
were too good. To any possible colouring or modification of this view he
had resolutely shut his eyes and ears. No modification of his conclusions
was, therefore, to be looked for.

But neither could it be expected that his point of view should be
intelligible to Mary. Nor did it commend itself to Godwin. It would have
been as little for his daughter's interest as for her happiness to
surrender the custody of her child.

    MARY SHELLEY TO LORD BYRON.

    MY DEAR LORD BYRON-- ... It appears to me that the mode in which Sir
    Timothy Shelley expresses himself about my child plainly shows by what
    mean principles he would be actuated. He does not offer him an asylum
    in his own house, but a beggarly provision under the care of a
    stranger.

    Setting aside that, I would not part with him. Something is due to me.
    I should not live ten days separated from him. If it were necessary
    for me to die for his benefit the sacrifice would be easy; but his
    delicate frame requires all a mother's solicitude; nor shall he be
    deprived of my anxious love and assiduous attention to his happiness
    while I have it in my power to bestow it on him; not to mention that
    his future respect for his excellent Father and his moral wellbeing
    greatly depend upon his being away from the immediate influence of his
    relations.

    This, perhaps, you will think nonsense, and it is inconceivably
    painful to me to discuss a point which appears to me as clear as
    noonday; besides I lose all--all honourable station and name--when I
    admit that I am not a fitting person to take charge of my infant. The
    insult is keen; the pretence of heaping it upon me too gross; the
    advantage to them, if the will came to be contested, would be too
    immense.

    As a matter of feeling, I would never consent to it. I am said to have
    a cold heart; there are feelings, however, so strongly implanted in my
    nature that, to root them out, life will go with it.--Most truly
    yours,

      MARY SHELLEY.


    GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    STRAND, _14th February 1823_.

    MY DEAR MARY--I have this moment received a copy of Sir Timothy
    Shelley's letter to Lord Byron, dated 6th February, and which,
    therefore, you will have seen long before this reaches you. You will
    easily imagine how anxious I am to hear from you, and to know the
    state of your feelings under this, which seems like the last, blow of
    fate.

    I need not, of course, attempt to assist your judgment upon the
    proposition of taking the child from you. I am sure your feelings
    would never allow you to entertain such a proposition.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I requested you to let Lord Byron's letter to Sir Timothy Shelley pass
    through my hands, and you did so; but to my great mortification, it
    reached me sealed with his Lordship's arms, so that I remained wholly
    ignorant of its contents. If you could send me a copy, I should be
    then much better acquainted with your present situation.

    Your novel is now fully printed and ready for publication. I have
    taken great liberties with it, and I fear your _amour propre_ will be
    proportionately shocked. I need not tell you that all the merit of the
    book is exclusively your own. Beatrice is the jewel of the book; not
    but that I greatly admire Euthanasia, and I think the characters of
    Pepi, Binda, and the witch decisive efforts of original genius. I am
    promised a character of the work in the _Morning Chronicle_ and the
    _Herald_, and was in hopes to have sent you the one or the other by
    this time. I also sent a copy of the book to the _Examiner_ for the
    same purpose.


    _Tuesday, 18th February._

    Do not, I entreat you, be cast down about your worldly circumstances.
    You certainly contain within yourself the means of your subsistence.
    Your talents are truly extraordinary. _Frankenstein_ is universally
    known, and though it can never be a book for vulgar reading, is
    everywhere respected. It is the most wonderful work to have been
    written at twenty years of age that I ever heard of. You are now five
    and twenty, and, most fortunately, you have pursued a course of
    reading, and cultivated your mind, in a manner the most admirably
    adapted to make you a great and successful author. If you cannot be
    independent, who should be?

    Your talents, as far as I can at present discern, are turned for the
    writing of fictitious adventures.

    If it shall ever happen to you to be placed in sudden and urgent want
    of a small sum, I entreat you to let me know immediately; we must see
    what I can do. We must help one another.--Your affectionate Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

Mary felt the truth of what her father said, but, wounded and embittered
as she was, she had little heart for framing plans.

    _Journal, February 24._--Evils throng around me, my beloved, and I
    have indeed lost all in losing thee. Were it not for my child, this
    would be rather a soothing reflection, and, if starvation were my
    fate, I should fulfil that fate without a sigh. But our child demands
    all my care now that you have left us. I must be all to him: the
    Father, death has deprived him of; the relations, the bad world
    permits him not to have. What is yet in store for me? Am I to close
    the eyes of our boy, and then join you?

    The last weeks have been spent in quiet. Study could not give repose
    to, but somewhat regulated, my thoughts. I said: "I lead an innocent
    life, and it may become a useful one. I have talent, I will improve
    that talent; and if, while meditating on the wisdom of ages, and
    storing my mind with all that has been recorded of it, any new light
    bursts upon me, or any discovery occurs that may be useful to my
    fellows, then the balm of utility may be added to innocence.

    What is it that moves up and down in my soul, and makes me feel as if
    my intellect could master all but my fate? I fear it is only youthful
    ardour--the yet untamed spirit which, wholly withdrawn from the hopes,
    and almost from the affections of life, indulges itself in the only
    walk free to it, and, mental exertion being all my thought except
    regret, would make me place my hopes in that. I am indeed become a
    recluse in thought and act; and my mind, turned heavenward, would, but
    for my only tie, lose all commune with what is around me. If I be
    proud, yet it is with humility that I am so. I am not vain. My heart
    shakes with its suppressed emotions, and I flag beneath the thoughts
    that oppress me.

    Each day, as I have taken my solitary walk, I have felt myself exalted
    with the idea of occupation, improvement, knowledge, and peace.
    Looking back to my life as a delicious dream, I steeled myself as well
    as I could against such severe regrets as should overthrow my
    calmness. Once or twice, pausing in my walk, I have exclaimed in
    despair, "Is it even so?" yet, for the most part resigned, I was
    occupied by reflection--on those ideas you, my beloved, planted in my
    mind--and meditated on our nature, our source, and our destination.
    To-day, melancholy would invade me, and I thought the peace I enjoyed
    was transient. Then that letter came to place its seal on my
    prognostications. Yet it was not the refusal, or the insult heaped
    upon me, that stung me to tears. It was their bitter words about our
    Boy. Why, I live only to keep him from their hands. How dared they
    dream that I held him not far more precious than all, save the hope of
    again seeing you, my lost one. But for his smiles, where should I now
    be?

    Stars that shine unclouded, ye cannot tell me what will be--yet I can
    tell you a part. I may have misgivings, weaknesses, and momentary
    lapses into unworthy despondency, but--save in devotion towards my
    Boy--fortune has emptied her quiver, and to all her future shafts I
    oppose courage, hopelessness of aught on this side, with a firm trust
    in what is beyond the grave.

    Visit me in my dreams to-night, my beloved Shelley! kind, loving,
    excellent as thou wert! and the event of this day shall be forgotten.

    _March 19._--As I have until now recurred to this book to discharge
    into it the overflowings of a mind too full of the bitterest waters of
    life, so will I to-night, now that I am calm, put down some of my
    milder reveries; that, when I turn it over, I may not only find a
    record of the most painful thoughts that ever filled a human heart
    even to distraction.

    I am beginning seriously to educate myself; and in another place I
    have marked the scope of this somewhat tardy education, intellectually
    considered. In a moral point of view, this education is of some years'
    standing, and it only now takes the form of seeking its food in books.
    I have long accustomed myself to the study of my own heart, and have
    sought and found in its recesses that which cannot embody itself in
    words--hardly in feelings. I have found strength in the conception of
    its faculties; much native force in the understanding of them; and
    what appears to me not a contemptible penetration in the subtle
    divisions of good and evil. But I have found less strength of
    self-support, of resistance to what is vulgarly called temptation; yet
    I think also that I have found true humility (for surely no one can be
    less presumptuous than I), an ardent love for the immutable laws of
    right, much native goodness of emotion, and purity of thought.

    Enough, if every day I gain a profounder knowledge of my defects, and
    a more certain method of turning them to a good direction.

    Study has become to me more necessary than the air I breathe. In the
    questioning and searching turn it gives to my thoughts, I find some
    relief to wild reverie; in the self-satisfaction I feel in commanding
    myself, I find present solace; in the hope that thence arises, that I
    may become more worthy of my Shelley, I find a consolation that even
    makes me less wretched than in my most wretched moments.

    _March 30._--I have now finished part of the _Odyssey_. I mark this. I
    cannot write. Day after day I suffer the most tremendous agitation. I
    cannot write, or read, or think. Whether it be the anxiety for letters
    that shakes a frame not so strong as hitherto--whether it be my
    annoyances here--whether it be my regrets, my sorrow, and despair, or
    all these--I know not; but I am a wreck.

A letter from Trelawny gladdened her heart. It said--

    I must confess I am to blame in not having sooner written,
    particularly as I have received two letters from you here. Nothing
    particular has happened to me since our parting but a desperate
    assault of Maremma fever, which had nearly reunited me to my friends,
    or, as Iago says, removed me. On my arrival here, my first object was
    to see the grave of the noble Shelley, and I was most indignant at
    finding him confusedly mingled in a heap with five or six common
    vagabonds. I instantly set about removing this gross neglect, and
    selecting the only interesting spot. I enclosed it apart from all
    possibility of sacrilegious intrusion, and removed his ashes to it,
    placed a stone over it, am now planting it, and have ordered a granite
    to be prepared for myself, which I shall place in this beautiful
    recess (of which the enclosed is a drawing I took), for when I am
    dead, I have none to do me this service, so shall at least give one
    instance in my life of proficiency.

In reply Mary wrote informing him of her change of plan, and begging for
all minute details about the tomb, which she was not likely, now, to see.
Trelawny was expecting soon to rejoin Byron at Genoa, but he wrote at
once.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    ROME, _27th April 1823_.

    DEAR MARY--I should have sooner replied to your last, but that I
    concluded you must have seen Roberts, who is or ought to be at Genoa.
    He will tell you that the ashes are buried in the new enclosed
    Protestant burying-ground, which is protected by a wall and gates from
    every possible molestation, and that the ashes are so placed apart,
    and yet in the centre and most conspicuous spot of the burying-ground.
    I have just planted six young cypresses and four laurels, in front of
    the recess you see by the drawing is formed by two projecting parts of
    the old ruin. My own stone, a plain slab till I can decide on some
    fitting inscription, is placed on the left hand. I have likewise dug
    my grave, so that, when I die, there is only to lift up my coverlet
    and roll me into it. You may lie on the other side, if you like. It is
    a lovely spot. The only inscription on Shelley's stone, besides the
    _Cor cordium_ of Hunt, are the lines I have added from Shakespeare--

      Nothing of him that doth fade,
      But doth suffer a sea-change
      Into something rich and strange.

    This quotation, by its double meaning, alludes both to the manner of
    his death and his genius, and I think the element on which his soul
    took wing, and the subtle essence of his being mingled, may still
    retain him in some other shape. The waters may keep the dead, as the
    earth may, and fire and air. His passionate fondness might have been
    from some secret sympathy in their natures. Thence the fascination
    which so forcibly attracted him, without fear or caution, to trust an
    element almost all others hold in superstitious dread, and venture as
    cautiously on as they would in a lair of lions. I have just compiled
    an epitaph for Keats and sent it to Severn, who likes it much better
    than the one he had designed. He had already designed a lyre with only
    two of the strings strung, as indicating the unaccomplished maturity
    and ripening of his genius. He had intended a long inscription about
    his death having been caused by the _neglect_ of his countrymen, and
    that, as a mark of his displeasure, he said--thus and then. What I
    wished to substitute is simply thus--

                     Here lies the spoils
                             of a
                      Young English Poet,
      "Whose master-hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung,"
                And by whose desire is inscribed,
                That his name was writ in water.

    The line quoted, you remember, is in Shelley, _Adonais_, and the last
    Keats desired might be engraved on his tomb. Ask Hunt if he thinks it
    will do, and to think of something to put on my ante-dated grave. I am
    very anxious to hear how Marianne is getting on, and Hunt. You never
    mention a word of them or the _Liberal_.

    I have been delayed here longer than I had intended, from want of
    money, having lent and given it away thoughtlessly. However, old Dunn
    has sent me a supply, so I shall go on to Florence on Monday. I will
    assuredly see you before you go, and, if my exchequer is not
    exhausted, go part of the way with you. However, I will write further
    on this topic at Florence. Do not go to England, to encounter poverty
    and bitter retrospections. Stay in Italy. I will most gladly share my
    income with you, and if, under the same circumstances, you would do
    the same by me, why then you will not hesitate to accept it. I know of
    nothing would give me half so much pleasure. As you say, in a few
    years we shall both be better off. Commend me to Marianne and Hunt,
    and believe me, yours affectionately,

      E. TRELAWNY.

    Poste Restante a Gènes.

           *       *       *       *       *

    You need not tell me that all your thoughts are concentrated on the
    memory of your loss, for I have observed it, with great regret and
    some astonishment. You tell me nothing in your letters of how the
    _Liberal_ is getting on. Why do you not send me a number? How many
    have come out? Does Hunt stay at Genoa the summer, and what does Lord
    Byron determine on? I am told the _Bolivar_ is lent to some one, and
    at sea. Where is Jane? and is Mrs. Hunt likely to recover? I shall
    certainly go on to Switzerland if I can raise the wind.

           *       *       *       *       *


    MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    _10th May 1823._

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--You appear to have fulfilled my entire wish in all
    you have done at Rome. Do you remember the day you made that quotation
    from Shakespeare in our living room at Pisa? Mine own Shelley was
    delighted with it, and thus it has for me a pleasing association. Some
    time hence I may visit the spot which, of all others, I desire most to
    see.

           *       *       *       *       *

    It is not on my own account, my excellent friend, that I go to
    England. I believe that my child's interests will be best consulted by
    my return to that country....

    Desiring solitude and my books only, together with the consciousness
    that I have one or two friends who, although absent, still think of me
    with affection, England of course holds out no inviting prospect to
    me. But I am sure to be rewarded in doing or suffering for my little
    darling, so I am resigned to this last act, which seems to snap the
    sole link which bound the present to the past, and to tear aside the
    veil which I have endeavoured to draw over the desolations of my
    situation. Your kindness I shall treasure up to comfort me in future
    ill. I shall repeat to myself, I have such a friend, and endeavour to
    deserve it.

    Do you go to Greece? Lord Byron continues in the same mind. The G----
    is an obstacle, and certainly her situation is rather a difficult one.
    But he does not seem disposed to make a mountain of her resistance,
    and he is far more able to take a decided than a petty step in
    contradiction to the wishes of those about him. If you do go, it may
    hasten your return hither. I remain until Mrs. Hunt's confinement is
    over; had it not been for that, the fear of a hot journey would have
    caused me to go in this month,--but my desire to be useful to her, and
    my anxiety concerning the event of so momentous a crisis has induced
    me to stay. You may think with what awe and terror I look forward to
    the decisive moment, but I hope for the best. She is as well, perhaps
    better, than we could in any way expect.

    I had no opportunity to send you a second No. of the _Liberal_; we
    only received it a short time ago, and then you were on the wing: the
    third number has come out, and we had a copy by post. It has little in
    it we expected, but it is an amusing number, and L. B. is better
    pleased with it than any other....

    I trust that I shall see you soon, and then I shall hear all your
    news. I shall see you--but it will be for so short a time--I fear even
    that you will not go to Switzerland; but these things I must not dwell
    upon,--partings and separations, when there is no circumstance to
    lessen any pang. I must brace my mind, not enervate it, for I know I
    shall have much to endure.

    I asked Hunt's opinion about your epitaph for Keats; he said that the
    line from _Adonais_, though beautiful in itself, might be applied to
    any poet, in whatever circumstances or whatever age, that died; and
    that to be in accord with the two-stringed lyre, you ought to select
    one that alluded to his youth and immature genius. A line to this
    effect you might find in _Adonais_.

    Among the fragments of my lost Shelley, I found the following poetical
    commentary on the words of Keats,--not that I recommend it for the
    epitaph, but it may please you to see it.

      Here lieth one, whose name was writ in water,
      But, ere the breath that could erase it blew,
      Death, in remorse for that fell slaughter,
      Death, the immortalising winter, flew
      Athwart the stream, and time's mouthless torrent grew
      A scroll of crystal, emblazoning the name
      Of Adonais.

    I have not heard from Jane lately; she was well when she last wrote,
    but annoyed by various circumstances, and impatient of her lengthened
    stay in England. How earnestly do I hope that Edward's brother will
    soon arrive, and show himself worthy of his affinity to the noble and
    unequalled creature she has lost, by protecting one to whom protection
    is so necessary, and shielding her from some of the ills to which she
    is exposed.

    Adieu, my dear Trelawny. Continue to think kindly of me, and trust in
    my unalterable friendship.

      MARY SHELLEY.

    Albaro, 10th May.

On his journey to Genoa, Trelawny stayed a night at Lerici, and paid a
last visit to the Villa Magni. There, "sleeping still on the mud floor,"
its mast and oars broken, was Shelley's little skiff, the "Boat on the
Serchio."

He mounted the "stairs, or rather ladder," into the dining-room.

    As I surveyed its splotchy walls, broken floor, cracked ceiling, and
    poverty-struck appearance, while I noted the loneliness of the
    situation, and remembered the fury of the waves that in blowing
    weather lashed its walls, I did not marvel at Mrs. Shelley's and Mrs.
    Williams' groans on first entering it; nor that it had required all
    Ned Williams' persuasive powers to induce them to stop there.

But these things were all far away in the past.

            As music and splendour
      Survive not the lamp and the lute,
            The heart's echoes render
      No song when the spirit is mute.

            No song but sad dirges,
      Like the wind through a ruined cell,
            Or the mournful surges
      That ring the dead seaman's knell.

At Genoa he found the "Pilgrim" in a state of supreme indecision. He had
left him discontented when he departed in December. The new magazine was
not a success. Byron had expected that other literary and journalistic
advantages, leading to fame and power, would accrue to him from the
coalition with Leigh Hunt and Shelley, but in this he was disappointed,
and he was left to bear the responsibility of the partnership alone.

    "The death of Shelley and the failure of the _Liberal_ irritated
    Byron," writes Trelawny; "the cuckoo-note, 'I told you so,' sung by
    his friends, and the loud crowing of enemies, by no means allayed his
    ill humour. In this frame of mind he was continually planning how to
    extricate himself. His plea for hoarding was that he might have a good
    round tangible sum of current coin to aid him in any emergency....

    "He exhausted himself in planning, projecting, beginning, wishing,
    intending, postponing, regretting, and doing nothing: the unready are
    fertile in excuses, and his were inexhaustible."

Since that time he had been flattered and persuaded into joining the Greek
Committee, formed in London to aid the Greeks in their war of
independence. Byron's name and great popularity would be a tower of
strength to them. Their proposals came to him at a right moment, when he
was dissatisfied with himself and his position. He hesitated for months
before committing himself, and finally summoned Trelawny, in peremptory
terms, to come to him and go with him.

    _15th June 1823._

    MY DEAR T.--You must have heard that I am going to Greece. Why do you
    not come to me? I want your aid and am extremely anxious to see
    you.... They all say I can be of use in Greece. I do not know how, nor
    do they; but, at all events, let us go.--Yours, etc., truly,

      N. BYRON.

And, always ready for adventure, the "Pirate" came. Before his arrival
Mary's journey had been decided on. Mrs. Hunt's confinement was over: she
and the infant had both done well, and she was now in a fair way to live,
in tolerable health, for many years longer. Want of funds was now the
chief obstacle in Mary's way, but Byron was no longer ready, as he had
been, with offers of help. Changeable as the wind, and utterly unable to
put himself in another person's place, he, without absolutely declining to
fulfil his promises, made so many words about it, and treated the matter
as so great a favour on his own part, that Mary at last declined his
assistance, although it obliged her to take advantage of Trelawny's
often-repeated offers of help, which she would not rather have accepted,
as he was poor, while Byron was rich. The whole story unfolds itself in
the three ensuing letters.

    MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

    ALBARO, NEAR GENOA, _July 1823_.

    I write to you in preference to my Father, because you, to a great
    degree, understand the person I have to deal with, and in
    communicating what I say concerning him, you can, _viva voce_, add
    such comments as will render my relation more intelligible.

    The day after Marianne's confinement, the 9th June, seeing all went on
    so prosperously, I told Lord Byron that I was ready to go, and he
    promised to provide means. When I talked of going post, it was because
    he said that I should go so, at the same time declaring that he would
    regulate all himself. I waited in vain for these arrangements. But,
    not to make a long story, since I hope soon to be able to relate the
    details--he chose to transact our negotiation through Hunt, and gave
    such an air of unwillingness and sense of the obligation he conferred,
    as at last provoked Hunt to say that there was no obligation, since he
    owed me £1000.

      Glad of a quarrel, straight I clap the door!

    Still keeping up an appearance of amity with Hunt, he has written
    notes and letters so full of contempt against me and my lost Shelley
    that I could stand it no longer, and have refused to receive his still
    proffered aid for my journey. This, of course, delays me. I can muster
    about £30 of my own. I do not know whether this is barely sufficient,
    but as the delicate constitution of my child may oblige me to rest
    several times on the journey, I cannot persuade myself to commence my
    journey with what is barely necessary. I have written, therefore, to
    Trelawny for the sum requisite, and must wait till I hear from him. I
    see you, my poor girl, sigh over these mischances, but never mind, I
    do not feel them. My life is a shifting scene, and my business is to
    play the part allotted for each day well, and, not liking to think of
    to-morrow, I never think of it at all, except in an intellectual way;
    and as to money difficulties, why, having nothing, I can lose nothing.
    Thus, as far as regards what are called worldly concerns, I am
    perfectly tranquil, and as free or freer from care as if my signature
    should be able to draw £1000 from some banker. The extravagance and
    anger of Lord Byron's letters also relieve me from all pain that his
    dereliction might occasion me, and that his conscience twinges him is
    too visible from his impatient kicks and unmannerly curvets. You would
    laugh at his last letter to Hunt, when he says concerning his
    connection with Shelley "that he let himself down to the level of the
    democrats."

    In the meantime Hunt is all kindness, consideration, and
    friendship--all feeling of alienation towards me has disappeared even
    to its last dregs. He perfectly approves of what I have done. So I am
    still in Italy, and I doubt not but that its sun and vivifying
    geniality relieve me from those biting cares which would be mine in
    England, I fear, if I were destitute there. But I feel above the mark
    of Fortune, and my heart too much wounded to feel these pricks, on all
    occasions that do not regard its affections, _s'arma di se, e d'intero
    diamante_. Thus am I changed; too late, alas! for what ought to have
    been, but not too late, I trust, to enable me, more than before, to be
    some stay and consolation to my own dear Jane.

      MARY.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _Saturday._

    DEAR MARY--Will you tell me what sum you want, as I am settling my
    affairs? You must from time to time let me know your wants, that I may
    do my best to relieve them. You are sure of me, so let us use no more
    words about it. I have been racking my memory to remember some person
    in England that would be of service to you for my sake, but my rich
    friends and relations are without hearts, and it is useless to
    introduce you to the unfortunate; it would but augment your repinings
    at the injustice of Fortune. My knight-errant heart has led me many a
    weary journey foolishly seeking the unfortunate, the miserable, and
    the outcast; and when found, I have only made myself as one of them
    without redressing their grievances, so I pray you avoid, as you value
    your peace of mind, the wretched. I shall see you, I hope,
    to-day.--Yours very faithfully,

      E. TRELAWNY.


    MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

    ALBARO, _23d July 1823_.

    DEAREST JANE--I have at length fixed with the _vetturino_. I depart on
    the 25th, my best girl. I leave Italy; I return to the dreariest
    reality after having dreamt away a year in this blessed and beloved
    country.

    Lord Byron, Trelawny, and Pierino Gamba sailed for Greece on the 17th
    inst. I did not see the former. His unconquerable avarice prevented
    his supplying me with money, and a remnant of shame caused him to
    avoid me. But I have a world of things to tell you on that score when
    I see you. If he were mean, Trelawny more than balanced the moral
    account. His whole conduct during his last stay here has impressed us
    all with an affectionate regard, and a perfect faith in the
    unalterable goodness of his heart. They sailed together; Lord Byron
    with £10,000, Trelawny with £50, and Lord Byron cowering before his
    eye for reasons you shall hear soon. The Guiccioli is gone to
    Bologna--_e poi cosa farà? Chi lo sa? Cosa vuoi che lo dico?_...

    I travel without a servant. I rest first at Lyons; but do you write to
    me at Paris, Hotel Nelson. It will be a friend to await me. Alas! I
    have need of consolation. Hunt's kindness is now as active and warm as
    it was dormant before; but just as I find a companion in him I leave
    him. I leave him in all his difficulties, with his head throbbing with
    overwrought thoughts, and his frame sometimes sinking under his
    anxieties. Poor Marianne has found good medicine, _facendo un bimbo_,
    and then nursing it, but she, with her female providence, is more bent
    by care than Hunt. How much I wished, and wish, to settle near them at
    Florence; but I must submit with courage, and patience may at last
    come and give opiate to my irritable feelings.

    Both Hunt and Trelawny say that Percy is much improved since Maria
    left me. He is affectionately attached to Sylvan, and very fond of
    _Bimbo nuovo_. He kisses him by the hour, and tells me, _Come il
    Signore Enrico ha comprato un Baby nuovo--forse ti darà il Baby
    vecchio_, as he gives away an old toy on the appearance of a new one.

    I will not write longer. In conversation, nay, almost in thought, I
    can, at this most painful moment, force my excited feelings to laugh
    at themselves, and my spirits, raised by emotion, to seem as if they
    were light, but the natural current and real hue overflows me and
    penetrates me when I write, and it would be painful to you, and
    overthrow all my hopes of retaining my fortitude, if I were to write
    one word that truly translated the agitation I suffer into language.

    I will write again from Lyons, where I suppose I shall be on the 3d of
    August. Dear Jane, can I render you happier than you are? The idea of
    that might console me, at least you will see one that truly loves you,
    and who is for ever your affectionately attached

      MARY SHELLEY.

    If there is any talk of my accommodations, pray tell Mrs. Gisborne
    that I cannot sleep on any but a _hard_ bed. I care not how hard, so
    that it be a mattress.

And now Mary's life in Italy was at an end. Her resolution of returning to
England had been welcomed by her father in the letter which follows, and
it was to his house, and not to Mrs. Gisborne's that she finally decided
to go on first arriving.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    NO. 195 STRAND, _6th May 1823_.

    It certainly is, my dear Mary, with great pleasure that I anticipate
    that we shall once again meet. It is a long, long time now since you
    have spent one night under my roof. You are grown a woman, have been a
    wife, a mother, a widow. You have realised talents which I but faintly
    and doubtfully anticipated. I am grown an old man, and want a child of
    my own to smile on and console me. I shall then feel less alone than
    I do at present.

    What William will be, I know not; he has sufficient understanding and
    quickness for the ordinary concerns of life, and something more; and,
    at any rate, he is no smiler, no consoler.

    When you first set your foot in London, of course I and Mamma expect
    that it will be in this house. But the house is smaller, one floor
    less, than the house in Skinner Street. It will do well enough for you
    to make shift with for a few days, but it would not do for a permanent
    residence. But I hope we shall at least have you near us, within a
    call. How different from your being on the shores of the
    Mediterranean!

    Your novel has sold five hundred copies--half the impression.

    Peacock sent your box by the _Berbice_, Captain Wayth. I saw him a
    fortnight ago, and he said that he had not yet received the bill of
    lading himself, but he should be sure to have it in time, and would
    send it. I ought to have written to you sooner. Your letter reached me
    on the 18th ult., but I have been unusually surrounded with
    perplexities.--Your affectionate Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

On the 25th of July she left Genoa, Hunt accompanying her for the first
twenty miles. If one thought more than any other sustained her in her
unprotected loneliness, it was that of being reunited in England to her
sister in misfortune, Jane Williams, to whom her heart turned with a
singular tenderness, and to whom on her journey she addressed one more
letter, full of grateful affection and of a touching humility, new in her
character.

    MARY SHELLEY TO JANE WILLIAMS.

    ST. JEAN DE LA MAURIENNE,
    _30th July 1823_.

    MY BEST JANE--I wrote to you from Genoa the day before I quitted it,
    but I afterwards lost the letter. I asked the Hunts to look for it,
    and send it if found, but ten to one you will never receive it. It
    contained nothing, however, but what I can tell you in five minutes if
    I see you. It told you of the departure of Lord Byron and Trelawny for
    Greece, the former escaping with all his crowns, and the other
    disbursing until he had hardly £10 left. It went to my heart to borrow
    the sum from him necessary to make up my journey, but he behaved with
    so much quiet generosity that one was almost glad to put him to that
    proof, and witness the excellence of his heart. In this and in another
    trial he acquitted himself so well that he gained all our hearts,
    while the other--but more when we meet.

    I left Genoa Thursday, 25th. Hunt and Thornton accompanied me the
    first twenty miles. This was much, you will say, for Hunt. But, thank
    heaven, we are now the best friends in the world. He set his heart on
    my quitting Italy with as comfortable feelings as possible, and he did
    so much that notwithstanding all the [bitterness] that such an event,
    joined to parting with a dear friend, occasioned me, yet I have borne
    up with better spirits than I could in any way have hoped. It is a
    delightful thing, my dear Jane, to be able to express one's affection
    upon an old and tried friend like Hunt, and one so passionately
    attached to my Shelley as he was, and is. It is pleasant also to feel
    myself loved by one who loves me. You know somewhat of what I suffered
    during the winter, during his alienation from me. He was displeased
    with me for many just reasons, but he found me willing to expiate, as
    far as I could, the evil I had done, so his heart was again warmed;
    and if, my dear friend, when I return, you find me more amiable and
    more willing to suffer with patience than I was, it is to him that I
    owe this benefit, and you may judge if I ought not to be grateful to
    him. I am even so to Lord Byron, who was the cause that I stayed at
    Genoa, and thus secured one who, I am sure, can never change.

    The illness of one of our horses detains me here an afternoon, so I
    write, and shall put the letter in the post at Chambéry. I have come
    without a servant or companion; but Percy is perfectly good, and no
    trouble to me at all. We are both well; a little tired or so. Will you
    tell my Father that you have heard from me, and that I am so far on my
    journey. I expect to be at Lyons in three days, and will write to him
    from that place. If there be any talk of my accommodations, pray put
    in a word for a _hard_ bed, for else I am sure I cannot sleep.

    So I have left Italy, and alone with my child I am travelling to
    England. What a dream I have had! and is it over? Oh no! for I do
    nothing but dream; realities seem to have lost all power over me,--I
    mean, as it were, mere tangible realities,--for, where the affections
    are concerned, calamity has only awakened greater sensitiveness.

    I fear things do not go on well with you, my dearest girl! you are not
    in your mother's house, and you cannot have settled your affairs in
    India,--mine too! Why, I arrive poor to nothingness, and my hopes are
    small, except from my own exertions; and living in England is dear. My
    thoughts will all bend towards Italy; but even if Sir Timothy Shelley
    should do anything, he will not, I am sure, permit me to go abroad. At
    any rate we shall be together a while. We will talk of our lost ones,
    and think of realising my dreams; who knows? Adieu, I shall soon see
    you, and you will find how truly I am your affectionate

      MARY SHELLEY.

With the following fragment, the last of her Italian journal, this chapter
may fitly close.

    _Journal, May 31._--The lanes are filled with fire-flies; they dart
    between the trunks of the trees, and people the land with earth-stars.
    I walked among them to-night, and descended towards the sea. I passed
    by the ruined church, and stood on the platform that overlooks the
    beach. The black rocks were stretched out among the blue waters, which
    dashed with no impetuous motion against them. The dark boats, with
    their white sails, glided gently over its surface, and the
    star-enlightened promontories closed in the bay: below, amid the
    crags, I heard the monotonous but harmonious voices of the fishermen.

    How beautiful these shores, and this sea! Such is the scene--such the
    waves within which my beloved vanished from mortality.

    The time is drawing near when I must quit this country. It is true
    that, in the situation I now am, Italy is but the corpse of the
    enchantress that she was. Besides, if I had stayed here, the state of
    things would have been different. The idea of our child's advantage
    alone enables me to keep fixed in my resolution to return to England.
    It is best for him--and I go.

    Four years ago we lost our darling William; four years ago, in
    excessive agony, I called for death to free me from all I felt that I
    should suffer here. I continue to live, and _thou_ art gone. I leave
    Italy and the few that still remain to me. That I regret less; for our
    intercourse is so much chequered with all of dross that this earth so
    delights to blend with kindness and sympathy, that I long for
    solitude, with the exercise of such affections as still remain to me.
    Away, I shall be conscious that these friends love me, and none can
    then gainsay the pure attachment which chiefly clings to them because
    they knew and loved you--because I knew them when with you, and I
    cannot think of them without feeling your spirit beside me.

    I cannot grieve for you, beloved Shelley; I grieve for thy
    friends--for the world--for thy child--most for myself, enthroned in
    thy love, growing wiser and better beneath thy gentle influence,
    taught by you the highest philosophy--your pupil, friend, lover,
    wife, mother of your children! The glory of the dream is gone. I am a
    cloud from which the light of sunset has passed. Give me patience in
    the present struggle. _Meum cordium cor!_ Good-night!

      I would give all that I am to be as now thou art,
      But I am chained to time, and cannot thence depart.




CHAPTER XIX

JULY 1823-DECEMBER 1824


Mary's journey extended over a month, one week of which was passed in
Paris and Versailles, for the sake of seeing the Horace Smiths and other
old acquaintances now living there. Her letters to the Hunts, describing
the incidents and impressions of her journey, were as lively and cheerful
as she could make them. A few extracts follow here.

    TO LEIGH HUNT.

    ASTI, _26th July_.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Percy is very good and does not in the least _annoy_ me. In the state
    of mind I am now in, the motion and change is delightful to me: my
    thoughts run with the coach and wind, and double, and jerk, and are up
    and down, and forward, and most often backward, till the labyrinth of
    Crete is a joke in comparison to my intricate wanderings. They now
    lead me to you, Hunt. You rose early, wrote, walked, dined, whistled,
    sang and punned most outrageously, the worst puns in the world. My
    best Polly, you, full of your chicks and of your new darling, yet
    sometimes called "Henry" to see a beautiful new effect of light on the
    mountains.... Dear girl, I have a great affection for you, believe
    that, and don't talk or think sorrowfully, unless you have the
    toothache, and then don't think, but talk infinite nonsense mixed with
    infinite sense, and Hunt will listen, as I used. Thorny, you have not
    been cross yet. Oh, my dear Johnny (don't be angry, Polly, with this
    nonsense), do not let your impatient nature ever overcome you, or you
    may suffer as I have done--which God forbid! Be true to yourself, and
    talk much to your Father, who will teach you as he has taught me. It
    is the idea of his lessons of wisdom that makes me feel the affection
    I do for him. I profit by them, so do you: may you never feel the
    remorse of having neglected them when his voice and look are gone, and
    he can no longer talk to you; that remorse is a terrible feeling, and
    it requires a faith and a philosophy immense not to be destroyed by
    the stinging monster.


    _28th July._

    ... I was too late for the post yesterday at Turin, and too early this
    morning, so as I determined to put this letter in the post myself, I
    bring it with me to Susa, and now open it to tell you how delighted I
    am with my morning's ride--the scenery is so divine. The high, dark
    Alps, just on this southern side tipt with snow, close in a plain; the
    meadows are full of clover and flowers, and the woods of ash, elm, and
    beech descend and spread, and lose themselves in the fields; stately
    trees, in clumps or singly, arise on each side, and wherever you look
    you see some spot where you dream of building a home and living for
    ever. The exquisite beauty of nature, and the cloudless sky of this
    summer day soothe me, and make this 28th so full of recollections that
    it is almost pleasurable. Wherever the spirit of beauty dwells, _he_
    must be; the rustling of the trees is full of him; the waving of the
    tall grass, the moving shadows of the vast hills, the blue air that
    penetrates their ravines and rests upon their heights. I feel him near
    me when I see that which he best loved. Alas! nine years ago he took
    to a home in his heart this weak being, whom he has now left for more
    congenial spirits and happier regions. She lives only in the hope that
    she may become one day as one of them.

    Absolutely, my dear Hunt, I will pass some three summer months in this
    divine spot, you shall all be with me. There are no gentlemen's seats
    at Palazzi, so we will take a cottage, which we will paint and refit,
    just as this country here is, in which I now write, clean and plain.
    We will have no servants, only we will give out all the needlework.
    Marianne shall make puddings and pies, to make up for the vegetables
    and meat which I shall boil and spoil. Thorny shall sweep the rooms,
    Mary make the beds, Johnny clean the kettles and pans, and then we
    will pop him into the many streams hereabouts, and so clean him.
    Swinny, being so quick, shall be our Mercury, Percy our gardener,
    Sylvan and Percy Florence our weeders, and Vincent our plaything; and
    then, to raise us above the vulgar, we will do all our work, keeping
    time to Hunt's symphonies; we will perform our sweepings and dustings
    to the March in _Alceste_, we will prepare our meats to the tune of
    the _Laughing Trio_, and when we are tired we will lie on our turf
    sofas, while all our voices shall join in chorus in _Notte e giorno
    faticar_. You see my paper is quite out, so I must say, for the last
    time, Adieu! God bless you.

      MARY W. S.


    _Tuesday, 5th August._

    I have your letter, and your excuses, and all. I thank you most
    sincerely for it: at the same time I do entreat you to take care of
    yourself with regard to writing; although your letters are worth
    infinite pleasure to me, yet that pleasure cannot be worth pain to
    you; and remember, if you must write, the good, hackneyed maxim of
    _multum in parvo_, and, when your temples throb, distil the essence of
    three pages into three lines, and my "fictitious adventure"[5] will
    enable me to open them out and fill up intervals. Not but what three
    pages are best, but "you can understand me." And now let me tell you
    that I fear you do not rise early, since you doubt my _ore mattutine_.
    Be it known to you, then, that on the journey I always rise _before_ 3
    o'clock, that I _never_ once made the _vetturino_ wait, and, moreover,
    that there was no discontent in our jogging on on either side, so
    that I half expect to be a _Santa_ with him. He indeed got a little
    out of his element when he got into France,--his good humour did not
    leave him, but his self-possession. He could not speak French, and he
    walked about as if treading on eggs.

    When at Paris I will tell you more what I think of the French. They
    still seem miracles of quietness in comparison with Marianne's noisy
    friends. And the women's dresses afford the drollest contrast with
    those in fashion when I first set foot in Paris in 1814. Then their
    waists were between their shoulders, and, as Hogg observed, they were
    rather curtains than gowns; their hair, too, dragged to the top of the
    head, and then lifted to its height, appeared as if each female wished
    to be a Tower of Babel in herself. Now their waists are long (not so
    long, however, as the Genoese), and their hair flat at the top, with
    quantities of curls on the temples. I remember, in 1814, a Frenchman's
    pathetic horror at Clare's and my appearance in the streets of Paris
    in "Oldenburgh" (as they were called) hats; now they all wear machines
    of that shape, and a high bonnet would of course be as far out of the
    right road as if the earth were to take a flying leap to another
    system.

    After you receive this letter, you must direct to me at my Father's
    (pray put William Godwin, Esq., since the want of that etiquette
    annoys him. I remember Shelley's unspeakable astonishment when the
    author of _Political Justice_ asked him, half reproachfully, why he
    addressed him _Mr._ Godwin), 195 Strand.

On the 25th of August Mary met her father once more. At his house in the
Strand she spent her first ten days in England. Consideration for others,
and the old habit of repressing all show of feeling before Godwin helped
to steel her nerves and heart to bear the stings and aches of this
strange, mournful reunion.

And now again, too, she saw her friend Jane. But fondly as Mary ever clung
to her, she must have been sensible of the difference between them. Mrs.
Williams' situation was forlorn indeed; in some respects even more so than
Mrs. Shelley's. But, though she had grieved bitterly, as well she might,
for Edward's loss, her nature was not _impressible_, and the catastrophe
which had fallen upon her had left her unaltered. Jane was unhappy, but
she was not inconsolable; her grief was becoming to her, and lent her a
certain interest which enhanced her attractions. And to men in general she
was very attractive. Godwin himself was somewhat fascinated by the
"picturesque little woman" who had called on him on her first arrival; who
"did not drop one tear" and occasionally smiled. As for Hogg, he lost his
heart to her at once.

All this Mary must have seen. But Jane was an attaching creature, and Mary
loved her as the greater nature loves the lesser; she lavished on her a
wealth of pent-up tenderness, content to get what crumbs she could in
return. For herself a curious surprise was in store, which entertained, if
it did not cheer her.

Just at the time of its author's return to England, _Frankenstein_, in a
dramatised form, was having a considerable "run" at the English Opera
House.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO LEIGH HUNT.

    _9th September 1823._

    MY DEAR HUNT--Bessy promised me to relieve you from any inquietude you
    might suffer from not hearing from me, so I indulged myself with not
    writing to you until I was quietly settled in lodgings of my own. Want
    of time is not my excuse; I had plenty, but, until I saw all quiet
    around me, I had not the spirit to write a line. I thought of you
    all--how much? and often longed to write, yet would not till I called
    myself free to turn southward; to imagine you all, to put myself in
    the midst of you, would have destroyed all my philosophy. But now I do
    so. I am in little neat lodgings, my boy in bed, I quiet, and I will
    now talk to you, tell you what I have seen and heard, and with as
    little repining as I can, try (by making the best of what I have, the
    certainty of your friendship and kindness) to rest half content that I
    am not in the "Paradise of Exiles." Well, first I will tell you,
    journalwise, the history of my sixteen days in London.

    I arrived Monday, the 25th of August. My Father and William came for
    me to the wharf. I had an excellent passage of eleven hours and a
    half, a glassy sea, and a contrary wind. The smoke of our fire was
    wafted right aft, and streamed out behind us; but wind was of little
    consequence; the tide was with us, and though the engine gave a "short
    uneasy motion" to the vessel, the water was so smooth that no one on
    board was sick, and Persino played about the deck in high glee. I had
    a very kind reception in the Strand, and all was done that could be
    done to make me comfortable. I exerted myself to keep up my spirits.
    The house, though rather dismal, is infinitely better than the Skinner
    Street one. I resolved not to think of certain things, to take all as
    a matter of course, and thus contrive to keep myself out of the gulf
    of melancholy, on the edge of which I was and am continually peeping.

    But lo and behold! I found myself famous. _Frankenstein_ had
    prodigious success as a drama, and was about to be repeated, for the
    twenty-third night, at the English Opera House. The play-bill amused
    me extremely, for, in the list of _dramatis personæ_, came "----, by
    Mr. T. Cooke." This nameless mode of naming the unnameable is rather
    good.

    On Friday, 29th August, Jane, my Father, William, and I went to the
    theatre to see it. Wallack looked very well as Frankenstein. He is at
    the beginning full of hope and expectation. At the end of the first
    act the stage represents a room with a staircase leading to
    Frankenstein's workshop; he goes to it, and you see his light at a
    small window, through which a frightened servant peeps, who runs off
    in terror when Frankenstein exclaims "It lives!" Presently
    Frankenstein himself rushes in horror and trepidation from the room,
    and, while still expressing his agony and terror, "----" throws down
    the door of the laboratory, leaps the staircase, and presents his
    unearthly and monstrous person on the stage. The story is not well
    managed, but Cooke played ----'s part extremely well; his seeking, as
    it were, for support; his trying to grasp at the sounds he heard; all,
    indeed, he does was well imagined and executed. I was much amused, and
    it appeared to excite a breathless eagerness in the audience. It was a
    third piece, a scanty pit filled at half-price, and all stayed till it
    was over. They continue to play it even now.

    On Saturday, 30th August, I went with Jane to the Gisbornes. I know
    not why, but seeing them seemed more than anything else to remind me
    of Italy. Evening came on drearily, the rain splashed on the pavement,
    nor star nor moon deigned to appear. I looked upward to seek an image
    of Italy, but a blotted sky told me only of my change. I tried to
    collect my thoughts, and then, again, dared not think, for I am a ruin
    where owls and bats live only, and I lost my last _singing bird_ when
    I left Albaro. It was my birthday, and it pleased me to tell the
    people so; to recollect and feel that time flies, and what is to
    arrive is nearer, and my home not so far off as it was a year ago.
    This same evening, on my return to the Strand, I saw Lamb, who was
    very entertaining and amiable, though a little deaf. One of the first
    questions he asked me was, whether they made puns in Italy: I said,
    "Yes, now Hunt is there." He said that Burney made a pun in Otaheite,
    the first that was ever made in that country. At first the natives
    could not make out what he meant, but all at once they discovered the
    _pun_, and danced round him in transports of joy....

    ... On the strength of the drama, my Father had published for my
    benefit a new edition of _Frankenstein_, for he despaired utterly of
    my doing anything with Sir Timothy Shelley. I wrote to him, however,
    to tell him of my arrival, and on the following Wednesday had a note
    from Whitton, where he invited me, if I wished for an explanation of
    Sir T. Shelley's intentions concerning my boy, to call on him. I went
    with my Father. Whitton was very polite, though long-winded: his great
    wish seemed to be to prevent my applying again to Sir T. Shelley, whom
    he represented as old, infirm, and irritable. However, he advanced me
    £100 for my immediate expenses, told me that he could not speak
    positively until he had seen Sir T. Shelley, but that he doubted not
    but that I should receive the same annually for my child, and, with a
    little time and patience, I should get an allowance for myself. This,
    you see, relieved me from a load of anxieties.

    Having secured neat cheap lodgings, we removed hither last night.
    Such, dear Hunt, is the outline of your poor exile's history. After
    two days of rain, the weather has been _uncommonly_ fine, _cioè_,
    without rain, and cloudless, I believe, though I trusted to other eyes
    for that fact, since the white-washed sky is anything but blue to any
    but the perceptions of the natives themselves. It is so cold, however,
    that the fire I am now sitting by is not the first that has been
    lighted, for my Father had one two days ago. The wind is east and
    piercing, but I comfort myself with the hope that softer gales are now
    fanning your _not_ throbbing temples, that the climate of Florence
    will prove kindly to you, and that your health and spirits will return
    to you. Why am I not there? This is quite a foreign country to me,
    the names of the places sound strangely, the voices of the people are
    new and grating, the vulgar English they speak particularly
    displeasing. But for my Father, I should be with you next spring, but
    his heart and soul are set on my stay, and in this world it always
    seems one's duty to sacrifice one's own desires, and that claim ever
    appears the strongest which claims such a sacrifice.

           *       *       *       *       *

It is difficult to imagine _Frankenstein_ on the stage; it must, at least,
lose very much in dramatic representation. Like its modern successor, _Dr.
Jekyll and Mr. Hyde_,--that remarkable story which bears a certain
affinity to _Frankenstein_,--its subtle allegorical significance would be
overweighted, if not lost, by the effect of the grosser and more material
incidents which are all that could be _played_, and which, as described,
must have bordered on the ludicrous. Still the charm of life imparted by a
human impersonation to any portion, even, of one's own idea, is singularly
powerful; and so Mary felt it. She would have liked to repeat the
experience. Her situation, looked at in the face, was unenviable. She was
unprovided for, young, delicate, and with a child dependent on her. Her
rich connections would have nothing to do with her, and her boy did not
possess in their eyes the importance which would have attached to him had
he been heir to the baronetcy. She had talent, and it had been cultivated,
but with her sorely-tried health and spirits, the prospect of
self-support by the compulsory production of imaginative work must, at the
time, have seemed unpromising enough.

Two sheet-anchors of hope she had, and by these she lived. They were, her
child--so friendless but for her--and the thought of Shelley's fame. The
collecting and editing of his MSS., this was her work; no one else should
do it. It seemed as though her brief life with him had had for its purpose
to educate her for this one object.

Those who now, in naming Shelley, feel they name a part of everything
beautiful, ethereal, and spiritual--that his words are so inextricably
interwoven with certain phases of love and beauty as to be
indistinguishable from the very thing itself--may well find it hard to
realise how little he was known at the time when he died.

With other poets their work is the blossom and fruit of their lives, but
Shelley's poetry resembles rather the perfume of the flower, that subtle
quality pertaining to the bloom which can be neither described, nor
pourtrayed, nor transmitted; an essence of immortality.

Not many months after this the news of Byron's early death struck a kind
of remorseful grief into the hearts of his countrymen. A letter of Miss
Welsh's (Mrs. Carlyle) gives an idea of the general feeling--

    "I was told it," she says, "in a room full of people. Had I heard that
    the sun and moon had fallen out of their spheres it could not have
    conveyed to me the feeling of a more awful blank than did the simple
    words, 'Byron is dead.'"

How many, it may be asked, were conscious of any blank when the news
reached them that Shelley had been "accidentally drowned"? Their numbers
might be counted by tens.

    The sale, in every instance, of Mr. Shelley's works has been very
    confined,

was his publishers' report to his widow. One newspaper dismissed his
memory by the passing remark, "He will now find out whether there is a
Hell or not."

The small number of those who recognised his genius did not even include
all his personal friends.

    "Mine is a life of failures;" so he summed it up to Trelawny and
    Edward Williams. "Peacock says my poetry is composed of day-dreams and
    nightmares, and Leigh Hunt does not think it good enough for the
    _Examiner_. Jefferson Hogg says all poetry is inverted sense, and
    consequently nonsense....

    "I wrote, and the critics denounced me as a mischievous visionary, and
    my friends said that I had mistaken my vocation, that my poetry was
    mere rhapsody of words...."

Leigh Hunt, indeed, thought his own poetry more than equal to Shelley's or
Byron's. Byron knew Shelley's power well enough, but cared little for the
subjects of his sympathy. Trelawny was more appreciative, but his
admiration for the poetry was quite secondary to his enthusiasm for the
man. In Hogg's case, affection for the man may be said to have _excused_
the poetry. All this Mary knew, but she knew too--what she was soon to
find out by experience--that among his immediate associates he had created
too warm an interest for him to escape posthumous discussion and
criticism. And he had been familiar with some of those regarding whom the
world's curiosity was insatiable, concerning whom any shred of
information, true or false, was eagerly snapped up. His name would
inevitably figure in anecdotes and gossip. His fame was Mary's to guard.
During the years she lived at Albaro she had been employed in collecting
and transcribing his scattered MSS., and at the end of this year, 1823,
the volume of Posthumous Poems came out.

One would imagine that publishers would have bid against each other for
the possession of such a treasure. Far from it. Among the little band of
"true believers" three came forward to guarantee the expenses of
publication. They were, the poet Thomas Lovell Beddoes, Procter, and T. F.
Kelsall.

The appearance of this book was a melancholy satisfaction to Mary, though,
as will soon be seen, she was not long allowed to enjoy it.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. HUNT.

    LONDON, _27th November 1823_.

    MY DEAREST POLLY--Are you not a naughty girl? How could you copy a
    letter to that "agreeable, unaffected woman, Mrs. Shelley," without
    saying a word from yourself to your loving...? My dear Polly, a line
    from you forms a better picture for me of what you are about
    than--alas! I was going to say three pages, but I check myself--the
    rare one page of Hunt. Do not think that I forget you--even Percy does
    not, and he often tells me to bid the Signor Enrico and you to get in
    a carriage and then into a boat, and to come to _questo paese_ with
    _Baby nuovo_, Henry, Swinburne, _e tutti_. But that will not be, nor
    shall I see you at Mariano; this is a dreary exile for me. During a
    long month of cloud and fog, how often have I sighed for my beloved
    Italy, and more than ever this day when I have come to a conclusion
    with Sir Timothy Shelley as to my affairs, and I find the miserable
    pittance I am to have. Nearly sufficient in Italy, here it will not go
    half-way. It is £100 per annum. Nor is this all, for I foresee a
    thousand troubles; yet, in truth, as far as regards mere money matters
    and worldly prospects, I keep up my philosophy with excellent success.
    Others wonder at this, but I do not, nor is there any philosophy in
    it. After having witnessed the mortal agonies of my two darling
    children, after that journey from and to Lerici, I feel all these as
    pictures and trifles as long as I am kept out of contact with the
    unholy. I was upset to-day by being obliged to see Whitton, and the
    prospect of seeing others of his tribe. I can earn a sufficiency, I
    doubt not. In Italy I should be content: here I will not bemoan.
    Indeed I never do, and Mrs. Godwin makes _large eyes_ at the quiet way
    in which I take it all. It is England alone that annoys me, yet
    sometimes I get among friends and almost forget its fogs. I go to
    Shacklewell rarely, and sometimes see the Novellos elsewhere. He is my
    especial favourite, and his music always transports me to the seventh
    heaven.... I see the Lambs rather often, she ever amiable, and Lamb
    witty and delightful. I must tell you one thing and make Hunt laugh.
    Lamb's new house at Islington is close to the New River, and George
    Dyer, after having paid them a visit, on going away at 12 at noonday,
    walked deliberately into the water, taking it for the high road.
    "But," as he said afterwards to Procter, "I soon found that I was in
    the water, sir." So Miss Lamb and the servant had to fish him out....
    I must tell Hunt also a good saying of Lamb's,--talking of some one,
    he said, "Now some men who are very veracious are called
    matter-of-fact men, but such a one I should call a matter-of-lie man."

    I have seen also Procter, with his "beautifully formed head" (it is
    beautifully formed), several times, and I like him. He is an
    enthusiastic admirer of Shelley, and most zealous in bringing out the
    volume of his poems; this alone would please me; and he is, moreover,
    gentle and gentlemanly, and apparently endued with a true poetic
    feeling. Besides, he is an invalid, and some time ago I told you, in a
    letter, that I have always a sneaking (for sneaking read open)
    kindness for men of literary and particularly poetic habits, who have
    delicate health. I cannot help revering the mind delicately attuned
    that shatters the material frame, and whose thoughts are strong enough
    to throw down and dilapidate the walls of sense and dikes of flesh
    that the unimaginative contrive to keep in such good repair....

    After all, I spend a great deal of my time in solitude. I have been
    hitherto too fully occupied in preparing Shelley's MSS. It is now
    complete, and the poetry alone will make a large volume. Will you tell
    Hunt that he need not send any of the MSS. that he has (except the
    Essay on Devils, and some lines addressed to himself on his arrival in
    Italy, if he should choose them to be inserted), as I have recopied
    all the rest? We should be very glad, however, of his notice as
    quickly as possible, as we wish the book to be out in a month at
    furthest, and that will not be possible unless he sends it
    immediately. It would break my heart if the book should appear without
    it.[6] When he does send a packet over (let it be directed to his
    brother), will he also be so good as to send me a copy of my "Choice,"
    beginning after the line

      Entrenched sad lines, or blotted with its might?

    Perhaps, dear Marianne, you would have the kindness to copy them for
    me, and send them soon. I have another favour to ask of you. Miss
    Curran has a portrait of Shelley, in many things very like, and she
    has so much talent that I entertain great hopes that she will be able
    to make a good one; for this purpose I wish her to have all the aids
    possible, and among the rest a profile from you.[7] If you could not
    cut another, perhaps you would send her one already cut, and if you
    sent it with a note requesting her to return it when she had done with
    it, I will engage that it will be most faithfully returned. At present
    I am not quite sure where she is, but if she should be there, and you
    can find her and send her this, I need not tell you how you would
    oblige me.

    I heard from Bessy that Hunt is writing something for the _Examiner_
    for me. I _conjecture_ that this may be concerning _Valperga_. I shall
    be glad, indeed, when that comes, or in lieu of it, anything else.
    John Hunt begins to despair.

           *       *       *       *       *

    And now, dear Polly, I think I have done with gossip and business:
    with words of affection and kindness I should never have done. I am
    inexpressibly anxious about you all. Percy has had a similar though
    shorter attack to that at Albaro, but he is now recovered. I have a
    cold in my head, occasioned, I suppose, by the weather. Ah, Polly! if
    all the beauties of England were to have only the mirror that Richard
    III desires, a very short time would be spent at the looking-glass!

    What of Florence and the gallery? I saw the Elgin marbles to-day;
    to-morrow I am to go to the Museum to look over the prints: that will
    be a great treat. The Theseus is a divinity, but how very few statues
    they have! Kiss the children. Ask Thornton for his forgotten and
    promised P.S., give my love to Hunt, and believe me, my dear
    Marianne, the exiled, but ever, most affectionately yours,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.


    _Journal, January 18_ (1824).--I have now been nearly four months in
    England, and if I am to judge of the future by the past and the
    present, I have small delight in looking forward. I even regret those
    days and weeks of intense melancholy that composed my life at Genoa.
    Yes, solitary and unbeloved as I was there, I enjoyed a more
    pleasurable state of being than I do here. I was still in Italy, and
    my heart and imagination were both gratified by that circumstance. I
    awoke with the light and beheld the theatre of nature from my window;
    the trees spread their green beauty before me, the resplendent sky was
    above me, the mountains were invested with enchanting colours. I had
    even begun to contemplate painlessly the blue expanse of the tranquil
    sea, speckled by the snow-white sails, gazed upon by the unclouded
    stars. There was morning and its balmy air, noon and its exhilarating
    heat, evening and its wondrous sunset, night and its starry pageant.
    Then, my studies; my drawing, which soothed me; my Greek, which I
    studied with greater complacency as I stole every now and then a look
    on the scene near me; my metaphysics, that strengthened and elevated
    my mind. Then my solitary walks and my reveries; they were
    magnificent, deep, pathetic, wild, and exalted. I sounded the depths
    of my own nature; I appealed to the nature around me to corroborate
    the testimony that my own heart bore to its purity. I thought of _him_
    with hope; my grief was active, striving, expectant. I was worth
    something then in the catalogue of beings. I could have written
    something, been something. Now I am exiled from these beloved scenes;
    its language is becoming a stranger to mine ears; my child is
    forgetting it. I am imprisoned in a dreary town; I see neither fields,
    nor hills, nor trees, nor sky; the exhilaration of enwrapt
    contemplation is no more felt by me; aspirations agonising, yet grand,
    from which the soul reposed in peace, have ceased to ascend from the
    quenched altar of my mind. Writing has become a task; my studies
    irksome; my life dreary. In this prison it is only in human
    intercourse that I can pretend to find consolation; and woe, woe, and
    triple woe to whoever seeks pleasure in human intercourse when that
    pleasure is not founded on deep and intense affection; as for the
    rest--

      The bubble floats before,
      The shadow stalks behind.

    My Father's situation, his cares and debts, prevent my enjoying his
    society.

    I love Jane better than any other human being, but I am pressed upon
    by the knowledge that she but slightly returns this affection. I love
    her, and my purest pleasure is derived from that source--a capacious
    basin, and but a rill flows into it. I love some one or two more,
    "with a degree of love," but I see them seldom. I am excited while
    with them, but the reaction of this feeling is dreadfully painful, but
    while in London I cannot forego this excitement. I know some clever
    men, in whose conversation I delight, but this is rare, like angels'
    visits. Alas! having lived day by day with one of the wisest, best,
    and most affectionate of spirits, how void, bare, and drear is the
    scene of life!

    Oh, Shelley, dear, lamented, beloved! help me, raise me, support me;
    let me not feel ever thus fallen and degraded! my imagination is dead,
    my genius lost, my energies sleep. Why am I not beneath that
    weed-grown tower? Seeing Coleridge last night reminded me forcibly of
    past times; his beautiful descriptions reminded me of Shelley's
    conversations. Such was the intercourse I once daily enjoyed, added to
    supreme and active goodness, sympathy, and affection, and a wild,
    picturesque mode of living that suited my active spirit and satisfied
    its craving for novelty of impression.

    I will go into the country and philosophise; some gleams of past
    entrancement may visit me there.

Lonely, poor, and dull as she was, these first months were a dreadful
trial. She was writing, or trying to write, another novel, _The Last
Man_, but it hung heavy; it did not satisfy her. Shrinking from company,
yet recoiling still more from the monotony of her own thoughts, she was
possessed by the restless wish to write a drama, perhaps with the idea
that out of dramatic creations she might (Frankenstein-like) manufacture
for herself companions more living than the characters of a novel. It may
have been fortunate for her that she did not persevere in the attempt. Her
special gifts were hardly of a dramatic order, and she had not the
necessary experience for a successful playwright. She consulted her
father, however, sending him at the same time some specimens of her work,
and got some sound advice from him in return.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    NO. 195 STRAND, _27th February 1824_.

    MY DEAR MARY--Your appeal to me is a painful one, and the account you
    give of your spirits and tone of mind is more painful. Your appeal to
    me is painful, because I by no means regard myself as an infallible
    judge, and have been myself an unsuccessful adventurer in the same
    field toward which, in this instance, you have turned your regards. As
    to what you say of your spirits and tone of mind, your plans, and your
    views, would not that much more profitably and agreeably be made the
    subject of a conversation between us? You are aware that such a
    conversation must be begun by you. So begun, it would be quite a
    different thing than begun by me. In the former case I should be
    called in as a friend and adviser, from whom some advantage was hoped
    for; in the latter I should be an intruder, forcing in free speeches
    and unwelcome truths, and should appear as if I wanted to dictate to
    you and direct you, who are well capable of directing yourself. You
    have able critics within your command--Mr. Procter and Mr. Lamb. You
    have, however, one advantage in me; I feel a deeper interest in you
    than they do, and would not mislead you for the world.

    As to the specimens you have sent me, it is easy for me to give my
    opinion. There is one good scene--Manfred and the Two Strangers in the
    Cottage; and one that has some slight hints in it--the scene where
    Manfred attempts to stab the Duke. The rest are neither good nor bad;
    they might be endured, in the character of cement, to fasten good
    things together, but no more. Am I right? Perhaps not. I state things
    as they appear to my organs. Thus far, therefore, you afford an
    example, to be added to Barry Cornwall, how much easier it is to write
    a detached dramatic scene than to write a tragedy.

    Is it not strange that so many people admire and relish Shakespeare,
    and that nobody writes or even attempts to write like him? To read
    your specimens, I should suppose that you had read no tragedies but
    such as have been written since the date of your birth. Your
    personages are mere abstractions--the lines and points of a
    mathematical diagram--and not men and women. If A crosses B, and C
    falls upon D, who can weep for that? Your talent is something like
    mine--it cannot unfold itself without elbow-room. As Gray sings, "Give
    ample room and verge enough the characters of hell to trace." I can do
    tolerably well if you will allow me to explain as much as I like--if,
    in the margin of what my personage says, I am permitted to set down
    and anatomise all that he feels. Dramatic dialogue, in reference to
    any talent I possess, is the devil. To write nothing more than the
    very words spoken by the character is a course that withers all the
    powers of my soul. Even Shakespeare, the greatest dramatist that ever
    existed, often gives us riddles to guess and enigmas to puzzle over.
    Many of his best characters and situations require a volume of
    commentary to make them perspicuous. And why is this? Because the law
    of his composition confines him to set down barely words that are to
    be delivered.

    For myself, I am almost glad that you have not (if you have not) a
    dramatic talent. How many mortifications and heart-aches would that
    entail on you. Managers are to be consulted; players to be humoured;
    the best pieces that were ever written negatived, and returned on the
    author's hands. If these are all got over, then you have to encounter
    the caprice of a noisy, insolent, and vulgar-minded audience, whose
    senseless _non fiat_ shall turn the labour of a year in a moment into
    nothing.

      Full little knowest thou, that hast not tried,
      What hell it is----
      To fret thy soul with crosses and with cares,
      To eat thy heart through comfortless despairs;
      To fawn, to crouch, to wait, to ride, to run,
      To spend, to give, to want, to be undone.

    It is laziness, my dear Mary, that makes you wish to be a dramatist.
    It seems in prospect a short labour to write a play, and a long one to
    write a work consisting of volumes; and as much may be gained by the
    one as by the other. But as there is no royal road to geometry, so
    there is no idle and self-indulgent activity that leads to literary
    eminence.

    As to the idea that you have no literary talent, for God's sake, do
    not give way to such diseased imaginations. You have, fortunately,
    ascertained that at a very early period. What would you have done if
    you had passed through my ordeal? I did not venture to face the public
    till I was seven and twenty, and for ten years after that period could
    not contrive to write anything that anybody would read; yet even I
    have not wholly miscarried.

Much of this was shrewd, and undeniable, but the _wish_ to write for the
stage continued to haunt Mary, and recurred two years later when she saw
Kean play _Othello_. To the end of her life she expressed regret that she
had not tried her hand at a tragedy.

Meanwhile, besides her own novel, she was at no loss for literary jobs and
literary occupation; her friends took care of that. Her pen and her powers
were for ever at their service, and they never showed any scruple in
working the willing horse. Her disinterested integrity made her an
invaluable representative in business transactions. The affairs of the
_Examiner_ newspaper, edited in England by Leigh Hunt's brother John, were
in an unsatisfactory condition; and there was much disagreement between
the two brothers as to both pecuniary and literary arrangements. Mary had
to act as arbiter between the two, softening the harsh and ungracious
expressions which, in his annoyance, were used by John; looking after
Leigh Hunt's interests, and doing all she could to make clear to him the
complicated details of the concern. In this she was aided by Vincent
Novello, the eminent musician, and intimate friend of the Hunts, to whom
she had had a letter of introduction on arriving in Italy. The Novellos
had a large, old-fashioned house on Shacklewell Green; they were the very
soul of hospitality and kindness, and the centre of a large circle of
literary and artistic friends, they had made Shelley's acquaintance in the
days when the Leigh Hunts lived at the Vale of Health in Hampstead, and
they now welcomed his widow, as well as Mrs. Williams, doing all in their
power to shed a little cheerfulness over these two broken and melancholy
lives.

"Very, very fair both ladies were," writes Mrs. Cowden Clarke, then Mary
Victoria Novello, who in her charming _Recollections of Writers_ has given
us a pretty sketch of Mary Shelley as she then appeared to a "damsel
approaching towards the age of 'sweet sixteen,' privileged to consider
herself one of the grown-up people."

    "Always observant as a child," she writes, "I had now become a greater
    observer than ever; and large and varied was the pleasure I derived
    from my observation of the interesting men and women around me at this
    time of my life. Certainly Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley was the
    central figure of attraction then to my young-girl sight; and I looked
    upon her with ceaseless admiration,--for her personal graces, as well
    as for her literary distinction.

    "The daughter of William Godwin and Mary Wollstonecraft Godwin, the
    wife of Shelley, the authoress of _Frankenstein_, had for me a
    concentration of charm and interest that perpetually excited and
    engrossed me while she continued a visitor at my parents' house."

Elsewhere she describes

    ... "Her well-shaped, golden-haired head, almost always a little bent
    and drooping; her marble-white shoulders and arms statuesquely visible
    in the perfectly plain black velvet dress, which the customs of that
    time allowed to be cut low, and which her own taste adopted (for
    neither she nor her sister-in-sorrow ever wore the conventional
    'widow's weeds' and 'widow's cap'); her thoughtful, earnest eyes; her
    short upper lip and intellectually curved mouth, with a certain
    close-compressed and decisive expression while she listened, and a
    relaxation into fuller redness and mobility when speaking; her
    exquisitely formed, white, dimpled, small hands, with rosy palms, and
    plumply commencing fingers, that tapered into tips as slender and
    delicate as those in a Vandyke portrait."

And though it was not in the power of these kind genial people to change
Mary's destiny, or even to modify very sensibly the tenour of her inner
life and thought, still their friendship was a solace to her; she was
grateful for it, and did her utmost to respond with cheerfulness to their
kindly efforts on her behalf. To Leigh Hunt (from whom depression, when it
passed into querulousness, met with almost as little quarter as it did
from Godwin) she wrote--

    I am not always in spirits, but if my friends say that I am good,
    contrive to fancy that I am so, and so continue to love yours most
    truly,

      MARY SHELLEY.

The news of Lord Byron's death in Greece, which in May of this year
created so profound a sensation in England, fell on Mary's heart as a
fresh calamity. She had small reason, personally, to esteem or regret him.
Circumstances had made her only too painfully familiar with his worst
side, and she might well have borne him more than one serious grudge. But
he was associated in her mind with Shelley, and with early, happy days,
and now he, like Shelley, was dead and gone, and his faults faded into
distance, while all that was great and might have been noble in him--the
hero that should have been rather than the man that was--survived, and
stood out in greater clearness and beauty, surrounded by the tearful halo
of memory. The tidings reached her at a time of unusual--it afterwards
seemed of prophetic--dejection.

    _Journal, May 14._--This, then, is my English life; and thus I am to
    drag on existence; confined in my small room, friendless. Each day I
    string me to the task. I endeavour to read and write, my ideas
    stagnate and my understanding refuses to follow the words I read; day
    after day passes while torrents fall from the dark clouds, and my mind
    is as gloomy as this odious sky. Without human friends I must attach
    myself to natural objects; but though I talk of the country, what
    difference shall I find in this miserable climate. Italy, dear Italy,
    murderess of those I love and of all my happiness, one word of your
    soft language coming unawares upon me, has made me shed bitter tears.
    When shall I hear it again spoken, when see your skies, your trees,
    your streams? The imprisonment attendant on a succession of rainy days
    has quite overcome me. God knows I strive to be content, but in vain.
    Amidst all the depressing circumstances that weigh on me, none sinks
    deeper than the failure of my intellectual powers; nothing I write
    pleases me. Whether I am just in this, or whether the want of
    Shelley's (oh, my loved Shelley, it is some alleviation only to write
    your name!) encouragement I can hardly tell, but it seems to me as if
    the lovely and sublime objects of nature had been my best inspirers,
    and, wanting them, I am lost. Although so utterly miserable at Genoa,
    yet what reveries were mine as I looked on the aspect of the ravine,
    the sunny deep and its boats, the promontories clothed in purple
    light, the starry heavens, the fireflies, the uprising of spring. Then
    I could think, and my imagination could invent and combine, and self
    became absorbed in the grandeur of the universe I created. Now my mind
    is a blank, a gulf filled with formless mist.

    The Last Man! Yes, I may well describe that solitary being's
    feelings: I feel myself as the last relic of a beloved race, my
    companions extinct before me.

    And thus has the accumulating sorrow of days and weeks been forced to
    find a voice, because the word _lucena_ met my eyes, and the idea of
    lost Italy sprang in my mind. What graceful lamps those are, though of
    base construction and vulgar use; I thought of bringing one with me; I
    am glad I did not. I will go back only to have a _lucena_.

    If I told people so they would think me mad, and yet not madder than
    they seem to be now, when I say that the blue skies and verdure-clad
    earth of that dear land are necessary to my existence.

    If there be a kind spirit attendant on me in compensation for these
    miserable days, let me only dream to-night that I am in Italy! Mine
    own Shelley, what a horror you had (fully sympathised in by me) of
    returning to this miserable country! To be here without you is to be
    doubly exiled, to be away from Italy is to lose you twice. Dearest,
    why is my spirit thus losing all energy? Indeed, indeed, I must go
    back, or your poor utterly lost Mary will never dare think herself
    worthy to visit you beyond the grave.

    _May 15._--This then was the coming event that cast its shadow on my
    last night's miserable thoughts. Byron had become one of the people of
    the grave--that miserable conclave to which the beings I best loved
    belong. I knew him in the bright days of youth, when neither care nor
    fear had visited me--before death had made me feel my mortality, and
    the earth was the scene of my hopes. Can I forget our evening visits
    to Diodati? our excursions on the lake, when he sang the Tyrolese
    Hymn, and his voice was harmonised with winds and waves. Can I forget
    his attentions and consolations to me during my deepest
    misery?--Never.

    Beauty sat on his countenance and power beamed from his eye. His
    faults being, for the most part, weaknesses, induced one readily to
    pardon them.

    Albé--the dear, capricious, fascinating Albé--has left this desert
    world! God grant I may die young! A new race is springing about me. At
    the age of twenty-six I am in the condition of an aged person. All my
    old friends are gone, I have no wish to form new. I cling to the few
    remaining; but they slide away, and my heart fails when I think by how
    few ties I hold to the world. "Life is the desert and the
    solitude--how populous the grave"--and that region--to the dearer and
    best beloved beings which it has torn from me, now adds that
    resplendent spirit whose departure leaves the dull earth dark as
    midnight.

    _June 18._--What a divine night it is! I have just returned from
    Kentish Town; a calm twilight pervades the clear sky; the lamp-like
    moon is hung out in heaven, and the bright west retains the dye of
    sunset. If such weather would continue, I should write again; the lamp
    of thought is again illumined in my heart, and the fire descends from
    heaven that kindles it. Such, my loved Shelley, now ten years ago, at
    this season, did we first meet, and these were the very scenes--that
    churchyard, with its sacred tomb, was the spot where first love shone
    in your dear eyes. The stars of heaven are now your country, and your
    spirit drinks beauty and wisdom in those spheres, and I, beloved,
    shall one day join you. Nature speaks to me of you. In towns and
    society I do not feel your presence; but there you are with me, my
    own, my unalienable!

    I feel my powers again, and this is, of itself, happiness; the eclipse
    of winter is passing from my mind. I shall again feel the enthusiastic
    glow of composition, again, as I pour forth my soul upon paper, feel
    the winged ideas arise, and enjoy the delight of expressing them.
    Study and occupation will be a pleasure, and not a task, and this I
    shall owe to sight and companionship of trees and meadows, flowers and
    sunshine.

    England, I charge thee, dress thyself in smiles for my sake! I will
    celebrate thee, O England! and cast a glory on thy name, if thou wilt
    for me remove thy veil of clouds, and let me contemplate the country
    of my Shelley and feel in communion with him!

    I have been gay in company before, but the inspiriting sentiment of
    the heart's peace I have not felt before to-night; and yet, my own,
    never was I so entirely yours. In sorrow and grief I wish sometimes
    (how vainly!) for earthly consolation. At a period of pleasing
    excitement I cling to your memory alone, and you alone receive the
    overflowing of my heart.

    Beloved Shelley, good-night. One pang will seize me when I think, but
    I will only think, that thou art where I shall be, and conclude with
    my usual prayer,--from the depth of my soul I make it,--May I die
    young!


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    MISSOLONGHI, _30th April 1824_.

    MY DEAR MARY--My brain is already dizzy with business and writing. I
    am transformed from the listless being you knew me to one of all
    energy and fire. Not content with the Camp, I must needs be a great
    diplomatist, I am again, dear Mary, in my _element_, and playing no
    _second_ part in Greece. If I live, the outcast Reginald will cut his
    name out on the Grecian hills, or set on its plains. I have had the
    merit of discovering and bringing out a noble fellow, a gallant
    _soldier_, and a man of most wonderful mind, with as little bigotry as
    Shelley, and nearly as much imagination; he is a glorious being. I
    have lived with him--he calls me brother--wants to connect me with his
    family. We have been inseparable now for eight months--fought side by
    side. But I am sick at heart with losing my friend,[8]--for still I
    call him so, you know, with all his weakness, you know I loved him. I
    cannot live with men for years without feeling--it is weak, it is want
    of judgment, of philosophy,--but this is my weakness. Dear Mary, if
    you love me,--_write_--write--write, for my heart yearns after you. I
    certainly must have you and Jane out. I am serious.

    This is the place after my own heart, and I am certain of our good
    cause triumphing. Believe nothing you hear; Gamba will tell you
    everything about me--about Lord Byron, but he knows nothing of
    Greece--nothing; nor does it appear any one else does by what I see
    published. Colonel Stanhope is here; he is a good fellow, and does
    much good. The loan is achieved, and that sets the business at rest,
    but it is badly done--the Commissioners are bad. A word as to your
    wooden god, Mavrocordato. He is a miserable Jew, and I hope, ere long,
    to see his head removed from his worthless and heartless body. He is a
    mere shuffling soldier, an aristocratic brute--wants Kings and
    Congresses; a poor, weak, shuffling, intriguing, cowardly fellow; so
    no more about him. Dear Mary, dear Jane, I am serious, turn you
    thoughts this way. No more a nameless being, I am now a Greek
    Chieftain, willing and able to shelter and protect you; and thus I
    will continue, or follow our friends to wander over some other planet,
    for I have nearly exhausted this.--Your attached

      TRELAWNY.

    Care of John Hunt, Esq., _Examiner_ Office,
    Catherine Street, London.

    Tell me of Clare, do write me of her! This is written with the other
    in desperate haste. I have received a letter from you, one from Jane,
    and none from Hunt.

This letter reached Mary at about the same time as the fatal news.
Trelawny also sent her his narrative of the facts (now so well known to
every one) of Byron's death. It had been intended for Hobhouse, but the
writer changed his mind and entrusted it to Mrs. Shelley instead, adding,
"Hunt may pick something at it if he please."

Trelawny had been Byron's friend, and clearly as he saw the Pilgrim's
faults and deficiencies, there would seem no doubt that he genuinely
admired him, in spite of all. But his mercurial, impulsive temperament,
ever in extremes, was liable to the most sudden revulsions of feeling,
and retrospect hardened his feeling as much as it softened Mary Shelley's
towards the great man who was gone. Only four months later he was writing
again, from Livadia--

    I have much to say to you, Mary, both as regards myself and the part I
    am enacting here. I would give much that I could, as in times dead,
    look in on you in the evening of every day and consult with you on its
    occurrences, as I used to do in Italy. It is curious, but, considering
    our characters, natural enough, that Byron and I took the
    diametrically opposite roads in Greece--I in Eastern, he in Western.
    He took part with, and became the paltry tool of the weak, imbecile,
    cowardly being calling himself Prince Mavrocordato. Five months he
    dozed away. By the gods! the lies that are said in his praise urge one
    to speak the truth. It is well for his name, and better for Greece,
    that he is dead. With the aid of his name, his fame, his talents, and
    his fortune, he might have been a tower of strength to Greece, instead
    of which the little he did was in favour of the aristocrats, to
    destroy the republic, and smooth the road for a foreign King. But he
    is dead, and I now feel my face burn with shame that so weak and
    ignoble a soul could so long have influenced me. It is a degrading
    reflection, and ever will be. I wish he had lived a little longer,
    that he might have witnessed how I would have soared above him here,
    how I would have triumphed over his mean spirit. I would do much to
    see and talk to you, but as I am now too much irritated to disclose
    the real state of things, I will not mislead you by false statements.

With this fine flourish was enclosed a "Description of the Cavern Fortress
of Mount Parnassus," which he was commanding (and of which a full account
is given in his _Recollections_), and then followed a P.S. to this
effect--

    DEAR MARY--Will you make an article of this, as Leigh Hunt calls it,
    and request his brother to publish it in the _Examiner_, which will
    very much oblige me.


    FROM MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    28th July 1824.

    So, dear Trelawny, you remember still poor Mary Shelley; thank you for
    your remembrance, and a thousand times for your kind letter. It is
    delightful to feel that absence does not diminish your affection,
    excellent, warm-hearted friend, remnant of our happy days, of my
    vagabond life in beloved Italy, our companion in prosperity, our
    comforter in sorrow. You will not wonder that the late loss of Lord
    Byron makes me cling with greater zeal to those dear friends who
    remain to me. He could hardly be called a friend, but, connected with
    him in a thousand ways, admiring his talents, and (with all his
    faults) feeling affection for him, it went to my heart when, the other
    day, the hearse that contained his lifeless form--a form of beauty
    which in life I often delighted to behold--passed my windows going up
    Highgate Hill on his last journey to the last seat of his ancestors.
    Your account of his last moments was infinitely interesting to me.
    Going about a fortnight ago to the house where his remains lay, I
    found there Fletcher and Lega--Lega looking a most preposterous
    rogue,--Fletcher I expect to call on me when he returns from
    Nottingham. From a few words he imprudently let fall, it would seem
    that his Lord spoke of Clare in his last moments, and of his wish to
    do something for her, at a time when his mind, vacillating between
    consciousness and delirium, would not permit him to do anything. Did
    Fletcher mention this to you? It seems that this doughty Leporello
    speaks of his Lord to strangers with the highest respect; more than he
    did a year ago,--the best, the most generous, the most wronged of
    peers,--the notion of his leading an irregular life,--quite a false
    one. Lady B. sent for Fletcher; he found her in a fit of passionate
    grief, but perfectly implacable, and as much resolved never to have
    united herself again to him as she was when she first signed their
    separation. Mrs. Claremont (the governess) was with her.

    His death, as you may guess, made a great sensation here, which was
    not diminished by the destruction of his Memoirs, which he wrote and
    gave to Moore, and which were burned by Mrs. Leigh and Hobhouse. There
    was not much in them, I know, for I read them some years ago at
    Venice, but the world fancied it was to have a confession of the
    hidden feelings of one concerning whom they were always passionately
    curious. Moore was by no means pleased: he is now writing a life of
    him himself, but it is conjectured that, notwithstanding he had the
    MS. so long in his possession, he never found time to read it. I
    breakfasted with him about a week ago, and he is anxious to get
    materials for his work. I showed him your letter on the subject of
    Lord Byron's death, and he wishes very much to obtain from you any
    anecdote or account you would like to send. If you know anything that
    ought to be known, or feel inclined to detail anything that you may
    remember worthy of record concerning him, perhaps you will communicate
    with Moore. You have often said that you wished to keep up our
    friend's name in the world, and if you still entertain the same
    feeling, no way is more obvious than to assist Moore, who asked me to
    make this request. You can write to him through me or addressed to
    Longmans....

           *       *       *       *       *

    Here then we are, Jane and I, in Kentish Town.... We live near each
    other now, and, seeing each other almost daily, for ever dwell on one
    subject.... The country about here is really pretty; lawny uplands,
    wooded parks, green lanes, and gentle hills form agreeable and varying
    combinations. If we had orange sunsets, cloudless noons, fireflies,
    large halls, etc. etc., I should not find the scenery amiss, and yet I
    can attach myself to nothing here; neither among the people, though
    some are good and clever, nor to the places, though they be pretty.
    Jane is my chosen companion and only friend. I am under a cloud, and
    cannot form near acquaintances among that class whose manners and
    modes of life are agreeable to me, and I think myself fortunate in
    having one or two pleasing acquaintances among literary people, whose
    society I enjoy without dreaming of friendship. My child is in
    excellent health; a fine, tall, handsome boy.

    And then for money and the rest of those necessary annoyances, the
    means of getting at the necessaries of life; Jane's affairs are yet
    unsettled....

    My prospects are somewhat brighter than they were. I have little doubt
    but that in the course of a few months I shall have an independent
    income of £300 or £400 per annum during Sir Timothy's life, and that
    with small sacrifice on my part. After his death Shelley's will
    secures me an income more than sufficient for my simple habits.

    One of my first wishes in obtaining the independence I mention, will
    be to assist in freeing Clare from her present painful mode of life.
    She is now at Moscow; sufficiently uncomfortable, poor girl, unless
    some change has taken place: I think it probable that she will soon
    return to England. Her spirits will have been improved by the
    information I sent her that his family consider Shelley's will valid,
    and that she may rely upon receiving the legacy....

But Mary's hopes of better fortune were again and again deferred, and she
now found that any concession on the part of her husband's family must be
purchased by the suppression of his later poems. She was too poor to do
other than submit.

    MARY SHELLEY TO LEIGH HUNT.

    KENTISH TOWN, _22d August 1824_.

    ... A negotiation has begun between Sir Timothy Shelley and myself, by
    which, on sacrificing a small part of my future expectations on the
    will, I shall ensure myself a sufficiency for the present, and not
    only that, but be able, I hope, to relieve Clare from her
    disagreeable situation at Moscow. I have been obliged, however, as an
    indispensable preliminary, to suppress the posthumous poems. More than
    300 copies had been sold, so this is the less provoking, and I have
    been obliged to promise not to bring dear Shelley's name before the
    public again during Sir Timothy's life. There is no great harm in
    this, since he is above seventy; and, from choice, I should not think
    of writing memoirs now, and the materials for a volume of more works
    are so scant that I doubted before whether I could publish it. Such is
    the folly of the world, and so do things seem different from what they
    are; since, from Whitton's account, Sir Timothy writhes under the fame
    of his incomparable son, as if it were the most grievous injury done
    to him; and so, perhaps, after all it will prove.

    All this was pending when I wrote last, but until I was certain I did
    not think it worth while to mention it. The affair is arranged by
    Peacock, who, though I seldom see him, seems anxious to do me all
    these kind of services in the best manner that he can.

    It is long since I saw your brother, nor had he any news for me. I
    lead a most quiet life, and see hardly any one. The Gliddons are gone
    to Hastings for a few weeks. Hogg is on Circuit. Now that he is rich
    he is so very queer, so unamiable, and so strange, that I look forward
    to his return without any desire of shortening the term of absence.

    Poor Pierino is now in London, _Non fosse male questo paese_, he says,
    _se vi vedesse mai il sole_. He is full of Greece, to which he is
    going, and gave us an account of our good friend, Trelawny, which was
    that he was not at all changed. Trelawny has made a hero of the Greek
    chief, Ulysses, and declares that there is a great cavern in Attica
    which he and Ulysses have provisioned for seven years, and to which,
    if the cause fails, he and this chieftain are to retire; but if the
    cause is triumphant, he is to build a city in the Negropont, colonise
    it, and Jane and I are to go out to be queens and chieftainesses of
    the island. When he first came to Athens he took to a Turkish life,
    bought twelve or fifteen women, _brutti mostri_, Pierino says, one a
    Moor, of all things, and there he lay on his sofa, smoking, these
    gentle creatures about him, till he got heartily sick of idleness,
    shut them up in his harem, and joined and combated with Ulysses....

           *       *       *       *       *

    One of my principal reasons for writing just now is that I have just
    heard Miss Curran's address (64 Via Sistina, Roma), and I am anxious
    that Marianne should (if she will be so very good) send one of the
    profiles already cut to her, of Shelley, since I think that, by the
    help of that, Miss Curran will be able to correct her portrait of
    Shelley, and make for us what we so much desire--a good likeness. I am
    convinced that Miss Curran will return the profile immediately that
    she has done with it, so that you will not sacrifice it, though you
    may be the means of our obtaining a good likeness.


    _Journal, September 3._--With what hopes did I come to England? I
    pictured little of what was pleasurable, the feeling I had could not
    be called hope; it was expectation. Yet at that time, now a year ago,
    what should I have said if a prophet had told me that, after the whole
    revolution of the year, I should be as poor in all estimable treasures
    as when I arrived.

    I have only seen two persons from whom I have hoped or wished for
    friendly feeling. One, a poet, who sought me first, whose voice, laden
    with sentiment, passed as Shelley's, and who read with the same deep
    feeling as he; whose gentle manners were pleasing, and who seemed to a
    degree pleased; who once or twice listened to my sad plaints, and bent
    his dark blue eyes upon me. Association, gratitude, esteem, made me
    take interest in his long, though rare, visits.

    The other was kind; sought me, was pleased with me. I could talk to
    him; that was much. He was attached to another, so that I felt at my
    ease with him. They have disappeared from my horizon. Jane alone
    remains; if she loved me as well as I do her it would be much; she is
    all gentleness, and she is my only consolation, yet she does not
    console me.

    I have just completed my twenty-seventh year; at such a time hope and
    youth are still in their prime, and the pains I feel, therefore, are
    ever alive and vivid within me. What shall I do? Nothing. I study,
    that passes the time. I write; at times that pleases me, though double
    sorrow comes when I feel that Shelley no longer reads and approves of
    what I write; besides, I have no great faith in my success.
    Composition is delightful; but if you do not expect the sympathy of
    your fellow-creatures in what you write, the pleasure of writing is of
    short duration.

    I have my lovely Boy, without him I could not live. I have Jane; in
    her society I forget time; but the idea of it does not cheer me in my
    griefful moods. It is strange that the religious feeling that exalted
    my emotions in happiness, deserts me in my misery. I have little
    enjoyment, no hope. I have given myself ten years more of life. God
    grant that they may not be augmented. I should be glad that they were
    curtailed. Loveless beings surround me; they talk of my personal
    attractions, of my talents, my manners.

    The wisest and best have loved me. The beautiful, and glorious, and
    noble, have looked on me with the divine expression of love, till
    death, the reaper, carried to his overstocked barns my lamented
    harvest.

    But now I am not loved! Never, oh, never more shall I love. Synonymous
    to such words are, never more shall I be happy, never more feel life
    sit triumphant in my frame. I am a wreck. By what do the fragments
    cling together? Why do they not part, to be borne away by the tide to
    the boundless ocean, where those are whom day and night I pray that I
    may rejoin.

    I shall be happier, perhaps, in Italy; yet, when I sometimes think
    that she is the murderess, I tremble for my boy. We shall see; if no
    change comes, I shall be unable to support the burthen of time, and no
    change, if it hurt not his dear head, can be for the worse.

In the month of July Mary had received another request for literary help;
this time from Medwin, who wanted her aid in eking out and correcting his
notes of conversations with Lord Byron, shortly to be published.

    "You must have been, as I was, very much affected with poor Lord
    Byron's death," he wrote to Mary. "All parties seem now writing in his
    favour, and the papers are full of his praise....

    "How do you think I have been employing myself? With writing; and the
    subject I have chosen has been Memoirs of Lord Byron. Every one here
    has been disappointed in the extreme by the destruction of his private
    biography, and have urged me to give the world the little I know of
    him. I wish I was better qualified for the task. When I was at Pisa I
    made very copious notes of his conversations, for private reference
    only, and was surprised to find on reading them (which I have never
    done till his death, and hearing that his life had been burnt) that
    they contained so many anecdotes of his life. During many nights that
    we sat up together he was very confidential, and entered into his
    history and opinions on most subjects, and from them I have compiled a
    volume which is, I am told, highly entertaining. Shelley I have made a
    very prominent feature in the work, and I think you will be pleased
    with that part, at least, of the Memoir, and all the favourable
    sentiments of Lord Byron concerning him. But I shall certainly not
    publish the work till you have seen it, and would give the world to
    consult you in person about the whole; you might be of the greatest
    possible use to me, and prevent many errors from creeping in. I have
    been told it cannot fail of having the greatest success, and have been
    offered £500 for it--a large and tempting sum--in consequence of what
    has been said in its praise by Grattan....

    "Before deciding finally on the publication there are many things to
    be thought of. Lady Byron will not be pleased with my account of the
    marriage and separation; in fact, I shall be assailed on all sides.
    Now, my dear friend, what do you advise? Let me have your full
    opinion, for I mean to be guided by it. I hear to-day that Moore is
    manufacturing five or six volumes out of the _burnt materials_, for
    which Longman advanced £2000, and is to pay £2000 more; _they_ will be
    in a great rage. If I publish, promptitude is everything, so that I
    know you will answer this soon."

The idea of entertaining the world, however highly, at whatever price,
with "tit-bits" from the private life and after-dinner talk of her late
intimate friends, almost before those friends were cold in their graves,
did not find favour with Mrs. Shelley. As an excuse for declining to have
any hand in this work, she gave her own desire to avoid publicity or
notice. In a later letter Medwin assured her that her name was not even
mentioned in the book. He frankly owned that most of his knowledge of
Byron had been derived from her and Shelley, but added, by way of excuse--

    They tell me it is highly interesting, and there is at this moment a
    longing after and impatience to know something about the most
    extraordinary man of the age that must give my book a considerable
    success.

What Mary felt about this publication can be gathered from her allusion to
it in the following letter--

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. HUNT.

    KENTISH TOWN, _10th October 1824_.

    ... I write to you on the most dismal of all days, a rainy Sunday,
    when dreary church-going faces look still more drearily from under
    dripping umbrellas, and the poor plebeian dame looks reproachfully at
    her splashed white stockings,--not her gown,--that has been warily
    held high up, and the to-be-concealed petticoat has borne all the
    ill-usage of the mud. Dismal though it is, dismal though I am, I do
    not wish to write a discontented letter, but in a few words to
    describe things as they are with me. A weekly visit to the Strand, a
    monthly visit to Shacklewell (when we are sure to be caught in the
    rain) forms my catalogue of visits. I have no visitors; if it were not
    for Jane I should be quite alone. The eternal rain imprisons one in
    one's little room, and one's spirits flag without one exhilarating
    circumstance. In some things, however, I am better off than last year,
    for I do not doubt but that in the course of a few months I shall have
    an independence; and I no longer balance, as I did last winter,
    between Italy and England. My Father wished me to stay, and, old as he
    is, and wishing as one does to be of some use somewhere, I thought
    that I would make the trial, and stay if I could. But the joke has
    become too serious. I look forward to the coming winter with horror,
    but it _shall be_ the last. I have not yet made up my mind to the
    where in Italy. I shall, if possible, immediately on arriving, push on
    to Rome. Then we shall see. I read, study, and write; sometimes that
    takes me out of myself; but to live for no one, to be necessary to
    none, to know that "Where is now my hope? for my hope, who shall see
    it? They shall go down to the base of the pit, when our rest together
    is in the dust." But change of scene and the sun of Italy will restore
    my energy; the very thought of it smooths my brow. Perhaps I shall
    seek the heats of Naples, if they do not hurt my darling Percy. And
    now, what news?...

           *       *       *       *       *

    Hazlitt is abroad; he will be in Italy in the winter; he wrote an
    article in the _Edinburgh Review_ on the volume of poems I published.
    I do not know whether he meant it to be favourable or not; I do not
    like it at all; but when I saw him I could not be angry. I never was
    so shocked in my life, he has become so thin, his hair scattered, his
    cheek-bones projecting; but for his voice and smile I should not have
    known him; his smile brought tears into my eyes, it was like a sunbeam
    illuminating the most melancholy of ruins, lightning that assured you
    in a dark night of the identity of a friend's ruined and deserted
    abode....

    Have you, my Polly, sent a profile to Miss Curran in Rome? Now pray
    do, and pray write; do, my dear girl. Next year by this time I shall,
    perhaps, be on my way to you; it will go hard but that I contrive to
    spend a week (that is, if you wish) at Florence, on my way to the
    Eternal City. God send that this prove not an airy castle; but I own
    that I put faith in my having money before that; and I know that I
    could not, if I would, endure the torture of my English life longer
    than is absolutely necessary. By the bye, I heard that you are keeping
    your promise to Trelawny, and that in due time he will be blessed with
    a namesake. How is _Occhi Turchini_, Thornton the reformed, Johnny
    the--what Johnny? the good boy? Mary the merry, Irving the sober,
    Percy the martyr, and dear Sylvan the good?

    Percy is quite well; tell his friend he goes to school and learns to
    read and write, being very handy with his hands, perhaps having a pure
    anticipated cognition of the art of painting in his tiny fingers. Mrs.
    Williams' little girl, who calls herself Dina, is his wife. Poor
    Clare, at Moscow! at least she will be independent one day, and if I
    am so soon, her situation will be quickly ameliorated.

    Have you heard of Medwin's book? Notes of conversations which he had
    with Lord Byron (when tipsy); every one is to be in it; every one will
    be angry. He wanted me to have a hand in it, but I declined. Years
    ago, when a man died, the worms ate him; now a new set of worms feed
    on the carcase of the scandal he leaves behind him, and grow fat upon
    the world's love of tittle-tattle. I will not be numbered among them.
    Have you received the volume of poems? Give my love to "Very," and so,
    dear, very patient, Adieu.--Yours affectionately,

      MARY SHELLEY.


    _Journal, October 26._--Time rolls on, and what does it bring? What
    can I do? How change my destiny? Months change their names, years
    their cyphers. My brow is sadly trenched, the blossom of youth faded.
    My mind gathers wrinkles. What will become of me?

    How long it is since an emotion of joy filled my once exulting heart,
    or beamed from my once bright eyes. I am young still, though age
    creeps on apace; but I may not love any but the dead. I think that an
    emotion of joy would destroy me, so strange would it be to my withered
    heart. Shelley had said--

      Lift not the painted veil which men call life.

    Mine is not painted; dark and enshadowed, it curtains out all
    happiness, all hope. Tears fill my eyes; well may I weep, solitary
    girl! The dead know you not; the living heed you not. You sit in your
    lone room, and the howling wind, gloomy prognostic of winter, gives
    not forth so despairing a tone as the unheard sighs your ill-fated
    heart breathes.

    I was loved once! still let me cling to the memory; but to live for
    oneself alone, to read, and communicate your reflections to none; to
    write, and be cheered by none; to weep, and in no bosom; no more on
    thy bosom, my Shelley, to spend my tears--this is misery!

    Such is the Alpha and Omega of my tale. I can speak to none. Writing
    this is useless; it does not even soothe me; on the contrary, it
    irritates me by showing the pitiful expedient to which I am reduced.

    I have been a year in England, and, ungentle England, for what have I
    to thank you? For disappointment, melancholy, and tears; for
    unkindness, a bleeding heart, and despairing thoughts. I wish,
    England, to associate but one idea with thee--immeasurable distance
    and insurmountable barriers, so that I never, never might breathe
    thine air more.

    Beloved Italy! you are my country, my hope, my heaven!

    _December 3._--I endeavour to rouse my fortitude and calm my mind by
    high and philosophic thoughts, and my studies aid this endeavour. I
    have pondered for hours on Cicero's description of that power of
    virtue in the human mind which render's man's frail being superior to
    fortune.

    "Eadem ratio habet in re quiddam amplum at que magnificum ad
    imperandum magis quam ad parendum accommodatum; omnia humana non
    tolerabilia solum sed etiam levia ducens; altum quiddam et excelsum,
    nihil temens, nemini cedens, semper invictum."

    What should I fear? To whom cede? By whom be conquered?

    Little truly have I to fear. One only misfortune can touch me. That
    must be the last, for I should sink under it. At the age of seven and
    twenty, in the busy metropolis of native England, I find myself alone.
    The struggle is hard that can give rise to misanthropy in one, like
    me, attached to my fellow-creatures. Yet now, did not the memory of
    those matchless lost ones redeem their race, I should learn to hate
    men, who are strong only to oppress, moral only to insult. Oh ye
    winged hours that fly fast, that, having first destroyed my happiness,
    now bear my swift-departing youth with you, bring patience, wisdom,
    and content! I will not stoop to the world, or become like those who
    compose it, and be actuated by mean pursuits and petty ends. I will
    endeavour to remain unconquered by hard and bitter fortune; yet the
    tears that start in my eyes show pangs she inflicts upon me.

    So much for philosophising. Shall I ever be a philosopher?




CHAPTER XX

JANUARY 1825-JULY 1827


At the beginning of 1825 Mrs. Shelley's worldly affairs were looking
somewhat more hopeful. The following extract is from a letter to Miss
Curran, dated 2d January--

    ... I have now better prospects than I had, or rather, a better
    reality, for my prospects are sufficiently misty. I receive now £200 a
    year from my Father-in-law, but this in so strange and embarrassed a
    manner that, as yet, I hardly know what to make of it. I do not
    believe, however, that he would object to my going abroad, as I
    daresay he considers that the first step towards kingdom come,
    whither, doubtless, he prays that an interloper like me may speedily
    be removed. I talk, therefore, of going next autumn, and shall be
    grateful to any power, divine or human, that assists me to leave this
    desert country. Mine I cannot call it; it is too unkind to me.

    What you say of my Shelley's picture is beyond words interesting to
    me. How good you are! Send it, I pray you, for perhaps I cannot come,
    and, at least, it would be a blessing to receive it a few months
    earlier. I am afraid you can do nothing about the cameo. As you say,
    it were worth nothing, unless like; but I fancied that it might be
    accomplished under your directions. Would it be asking too much to
    lend me the copy you took of my darling William's portrait, since
    mine is somewhat injured? But from both together I could get a nice
    copy made.

    You may imagine that I see few people, so far from the centre of
    bustling London; but, in truth, I found that even in town, poor,
    undinner-giving as I was, I could not dream of society. It was a great
    confinement for Percy, and I could not write in the midst of smoke,
    noise, and streets. I live here very quietly, going once a week to the
    Strand. My chief dependence for society is on Mrs. Williams, who lives
    at no great distance. As to theatres, etc., how can a "lone woman"
    think of such things? No; the pleasures and luxuries of life await me
    in divine Italy; but here, privation, solitude, and desertion are my
    portion. What a change for me! But I must not think of that. I
    contrive to live on as I am; but to recur to the past and compare it
    with the present is to deluge me in grief and tears.

    My Boy is well; a fine tall fellow, and as good as I can possibly
    expect; he is improved in looks since he came here. Clare is in Moscow
    still, not very pleasantly situated; but she is in a situation, and
    being now well in health, waits with more patience for better times.
    The Godwins go on as usual. My Father, though harassed, is in good
    health, and is employed in the second volume of the _Commonwealth_.

    The weather here is astonishingly mild, but the rain continual; half
    England is under water, and the damage done at seaports from storms
    incalculable. In Rome, doubtless, it has been different. Rome, dear
    name! I cannot tell why, but to me there is something enchanting in
    that spot. I have another friend there, the Countess Guiccioli, now
    unhappy and mournful from the death of Lord Byron. Poor girl! I
    sincerely pity her, for she truly loved him, and I cannot think that
    she can endure an Italian after him. You have there also a Mr. Taaffe,
    a countryman of yours, who translates Dante, and rides fine horses
    that perpetually throw him. He knew us all very well.

    The English have had many a dose of scandal. First poor dear Lord
    Byron, from whom, now gone, many a poor devil of an author is now
    fearless of punishment, then Mr. Fauntleroy, then Miss Foote; these
    are now dying away. The fame of Mr. Fauntleroy, indeed, has not
    survived him; that of Lord Byron bursts forth every now and then
    afresh; whilst Miss Foote smokes most dismally still. Then we have had
    our quantum of fires and misery, and the poor exiled Italians and
    Spaniards have added famine to the list of evils. A subscription,
    highly honourable to the poor and middle classes who subscribed their
    mite, has relieved them.

    Will you write soon? How much delight I anticipate this spring on the
    arrival of the picture! In all thankfulness, faithfully yours,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

The increase of allowance, from £100 to £200, had not been actually
granted at the beginning of the year, but it appeared so probable an event
that, thanks partly to the good offices of Mr. Peacock, Sir Timothy's
lawyers agreed, while the matter was pending, to advance Mrs. Shelley the
extra £100 on their own responsibility. The concession was not so great as
it looks, for all money allowed to her was only advanced subject to an
agreement that every penny was to be repaid, with interest, to Sir
Timothy's executors at the time when, according to Percy Bysshe Shelley's
will, she should come into the property; and every cheque was endorsed by
her to this effect. But her immediate anxieties were in some measure
relieved by this addition to her income. Not, indeed, that it set her free
from pressing money cares, for the ensuing letter to Leigh Hunt
incidentally shows that her father was a perpetual drain on her
resources, that there was every probability of her having to support him
partly--at times entirely--in the future, and that she was endeavouring,
with Peacock's help, to raise a large sum, on loan, to meet these possible
emergencies.

The main subject of the letter is an article of Hunt's about Shelley, the
proof of which had been sent to Mary to read. It contained, in an extended
form, the substance of that biographical notice, originally intended for a
preface to the volume of Posthumous Poems.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO LEIGH HUNT.

    _8th April 1825._

    MY DEAR HUNT--I have just finished reading your article upon Shelley.
    It is with great diffidence that I write to thank you for it, because
    perceiving plainly that you think that I have forfeited all claim on
    your affection, you may deem my thanks an impertinent intrusion. But
    from my heart I thank you. You may imagine that it has moved me
    deeply. Of course this very article shows how entirely you have cast
    me out from any corner in your affections. And from various
    causes--none dishonourable to me--I cannot help wishing that I could
    have received your goodwill and kindness, which I prize, and have ever
    prized; but you have a feeling, I had almost said a prejudice, against
    me, which makes you construe foreign matter into detractation against
    me (I allude to the, to me, deeply afflicting idea you got upon some
    vague expression communicated to you by your brother), and insensible
    to any circumstances that might be pleaded for me. But I will not
    dwell on this. The sun shines, and I am striving so hard for a
    continuation of the gleams of pleasure that visit my intolerable state
    of regret for the loss of beloved companionship during cloudless
    days, that I will dash away the springing tears and make one or two
    necessary observations on your article.

    I have often heard our Shelley relate the story of stabbing an upper
    boy with a fork, but never as you relate it. He always described it,
    in my hearing, as being an almost involuntary act, done on the spur of
    anguish, and that he made the stab as the boy was going out of the
    room. Shelley did not allow Harriet half his income. She received £200
    a year. Mr. Westbrook had always made his daughter an allowance, even
    while she lived with Shelley, which of course was continued to her
    after their separation. I think if I were near you, I could readily
    persuade you to omit all allusion to Clare. After the death of Lord
    Byron, in the thick of memoirs, scandal, and turning up of old
    stories, she has never been alluded to, at least in any work I have
    seen. You mention (having been obliged to return your MS. to Bowring,
    I quote from memory) an article in _Blackwood_, but I hardly think
    that this is of date subsequent to our miserable loss. In fact, poor
    Clare has been buried in entire oblivion, and to bring her from this,
    even for the sake of defending her, would, I am sure, pain her
    greatly, and do her mischief. Would you permit this part to be erased?
    I have, without waiting to ask your leave, requested Messrs. Bowring
    to leave out your mention that the remains of dearest Edward were
    brought to England. Jane still possesses this treasure, and has once
    or twice been asked by his mother-in-law about it,--once an urn was
    sent. Consequently she is very anxious that her secret should be kept,
    and has allowed it to be believed that the ashes were deposited with
    Shelley's at Rome. Such, my dear Hunt, are all the alterations I have
    to suggest, and I lose no time in communicating them to you. They are
    too trivial for me to apologise for the liberty, and I hope that you
    will agree with me in what I say about Clare--Allegra no more--she at
    present absent and forgotten. On Sir Timothy's death she will come in
    for a legacy which may enable her to enter into society,--perhaps to
    marry, if she wishes it, if the past be forgotten.

    I forget whether such things are recorded by "Galignani," or, if
    recorded, whether you would have noticed it. My Father's complicated
    annoyances, brought to their height by the failure of a very promising
    speculation and the loss of an impossible-to-be-lost law-suit, have
    ended in a bankruptcy, the various acts of which drama are now in
    progress; that over, nothing will be left to him but his pen and me.
    He is so full of his _Commonwealth_ that in the midst of every anxiety
    he writes every day now, and in a month or two will have completed the
    second volume, and I am employed in raising money necessary for my
    maintenance, and in which he must participate. This will drain me
    pretty dry for the present, but (as the old women say) if I live, I
    shall have more than enough for him and me, and recur, at least to
    some part of my ancient style of life, and feel of some value to
    others. Do not, however, mistake my phraseology; I shall not live with
    my Father, but return to Italy and economise, the moment God and Mr.
    Whitton will permit. My Percy is quite well, and has exchanged his
    constant winter occupation of drawing for playing in the fields (which
    are now useful as well as ornamental), flying kites, gardening, etc. I
    bask in the sun on the grass reading Virgil, that is, my beloved
    _Georgics_ and Lord Shaftesbury's _Characteristics_. I begin to live
    again, and as the maids of Greece sang joyous hymns on the revival of
    Adonis, does my spirit lift itself in delightful thanksgiving on the
    awakening of nature.

    Lamb is superannuated--do you understand? as Madame says. He has left
    the India House on two-thirds of his income, and become a gentleman at
    large--a delightful consummation. What a strange taste it is that
    confines him to a view of the New River, with houses opposite, in
    Islington! I saw the Novellos the other day. Mary and her new babe are
    well; he, Vincent all over, fat and flourishing moreover, and she
    dolorous that it should be her fate to add more than her share to the
    population of the world. How are all yours--Henry and the rest? Percy
    still remembers him, though occupied by new friendships and the
    feelings incident to his state of matrimony, having taken for better
    and worse to wife Mrs. Williams' little girl.

    I suppose you will receive with these letters Bessy's new book, which
    she has done very well indeed, and forms with the other a delightful
    prize for plant and flower worshippers, those favourites of God, which
    enjoy beauty unequalled and the tranquil pleasures of growth and life,
    bestowing incalculable pleasure, and never giving or receiving pain.
    Have you seen Hazlitt's notes of his travels? He is going over the
    same road that I have travelled twice. He surprised me by calling the
    road from Susa to Turin dull; there, where the Alps sink into low
    mountains and romantic hills, topped by ruined castles, watered by
    brawling streams, clothed by magnificent walnut trees; there, where I
    wrote to you in a fit of enchantment, exalted by the splendid scene;
    but I remembered, first, that he travelled in winter, when snow covers
    all; and, besides, he went from what I approached, and looked at the
    plain of Lombardy with the back of the diligence between him and the
    loveliest scene in nature; so much can _relation_ alter circumstances.

    Clare is still, I believe, at Moscow. When I return to Italy I shall
    endeavour to enable her to go thither also. I shall not come without
    my Jane, who is now necessary to my existence almost. She has recourse
    to the cultivation of her mind, and amiable and dear as she ever was,
    she is in every way improved and become more valuable.

    Trelawny is in the cave with Ulysses, not in Polypheme's cave, but in
    a vast cavern of Parnassus; inaccessible and healthy and safe, but cut
    off from the rest of the world. Trelawny has attached himself to the
    part of Ulysses, a savage chieftain, without any plan but personal
    independence and opposition to the Government. Trelawny calls him a
    hero. Ulysses speaks a word or two of French; Trelawny, no Greek!
    Pierino has returned to Greece.

    Horace Smith has returned with his diminished family (little Horace is
    dead). He already finds London too expensive, and they are about to
    migrate to Tunbridge Wells. He is very kind to me.

    I long to hear from you, and I am more tenderly attached to you and
    yours than you imagine; love me a little, and make Marianne love me,
    as truly I think she does. Am I mistaken, Polly?--Your affectionate
    and obliged,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

Outwardly, this year was uneventful. Mary was busily working at her novel,
_The Last Man_. The occupation was good for her, and perhaps it was no bad
thing that Necessity should stand at her elbow to stimulate her to
exertion when her interest and energy flagged. For, in spite of her utmost
efforts to the contrary, her heart and spirit were often faint at the
prospect of an arduous and lonely life. And when, in early autumn,
Shelley's portrait was at last sent to her by Miss Curran, the sight of it
brought back the sense of what she had lost, and revived in all its
irrecoverable bitterness that past happy time, than to remember which in
misery there is no greater sorrow.

    _Journal, September 17_ (1825).--Thy picture is come, my only one!
    Thine those speaking eyes, that animated look; unlike aught earthly
    wert thou ever, and art now!

    If thou hadst still lived, how different had been my life and
    feelings!

    Thou art near to guard and save me, angelic one! Thy divine glance
    will be my protection and defence. I was not worthy of thee, and thou
    hast left me; yet that dear look assures me that thou wert mine, and
    recalls and narrates to my backward-looking mind a long tale of love
    and happiness.

    My head aches. My heart--my hapless heart--is deluged in bitterness.
    Great God! if there be any pity for human suffering, tell me what I am
    to do. I strive to study, I strive to write, but I cannot live
    without loving and being loved, without sympathy; if this is denied to
    me I must die. Would that the hour were come!

On the same day when Mary penned these melancholy lines, Trelawny was
writing to her from Cephalonia.

He had been treacherously shot by an inmate of his mountain fortress, an
Englishman newly arrived, whom he had welcomed as a guest. The true
instigator of the crime was one Fenton, a Scotchman, who in the guise of a
volunteer had ostensibly served under Trelawny for a twelvemonth past, and
who by his capability and apparent zeal had so won his confidence as to be
entrusted with secret missions. He was, in fact, an emissary of the Greek
Government, foisted on Trelawny at Missolonghi to act as a spy on
Odysseus, the insurgent Greek chieftain.

Through his machinations Odysseus was betrayed and murdered, and Trelawny
narrowly escaped death.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    CEPHALONIA, _17th September 1825_.

    DEAR MARY--I have just escaped from Greece and landed here, in the
    hopes of patching up my broken frame and shattered constitution. Two
    musket balls, fired at the distance of two paces, struck me and passed
    through my framework, which damn'd near finished me; but 'tis a long
    story, and my writing arm is rendered unfit for service, and I am yet
    unpractised with the left. But a friend of mine here, a Major Bacon,
    is on his way to England, and will enlighten you as to me. I shall be
    confined here some time. Write to me then at this place. I need rest
    and quiet, for I am shook to the foundation. Love to Jane and Clare,
    and believe me still your devoted friend,

      EDWARD TRELAWNY.

It would seem that this letter was many months in reaching Mary, for in
February 1826 she was writing to him in these terms--

    I hear at last that Mr. Hodges has letters for me, and that prevents a
    thousand things I was about to say concerning the pain your very long
    silence had occasioned me. Consider, dear friend, that your last was
    in April, so that nearly a year has gone by, and not only did I not
    hear _from_ you, but until the arrival of Mr. Hodges, many months had
    elapsed since I had heard of you.

    Sometimes I flattered myself that the foundations of my little
    habitation would have been shaken by a "ship Shelley ahoy" that even
    Jane, distant a mile, would have heard. That dear hope lost, I feared
    a thousand things.

    Hamilton Browne's illness, the death of many English, the return of
    every other from Greece, filled me with gloomy apprehensions.

    But you live,--what kind of life your letters will, I trust, inform
    me,--what possible kind of life in a cavern surrounded by
    precipices,--inaccessible! All this will satisfy your craving
    imagination. The friendship you have for Odysseus, does that satisfy
    your warm heart?... I gather from your last letter and other
    intelligence that you think of marrying the daughter of your favourite
    chief, and thus will renounce England and even the English for ever.
    And yet,--no! you love some of us, I am sure, too much to forget us,
    even if you neglect us for a while; but truly, I long for your
    letters, which will tell all. And remember, dear friend, it is about
    yourself I am anxious. Of Greece I read in the papers. I see many
    informants, but I can learn your actions, hopes, and, above all
    valuable to me, the continuation of your affection for me, from your
    letters only.

           *       *       *       *       *


    _27th February._

    I now close my letter--I have not yet received yours.

    Last night Jane and I went with Gamba and my Father to see Kean in
    _Othello_. This play, as you may guess, reminded us of you. Do you
    remember, when delivering the killing news, you awoke Jane, as Othello
    awakens Desdemona from her sleep on the sofa? Kean, abominably
    supported, acted divinely; put as he is on his mettle by recent events
    and a full house and applause, which he deserved, his farewell is the
    most pathetic piece of acting to be imagined. Yet, my dear friend, I
    wish we had seen it represented as was talked of at Pisa. Iago would
    never have found a better representative than that strange and
    wondrous creature whom one regrets daily more,--for who here can equal
    him? Adieu, dear Trelawny, take care of yourself, and come and visit
    us as soon as you can escape from the sorceries of Ulysses.--In all
    truth, yours affectionately,

      M. W. S.

    At Pisa, 1822, Lord Byron talked vehemently of our getting up a play
    in his great hall at the Lanfranchi; it was to be _Othello_. He cast
    the characters thus: Byron, Iago; Trelawny, Othello; Williams, Cassio;
    Medwin, Roderigo; Mrs. Shelley, Desdemona; Mrs. Williams, Emilia. "Who
    is to be our audience?" I asked. "All Pisa," he rejoined. He recited a
    great portion of his part with great gusto; it exactly suited him,--he
    looked it, too.

All this time Miss Clairmont was pursuing her vocation as a governess in
Russia, and many interesting glimpses into Russian family and social life
are afforded by her letters to Mrs. Shelley and Mrs. Williams. She was a
voluminous letter-writer, and in these characteristic epistles she
unconsciously paints, as no other hand could have done, a vivid portrait
of herself. We can see her, with all her vivacity, versatility, and
resource, her great cleverness,--never at a loss for a word, an excuse, or
a good story,--her indefatigable energy, her shifting moods and wild
caprices, the bewildering activity of her restless brain, and the
astonishing facility with which she transferred to paper all her passing
impressions. In narration, in description, in panegyric, and in complaint
she is equally fluent. Unimpeachably correct as her conduct always was
after her one miserable adventure, she had, from first to last, an innate
affinity for anything in the shape of social gossip and scandal; her
really generous impulses were combined with the worldliest of worldly
wisdom, and the whole tinctured with the highest of high-flown sentiment.

Fill in the few details wanting, the flat, sleek, black hair,--eyes so
black that the pupil was hardly to be distinguished from the iris (eyes
which seemed unmistakably to indicate an admixture of Portuguese, if not
of African, blood in her descent),--a complexion which may in girlhood
have been olive, but in later life was sallow,--features not beautiful,
and depending on expression for any charm they might have,--and she stands
before the reader, the unmanageable, amusing, runaway schoolgirl; a
stumbling-block first, then a bugbear, to Byron; a curse, which he
persistently treated as a blessing, to Shelley; a thorn in the side of
Mary and of every one who ever was responsible for her; yet liked by her
acquaintance, admired in society, commiserated by her early friends, and
regarded with well-deserved affection and gratitude by many of her pupils
and _protégés_.

    CLARE TO JANE.

    MOSCOW, _27th October 1825_.

    MY DEAREST JANE--It is now so long since I heard from you that I begin
    to think you have quite forgotten me. I wrote twice to you during the
    summer; both letters went by private hand, and to neither of which
    have I received your answer. I enclosed also a letter or letters for
    Trelawny, and I hope very much you have received them. Whenever some
    time elapses without hearing from England, then I begin to grow
    miserable with fear. In a letter I received from Mary in the autumn,
    she mentions the approaching return of the Hunts from Italy, and I
    console myself with believing that you are both so much taken up with
    them that you have delayed from day to day to write to me. Be that as
    it may, I have never been in greater need of your letters than for
    these last two months, for I have been truly wretched. To convince you
    that I am not given to fret for trifles, I will tell you how they have
    been passed. I spent a very quiet time, if not a very agreeable one,
    until the 12th of August; then a French newspaper fell into my hands,
    in which it mentioned that Trelawny had been dangerously wounded in a
    duel on the 13th of June. You who have known the misery of anxiety for
    the safety and wellbeing of those dear to us may imagine what I
    suffered. At last a letter from Mary came, under date of 26th of July,
    not mentioning a word of this, and I allowed myself to hope that it
    was not true, because certainly she would have heard of it by the time
    she wrote. Then, a week after, another newspaper mentioned his being
    recovered. This was scarcely passed when our two children fell ill;
    one got better, but the other, my pupil, a little girl of six years
    and a half old, died. I was truly wretched at her loss, and our whole
    house was a scene of sorrow and confusion, that can only happen in a
    savage country, where a disciplined temper is utterly unknown. We came
    to town, and directly the little boy fell sick again of a putrid
    fever, from which he was in imminent danger for some time. At last
    after nights and days of breathless anxiety he did recover. By the
    death of the little girl, I became of little or no use in the house,
    and the thought of again entering a new house, and having to learn new
    dispositions, was quite abhorrent to me. Nothing is so cruel as to
    change from house to house and be perpetually surrounded by strangers;
    one feels so forlorn, so utterly alone, that I could not have the
    courage to begin the career over again; so I settled to remain in the
    same house, to continue the boy's English, and to give lessons
    out-of-doors. I do not know whether my plan will succeed yet, but, at
    any rate, I am bent upon trying it. It is not very agreeable to walk
    about in the snow and in a cold of twenty, sometimes thirty degrees;
    but anything is better than being a governess in the common run of
    Moscow houses. But you have not yet heard my greatest sorrow, and
    which I think might well have been spared. I had one Englishwoman
    here, to whom I was attached--a woman of the most generous heart, and
    whom misfortune, perhaps imprudence, had driven to Russia. She thought
    with me that nothing can equal the misery of our situation, and
    accordingly she went last spring to Odessa, hoping to find some means
    of establishing a boarding-house in order to have a home. If it
    succeeded, she was to have sent for me; but, however, she wrote to me
    that, after well considering everything, she found such a plan would
    not succeed, and that I might expect her shortly in Moscow, to resume
    her old manner of life. I expected her arrival daily, and began to
    grow uneasy, and at length some one wrote to another acquaintance of
    hers here that she had destroyed herself. I, who knew her thoughts,
    have no doubt the horror of entering again as governess made her
    resolve upon this as the only means to escape it. You see, dearest
    Jane, whether these last two months have been fruitful in woes. I
    cannot tell you what a consolation it would have been to have received
    a letter from you whilst I have been suffering under such extreme
    melancholy. The only amelioration in my present situation is that I
    can withdraw to my room and be much more alone than I could formerly,
    and this solitude is so friendly to my nature that it has been my only
    comfort. I have heard all about the change in my mother's situation,
    and am truly glad of it. I am sure she will be much better off than
    she was before. As for Mary, her affairs seem inexplicable. Nothing
    can ever persuade me that a will can dispose of estates which the
    maker of it never possessed. Do clear up this mystery to me. What a
    strange way of thinking must that be which can rely on such a hope!
    Yet my brother, my mother, and Mary never cease telling me that one
    day I shall be free, and the state of doubt, the contradiction between
    their assertions and my intimate persuasion of the contrary, that
    awakens in my mind, is very painful. You are almost quite silent upon
    the subject, but I wish, my dear Jane, that you would answer me the
    following questions. Has any professional man ever been consulted on
    the subject? What is Hogg's opinion? Why in this particular case
    should the law be set aside, which says that no man can dispose of
    what he has never possessed? Do have the goodness to ask these
    questions very clearly and to give me the answers, which no one has
    ever done yet. They simply tell me, "Whitton has come forward,"
    "Whitton thinks the will valid," etc. etc., all of which cannot prove
    to me that it is so. I know you will excuse my giving you so much
    trouble, but really when you consider the painful uncertainty which
    hangs on my mind, you will think it very natural that I should wish to
    know the reasons of what is asserted to me. To say the truth, I daily
    grow more indifferent about the issue of the affair. The time is past
    when independence would have been an object of my desires, and I am
    now old enough to know that misery is the universal malady of the
    human race, and that there is no escaping from it, except by a
    philosophic indifference to all external circumstances, and by a
    disciplined mind completely absorbed in intellectual subjects. I
    fashion my life accordingly to this, and I often enjoy moments of
    serenest calm, which I owe to this way of thinking. Do not mistake and
    think that I am indifferent to seeing you again; so far from this, I
    dream of this as one dreams of Paradise after death, as a thing of
    another world, and not to be obtained here. It would be too much
    happiness for me to venture to hope it. I endeavour often to imagine
    the circle in which you live, but it is impossible, and I think it
    would be equally difficult for you to picture to yourself my mode of
    life. I often think what in the world Mary or Jane would do in the
    dull routine I tread; no talk of public affairs, no talk of books, no
    subject do I ever hear of except cards, eating, and the different
    manner of managing slaves. Now and then some heroic young man devotes
    himself like a second Marcus Curtius to the public good, and, in order
    to give the good ladies of Moscow something new to talk of, rouses
    them from their lethargic gossipings by getting himself shot in a
    duel; or some governess disputes with the mother of her pupils, and
    what they both said goes over the town. Mary mentioned in her last
    that she thought it very likely you might both go to Paris. I hope you
    may be there, for I am sure you would find the mode of life more
    cheerful than London. As I have told you so many of my sorrows, I must
    tell you the only good piece of news I have to communicate. I have
    lately made acquaintance with a German gentleman, who is a great
    resource to me. In such a country as Russia, where nothing but
    ignorant people are to be met, a cultivated mind is the greatest
    treasure. His society recalls our former circle, for he is well versed
    in ancient and modern literature, and has the same noble, enlarged
    way of thinking. You may imagine how delighted he was to find me so
    different from everything around him, and capable of understanding
    what has been so long sealed up in his mind as treasures too precious
    to be wasted on the coarse Russian soil. I talk to you thus freely
    about him, because I know you will not believe that I am in love, or
    that I have any other feeling than a most sincere and steady
    friendship for him. What you felt for Shelley I feel for him. I feel
    it also my duty to tell you I have a real friend, because, in case of
    sickness or death happening to me, you would at least feel the
    consolation of knowing that I had not died in the hands of strangers.
    I talk to him very often of you and Mary, until his desire to see you
    becomes quite a passion. He is, like all Germans, very sentimental, a
    very sweet temper, and uncommonly generous. His attachment to me is
    extreme, but I have taken the very greatest care to explain to him
    that I cannot return it in the same degree. This does not make him
    unhappy, and therefore our friendship is of the utmost importance to
    both. I hope, my dear Jane, that you will one day see him, and that
    both you and Mary may find such an agreeable friend in him as I have
    had. I must now turn from this subject to speak of Trelawny, which
    comes naturally into my mind with the idea of friendship; you cannot
    think how uneasy I am at not hearing from him. I am not afraid of his
    friendship growing cold for me, for I am sure he is unchangeable on
    that point, but I am afraid for his happiness and safety. Is it true
    that his friend Ulysses is dead? and if so, do pray write to him and
    prevail upon him to return. I should be at ease if I were to know him
    near you and Mary. Do think if you can do anything to draw him to you,
    my dearest Jane. It would render me the happiest of human beings to
    know him in the hands of two such friends. If this could be, how hard
    I should work to gain a little independence here, and return perhaps
    in ten years and live with you. As yet I have done nothing,
    notwithstanding my utmost exertions, towards such a plan, but I am
    turning over every possible means in my brain for devising some
    scheme to get money, and perhaps I may. That is my reason for staying
    in Russia, because there is no country so favourable to foreigners.
    Pray, my dear Jane, do write to me the moment you receive this, and
    answer very particularly the questions I have asked you. I have filled
    this whole letter, do you the same in your answer, and tell me every
    particular about Percy, Neddy, and Dina; they little guess how warm a
    friend they have in this distant land, who thinks perpetually of them,
    and wishes for nothing so much as to see them and to play with them.
    Give my love to Mary. I will write soon again to her. In the meantime
    do some of you pray write. These horrid long winters, and the sky,
    which is from month to month of the darkest dun colour, need some news
    from you to render life supportable. Kiss all the dear children for
    me, and tell me everything about them.--Ever your affectionate friend,

      CLARE.

    Pray beg Mary to tell my mother that I wrote to her on or about the
    22d of August; has she had this letter? and do tell me in yours what
    you know of her. I have just received your letter of the 3d of
    September, for which I thank you most cordially. Thank heaven, you are
    all well! What you say of Trelawny distresses me, as it seems to me
    that you are unwilling to say what you have heard, as it is of a
    disagreeable nature. You could do me a great benefit if you could make
    yourself mistress of the Logier's system of teaching music, and
    communicate it to me in its smallest details. I am sure it would take
    here. Do, pray, make serious inquiries of some one who has been taught
    by him. If any one would undertake to write me a very circumstantial
    account of his method, I would cheerfully pay them. It might be the
    means of my making a small independence here, and then I could join
    you soon in Italy without fear for the future. Do think seriously of
    this, my dear Jane, and do not take it into your head that it is an
    idle project, for it would be of the greatest use to me. As to your
    admirer, I think he is mad, and his society, which would otherwise be
    a relief, must now be a burthen. You are very right in saying you
    only find solace in mental occupation; it is the only thing that saves
    me from such a depression of spirits taking hold of me when I have an
    instant to reflect upon the past that I am ready for any rash act; but
    I am occupied from 6 in the morning until 10 at night, and then am so
    worn out I have no time for thinking. Once more farewell. My address
    is--Chez Monsieur Lenhold, Marchand de Musique, a Moscow.

_The Last Man_, Mrs. Shelley's third novel, was published early in 1826.
It differed widely from its predecessors. _Frankenstein_ was an
allegorical romance; _Valperga_ a historical novel, Italian, of the
fifteenth century; the plot of the one depends for its interest chiefly on
incident, that of the other on the development of character, but both have
a definite purpose in the inculcation of certain moral or philosophical
truths. The story of _The Last Man_ is purely romantic and imaginary,
probabilities and possibilities being entirely discarded. Its supposed
events take place in the twenty-first century of our era, when a devouring
plague depopulates by degrees the whole world, until the narrator remains,
to his own belief, the only surviving soul. At the book's conclusion he is
left, in a little boat, coasting around the shores of the sea-washed
countries of the Mediterranean, with the forlorn hope of finding a
companion solitary. He writes the history of his fate and that of his race
on the leaves of trees,--supposed to be discovered and deciphered long
afterwards in the Sibyl's Cave at Baiae,--the world having been (as we
must infer) repeopled by that time. It is not difficult to understand the
kind of fascination this curious, mournful fancy had for Mary in her
solitude. Much other matter is, of course, interwoven with the leading
idea. The characteristics of the hero, Adrian, his benevolence of heart,
his winning aspect, his passion of justice and self-devotion, and his
fervent faith in the possibilities of human nature and the future of the
human race, are unmistakably sketched from Shelley, and the portrait was
at once recognised by Shelley's earliest friend, the value of whose
appreciation was, if anything, enhanced by the fact of the great
unlikeness between his temperament and Shelley's.

    T. J. HOGG TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    YORK, _22d March 1826_.

    MY DEAR MARY--As I am about to send a frank to dearest Jane, I enclose
    a note to you to thank you for the pleasure you have given me. I read
    your _Last Man_ with an intense interest and not without tears. I
    began it at Stamford yesterday morning as soon as it was light; I read
    on all day, even during the short time that was allowed us for dinner,
    and, if I had not finished it before it was dark, I verily believe
    that I should have bought a candle and held it in my hand in the mail.
    I think that it is a decided improvement, and that the character of
    Adrian is most happy and most just.--I am, dear Mary, yours ever
    faithfully,

      T. J. HOGG.

The appearance of Mary's novel had for its practical consequence the
stoppage of her supplies. The book was published anonymously, as "by the
author of _Frankenstein_," but Mrs. Shelley's name found its way into some
newspaper notices, and this misdemeanour (for which she was not
responsible) was promptly punished by the suspension of her allowance.
Peacock's good offices were again in request, to try and avert this
misfortune, but it was not at once that he prevailed. He impressed on
Whitton (the solicitor) that the name did not appear in the title-page,
and that its being brought forward at all was the fault of the publisher
and quite contrary to the wishes of the writer, who, solitary and
despondent, could not be reasonably condemned for employing her time
according to her tastes and talents, with a view to bettering her
condition. This Whitton acknowledged, but said, "the name was the matter;
it annoyed Sir Timothy." He would promise nothing, and Peacock could only
assure Mary that he felt little doubt of her getting the money at last,
though she might be punished by a short delay.

It may be assumed that this turned out so. Late in the year, however,
another turn was given to Mary's affairs by the death of Shelley's eldest
boy.

    _Journal, September 1826._--Charles Shelley died during this month.
    Percy is now Shelley's only son.

Mary's son being now direct heir to the estates, and her own prospects
being materially improved by this fact, she at once thought of others
whom Shelley had meant to benefit by his will, and who, she was resolved,
should not be losers by his early death, if she lived to carry out for him
his unwritten intentions. She did not think, when she wrote to Leigh Hunt
the letter which follows, that nearly twenty years more would elapse
before the will could take effect.

    MARY SHELLEY TO LEIGH HUNT.

    5 BARTHOLOMEW PLACE, KENTISH TOWN,
    _30th October 1826_.

    MY DEAR HUNT--Is it, or is it not, right that these few lines should
    be addressed to you now? Yet if the subject be one that you may judge
    better to have been deferred, set my _delay_ down to the account of
    over-zeal in writing to relieve you from a part of the care which I
    know is just now oppressing you; too happy I shall be if you permit
    any act of mine to have that effect.

    I told you long ago that our dear Shelley intended on rewriting his
    will to have left you a legacy. I think the sum mentioned was £2000. I
    trust that hereafter you will not refuse to consider me your debtor
    for this sum merely because I shall be bound to pay it you by the laws
    of honour instead of a legal obligation. You would, of course, have
    been better pleased to have received it immediately from dear
    Shelley's bequest; but as it is well known that he intended to make
    such an one, it is in fact the same thing, and so I hope by you to be
    considered; besides, your kind heart will receive pleasure from the
    knowledge that you are bestowing on me the greatest pleasure I am
    capable of receiving. This is no resolution of to-day, but formed from
    the moment I knew my situation to be such as it is. I did not mention
    it, because it seemed almost like an empty vaunt to talk and resolve
    on things so far off. But futurity approaches, and a feeling haunts me
    as if this futurity were not far distant. I have spoken vaguely to
    you on this subject before, but now, you having had a recent
    disappointment, I have thought it as well to inform you in express
    terms of the meaning I attached to my expressions. I have as yet made
    no will, but in the meantime, if I should chance to die, this present
    writing may serve as a legal document to prove that I give and
    bequeath to you the sum of £2000 sterling. But I hope we shall both
    live, I to acknowledge dear Shelley's intentions, you to honour me so
    far as to permit me to be their executor.

    I have mentioned this subject to no one, and do not intend; an act is
    not aided by words, especially an act unfulfilled, nor does this
    letter, methinks, require any answer, at least not till after the
    death of Sir Timothy Shelley, when perhaps this explanation would have
    come with better grace; but I trust to your kindness to put my writing
    now to a good motive.--I am, my dear Hunt, yours affectionately and
    obliged,

      MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY.

It was admitted by the Shelley family that, Percy being now the heir, some
sort of settlement should be made for his mother, yet for some months
longer nothing was done or arranged. Apparently Mary wrote to Trelawny in
low spirits, and to judge from his reply, her letter found him in little
better plight than herself.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    ZANTE, _16th December 1826_.

    DEAR MARY--I received your letter the other day, and nothing gives me
    greater pleasure than to hear from you, for however assured we are of
    a friend's durability of affection, it is soothing to be occasionally
    reassured of it. I sympathise in your distresses. I have mine, too, on
    the same score--a bountiful will and confined means are a curse, and
    often have I execrated my fortunes so ill corresponding with my
    wishes. But who can control his fate? Old age and poverty is a
    frightful prospect; it makes the heart sick to contemplate, even in
    the mind's eye the reality would wring a generous nature till the
    heart burst. Poverty is the vampyre which lives on human blood, and
    haunts its victims to destruction. Hell can fable no torment exceeding
    it, and all the other calamities of human life--wars, pestilence,
    fire--cannot compete with it. It is the climax of human ill. You may
    be certain that I could not write thus on what I did not feel. I am
    glad you say you have better hopes; when things are at the worst, they
    say, there is hope. So do I hope. Lord Cochrane and his naval
    expedition having so long and unaccountably been kept back, delayed me
    here from month to month till the winter has definitively set in, and
    I am in no state for a winter's voyage; my body is no longer
    weatherproof. But I must as soon as possible get to England, though my
    residence there will be transitory. I shall then most probably hurry
    on to Italy.

    The frigate from America is at last arrived in Greece, but whether
    Cochrane is on board of her I know not. With the loss of my friend
    Odysseus, my enthusiasm has somewhat abated; besides that I could no
    longer act with the prospect of doing service, and toiling in vain is
    heartless work. But have I not done so all my life? The affairs of
    Greece are so bad that little can be done to make them worse. If
    Cochrane comes, and is supported with means sufficient, there is still
    room for hope. I am in too melancholy a mood to say more than that,
    whatever becomes of me.--I am always your true and affectionate

      E. TRELAWNY.

Mary answered him at once, doing and saying, to console him, all that
friendship could.

    KENTISH TOWN, _4th March 1827_.

    [Direct me at W. Godwin, Esq., 44 Gower Place, Gower Street, London.]

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--Your long silence had instilled into me the delusive
    hope that I should hear you sooner than from you. I have been silly
    enough sometimes to start at a knock,--at length your letter is come.
    [By] that indeed I entertain more reasonable hopes of seeing you. You
    will come--Ah, indeed you must; if you are ever the kind-hearted being
    you were--you must come to be consoled by my sympathy, exhilarated by
    my encouragements, and made happy by my friendship. You are not happy!
    Alas! who is that has a noble and generous nature? It is not only, my
    noble-hearted friend, that your will is bountiful and your means
    small,--were you richer you would still be tormented by ingratitude,
    caprice, and change. Yet I say Amen to all your anathema against
    poverty, it is beyond measure a torment and despair. I am poor, having
    once been richer; I live among the needy, and see only poverty around.
    I happen, as has always been my fate, to have formed intimate
    friendships with those who are great of soul, generous, and incapable
    of valuing money except for the good it may do--and these very people
    are all even poorer than myself, is it not hard? But turning to you
    who are dearest to me, who of all beings are most liberal, it makes me
    truly unhappy to find that you are hard pressed: do not talk of old
    age and poverty, both the one and the other are in truth far from
    you,--for the one it will be a miracle if you live to grow old,--this
    would appear a strange compliment if addressed to another, but you and
    I have too much of the pure spirit of fire in our souls to wish to
    live till the flickering beam waxes dim;--think then of the few
    present years only. I have no doubt you will do your fortunes great
    good by coming to this country. A too long absence destroys the
    interest that friends take, if they are only friends in the common
    acceptation of the word; and your relations ought to be reminded of
    you. The great fault to us in this country is its expensiveness, and
    the dreadful ills attendant here on poverty; elsewhere, though poor,
    you may live--here you are actually driven from life, and though a few
    might pity, none would help you were you absolutely starving. You say
    you shall stay here but a short time and then go to Italy--alas! alas!

    It is impossible in a letter to communicate the exact state of one's
    feelings and affairs here--but there is a change at hand--I cannot
    guess whether for good or bad as far as regards me. This winter, whose
    extreme severity has carried off many old people, confined Sir Tim.
    for ten weeks by the gout--but he is recovered. All that time a
    settlement for me was delayed, although it was acknowledged that Percy
    now being the heir, one ought to be made; at length after much
    parading, they have notified to me that I shall receive a magnificent
    £250 a year, to be increased next year to £300. But then I am not
    permitted to leave this cloudy nook. My desire to get away is
    unchanged, and I used to look forward to your return as a period when
    I might contrive--but I fear there is no hope for me during Sir T.'s
    life. He and his family are now at Brighton. John Shelley, dear S.'s
    brother, is about to marry, and talks of calling upon me. I am often
    led to reflect in life how people situated in a certain manner with
    regard to me might make my life less drear than it is--but it is
    always the case that the people that might--won't, and it is a very
    great mistake to fancy that they will. Such thoughts make me anxious
    to draw tighter the cords of sympathy and friendship which are so much
    more real than those of the world's forming in the way of relationship
    or connection.

    From the ends of the world we were brought together to be friends till
    death; separated as we are, this tie still subsists. I do not wonder
    that you are out of heart concerning Greece; the mismanagement here is
    not less than the misgovernment there, the discord the same, save that
    here ink is spilt instead of blood. Lord Cochrane alone can assist
    them--but without vessels or money how can he acquire sufficient
    power? at any rate except as the Captain of a vessel I do not see what
    good you can do them. But the mischief is this,--that while some cold,
    unimpressive natures can go to a new country, reside among a few
    friends, enter into the interests of an intimate and live as a brother
    among them for a time, and then depart, leaving small trace, retaining
    none,--as if they had ascended from a bath, they change their garments
    and pass on;--while others of subtler nature receive into their very
    essences a part of those with whom they associate, and after a while
    they become enchained, either for better or worse, and during a series
    of years they bear the marks of change and attachment. These natures
    indeed are the purest and best, and of such are you, dear friend;
    having you once, I ever have you; losing you once, I have lost you for
    ever; a riddle this, but true. And so life passes, year is added to
    year, the word youth is becoming obsolete, while years bring me no
    change for the better. Yet I said, change is at hand--I know it,
    though as yet I do not feel it--you will come, in the spring you will
    come and add fresh delight for me to the happy change from winter to
    summer. I cannot tell what else material is to change, but I feel sure
    the year will end differently from its beginning. Jane is quite well,
    we talk continually of you, and expect you anxiously. Her fortunes
    have been more shifting than mine, and they are about to
    conclude,--differently from mine,--but I leave her to say what she
    thinks best concerning herself, though probably she will defer the
    explanation until your arrival. She is my joy and consolation. I could
    never have survived my exile here but for her. Her amiable temper,
    cheerfulness, and never ceasing sympathy are all so much necessary
    value for one wounded and lost as I.

    Come, dear friend, again I read your melancholy sentences and I say,
    come! let us try if we can work out good from ill; if I may not be
    able to throw a ray of sunshine on your path, at least I will lead you
    as best I may through the gloom. Believe me that all that belongs to
    you must be dear to me, and that I shall never forget all I owe to
    you.

    Do you remember those pretty lines of Burns?--

      A monarch may forget his crown
      That on his head an hour hath been,
      A bridegroom may forget his bride
      Who was his wedded wife yest'reen,
      A mother may forget her child
      That smiles so sweetly on her knee,
      But I'll remember thee, dear friend,
      And all that thou hast done for me.

    Such feelings are not the growth of the moment. They must have lived
    for years--have flourished in smiles, and retained their freshness
    watered by tears; to feel them one must have sailed much of life's
    voyage together--have undergone the same perils, and sympathised in
    the same fears and griefs; such is our situation; and the heartfelt
    and deep-rooted sentiments fill my eyes with tears as I think of you,
    dear friend, we shall meet soon. Adieu,

      M. S.

    ... I cannot close this letter without saying a word about dear
    Hunt--yet that must be melancholy. To feed nine children is no small
    thing. His health has borne up pretty well hitherto, though his
    spirits sink. What is it in the soil of this green earth that is so
    ill adapted to the best of its sons? He speaks often of you with
    affection.

    To Edward Trelawny, Esq.,
    To the care of Samuel Barff, Esq.,
    Zante, The Ionian Isles.

    Seal--Judgment of Paris.
    Endorsed--Received 10th April 1827.

Change was indeed at hand, though not of a kind that Mary could have
anticipated. The only event in prospect likely to affect her much was a
step shortly to be taken by Mrs. Williams. That intended step, vaguely
foreshadowed in Jane's correspondence, aroused the liveliest curiosity in
Clare Clairmont, as was natural.

    MISS CLAIRMONT TO MRS. WILLIAMS.

    MY DEAREST JANE--If I have not written to you before, it is owing to
    low spirits. I have not been able to take the pen, because it would
    have been dipped in too black a melancholy. I am tired of being in
    trouble, particularly as it goes on augmenting every day. I have had a
    hard struggle with myself lately to get over the temptation I had to
    lay down the burthen at once, and be free as spirits are, and leave
    this horrid world behind me. In order to let you understand what now
    oppresses me, I must tell you my history since I came to Moscow. I
    came here quite unknown. I was at first ill treated on that account,
    but I soon acquired a great reputation, because all my pupils made
    much more progress in whatever they undertook than those of other
    people. I had few acquaintances among the English; to these I had
    never mentioned a single circumstance of myself or fortunes, but took
    care, on the contrary, to appear content and happy, as if I had never
    known or seen any other society all my days. I sent you a letter by
    Miss F., because I knew your name would excite no suspicions; but it
    seems my mother got hold of Miss F., sought her out, and has thereby
    done me a most incalculable mischief. Miss F. came back full of my
    story here, and though she is very friendly to me, yet others who are
    not so have already done me injury. The Professor at the University
    here is a man of a good deal of talent, and was in close connection
    with Lockhart, the son-in-law of Sir Walter Scott, and all that party;
    he has a great deal of friendship for me, because, as he says, very
    truly, I am the only person here besides himself who knows how to
    speak English. He professes the most rigid principles, and is come to
    that age when it is useless to endeavour to change them. I, however,
    took care not to get upon the subject of principles, and so he was of
    infinite use to me both by counselling and by protecting me with the
    weight of his high approbation. You may imagine this man's horror when
    he heard who I was; that the charming Miss Clairmont, the model of
    good sense, accomplishments, and good taste, was brought, issued from
    the very den of freethinkers. I see that he is in a complete puzzle on
    my account; he cannot explain to himself how I can be so extremely
    delightful, and yet so detestable. The inveteracy of his objections is
    shaken. This, however, has not hindered him from doing me serious
    mischief. I was to have undertaken this winter the education of an
    only daughter, the child of a very rich family where the Professor
    reigns despotic, because he always settles every little dispute with
    some unintelligible quotation or reference to a Latin or Greek author.
    I am extremely interested in the child, he used to say, and no one can
    give her the education she ought to have but Miss Clairmont. The
    father and the mother have been running after me these years to
    persuade me to enter when the child should be old enough. I consented,
    when now, all is broken off, because the scruples of my professor do
    not allow of it. God knows, he says, what Godwinish principles she
    might not instil. You may, therefore, think how teased I have been;
    more so from the uncertainty of my position, as I do not know how far
    this may extend. If this is only the beginning, what may be the end? I
    am not angry with this man, he only acts according to his conscience;
    nor am I surprised. I shall never cease feeling and thinking that if I
    had my choice, I had rather a thousand times have a child of mine
    resigned to an early grave, and lost for ever to me, than have it
    brought up in principles I abhor. If you ask me what I shall do, I can
    only answer you as did the Princess Mentimiletto, when buried under
    the ruins of her villa by an earthquake, "I await my fate in silence."
    In the meantime, while the page of fate is unrolling, I feel a secret
    agitation which consumes me, the more so for being repressed. I am
    fallen again into a bad state of health, but this is habitual to me
    upon the recurrence of winter. What torments me the most is the
    restraint I am under of always appearing gay in society, which I am
    obliged to do to avoid their odious curiosity. Farewell awhile dismay
    and terror, and let us turn to love and happiness. Never was
    astonishment greater than mine on receiving your letter. I had somehow
    imagined to myself that you never would love again, and you may say
    what you like, dearest Jane, you won't drive that out of my head.
    "Blue Bag" may be a friend to you, but he never can be a lover. A
    happy attachment that has seen its end leaves a void that nothing can
    fill up; therefore I counsel the timorous and the prudent to take the
    greatest care always to have an unhappy attachment, because with it
    you can veer about like a weathercock to every point of life. What
    would I not give to have an unhappy passion, for then one has full
    permission and a perfect excuse to fall into a happy one; one has
    something to expect, but a _happy passion_, like death, has _finis_
    written in such large characters in its face there is no hoping for
    any possibility of a change. You will allow me to talk upon this
    subject, for I am unhappily the victim of a _happy passion_. I had
    one; like all things perfect in its kind, it was fleeting, and mine
    only lasted ten minutes, but these ten minutes have discomposed the
    rest of my life. The passion, God knows for what cause, from no faults
    of mine, however, disappeared, leaving no trace whatever behind it
    except my heart wasted and ruined as if it had been scorched by a
    thousand lightnings. You will therefore, I hope, excuse my not
    following the advice you give me in your last letter, of falling in
    love, and you will readily believe me when I tell you that I am not in
    love, as you suspected, with my German friend Hermann. He went away
    last spring for five years to the country. I have a great friendship
    for him, because he has the most ardent love of all that is good and
    beautiful of any one I know. I feel interested for his happiness and
    welfare, but he is not the being who could make life feel less a
    burthen to me than it does. It would, however, seem that you are a
    little happier than you were, therefore I congratulate you on this
    change of life. I am delighted that you have some one to watch over
    you and guard you from the storms of life. Do pray tell me Blue Bag's
    name, (for what is a man without a name?), or else I shall get into
    the habit of thinking of him as Blue Bag, and never be able to divest
    myself of this disagreeable association all my life. You say Trelawny
    is coming home, but you have said so so long, I begin to doubt it. If
    he does come, how happy you will be to see him. Happy girl! you have a
    great many happinesses. I have written to him many times, but he never
    answers my letters; I suppose he does not wish to keep up the
    correspondence, and so I have left off. If he comes home I am sure he
    will fall ill, because the change of climate is most pernicious to the
    health. The first winter I passed in Russia I thought I should have
    died, but then a good deal was caused by extreme anxiety. So take care
    of Trelawny, and do not let him get his feet wet. You ask me to tell
    you every particular of my way of life. For these last six months I
    have been tormented to death; I am shut up with five hateful children;
    they keep me in a fever from morning till night. If they fall into
    their father's or mother's way, and are troublesome, they are whipped;
    but the instant they are with me, which is pretty nearly all the day,
    they give way to all their violence and love of mischief, because they
    are not afraid of my mild disposition. They go on just like people in
    a public-house, abusing one another with the most horrid names and
    fighting; if I separate them, then they roll on the ground, shrieking
    that I have broken their arm, or pretend to fall into convulsions, and
    I am such a fool I am frightened. In short, I never saw the evil
    spirit so plainly developed. What is worse, I cannot seriously be
    angry with them, for I do not know how they can be otherwise with the
    education they receive. Everything is a crime; they may neither jump,
    nor run, nor laugh. It is now two months they have never been out of
    the house, and the only thing they are indulged in is in eating,
    drinking, and sleeping, so that I look upon their defects as
    proceeding entirely from the pernicious lives they lead. This is a
    pretty just picture of all Russian children, because the Russians are
    as yet totally ignorant of anything like real education. You may,
    therefore, imagine what a life I have been leading. In the summer, and
    we had an Italian one, I bore up very well, because we were often in
    the garden, but since the return of winter, which always makes me ill,
    and their added tiresomeness, I am quite overpowered. The whole winter
    long I have a fever, which comes on every evening, and prevents my
    sleeping the whole night; sometimes it leaves me for a fortnight, but
    then it begins again, but in summer I am as strong and healthy as
    possible. The approach of winter fills me with horror, because I know
    I have eight long months of suffering and sickness. The only amusement
    I have is Sunday evening, to see Miss F. and some others like her, and
    the only subject of conversation is to laugh at the Russians, or
    dress. My God, what a life! But complaint is useless, and therefore I
    shall not indulge in it. I have said, so as those I love live, I will
    bear all without a murmur. If ever I am independent, I will instantly
    retire to some solitude; I will see no one, not even you nor Mary, and
    there I will live until the horrible disgust I feel at all that is
    human be somewhat removed by quiet and retirement. My heart is too
    full of hatred to be fit for society in its present mood. I am very
    sorry for the death of little Charles. The chances for succession are
    now so equally balanced--the life of an old man and the life of _one_
    young child--that I confess I see less hope than ever of the will's
    taking effect. It is frightful for the despairing to have their hopes
    suspended thus upon a single hair. Pray do not forget to write to me
    when Trelawny is come. How glad I shall be to know he is in England,
    and yet how frightened for fear he should catch cold. I wish you would
    tell me how you occupy your days; at what hour you do this, and at
    what hour that. From 11 till 4 I teach my children, then we dine; at 5
    we rise from the table. They have half an hour's dawdling, for play it
    cannot be called, as they are in the drawing-room, and then they learn
    two hours more. At 8 we drink tea, and then they go to bed, which is
    never over till 11, because all must have their hair curled, which
    takes up an enormous time.

    Since I have written the first part of my letter I have thought over
    my affairs. I must go to Petersburgh, because it is quite another town
    from Moscow, and being so much more foreign in their manners and ways
    of thinking, I shall be less tormented. I have decided to go,
    therefore I wish you very much to endeavour to procure me letters of
    introduction. If Trelawny comes home, beg him to do so for me,
    because, as he will be much in fashion, some of the numerous dear
    female friends he will instantly have will do it for him. If I could
    have a letter of recommendation, not a letter of introduction, to the
    English ambassador or his wife, I should be able to get over the
    difficulties which now beset my passage. Do think of this, Jane. My
    head is so completely giddy from worry and torment, that I am unable
    to think upon my own affairs; only this I know, that I am in a
    tottering situation. It is absolutely necessary that I should have
    letters of recommendation, and to people high in the world at
    Petersburgh, because it is very common in Russia for adventurers, such
    as opera dancers too old to dance any more, and milliners, and that
    class of women to come here. They are received with open arms by the
    Russians, who are very hospitable, and then naturally they betray
    themselves by their atrocious conduct, and are thrown off; and I have
    known since I have been here several lamentable instances of this, and
    I shall be classed with these people if I cannot procure letters to
    people whose countenance and protection must refute the possibility of
    such a supposition. I must confess to you that my pride never could
    stand this, for these adventurers are such detestable people that I
    have the utmost horror of them. What a miserable imposture is life,
    that such as follow philosophy, nature and truth, should be classed
    with the very refuse of mankind; that people who ought to be cited as
    models of virtue and self-sacrifice should be trampled under foot with
    the dregs of vice. It was not thus in the time of the Greeks; and this
    reflection makes me tired of life, for I might have been understood in
    the time of Socrates, but never shall be by the moderns. For this
    reason I do not wish to live, as I cannot be understood; in order,
    therefore, not to be despised, I must renounce all worldly concerns
    whatever. I have long done so, and therefore you will not wonder that
    I have long since given my parting look to life. Do not be surprised I
    am so dull; I am surrounded by difficulties which I am afraid I never
    shall get out of, and after so many years of trouble and anguish it is
    natural I should wish it were over. Do not, my dearest Jane, mention
    to my mother the harm her indiscretion has done, for though I shall
    frankly tell her of it, yet it would wound her if she were to know I
    had told you, and there is already so much pain in the world it is
    frightful to add ever so little to the stock. You can merely say I
    have asked for letters of introduction at Petersburgh.

From the time of her first arrival in England after Edward's death, Hogg
had been Jane Williams' persistent, devoted, and long-suffering admirer.
Not many months after receiving Clare's letter, she changed her name and
her abode, and was thenceforward known as Mrs. Hogg. Mary's familiar
intercourse with her might, in any case, have been somewhat checked by
this event, but such a change would have been a small matter compared to
the bitter discovery she was soon to make, that, while accepting her
affection, Jane had never really cared for her; that her feeling had been
of the most superficial sort. Once independent of Mary, and under other
protection, she talked away for the benefit and amusement of other
people,--talked of their past life, prating of her power over Shelley and
his devotion to her,--of Mary's gloom during those sad first weeks at
Lerici,--intimating that jealousy of herself was the cause. Stories which
lost nothing in the telling, wherein Jane Williams figured as a good
angel, while Mary Shelley was made to appear in an unfavourable or even an
absurd light.

Mary had no suspicion, no foreboding of the mine that was preparing to
explode under her feet. She sympathised in her friend's happiness, for
she could not regard it but as happiness for one in Jane's circumstances
to be able to accept the love and protection of a devoted man. She herself
could not do it, but she often felt a wish that she were differently
constituted. She knew it was impossible; but no tinge of envy or
bitterness coloured her words to Trelawny when she wrote to tell him of
Jane's resolution.

    ... This is to be an eventful summer to us. Janey is writing to you
    and will tell her own tale best. The person to whom she unites herself
    is one of my oldest friends, the early friend of my own Shelley. It
    was he who chose to share the honour, as he generously termed it, of
    Shelley's expulsion from Oxford. (And yet he is unlike what you may
    conceive to be the ideal of the best friend of Shelley.) He is a man
    of talent,--of wit,--he has sensibility and even romance in his
    disposition, but his exterior is composed and, at a superficial
    glance, cold. He has loved Jane devotedly and ardently since she first
    arrived in England, almost five years ago. At first she was too
    faithfully attached to the memory of Edward, nor was he exactly the
    being to satisfy her imagination; but his sincere and long-tried love
    has at last gained the day.

    ... Nor will I fear for her in the risk she must run when she confides
    her future happiness to another's constancy and good principles. He is
    a man of honour, he longs for home, for domestic life, and he well
    knows that none could make such so happy as Jane. He is liberal in his
    opinions, constant in his attachments, if she is happy with him now
    she will be always.... Of course after all that has passed it is our
    wish that all this shall be as little talked of as possible, the
    obscurity in which we have lived favours this. We shall remove hence
    during the summer, for of course we shall still continue near each
    other. I, as ever, must derive my only pleasure and solace from her
    society.

Before the summer of 1827 was over the cloud burst.

Mary's journal in June is less mournful than usual. Congenial society
always had the power of cheering her and making her forget herself. And in
her acquaintance with Thomas Moore she found a novelty which yet was akin
to past enjoyment.

    _Journal, June 26_ (1827).--I have just made acquaintance with Tom
    Moore. He reminds me delightfully of the past, and I like him much.
    There is something warm and genuine in his feelings and manner which
    is very attractive, and redeems him from the sin of worldliness with
    which he has been charged.

    _July 2._--Moore breakfasted with me on Sunday. We talked of past
    times,--of Shelley and Lord Byron. He was very agreeable, and I never
    felt myself so perfectly at my ease with any one. I do not know why
    this is; he seems to understand and to like me. This is a new and
    unexpected pleasure. I have been so long exiled from the style of
    society in which I spent the better part of my life; it is an
    evanescent pleasure, but I will enjoy it while I can.

    _July 11._--Moore has left town; his singing is something new and
    strange and beautiful. I have enjoyed his visits, and spent several
    happy hours in his society. That is much.

    _July 13._--My friend has proved false and treacherous! Miserable
    discovery. For four years I was devoted to her, and earned only
    ingratitude. Not for worlds would I attempt to transfer the deathly
    blackness of my meditations to these pages. Let no trace remain save
    the deep, bleeding, hidden wound of my lost heart of such a tale of
    horror and despair. Writing, study, quiet, such remedies I must seek.
    What deadly cold flows through my veins! My head weighed down; my
    limbs sink under me. I start at every sound as the messenger of fresh
    misery, and despair invests my soul with trembling horror.

    _October 9._--Quanto bene mi rammento sette anni fa, in questa
    medesima stagione i pensieri, I sentimenti del mio cuore! Allora
    cominciai Valperga--allora sola col mio Bene fui felice. Allora le
    nuvole furono spinte dal furioso vento davanti alla luna, nuvole
    magnifiche, che in forme grandiose e bianche parevano stabili quanto
    le montagne e sotto la tirannia del vento si mostravano piu fragili
    che un velo di seta minutissima, scendeva allor la pioggia, gli albori
    si spogliavano. Autunno bello fosti allora, ed ora bello terribile,
    malinconico ci sei, ed io, dove sono?

By those who hold their hearts safe at home in their own keeping, these
little breezes are called "storms in tea-cups." The matter was of no
importance to any one but Mary. The aspect of her outward life was
unchanged by this heart-shipwreck over which the world's waves closed and
left no sign.




CHAPTER XXI

JULY 1827-AUGUST 1830


Many weary months passed away. Mary said nothing to the shallow-hearted
woman who had so grievously injured her. Jane had been so dear to her, and
was so inextricably bound up with a beloved past, that she shrank from
disturbing the superficial friendship which she nevertheless knew to be
hollow.

To one of Mary's temperament there was actual danger in living alone with
such a sorrow, and it was a happy thing when, in August, an unforeseen
distraction occurred to compel her thoughts into a new channel. She
received from an unknown correspondent a letter, resulting in an
acquaintance which, though it passed out of her life without leaving any
permanent mark, was, at the time, not unfruitful of interest.

The letter was as follows--

    FRANCES WRIGHT TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    PARIS, _22d August 1827_.

    I shall preface this letter with no apology; the motive which
    dictates it will furnish, as I trust, a sufficient introduction both
    for it and its writer. As the daughter of your father and mother
    (known to me only by their works and opinions), as the friend and
    companion of a man distinguished during life, and preserved in the
    remembrance of the public as one distinguished not by genius merely,
    but, as I imagine, by the strength of his opinions and his
    fearlessness in their expression;--viewed only in these relations you
    would be to me an object of interest and--permit the word, for I use
    it in no vulgar sense--of curiosity. But I have heard (vaguely indeed,
    for I have not even the advantage of knowing one who claims your
    personal acquaintance, nor have I, in my active pursuits and
    engagements in distant countries, had occasion to peruse your works),
    yet I have heard, or read, or both, that which has fostered the belief
    that you share at once the sentiments and talents of those from whom
    you drew your being. If you possess the opinions of your father and
    the generous feelings of your mother, I feel that I could travel far
    to see you. It is rare in this world, especially in our sex, to meet
    with those opinions united with those feelings, and with the manners
    and disposition calculated to command respect and conciliate
    affection. It is so rare, that to obtain the knowledge of such might
    well authorise a more abrupt intrusion than one by letter; but,
    pledged as I am to the cause of what appears to me moral truth and
    moral liberty, that I (should) neglect any means for discovering a
    real friend of that cause, I were almost failing to a duty.

    In thus addressing my inquiries respecting you to yourself, it were
    perhaps fitting that I should enter into some explanations respecting
    my own views and the objects which have fixed my attention. I
    conceive, however, the very motive of this letter as herein explained,
    with the printed paper I shall enclose with it, will supply a
    sufficient assurance of the heterodoxy of my opinions and the nature
    of my exertions for their support and furtherance. It will be
    necessary to explain, however, what will strike you but indistinctly
    in the deed of Nashoba, that the object of the experiment has in view
    an association based on those principles of moral liberty and
    equality heretofore advocated by your father. That these principles
    form its base and its cement, and that while we endeavour to undermine
    the slavery of colour existing in the North American Republic, we
    essay equally to destroy the slavery of mind now reigning there as in
    other countries. With one nation we find the aristocracy of colour,
    with another that of rank, with all perhaps those of wealth,
    instruction, and sex.

    Our circle already comprises a few united co-operators, whose choice
    of associates will be guided by their moral fitness only; saving that,
    for the protection and support of all, each must be fitted to exercise
    some useful employment, or to supply 200 dollars per annum as an
    equivalent for their support. The present generation will in all
    probability supply but a limited number of individuals suited in
    opinion and disposition to such a state of society; but that that
    number, however limited, may best find their happiness and best
    exercise their utility by uniting their interests, their society, and
    their talents, I feel a conviction. In this conviction I have devoted
    my time and fortune to laying the foundations of an establishment
    where affection shall form the only marriage, kind feeling and kind
    action the only religion, respect for the feelings and liberties of
    others to the only restraint, and union of interest the bond of peace
    and security. With the protection of the negro in view, whose cruel
    sufferings and degradation had attracted my special sympathy, it was
    necessary to seek the land of his bondage, to study his condition and
    imagine a means for effecting his liberation; with the emancipation of
    the human mind in view, from the shackles of moral and religious
    superstition, it was necessary to seek a country where political
    institutions should allow free scope for experiment; and with a
    practice in view in opposition to all the laws of public opinion, it
    was necessary to seek the seclusion of a new country, and build up a
    city of refuge in the wilderness itself. Youth, a good constitution,
    and a fixed purpose enabled me to surmount the fatigues, difficulties,
    and privations of the necessary journeys, and the first opening of a
    settlement in the American forests. Fifteen months have placed the
    establishment in a fair way of progress, in the hands of united and
    firm associates, comprising a family of colour from New Orleans. As
    might be expected, my health gave way under the continued fatigues of
    mind and body [incidental] to the first twelvemonth. A brain fever,
    followed by a variety of sufferings, seemed to point to a sea-voyage
    as the only chance of recovery. Accordingly I left Nashoba in May
    last, was placed on board a steamboat on the Mississippi for Orleans,
    then on board a vessel for Havre, and landed in fifty days almost
    restored to health. I am now in an advanced state of convalescence,
    but still obliged to avoid fatigue either bodily or mental. The
    approaching marriage of a dear friend also retains me in Paris, and as
    I shall return by way of New Orleans to my forest home in the month of
    November, or December, I do not expect to visit London. The bearer of
    this letter, should he, as I trust, be able to deliver it, will be
    able to furnish any intelligence you may desire respecting Nashoba and
    its inhabitants. In the name of Robert Dale Owen you will recognise
    one of the trustees, and a son of Robert Owen of Lanark.

    Whatever be the fate of this letter, I wish to convey to Mary
    Wollstonecraft Godwin Shelley my respect and admiration of those from
    whom she holds those names, and my fond desire to connect her with
    them in my esteem, and in the knowledge of mutual sympathy to sign
    myself her friend,

      FRANCES WRIGHT.

    My address while in Europe--Aux soins du General Lafayette, Rue
    d'Anjou, and 7 St. Honoré, à Paris.

The bearer of this letter would seem to have been Robert Dale Owen
himself. His name must have recalled to Mary's mind the letter she had
received at Geneva, long, long ago, from poor Fanny, describing and
commenting on the schemes for social regeneration of his father, Robert
Owen.

Mary Shelley's feeling towards Frances Wright's schemes in 1827 may have
been accurately expressed by Fanny Godwin's words in 1816.

    ... "The outline of his plan is this: 'That no human being shall work
    more than two or three hours every day; that they shall be all equal;
    that no one shall dress but after the plainest and simplest manner;
    that they be allowed to follow any religion, or no religion, as they
    please; and that their studies shall be Mechanics and Chemistry.' I
    hate and am sick at heart at the misery I see my fellow-beings
    suffering, but I own I should not like to live to see the extinction
    of all genius, talent, and elevated generous feeling in Great Britain,
    which I conceive to be the natural consequence of Mr. Owen's plan."

But any plan for human improvement, any unselfish effort to promote the
common weal, commanded the sure sympathy of Shelley's widow and Mary
Wollstonecraft's daughter, whether her judgment accorded perfectly or not
with that of its promoters. She responded warmly to the letter of her
correspondent, who wrote back in almost rapturous terms--

    FRANCES WRIGHT TO MARY SHELLEY.

    PARIS, _15th September 1827_.

    My Friend, my dear Friend--How sweet are the sentiments with which I
    write that sacred word--so often prostituted, so seldom bestowed with
    the glow of satisfaction and delight with which I now employ it! Most
    surely will I go to England, most surely to Brighton, to wheresoever
    you may be. The fond belief of my heart is realised, and more than
    realised. You are the daughter of your mother. I opened your letter
    with some trepidation, and perused it with more emotion than now suits
    my shattered nerves. I have read it again and again, and acknowledge
    it before I sleep. Most fully, most deeply does my heart render back
    the sympathy yours gives. It fills up the sad history you have
    sketched of blighted affections and ruined hopes. I too have suffered,
    and we must have done so perhaps to feel for the suffering. We must
    have loved and mourned, and felt the chill of disappointment, and
    sighed over the moral blank of a heartless world ere we can be moved
    to sympathy for calamity, or roused to attempt its alleviation. The
    curiosity you express shall be most willingly answered in (as I trust)
    our approaching meeting. You will see then that I have greatly pitied
    and greatly dared, only because I have greatly suffered and widely
    observed. I have sometimes feared lest too early affliction and too
    frequent disappointment had blunted my sensibilities, when a
    _rencontre_ with some one of the rare beings dropt amid the dull
    multitude, like oases in the desert, has refreshed my better feelings,
    and reconciled me with others and with myself. That the child of your
    parents should be one among these sweet visitants is greatly soothing
    and greatly inspiring. But have we only discovered each other to
    lament that we are not united? I cannot, will not think it. When we
    meet,--and meet we must, and I hope soon,--how eagerly, and yet
    tremblingly, shall I inquire into all the circumstances likely to
    favour an approach in our destinies. I am now on the eve of separation
    from a beloved friend, whom marriage is about to remove to Germany,
    while I run back to my forests. And I must return without a bosom
    intimate? Yes; our little circle has mind, has heart, has right
    opinions, right feelings, co-operates in an experiment having in view
    human happiness, yet I do want one of my own sex to commune with, and
    sometimes to lean upon in all the confidence of equality of
    friendship. You see I am not so disinterested as you suppose.
    Delightful indeed it is to aid the progress of human improvement, and
    sweet is the peace we derive from aiding the happiness of others. But
    still the heart craves something more ere it can say--I am satisfied.

    I must tell, not write, of the hopes of Nashoba, and of all your
    sympathising heart wishes to hear. On the 28th instant I shall be in
    London, where I must pass some days with a friend about to sail for
    Madeira. Then, unless you should come to London, I will seek you at
    Brighton, Arundel, anywhere you may name. Let me find directions from
    you. I will not say, use no ceremony with me--none can ever enter
    between us. Our intercourse begins in the confidence, if not in the
    fulness of friendship. I have not seen you, and yet my heart loves
    you.

    I cannot take Brighton in my way; my sweet friend, Julia Garnett,
    detaining me here until the latest moment, which may admit of my
    reaching London on the 28th. I must not see you in passing. However
    short our meeting, it must have some repose in it. The feelings which
    draw me towards you have in them I know not what of respect, of
    pitying sympathy, of expectation, and of tenderness. They must steal
    some quiet undivided hours from the short space I have yet to pass in
    Europe. Tell me when they shall be, and where. I expect to sail for
    America with Mr. Owen and his family early in November, and may leave
    London to visit a maternal friend in the north of England towards the
    20th of October. Direct to me to the care of Mr. Robert Bayley, 4
    Basinghall Street, London.

    Permit me the assurance of my respect and affection, and accord me the
    title, as I feel the sentiments, of a friend,

      FRANCES WRIGHT.

Circumstances conspired to postpone the desired meeting for some weeks,
but the following extract from another letter of Fanny Wright's shows how
friendly was the correspondence.

    Yes, I do "understand the happiness flowing from confidence and entire
    sympathy, independent of worldly circumstances." I know the latter
    compared to the former are nothing.

    A delicate nursling of European luxury and aristocracy, I thought and
    felt for myself, and for martyrised humankind, and have preferred all
    hazards, all privations in the forests of the New World to the
    dear-bought comforts of miscalled civilisation. I have made the hard
    earth my bed, the saddle of my horse my pillow, and have staked my
    life and fortune on an experiment having in view moral liberty and
    human improvement. Many of course think me mad, and if to be mad mean
    to be one of a minority, I am so, and very mad indeed, for our
    minority is very small. Should that few succeed in mastering the first
    difficulties, weaker spirits, though often not less amiable, may carry
    forward the good work. But the fewer we are who now think alike, the
    more we are of value to each other. To know you, therefore, is a
    strong desire of my heart, and all things consistent with my
    engagements (which I may call duties, since they are connected with
    the work I have in hand) will I do to facilitate our meeting.

Soon after this Mary made Frances Wright's acquaintance, and heard from
herself all the story of her stirring life. She was not of American, but
of Scottish birth (Dundee), and had been very early left an orphan. Her
father had been a man of great ability and culture, of advanced liberal
opinions, and independent fortune. Fanny had been educated in England by a
maternal aunt, and in 1818, when twenty-three years of age, had gone with
her younger sister to the United States. Since that time her life had been
as adventurous as it was independent. Enthusiastic, original, and
handsome, she found friends and adherents wherever she went. Two years she
spent in the States, where she found sympathy and stimulus for her
speculative energies, and free scope for her untried powers. She had
written a tragedy, forcible and effective, which was published at
Philadelphia and acted at New York. After that she had been three years in
Paris, where she enjoyed the friendship and sympathy of Lafayette and
other liberal leaders. In 1824 she was once more in America, fired with
the idea of solving the slavery question. She purchased a tract of land on
the Nashoba river (Tennessee), and settled negroes there, assuming, in her
impetuosity, that to convert slaves into freemen it was only necessary to
remove their fetters, and that they would soon work out their liberty. She
found out her error. In Shelley's words, slightly varied, "How should
slaves produce anything but idleness, even as the seed produces the
plant?" The slaves, freed from the lash, remained slaves as before, only
they did very little work. Fanny Wright was disappointed; but, as her
letters plainly show, her schemes went much farther than negro
emancipation; she aimed at nothing short of a complete social
reconstruction, to be illustrated on a small scale at the Nashoba
settlement.

Overwork, exposure to the sun, and continuous excitement, told, at last,
on her constitution. As she informed Mrs. Shelley in her first letter, she
had broken down with brain fever, and, when convalescent, had been ordered
to Europe.

In Mary Wollstonecraft's daughter she found a friend, hardly an adherent.
Fundamentally, their principles were alike, but their natures were
differently attuned. Neither mentally nor physically had Mary Shelley the
temperament of a revolutionary innovator. She had plenty of moral courage,
but she was too scrupulous, too reflective, and too tender. The cause of
liberty was sacred to her, so long as it bore the fruit of justice,
self-sacrifice, fidelity to duty. Fanny Wright worshipped liberty for its
own sake, confident that every other good would follow it, with the
generous, unpractical certainty of conviction that proceeds as much from a
sanguine disposition as from a set of opinions. Experience and
disappointment have little power over these temperaments, and so they
never grow old--or prudent. It may well be that all the ideas, all the
great changes, in which is summed up the history of progress, have
originated with natures like these. They are the salt of the earth; but
man cannot live by salt alone, and their ideas are carried out for them in
detail, and the actual everyday work of the world is unconsciously
accomplished, by those who, having put their hand to the plough, do not
look back, nor yet far forward.

Still, it was a remarkable meeting, that of these two women. Fanny Wright
was a person who, once seen, was not easily forgotten. "She was like
Minerva;" such is the recollection of Mrs. Shelley's son. Mrs. Trollope
has described her personal appearance when, three years later, she was
creating a great sensation by lecturing in the chief American cities--

    She came on the stage surrounded by a bodyguard of Quaker ladies in
    the full costume of their sect.... Her tall and majestic figure, the
    deep and almost solemn expression of her eyes, the simple contour of
    her finely-formed head, her garment of plain white muslin, which hung
    around her in folds that recalled the drapery of a Grecian
    statue,--all contributed to produce an effect unlike anything that I
    had ever seen before, or ever expect to see again.

On the other hand the following is Robert Dale Owen's sketch of Mary
Shelley.

    ... In person she was of middle height and graceful figure. Her face,
    though not regularly beautiful, was comely and spiritual, of winning
    expression, and with a look of inborn refinement as well as culture.
    It had a touch of sadness when at rest. She impressed me as a person
    of warm social feelings, dependent for happiness on living
    encouragement, needing a guiding and sustaining hand.

It is certain that Mary felt a warm interest in her new friend. She made
her acquainted with Godwin, and lost no opportunity of seeing and
communing with her during her stay in England; nor did they part till
Fanny Wright was actually on board ship.

    "Dear love," wrote Fanny, from Torbay, "how your figure lives in my
    mind's eye as I saw you borne away from me till I lost sight of your
    little back among the shipping!"

From Nashoba, a few months later, she addressed another letter to Mary,
which, though slightly out of place, is given here. There had, apparently,
been some passing discord between her and the founder of the "New Harmony"
colony.[9]

    FRANCES WRIGHT TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    NASHOBA, _20th March 1828_.

    Very, very welcome was your letter of the 16th November, which awaited
    my return from a little excursion down the Mississippi, undertaken
    soon after my arrival. Bless your sweet kind heart, my sweet Mary!
    Your little enclosure, together with a little billet brought me by
    Dale, and which came to the address of Mr. Trollope's chambers just as
    he left London, is all the news I have yet received of or from our
    knight-errant. Once among Greeks and Turks, correspondence must be
    pretty much out of the question, so unless he address to you some more
    French compliments from Toulon, I shall not look to hear of him for
    some months. Ay, truly, they are incomprehensible animals, these same
    _soi-disant_ lords of this poor planet! Like their old progenitor,
    Father Adam, they walk about boasting of their wisdom, strength, and
    sovereignty, while they have not sense so much as to swallow an apple
    without the aid of an Eve to put it down their throats. I thank thee
    for thine attempt to cram caution and wisdom into the cranium of my
    wandering friend. Thy good offices may afford a chance for his
    bringing his head on his shoulders to these forests, which otherwise
    would certainly be left on the shores of the Euxine, on the top of
    Caucasus, or at the sources of the Nile.

    I wrote thee hastily of my arrival and all our wellbeing in my last,
    and of Dale's _amende honorable_, and of Fanny's departure up the
    Western waters, nor have I now leisure for details too tedious for the
    pen, though so short to give by the tongue. Dale arrived, his sweet
    kind heart all unthawed, and truly when he left us for Harmony I think
    the very last thin flake of Scotch ice had melted from him. Camilla
    and Whitby leave me also in a few days for Harmony, from whence the
    latter will probably travel back with Dale, and Whitby go up the Ohio
    to engage a mechanic for the building of our houses. I hoped to have
    sent you, with this, the last communication of our little knot of
    trustees, in which we have stated the modification of our plan which
    we have found it advisable to adopt, with the reasons of the same. We
    have not been able to get it printed at Memphis, so Dale is to have it
    thrown off at Harmony, from whence you will receive it. The substance
    of it is, that we have reduced our co-operation to a simple
    association, each throwing in from our private funds 100 dollars per
    annum for the expenses of the table, including those of the cook, whom
    we hire from the Institution, she being one of the slaves gifted to
    it. All other expenses regard us individually, and need not amount to
    100 dollars more. Also, each of us builds his house or room, the cost
    of which, simple furniture included, does not surpass 500 dollars. The
    property of the trust will stand thus free of all burden whatsoever,
    to be devoted to the foundation of a school, in which we would fain
    attempt a thorough co-operative education, looking only to the next
    generation to effect what we in vain attempted ourselves. You see that
    the change consists in demanding as a requisite for admission an
    independent income of 200 dollars, instead of receiving labour as an
    equivalent.

    Yes, dear Mary, I do find the quiet of these forests and our
    ill-fenced cabins of rough logs more soothing to the spirit, and now
    no less suited to the body than the warm luxurious houses of European
    society. Yet that it would be so with you, or to any less broken in by
    enthusiastic devotion to human reform and mental liberty than our
    little knot of associates, I cannot judge. I now almost forget the
    extent of the change made in the last few years in my habits, yet more
    than in my views and feelings; but when I recall it, I sometimes doubt
    if many could imitate it without feeling the sacrifices almost equal
    to the gains; to me sacrifices are nothing. I have not felt them as
    such, and now forget that there were any made.

    Farewell, dear Mary. Recall me affectionately and respectfully to the
    memory of your Father. You will wear me in your own, I know. Camilla
    sends her affectionate wishes.--Yours fondly,

      F. WRIGHT.

It was probably in connection with Fanny Wright's visit that Mrs. Shelley
had, in October of 1827, contemplated the possibility of a flying trip to
the Continent; an idea which alarmed her father (for his own sake) not a
little, although she had taken care to assure him of her intended speedy
return. He was in as bad a way, financially, and as dependent as ever, but
proud of the fact that he kept up his good spirits through it all, and
sorry for Mary that she could not say as much.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    GOWER PLACE, _9th October 1827_.

    DEAR MARY--We received your letter yesterday, and I sent you the
    _Examiner_.

    Nothing on earth, as you may perceive, could have induced me to break
    silence respecting my circumstances, short of your letter of the 1st
    instant, announcing a trip to the Continent, without the least hint
    when you should return. It seems to me so contrary to the course of
    nature that a father should look for supplies to his daughter, that it
    is painful to me at any time to think of it.

    You say that [as] you had announced some time ago that you must be in
    town in November, I should have inferred that that was irreversible.
    All I can answer is, that I did not so infer.

    I called yesterday, agreeably to your suggestion, upon young Evans;
    but all I got from him was, that the thing was quite out of his way;
    to which he added (and I reproved him for it accordingly) that we had
    better go to the Jews. I called on Hodgetts on the 7th of September,
    and asked him to lend me £20 or £30. He said, "Would a month hence do?
    he could then furnish £20." Last Saturday he supped here, and brought
    me £10, adding that was all he could do. I have heard nothing either
    from Peacock or from your anonymous friend. I wrote to you, of course,
    at Brighton on Saturday (before supper-time), which letter I suppose
    you have received.

    How differently you and I are organised. In my seventy-second year I
    am all cheerfulness, and never anticipate the evil day (with
    distressing feelings) till to do so is absolutely unavoidable. Would
    to God you were my daughter in all but my poverty! But I am afraid you
    are a Wollstonecraft. We are so curiously made that one atom put in
    the wrong place in our original structure will often make us unhappy
    for life. But my present cheerfulness is greatly owing to _Cromwell_,
    and the nature of my occupation, which gives me an object _omnium
    horarum_--a stream for ever running, and for ever new. Do you remember
    Denham's verses on the Thames at Cooper's Hill?--

      Oh! could I flow like thee, and make thy stream
      My great example, as it is my theme!
      Though deep, yet clear, though gentle, yet not dull;
      Strong, without rage; without o'erflowing, full.

    Though I cannot attain this in my _Commonwealth_, you, perhaps, may in
    your _Warbeck_.

    May blessings shower on you as fast as the perpendicular rain at this
    moment falls by my window! prays your affectionate Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

During most of this autumn Mrs. Shelley and her boy were staying at
Arundel, in Sussex, with, or in the near neighbourhood of her friends, the
Miss Robinsons. There were several sisters, to one of whom, Julia, Mrs.
Shelley was much attached.

While at Arundel another letter reached her from Trelawny, who was
contemplating the possibility of a return to England.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    ZANTE, IONIAN ISLANDS, _24th October 1827_.

    DEAREST MARY--I received your letter dated July, and replied to both
    you and Hunt; but I was then at Cerigo, and as the communication of
    the islands is carried on by a succession of boats, letters are
    sometimes lost. I have now your letter from Arundel, 9th September. It
    gives me pleasure to hear your anxieties as to money matters are at an
    end; it is one weighty misery off your heart. You err most
    egregiously if you think I am occupied with women or intrigues, or
    that my time passes pleasantly. The reverse of all this is the case;
    neither women nor amusements of any sort occupy my time, and a sadder
    or more accursed kind of existence I never in all my experience of
    life endured, or, I think, fell to the lot of human being. I have been
    detained here for these last ten months by a villainous law-suit,
    which may yet endure some months longer, and then I shall return to
    you as the same unconnected, lone, and wandering vagabond you first
    knew me. I have suffered a continual succession of fevers during the
    summer; at present they have discontinued their attack; but they have,
    added to what I suffered in Greece, cut me damnably, and I fancy now I
    must look like an old patriarch who has outlived his generation. I
    cannot tell whether to congratulate Jane or not; the foundation she
    has built on for happiness implies neither stability nor permanent
    security; for a summer bower 'tis well enough to beguile away the
    summer months, but for the winter of life I, for my part, should like
    something more durable than a fabric made up of vows and promises. Nor
    can I say whether it would be wise or beneficial to either should
    Clare consent to reside with you in England; in any other country it
    might be desirable, but in England it is questionable.

    The only motive which has deterred me from writing to Jane and Clare
    is that I have been long sick and ill at ease, daily anticipating my
    return to the Continent, and concocting plans whereby I might meet you
    all, for one hour after long absence is worth a thousand letters. And
    as to my heart, it is pretty much as you left it; no new impressions
    have been made on it or earlier affections erased. As we advance in
    the stage of life we look back with deeper recollections from where we
    first started; at least, I find it so. Since the death of Odysseus,
    for whom I had the sincerest friendship, I have felt no private
    interest for any individual in this country. The Egyptian fleet, and
    part of the Turkish, amounting to some hundred sail, including
    transports, have been totally destroyed by the united squadron of
    England, France, and Russia in the harbour of Navarino; so we soon
    expect to see a portion of Greece wrested from the Turks, and
    something definitely arranged for the benefit of the Greeks.--Dearest
    Mary, I am ever your

      EDWARD TRELAWNY.

    To Jane and Clare say all that is affectionate from me, and forget not
    Leigh Hunt and his Mary Ann. _I_ would write them all, but I am sick
    at heart.

All these months the gnawing sorrow of her friend's faithlessness lay like
an ambush at Mary's heart. In responding to Fanny Wright's overtures of
friendship she had sought a distraction from the bitter thoughts and deep
dejection which had been mainly instrumental in driving her from town. But
in vain, like the hunted hare, she buried her head and hoped to be
forgotten. Slanderous gossip advances like a prairie-fire, laying
everything waste, and defying all attempts to stop or extinguish it. Jane
Williams' stories were repeated, and, very likely, improved upon. They got
known in a certain set. Mary Shelley might still have chosen not to hear
or not to notice, had she been allowed. But who may ignore such things in
peace? As the French dramatist says in _Nos Intimes_, "_Les amis sont
toujours là_." _Les amis_ are there to enlighten you--if you are
ignorant--as to your enemies in disguise, to save you from illusions, and
to point out to you--should you forget it--the duty of upholding, at any
sacrifice, your own interests and your own dignity.

    _Journal, February 12, 1828._--Moore is in town. By his advice I
    disclosed my discoveries to Jane. How strangely are we made! She is
    horror-struck and miserable at losing my friendship; and yet how
    unpardonably she trifled with my feelings, and made me all falsely a
    fable to others.

    The visit of Moore has been an agreeable variety to my monotonous
    life. I see few people--Lord Dillon, G. Paul, the Robinsons, _voilà
    tout_.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. HOGG.

    Since Monday I have been ceaselessly occupied by the scene begun and
    interrupted, which filled me with a pain that now thrills me as I
    revert to it. I then strove to speak, but your tears overcame me,
    whilst the struggle gave me an appearance of coldness.

    If I revert to my devotion to you, it is to prove that no worldly
    motives could estrange me from the partner of my miseries. Often,
    having you at Kentish Town, I have wept from the overflow of
    affection; often thanked God who had given you to me. Could any but
    yourself have destroyed such engrossing and passionate love? And what
    are the consequences of the change?

    When first I heard that you did not love me, every hope of my life
    deserted me. The depression I sank under, and to which I am now a
    prey, undermines my health. How many hours this dreary winter I have
    paced my solitary room, driven nearly to madness, and I could not
    expel from my mind the memories of harrowing import that one after
    another intruded themselves! It was not long ago that, eagerly
    desiring death, though death should only be oblivion, I thought that
    how to purchase oblivion of what was revealed to me last July, a
    tortuous death would be a bed of roses.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Do not ask me, I beseech you, a detail of the revelations made to
    me. Some of those most painful you made to several; others, of less
    import, but which tended more, perhaps, than the more important to
    show that you loved me not, were made only to two.

    I could not write of these, far less speak of them. If any doubt
    remain on your mind as to what I know, write to Isabel,[10] and she
    will inform you of the extent of her communication to me. I have been
    an altered being since then; long I thought that almost a deathblow
    was given, so heavily and unremittingly did the thought press on and
    sting me; but one lives on through all to be a wreck.

    Though I was conscious that, having spoken of me as you did, you could
    not love me, I could not easily detach myself from the atmosphere of
    light and beauty that ever surrounded you. Now I tried to keep you,
    feeling the while that I had lost you; but you penetrated the change,
    and I owe it to you not to disguise the cause. What will become of us,
    my poor girl?

           *       *       *       *       *

    This explains my estrangement. While with you I was solely occupied by
    endeavouring not to think or feel, for had I done either I should not
    have been so calm as I daresay I appeared.... Nothing but my Father
    could have drawn me to town again; his claims only prevent me now from
    burying myself in the country. I have known no peace since July. I
    never expect to know it again. Is it not best, then, that you forget
    the unhappy

      M. W. S.?

We hear no more of this painful episode. It did not put a stop to Jane's
intercourse with Mary. Friendship, in the old sense, could never be. But,
to the end of Mary's life, her letters show the tenderness, the
half-maternal solicitude she ever felt for the companion and sharer of her
deepest affliction.

Another distraction came to her now in the shape of an invitation to
Paris, which she accepted, although she was feeling far from well, a fact
which she attributed to depression of spirits, but which proved to have
quite another cause.

    _Journal, April 11_ (1828).--I depart for Paris, sick at heart, yet
    pining to see my friend (Julia Robinson).

A lady, an intimate friend of hers at this time, who, in a little book
called _Traits of Character_, has given a very interesting (though, in
some details, inaccurate) sketch of Mary Shelley, says that her visit to
Paris was eagerly looked forward to by many. "Honour to the authoress and
admiration for the woman awaited her." But, directly after her arrival,
she was prostrated on a sick--it was feared, death-bed. Her journal, three
months later, tells the sequel.

    _Journal, July 8, Hastings._--There was a reason for my depression: I
    was sickening of the small-pox. I was confined to my bed the moment I
    arrived in Paris. The nature of my disorder was concealed from me till
    my convalescence, and I am so easily duped. Health, buoyant and
    bright, succeeded to my illness. The Parisians were very amiable, and,
    a monster to look at as I was, I tried to be agreeable, to compensate
    to them.

The same authoress asserts that neither when she recovered nor ever after
was she in appearance the Mary Shelley of the past. She was not scarred by
the disease ("which in its natural form she had had in childhood"), but
the pearly delicacy and transparency of her skin and the brightness and
luxuriance of her soft hair were grievously dimmed.

    She bore this trial to womanly vanity well and bravely, for she had
    that within which passeth show--high intellectual endowments, and,
    better still, a true, loving, faithful heart.

The external effects of her illness must, to a great degree, have
disappeared in course of time, for those who never knew her till some
twenty years later than this revert to their first impression of her in
words almost identical with those used by Christy Baxter when, at ninety
years of age, she described Mary Godwin at fifteen as "white, bright, and
clear."

If, however, she had any womanly vanity at all, it must have been a trial
to her that, just now, her old friend Trelawny should return for a few
months to England. She did not see him till November, when Clare also
arrived, on a flying visit to her native land. But, before their meeting,
she had received some characteristic letters from Trelawny.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    SOUTHAMPTON, _8th July 1828_.

    DEAR MARY--My moving about and having had much to do must be my excuse
    for not writing as often as I should do. That it is but an excuse I
    allow; the truth would be better, but who nowadays ever thinks of
    speaking truth? The true reason, then, is that I am getting old, and
    writing has become irksome. You cannot plead either, so write on, dear
    Mary. I love you sincerely, no one better. Time has not quenched the
    fire of my nature; my feelings and passions burn fierce as ever, and
    will till they have consumed me. I wear the burnished livery of the
    sun.

    To whom am I a neighbour? and near whom? I dwell amongst tame and
    civilised human beings, with somewhat the same feelings as we may
    guess the lion feels when, torn from his native wilderness, he is
    tortured into domestic intercourse with what Shakespeare calls "forked
    animals," the most abhorrent to his nature.

    You see by this how little my real nature is altered, but now to reply
    to yours. I cannot decidedly say or fix a period of our meeting. It
    shall be soon, if you stay there, at Hastings; but I have business on
    hand I wish to conclude, and now that I can see you when I determine
    to do so, I, as you see, postpone the engagement because it is within
    my grasp. Such is the perverseness of human nature! Nevertheless, I
    will write, and I pray you to do so likewise. You are my dear and long
    true friend, and as such I love you.--Yours, dear,

      TRELAWNY.

    I shall remain ten or twelve days here, so address Southampton; it is
    enough.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    TREWITHEN, _September 1828_.

    DEAR MARY--I really do not know why I am everlastingly boring you with
    letters. Perhaps it is to prevent you forgetting me; or to prove to
    you that I do not forget you; or I like it, which is a woman's
    reason....

    How is Jane (Hogg)? Do remember me kindly to her. I hope you are
    friends, and that I shall see her in town. I have no right to be
    discontented or fastidious when she is not. I trust she is contented
    with her lot; if she is, she has an advantage over most of us. Death
    and Time have made sad havoc amongst my old friends here; they are
    never idle, and yet we go on as if they concerned us not, and thus
    dream our lives away till we wake no more, and then our bodies are
    thrown into a hole in the earth, like a dead dog's, that infects the
    atmosphere, and the void is filled up, and we are forgotten.

    Can such things be, and overcome us like a summer cloud, without our
    special wonder?...

Trelawny's visit to England was of short duration. Before the end of the
next February (1829) he was in Florence, overflowing with new plans, and,
as usual, imparting them eagerly, certain of sympathy, to Mrs. Shelley.
His renewed intercourse with her had led to no diminution of friendship.
He may have found her even more attractive than when she was younger; more
equable in spirits, more lenient in her judgments, her whole disposition
mellowed and ripened in the stern school of adversity.

Their correspondence, which for two or three years was very frequent,
opened, however, with a difference of opinion. Trelawny was ambitious of
writing Shelley's biography, and wanted Mary to help him by giving him the
facts for it.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    POSTE RESTANTE, FLORENCE, _11th March 1829_.

    DEAR MARY--I arrived here some sixteen or seventeen days back. I
    travelled in a very leisurely way; whilst on the road I used
    expedition, but I stayed at Lyons, Turin, Genoa, and Leghorn. I have
    taken up my quarters with Brown. I thought I should get a letter here
    from you or Clare, but was disappointed. The letter you addressed to
    Paris I received; tell Clare I was pained at her silence, yet though
    she neglects to write to me, I shall not follow her example, but will
    write her in a few days.

    My principal object in writing to you now is to tell you that I am
    actually writing my own life. Brown and Landor are spurring me on, and
    are to review it sheet by sheet, as it is written; moreover, I am
    commencing as a tribute of my great love for the memory of Shelley his
    life and moral character. Landor and Brown are in this to have a hand,
    therefore I am collecting every information regarding him. I always
    wished you to do this, Mary; if you will not, as of the living I love
    him and you best, incompetent as I am, I must do my best to show him
    to the world as I found him. Do you approve of this? Will you aid in
    it? without which it cannot be done. Will you give documents? Will you
    write anecdotes? or--be explicit on this, dear--give me your opinion;
    if you in the least dislike it, say so, and there is an end of it; if
    on the contrary, set about doing it without loss of time. Both this
    and my life will be sent you to peruse and approve or alter before
    publication, and I need not say that you will have free scope to
    expunge all you disapprove of.

    I shall say no more till I get your reply to this.

    The winter here, if ten or twelve days somewhat cold can be called
    winter, has been clear, dry, and sunny; ever since my arrival in Italy
    I have been sitting without fire, and with open windows. Come away,
    dear Mary, from the horrible climate you are in; life is not endurable
    where you are.

    Florence is very gay, and a weight was taken from my mind, and body
    too, in getting on this side of the Alps. Heaven and hell cannot be
    very much more dissimilar....

    You may suppose I have now writing enough without scrawling long
    letters, so pardon this short one, dear Mary, from your affectionate

      E. J. TRELAWNY.

    _P.S._--Love to Clare.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    _April 1829._

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--Your letter reminded me of my misdeeds of omission,
    and of not writing to you as I ought, and it assured me of your kind
    thoughts in that happy land where as angels in heaven you can afford
    pity to us Arctic islanders. It is too bad, is it not, that when such
    a Paradise does exist as fair Italy, one should be chained here,
    without the infliction of such absolutely cold weather? I have never
    suffered a more ungenial winter. Winter it is still; a cold east wind
    has prevailed the last six weeks, making exercise in the open air a
    positive punishment. This is truly English; half a page about the
    weather, but here this subject has every importance; is it fine? you
    guess I am happy and enjoying myself; is it as it always is? you know
    that one is fighting against a domestic enemy which saps at the very
    foundations of pleasure.

    I am glad that you are occupying yourself, and I hope that your two
    friends will not cease urging you till you really put to paper the
    strange wild adventures you recount so well. With regard to the other
    subject, you may guess, my dear Friend, that I have often thought,
    often done more than think on the subject. There is nothing I shrink
    from more fearfully than publicity. I have too much of it, and, what
    is worse, I am forced by my hard situation to meet it in a thousand
    ways. Could you write my husband's life without naming me, it would be
    something; but even then I should be terrified at the rousing the
    slumbering voice of the public;--each critique, each mention of your
    work might drag me forward. Nor indeed is it possible to write
    Shelley's life in that way. Many men have his opinions,--none heartily
    and conscientiously act on them as he did,--it is his act that marks
    him.

    You know me, or you do not--in which case I will tell you what I am--a
    silly goose, who, far from wishing to stand forward to assert myself
    in any way, now that I am alone in the world, have but the time to
    wrap night and the obscurity of insignificance around me. This is
    weakness, but I cannot help it; to be in print, the subject of men's
    observations, of the bitter hard world's commentaries, to be attacked
    or defended, this ill becomes one who knows how little she possesses
    worthy to attract attention, and whose chief merit--if it be one--is
    a love of that privacy which no woman can emerge from without regret.

    Shelley's life must be written. I hope one day to do it myself, but it
    must not be published now. There are too many concerned to speak
    against him; it is still too sore a subject. Your tribute of praise,
    in a way that cannot do harm, can be introduced into your own life.
    But remember, I pray for omission, for it is not that you will not be
    too kind, too eager to do me more than justice. But I only seek to be
    forgotten.

    Clare has written to you she is about to return to Germany. She will,
    I suppose, explain to you the circumstances that make her return to
    the lady she was before with desirable. She will go to Carlsbad, and
    the baths will be of great service to her. Her health is improved,
    though very far from restored. For myself, I am as usual well in
    health and longing for summer, when I may enjoy the peace that alone
    is left me. I am another person under the genial influence of the sun;
    I can live unrepining with no other enjoyment but the country made
    bright and cheerful by its beams; till then I languish. Percy is quite
    well; he grows very fast and looks very healthy.

    It gives me great pleasure to hear from you, dear friend, so write
    often. I have now answered your letter, though I can hardly call this
    one. So you may very soon expect another. How are your dogs? and where
    is Roberts? Have you given up all idea of shooting? I hear Medwin is a
    great man at Florence, so Pisa and economy are at an end.
    Adieu.--Yours,

      M. S.

The fiery "Pirate" was much disappointed at Mary's refusal to collaborate
with him, and quite unable to understand her unwillingness to be the
instrument of making the facts of her own and Shelley's life the subject
of public discussion. His resentment soon passed away, but his first wrath
was evidently expressed with characteristic vigour.

    MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    _15th December 1829._

    ... Your last letter was not at all kind. You are angry with me, but
    what do you ask, and what do I refuse? You talk of writing Shelley's
    life, and ask me for materials. Shelley's life, as far as the public
    have to do with it, consisted of few events, and these are publicly
    known; the private events were sad and tragical. How would you relate
    them? As Hunt has, slurring over the real truth? Wherefore write
    fiction? and the truth, any part of it, is hardly for the rude cold
    world to handle. His merits are acknowledged, his virtues;--to bring
    forward actions which, right or wrong (and that would be a matter of
    dispute), were in their results tremendous, would be to awaken
    calumnies and give his enemies a voice.

           *       *       *       *       *

    As to giving Moore materials for Lord Byron's life, I thought--I
    think--I did right. I think I have achieved a great good by it. I wish
    it to be kept secret--decidedly I am averse to its being published,
    for it would destroy me to be brought forward in print. I commit
    myself on this point to your generosity. I confided the fact to you as
    I would anything I did, being my dearest friend, and had no idea that
    I was to find in you a harsh censor and public denouncer....

    Did I uphold Medwin? I thought that I had always disliked him. I am
    sure I thought him a great annoyance, and he was always borrowing
    crowns which he never meant to pay and we could ill spare. He was
    Jane's friend more than any one's.

    To be sure, we did not desire a duel, nor a horsewhipping, and Lord
    Byron and Mrs. B. ... worked hard to promote peace.--Affectionately
    yours,

      M. W. S.

During this year Mrs. Shelley was busily employed on her own novel,
_Perkin Warbeck_, the subject of which may have occurred to her in
connection with the historic associations of Arundel Castle. It is a work
of great ingenuity and research, though hardly so spontaneous in
conception as her earlier books. In spite of her retired life she had come
to be looked on as a celebrity, and many distinguished literary people
sought her acquaintance. Among these was Lord Dillon, conspicuous by his
good looks, his conversational powers, his many rare qualities of head and
heart, and his numerous oddities. Between him and Mrs. Shelley a strong
mutual regard existed, and the following letter is of sufficient interest
to be inserted here. The writer had desired Mary's opinion on the subject
of one of his poems.

    LORD DILLON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    DITCHLEY, _18th March 1829_.

    MY DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--I return you many thanks for your letter and
    your favourable opinion. It is singular that you should have hit upon
    the two parts that I almost think the best of all my poem. I fear that
    my delineations of women do not please you, or persons who think as
    you do. I have a classic feeling about your sex--that is to say, I
    prefer nature to what is called delicacy.... I must be excused,
    however; I have never loved or much liked women of refined sentiment,
    but those of strong and blunt feelings and passions.... Pray tell me
    candidly, for I believe you to be sincere, though at first I doubted
    it, for your manner is reserved, and that put me on my guard; but now
    I admit you to my full confidence, which I seldom give. Is not
    Eccelino considered as too free? Tell me then truly--I never quote
    whenever I write to a person. You may trust me. You might tell me all
    the secrets in the world; they would never be breathed. I shall see
    you in May, and then we may converse more freely, but I own you look
    more sly than I think you are, and therefore I never was so candid
    with you as I think I ought to be. Have not people who did not know
    you taken you for a cunning person? You have puzzled me very much.
    Women always feel flattered when they are told they have puzzled
    people. I will tell you what has puzzled me. Your writings and your
    manner are not in accordance. I should have thought of you--if I had
    only read you--that you were a sort of my Sybil, outpouringly
    enthusiastic, rather indiscreet, and even extravagant; but you are
    cool, quiet, and feminine to the last degree--I mean in delicacy of
    manner and expression. Explain this to me. Shall I desire my brother
    to call on you with respect to Mr. Peter in the Tower? He is his
    friend, not mine. He is very clever, and I think you would like him.
    Pray tell Miss G. to write to me.--Yours most truly,

      DILLON.


    _Journal, October 8_ (1829).--I was at Sir Thomas Lawrence's to-day
    whilst Moore was sitting, and passed a delightful morning. We then
    went to the Charter House, and I saw his son, a beautiful boy.

    _January 9_ (1830).--Poor Lawrence is dead.

    Having seen him so lately, the suddenness of this event affects me
    deeply. His death opens all wounds. I see all those I love die around
    me, while I lament.

    _January 22._--I have begun a new kind of life somewhat, going a
    little into society and forming a variety of acquaintances. People
    like me, and flatter and follow me, and then I am left alone again,
    poverty being a barrier I cannot pass. Still I am often amused and
    sometimes interested.

    _March 23._--I gave a _soirée_, which succeeded very well. Mrs. Hare
    is going, and I am very sorry. She likes me, and she is gentle and
    good. Her husband is clever and her set very agreeable, rendered so by
    the reunion of some of the best people about town.

Mrs. Shelley now resided in Somerset Street, Portman Square. Her
occasional "at homes," though of necessity simple in character, were not
on that account the less frequented. Here might be met many of the most
famous and most charming men and women of their day, and here Moore would
thrill all hearts and bring tears to all eyes by his exquisitely pathetic
singing of his own melodies.

The hostess herself, gentle and winning, was an object of more admiration
than would ever be suspected from the simple, almost deprecatory tone of
her scraps of journal. Among her MSS. are numerous anonymous poems
addressed to her, some sentimental, others high-flown in compliment,
though none, unfortunately, of sufficient literary merit to be, in
themselves, worth preserving. But, whether they afforded her amusement or
gratification, it is probable that she had to work too hard and too
continuously to give more than a passing thought to such things. From the
following letter of Clare's it may be inferred that _Perkin Warbeck_,
which appeared in 1830, was, in a pecuniary sense, something of a
disappointment, and that this was the more vexatious as Mary had lent
Clare money during her visit to England, and would have been glad, now, to
be repaid, not, however, on her own account, but that of Marshall,
Godwin's former amanuensis and her kind friend in her childhood, whom, it
is evident, she was helping to support in his old age.

    CLARE TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    DRESDEN, _28th March 1830_.

    MY DEAR MARY--At last I take up the pen to write to you. At least thus
    much can I affirm, that I take it up, but whether I shall ever get to
    the end of my task and complete this letter is beyond me to decide.
    One of the causes of my long delay has been the hope of being able to
    send you the money for Marshall. I was to have been paid in February,
    but as yet have received neither money nor notice from Mrs. K. ... By
    this I am led to think she does not intend to do so until her return
    here in May. I am vexed, for I have been reproaching myself the whole
    winter with this debt. Of this be sure, the instant I am paid I will
    despatch what I owe you to London.... Here I was interrupted, and for
    two days have been unable to continue. How delighted I was with the
    news of Percy's health, as also with his letter, though I am afraid it
    was written unwillingly and cost him a world of pains. Poor child! he
    little thinks how much I am attached to him! When I first saw him I
    thought him cold, but afterwards he discovered so much intellect in
    all his speeches, and so much originality in his doings, that I
    willingly pardoned him for not being interested in anything but
    himself. In some weeks he will again be at home for Easter. But what
    is this to me, since I shall not see him, nor perhaps even ever again.
    It seems settled that my destination is Vienna. The negotiation with
    Mrs. K. ... has been broken off on my showing great unwillingness to
    go to Italy; that it may not be renewed I will not say. She now talks
    of going to Nice, to which place I have no objection in the world to
    accompany her. But nothing of this can be settled till she comes, for
    as neither of us can speak frankly in our letters, owing to their
    being subject to her husband's inspection, we have as yet done nothing
    but mutually misinterpret the circumspect and circuitous phraseology
    in which our real meaning was wrapped. Nothing can equal the letters
    she has written to me; they were detached pieces of agony. How she
    lived at all after bringing such productions into the world I cannot
    guess. Instruments of torture are nothing to them. She favoured me
    with one every week, which was a very clever contrivance on her part
    to keep us in an agitation equal to the one she suffered at Moghileff.
    Thanks to her and Natalie's perpetual indisposition, I have passed a
    tolerably disagreeable winter. At home I was employed in rubbings,
    stretchings, putting on trusses, dressing ulcers, applying leeches,
    and bandaging swollen glands. Out-of-doors our recreations were [all]
    baths, baths of bullock's blood, mud baths, steam baths, soap baths,
    and electricity. If I had served in a hospital I should not have been
    more constantly employed with sickness and its appendages. I could
    understand this order of things pretty well, and even perhaps from
    custom find some beauty in their deformity if the sky were pitch black
    and the stars red; but when I see them so beautiful I cannot help
    imagining that they were made to look down upon a life more consonant
    with their own natures than the one I lead, and I am filled with the
    most bitter dislike of it. I ought to confess, however, that it is a
    great mitigation of my disagreeable life to live in Dresden; such is
    the structure of existence here that a thousand alleviations to misery
    are offered. Here, as in Italy, you cannot walk the streets without
    meeting with some object which affords ready and agreeable occupation
    to the mind. I never yet was in a place where I met so much to please
    and so little to shock me. In vain I endeavour to recollect anything I
    could wish otherwise; not a fault presents itself. The more I become
    acquainted with the town and see its smallness, the more I am struck
    with the uncommon resources in literature _e le belle arti_ it
    possesses. With what regret shall I leave it for Vienna. Farewell,
    then, a long farewell to Mount Olympus and its treasures of wisdom,
    science, poetry, and skill; the vales may be green and many rills
    trill through them, and many flocks pasture there, but the inhabitants
    will be as vile and miserable to me as were the shepherds of Admetus
    to Apollo when he kept their company. At any rate Vienna is better
    than Russia. I trust and hope when I am there you will make some
    little effort to procure the newspapers and reviews and new works;
    this alone can soften the mortification I shall feel in being obliged
    to live in that city. Already I have lost the little I had gained in
    my English, and I can only write with an effort that is painful to me;
    it precludes the possibility of my finding any pleasure in
    composition. I pause a hundred times and lean upon my hand to
    endeavour to find words to express the idea that is in my mind. It is
    a vain endeavour; the idea is there, but no words, and I leave my task
    unfinished. Another favour I have to ask you, which is, if I should
    require your mediation to get a book published at Paris, you will
    write to your friends there, and otherwise interest yourself as warmly
    as you can about it. Promise me this, and give me an answer upon it as
    quick as you can. I have had many letters from Charles. His affairs
    have taken the most favourable turn at Vienna. Everything is _couleur
    de rose_. More employment than he can accept seems likely to be
    offered to him; this is consolatory. He talks with rapture of his
    future plans, has taken a charming house, painted and furnished a
    pretty room for me, and will send Antonia and the babes to the lovely
    hills at some miles from the town so soon as they arrive.

    Mamma has written to me everything concerning Colburn; this is indeed
    a disappointment, and the more galling because odiously unjust. Let me
    hear if your plan of writing the _Memoirs of Josephine_ is likely to
    be put into execution. This perhaps would pay you better. I tremble
    for the anxiety of mind you suffer about Papa and your own pecuniary
    resources.

           *       *       *       *       *

    What says the world to Moore's _Lord Byron_? I saw some extracts in a
    review, and cannot express the pleasure I experienced in finding it
    was sad stuff. It was the journal of the Noble Lord, and I should say
    contained as fine a picture of indigestion as one could expect to meet
    with in Dr. Paris, Graham, or Johnson. Of Trelawny I know little. He
    wrote to me, describing where he was living and what kind of life he
    was leading. I have not yet answered him, although I make a sacred
    promise every day not to let it go over my head without so doing. But
    there is a certain want of sympathy between us which makes writing to
    him extremely disagreeable to me. I admire, esteem, and love him; some
    excellent qualities he possesses in a degree that is unsurpassed, but
    then it is exactly in another direction from my centre and my impetus.
    He likes a turbid and troubled life, I a quiet one; he is full of fine
    feelings and has no principles, I am full of fine principles but never
    had a feeling; he receives all his impressions through his heart, I
    through my head. _Que voulez vous? Le moyen de se recontrer_ when one
    is bound for the North Pole and the other for the South?

    What a terrible description you give of your winter. Ours, though
    severe, was an exceedingly fine one. From the time I arrived here
    until now there has not been a day that was not perfectly dry and
    clear. Within this last week we have had a great deal of rain. I well
    understand how much your spirits must have been affected by three
    months' incessant foggy raw weather. In my mind nothing can compensate
    for a bad climate. How I wish I could draw you to Dresden. You would
    go into society and would see a quantity of things which, treated by
    your pen, would bring you in a good profit. Life is very cheap here,
    and in the summer you might take a course of Josephlitz or Carlsbad,
    which would set up your health and enable you to bear the winter of
    London with tolerable philosophy. Forgive me if I don't write
    descriptions. It is impossible, situated as I am. I have not one
    moment free from annoyance from morning till night. This state of
    things depresses my mind terribly. When I have a moment of leisure it
    is breathed in a prayer for death. You will not wonder, therefore,
    that I think the Miss Booths right in their manner of acting; what is
    the use of trifling or mincing the matter with so despotic a ruler as
    the Disposer of the Universe? The one who is left is much to be
    pitied, for now she must die by herself, and that I think is as
    disagreeable as to live by oneself. In your next pray mention
    something about politics and how the London University is getting on.
    The accounts here of the distress in England are awful. Foreigners
    talk of that country as they would of Torre del Greco or Torre dell'
    Annunciata at the announcement of an eruption of Vesuvius. I should
    think my mother must be delighted to be no more plagued with us; it
    was really a great bother and no pleasure for her. She writes me a
    delightful account of Papa's health and spirits. Heaven grant it may
    continue. I am reading _Political Justice_, and am filled with
    admiration at the vastness of the plan, and the clearness and skill,
    nothing less than immortal, with which it is executed.

    Farewell! write to me about your novel and particularly the opinion it
    creates in society. Pray write. The letters of my acquaintances
    (friends I have none) are my only pleasure. Natalie is pretty well;
    the knee is better, inasmuch as the swelling is smaller, but the
    weakness is as great as ever. We sit opposite to one another in
    perfect wretchedness; I because I am obliged to entreat her all day to
    do what she does not like, and she because she is entreated.

      C. C.

    My love to William.

During the next five years the "Author of _Frankenstein_" wrote several
short tales (some of which were published in the _Keepsake_, an annual
periodical, the precursor of the _Book of Beauty_), but no new novel. She
was to have abundant employment in furthering the work of another.




CHAPTER XXII

AUGUST 1830-OCTOBER 1831


To all who know Trelawny's curious book, the following correspondence,
which tells the story of its publication and preparation for the press,
will in itself be interesting. To readers of Mary Shelley's life it has a
strong additional interest as illustrating, better than any second-hand
narrative can do, the unique kind of friendship subsisting between her and
Trelawny, and which, based on genuine mutual regard and admiration, and a
common devotion to the memory of Shelley and of a golden age which ended
at his death, proved stronger than all obstacles, and, in spite of
occasional eclipses through hasty words and misunderstandings, in spite of
wide differences in temperament, in habits, in opinions, and morals, yet
survived with a kind of dogged vitality for years.

Shelley said of _Epipsychidion_ that it was "an idealised history of his
life and feelings." _The Adventures of a Younger Son_ is an idealised
history of Trelawny's youth and exploits, and very amusing it is, though
rather gruesome in some of its details; a romance of adventures, of
hair-breadth escapes by flood and field. As will be seen, the original MS.
had to be somewhat toned down before it was presented to the public, but
it is, as it stands, quite sufficiently forcible, as well as
blood-curdling, for most readers.

The letters may now be left to tell their own tale.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _16th August 1830._

    MY DEAR MARY--That my letter may not be detained, I shall say nothing
    about Continental politics.

    My principal motive in writing is to inform you that I have nearly
    completed the first portion of _my History_, enough for three ordinary
    volumes, which I wish published forthwith. The Johnsons, as I told you
    before, are totally ruined by an Indian bankruptcy; the smallness of
    my income prevents my supporting them. Mr. Johnson is gone to India to
    see if he can save aught from the ruin of his large fortune. In the
    meantime his wife is almost destitute; this spurs me on. Brown, who is
    experienced in these matters, declares I shall have no difficulty in
    getting a very considerable sum for the MS. now. I shall want some
    friend to dispose of it for me. My name is not to appear or to be
    disclosed to the bookseller or any other person. The publisher who may
    purchase it is to be articled down to publish the work without
    omitting or altering a single word, there being nothing actionable,
    though a great deal objectionable, inasmuch as it is tinctured with
    the prejudices and passions of the author's mind. However, there is
    nothing to prevent women reading it but its general want of merit. The
    opinion of the two or three who have read it is that it will be very
    successful, but I know how little value can be attached to such
    critics. I'll tell you what I think--that it is good, and might have
    been better; it is [filled] with events that, if not marred by my
    manner of narrating, must be interesting. I therefore plainly foresee
    it will be generally read or not at all. Who will undertake to, in the
    first place, dispose of it, and, in the second, watch its progress
    through the press? I care not who publishes it: the highest bidder
    shall have it. Murray would not like it, it is too violent; parsons
    and _Scots_, and, in short, also others are spoken of irreverently, if
    not profanely. But when I have your reply I shall send the MS. to
    England, and your eyes will be the judge, so tell me precisely your
    movements.--Your attached

      E. J. T.

    Poste Restante, Florence.

    When does Moore conclude his _Life of Byron_? If I knew his address I
    could give him a useful hint that would be of service to the fame of
    the Poet.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    FLORENCE, _28th October 1830_.

    DEAREST MARY--My friend Baring left Florence on the 25th to proceed
    directly to London, so that he will be there as soon as you can get
    this letter. He took charge of my MSS., and promised to leave them at
    Hookham's, Bond Street, addressed to you. I therefore pray you lose no
    time in inquiring about them; they are divided into chapters and
    volumes, copied out in a plain hand, and all ready to go to press.
    They have been corrected with the greatest care, and I do not think
    you will have any trouble with them on that score. All I want you to
    do is to read them attentively, and then show them to Murray and
    Colburn, or any other publisher, and to hear if they will publish them
    and what they will give. You may say the author cannot at present be
    _named_, but that, when the work goes forth in the world, there are
    many who will recognise it. Besides the second series, which treats of
    Byron, Shelley, Greece, etc., will at once remove the veil, and the
    publisher who has the first shall have that. Yet at present I wish the
    first series to go forth strictly anonymous, and therefore you must
    on no account trust the publisher with my name. Surely there is matter
    enough in the book to make it interesting, if only viewed in the light
    of a _romance_. You will see that I have divided it into very short
    chapters, in the style of Fielding, and that I have selected mottoes
    from the only three poets who were the staunch advocates of liberty,
    and my contemporaries. I have left eight or nine blanks in the mottoes
    for you to fill up from the work of one of those poets. Brown, who was
    very anxious about the fame of Keats, has given many of his MSS. for
    the purpose. Now, if you could find any from the MSS. of Shelley or
    Byron, they would excite much interest, and their being strictly
    applicable is not of much importance. If you cannot, why, fill them up
    from the published works of Byron, Shelley, or Keats, but no others
    are to be admitted. When you have read the work and heard the opinion
    of the booksellers, write to me before you settle anything; only
    remember I am very anxious that no alterations or omissions should be
    made, and that the mottoes, whether long or short, double or treble,
    should not be curtailed. Will not Hogg assist you? I might get other
    people, but there is no person I have such confidence in as you, and
    the affair is one of confidence and trust, and are we not bound and
    united together by ties stronger than those which earth has to impose?
    Dearest friend, I am obliged hastily to conclude.--Yours
    affectionately,

      E. J. TRELAWNY.

    George Baring, Esq., who takes my book, is the brother of the banker;
    he has read it, and is in my confidence, and will be very ready to see
    and confer with you and do anything. He is an excellent person. I
    shall be very anxious till I hear from you.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    33 SOMERSET STREET,
    _27th December 1830_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--At present I can only satisfy your impatience with
    the information that I have received your MS. and read the greater
    part of it. Soon I hope to say more. George Baring did not come to
    England, but after considerable delay forwarded it to me from Cologne.

    I am delighted with your work; it is full of passion, energy, and
    novelty; it concerns the sea, and that is a subject of the greatest
    interest to me. I should imagine that it must command success.

    But, my dear friend, allow me to persuade you to permit certain
    omissions. In one of your letters to me you say that "there is nothing
    in it that a woman could not read." You are correct for the most part,
    and yet without the omission of a few words here and there--the scene
    before you go to school with the mate of your ship--and above all the
    scene of the burning of the house, following your scene with your
    Scotch enemy--I am sure that yours will be a book interdicted to
    women. Certain words and phrases, pardoned in the days of Fielding,
    are now justly interdicted, and any gross piece of ill taste will make
    your booksellers draw back.

    I have named all the objectionable passages, and I beseech you to let
    me deal with them as I would with Lord Byron's _Don Juan_, when I
    omitted all that hurt my taste. Without this yielding on your part I
    shall experience great difficulty in disposing of your work; besides
    that I, your partial friend, strongly object to coarseness, now wholly
    out of date, and beg you for my sake to make the omissions necessary
    for your obtaining feminine readers. Amidst so much that is beautiful
    and imaginative and exalting, why leave spots which, believe me, are
    blemishes? I hope soon to write to you again on the subject.

    The burnings, the alarms, the absorbing politics of the day render
    booksellers almost averse to publishing at all. God knows how it will
    all end, but it looks as if the autocrats would have the good sense to
    make the necessary sacrifices to a starving people.

    I heard from Clare to-day; she is well and still at Nice. I suppose
    there is no hope of seeing you here. As for me, I of course still
    continue a prisoner. Percy is quite well, and is growing more and more
    like Shelley. Since it is necessary to live, it is a great good to
    have this tie to life, but it is a wearisome affair. I hope you are
    happy.--Yours, my dearest friend, ever,

      MARY SHELLEY.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    FIRENZE, _19th January 1831_.

    MY DEAREST MARY--For, notwithstanding what you may think of me, you
    every day become dearer to me. The men I have linked myself to in my
    wild career through life have almost all been prematurely cut off, and
    the only friends which are left me are women, and they are strange
    beings. I have lost them all by some means or other; they are dead to
    me in being married, or (for you are all slaves) separated by
    obstacles which are insurmountable, and as Lord Chatham observes,
    "Friendship is a weed of slow growth in aged bosoms." But now to your
    letter. I to-day received yours of the 27th of December; you say you
    have received my MS. It has been a painful and arduous undertaking
    narrating my life. I have omitted a great deal, and avoided being a
    pander to the public taste for the sake of novelty or effect. Landor,
    a man of superior literary acquirements; Kirkup, an artist of superior
    taste; Baring, a man of the world and very religious; Mrs. Baring,
    moral and squeamish; Lady Burghersh, aristocratic and proud as a
    queen; and lastly, Charles Brown, a plain downright Cockney critic,
    learned in the trade of authorship, and has served his time as a
    literary scribe. All these male and female critics have read and
    passed their opinions on my narrative, and therefore you must excuse
    my apparent presumption in answering your objections to my book with
    an appearance of presumptuous dictation. Your objections to the
    coarseness of those scenes you have mentioned have been foreseen, and,
    without further preface or apology, I shall briefly state my wishes on
    the subject. Let Hogg or Horace Smith read it, and, without your
    _giving any_ opinion, hear theirs; then let the booksellers, Colburn
    or others, see it, and then if it is their general opinion that there
    are _words_ which are better omitted, why I must submit to their
    being omitted; but do not prompt them by prematurely giving your
    opinion. My life, though I have sent it you, as the dearest friend I
    have, is not written for the amusement of women; it is not a novel. If
    you begin clipping the wings of my true story, if you begin erasing
    words, you must then omit sentences, then chapters; it will be pruning
    an Indian jungle down to a clipped French garden. I shall be so
    appalled at my MS. in its printed form, that I shall have no heart to
    go on with it. Dear Mary, I love women, and you know it, but my life
    is not dedicated to them; it is to men I write, and my first three
    volumes are principally adapted to sailors. England is a nautical
    nation, and, if they like it, the book will amply repay the publisher,
    and I predict it will be popular with sailors, for it is true to its
    text. By the time you get this letter the time of publishing is come,
    and we are too far apart to continue corresponding on the subject. Let
    Hogg, Horace Smith, or any one you like, read the MS.; or the
    booksellers; if they absolutely object to any particular words or
    short passages, why let them be omitted by leaving blanks; but I
    should prefer a first edition as it now stands, and then a second as
    the bookseller thought best. In the same way that _Anastasius_ was
    published, the suppression of the first edition of that work did not
    prevent its success. All men lament that _Don Juan_ was not published
    as it was written, as under any form it would have been interdicted to
    women, and yet under any form they would have unavoidably read it.

    Brown, who is learned in the bookselling trade, says I should get £200
    per volume. Do not dispose of it under any circumstances for less than
    £500 the three volumes. Have you seen a book written by a man named
    Millingen? He has written an article on me, and I am answering it. My
    reply to it I shall send you. The _Literary Gazette_, which published
    the extract regarding me, I have replied to, and to them I send my
    reply; the book I have not seen. If they refuse, as the article I
    write is amusing, you will have no difficulty in getting it admitted
    in some of the London magazines. It will be forwarded to you in a few
    days, so you see I am now fairly coming forward in a new character. I
    have laid down the sword for the pen. Brown has just called with the
    article in question copied, and I send it together.

    I have spoken to you about filling up the mottoes; the title of my
    book I wish to be simply thus--_The Life of a Man_, and not _The
    Discarded Son_, which looks too much like romance or a common
    novel....

    Florence is very gay, and there are many pretty girls here, and balls
    every night. Tell Mrs. Paul not to be angry at my calling her and her
    sisters by their Christian names, for I am very lawless, as you know,
    in that particular, and not very particular on other things.

    Brown talks of writing to you about the mottoes to my book, as he is
    very anxious about those of his friend Keats. Have you any MS. of
    Shelley's or Byron's to fill up the eight or ten I left blank?
    Remember the short chapters are to be adhered to in its printed form.
    I shall have no excitement to go on writing till I see what I have
    already written in print. By the bye, my next volumes will to general
    readers be far more interesting, and published with my name, or at
    least called Treloen, which is our original family name.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    POSTE RESTANTE, FIRENZE,
    _5th April 1831_.

    MY DEAR MARY--Since your letter, dated December 1830, I have not had a
    single line from you, yet in that you promised to write in a few days.
    Why is this? or have you written, and has your letter miscarried, or
    have not my letters reached you? I was anxious to have published the
    first part of my life this year, and if it had succeeded in
    interesting general readers, it would have induced me to have
    proceeded to its completion, for I cannot doubt that if the first
    part, published anonymously, and treating of people, countries, and
    things little known, should suit the public palate, that the latter,
    treating of people that everybody knows, and of things generally
    interesting, must be successful. But till I see the effect of the
    first part, I cannot possibly proceed to the second, and time is
    fleeting, and I am lost in idleness. I cannot write a line, and thus
    six months, in which I had leisure to have finished my narrative, are
    lost, and I am now deeply engaged in a wild scheme which will lead me
    to the East, and it is firmly my belief that when I again leave Europe
    it will be for ever. I have had too many hair-breadth escapes to hope
    that fortune will bear me up. My present Quixotic expedition is to be
    in the region wherein is still standing the column erected by
    Sardanapalus, and on it by him inscribed words to the effect: _Il faut
    jouir des plaisirs de la vie; tout le reste n'est rien_.

    At present I can only say, if nothing materially intervenes to prevent
    me, that in the autumn of this year I shall bend my steps towards the
    above-mentioned column, and try the effect of it.

    I am sick to death of the pleasureless life I lead here, and I should
    rather the tinkling of the little bell, which I hear summoning the
    dead to its last resting-place, was ringing for my body than endure
    the petty vexations of what is called civilised life, and see what I
    saw a few days back, the Austrian tyrants trampling on their helot
    Italians; but letters are not safe.--Your affectionate friend,

      E. J. T.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    SOMERSET STREET, _22d March 1831_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--What can you think of me and of my silence? I can
    guess by the contents of your letters and your not having yet received
    answers. Believe me that if I am at all to blame in this it arises
    from an error in judgment, not from want of zeal. Every post-day I
    have waited for the next, expecting to be able to communicate
    something definitive, and now still I am waiting; however, I trust
    that this letter will contain some certain intelligence before I send
    it. After all, I have done no more than send your manuscripts to
    Colburn, and I am still in expectation of his answer. In the first
    place, they insist on certain parts being expunged,--parts of which I
    alone had the courage to speak to you, but which had before been
    remarked upon as inadmissible. These, however (with trifling
    exceptions), occur only in the first volume. The task of deciding upon
    them may very properly be left to Horace Smith, if he will undertake
    it--we shall see. Meanwhile, Colburn has not made up his mind as to
    the price. He will not give £500. The terms he will offer I shall hope
    to send before I close this letter, so I will say no more except to
    excuse my having conceded so much time to his dilatoriness. In all I
    have done I may be wrong; I commonly act from my own judgment; but
    alas! I have great experience. I _believe_ that, if I sent your work
    to Murray, he would return it in two months unread; simply saying that
    he does not print novels. Your end part would be a temptation, did not
    your intention to be severe on Moore make it improbable that he would
    like to engage in it; and he would keep me as long as Colburn in
    uncertainty; still this may be right to do, and I shall expect your
    further instructions by return of post. However, in one way you may
    help yourself. You know Lockhart. He reads and judges for Murray;
    write to him; your letter shall accompany the MS. to him. Still, this
    thing must not be done hastily, for if I take the MS. out of Colburn's
    hands, and, failing to dispose of it elsewhere, I come back to him, he
    will doubtless retreat from his original proposal. There are other
    booksellers in the world, doubtless, than these two, but, occupied as
    England is by political questions, and impoverished miserably, there
    are few who have enterprise at this juncture to offer a price. I quote
    examples. My father and myself would find it impossible to make any
    tolerable arrangement with any one except Colburn. He at least may be
    some guide as to what you may expect. Mr. Brown remembers the golden
    days of authors. When I first returned to England I found no
    difficulty in making agreements with publishers; they came to seek me;
    now money is scarce, and readers fewer than ever. I leave the rest of
    this page blank. I shall fill it up before it goes on Friday.


    _Friday, 25th March._

    At length, my dear friend, I have received the ultimatum of these
    great people. They offer you £300, and another £100 on a second
    edition; as this was sent me in writing, and there is no time for
    further communication before post-hour, I cannot _officially_ state
    the number of the edition. I should think 1000. I think that perhaps
    they may be brought to say £400 at once, or £300 at once and £200 on
    the second edition. There can be no time for parleying, and therefore
    you must make up your mind whether after doing good battle, if
    necessary, I shall accept their terms. Believe _my experience_ and
    that of those about me; you will not get a better offer from others,
    because money is not to be had, and Bulwer and other fashionable and
    selling authors are now obliged to content themselves with half of
    what they got before. If you decline this offer, I will, if you
    please, try Murray; he will keep me two months at least, and the worst
    is, if he won't do anything, Colburn will diminish his bargain, and we
    shall be in a greater mess than ever. I know that, as a woman, I am
    timid, and therefore a bad negotiator, except that I have perseverance
    and zeal, and, I repeat, experience of things as they are. Mr. Brown
    knows what they were, but they are sadly changed. The omissions
    mentioned must be made, but I will watch over them, and the mottoes
    and all that shall be most carefully attended to, depend on me.

    Do not be displeased, my dear friend, that I take advantage of this
    enormous sheet of paper to save postage, and ask you to tear off one
    half sheet, and to send it to Mrs. Hare. You talk of my visiting
    Italy. It is impossible for me to tell you how much I repine at my
    imprisonment here, but I dare not anticipate a change to take me there
    for a long time. England, its ungenial clime, its difficult society,
    and the annoyances to which I am subjected in it weigh on my spirits
    more than ever, for every step I take only shows me how impossible
    [it is], situated as I am, that I should be otherwise than wretched.
    My sanguine disposition and capacity to endure have borne me up
    hitherto, but I am sinking at last; but to quit so stupid a topic and
    to tell you news, did you hear that Medwin contrived to get himself
    gazetted for full pay in the Guards? I fancy that he employed his
    connection with the Shelleys, who are connected with the King through
    the Fitz Clarences. However, a week after he was gazetted as retiring.
    I suppose the officers cut him at mess; his poor wife and children!
    how I pity them! Jane is quite well, living in tranquillity. Hogg
    continues all that she can desire....

    She lives where she did; her children are well, and so is my Percy,
    who grows more like Shelley. I hear that your old favourite, Margaret
    Shelley, is prettier than ever; your Miss Burdett is married. I have
    been having lithographed your letter to me about Caroline. I wish to
    disperse about 100 copies among the many hapless fair who imagine
    themselves to have been the sole object of your tenderness. Clare is
    to have a first copy. Have you heard from poor dear Clare? She
    announced a little time ago that she was to visit Italy with the
    Kaisaroff to see you. I envied her, but I hear from her brother
    Charles that she has now quarrelled with Madame K., and that she will
    go to Vienna. God grant that her sufferings end soon. I begin to
    anticipate it, for I hear that Sir Tim is in a bad way. I shall hear
    more certain intelligence after Easter. Mrs. P. spends her Easter with
    Caroline, who lives in the neighbourhood, and will dine at Field
    Place. I have not seen Mrs. Aldridge since her marriage; she has
    scarcely been in town, but I shall see her this spring, when she comes
    up as she intends. You know, of course, that Elizabeth St. Aubyn is
    married, so you know that your ladies desert you sadly. If Clare and I
    were either to die or marry you would be left without a Dulcinea at
    all, with the exception of the sixscore new objects for idolatry you
    may have found among the pretty girls in Florence. Take courage,
    however; I am scarcely a Dulcinea, being your friend and not the Lady
    of your love, but such as I am, I do not think that I shall either
    die or marry this year, whatever may happen the next; as it is only
    spring you have some time before you.

    We are all here on the _qui vive_ about the Reform Bill; if it pass,
    and Tories and all expect it, well,--if not, Parliament is dissolved
    immediately, and they say that the new writs are in preparation. The
    Whigs triumphed gloriously in the boldness of their measure. England
    will be free if it is carried. I have had very bad accounts from Rome,
    but you are quiet as usual in Florence. I am scarcely wicked enough to
    desire that you should be driven home, nor do I expect it, and yet how
    glad I should be to see you. You never mention Zella. Adieu, my dear
    Trelawny.--I am always affectionately yours,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

    Hunt has set up a little 2d. paper, the _Tatler_, which is succeeding;
    this keeps him above water. I have not seen him very lately. He lives
    a long way off. He is the same as ever, a person whom all must love
    and regret.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    POSTE RESTANTE, FIRENZE,
    _8th April 1831_.

    DEAR MARY--The day after I had despatched a scolding letter to you, I
    received your Titanic letter, and sent Mrs. Hare her fathom of it....

    Now, let's to business. I thank you for the trouble you have taken
    about the MS. Let Colburn have it, and try to get £400 down, for as to
    what may be promised on a second edition, I am told is mere humbug.
    When my work is completed I have no doubt the first part will be
    reprinted, but get what you can paid down at once; as to the rest, I
    have only to say that I consent to Horace Smith being the sole
    arbitrator of what is necessary to be omitted, but do not let him be
    prompted, and tell him only to omit what is _absolutely
    indispensable_. Say to him that it is a friend of Shelley's who asks
    him this favour, but do not let him or any other individual know that
    I am the author. If my name is known, and the work can be brought home
    to me, the consequences will be most disastrous. I beseech you bear
    this in mind. Let all the mottoes appear in their respective chapters
    without any omission, regardless of their number to each chapter, for
    they are all good, and fill up the eight or ten I left blank from
    Byron and Shelley; if from MS. so much the better. The changes in the
    opinions of all mankind on political and other topics are favourable
    to such writers as I and the Poets of Liberty whom I have selected. We
    shall no longer be hooted at; it is our turn to triumph now. Would
    those glorious spirits, to whose genius the present age owes so much,
    could witness the triumphant success of these opinions. I think I see
    Shelley's fine eyes glisten, and faded cheek glow with fire unearthly.
    England, France, and Belgium free, the rest of Europe must follow; the
    theories of tyrants all over the world are shaken as by an earthquake;
    they may be propped up for a time, but their fall is inevitable. I am
    forgetting the main business of my letter. I hope, Mary, that you have
    not told Colburn or any one else that I am the author of the book.
    Remember that I must have the title simply _A Man's Life_, and that I
    should like to have as many copies for my friends as you can get from
    Colburn--ten, I hope--and that you will continue to report progress,
    and tell me when it is come out. You must have a copy, Horace Smith
    one, and Jane and Lady Burghersh; she is to be heard of at Apsley
    House--Duke of Wellington's--and then I have some friends here; you
    must send me a parcel by sea. If the time is unfavourable for
    publication, from men's minds being engrossed with politics, yet it is
    so far an advantage that my politics go with the times, and not as
    they would have been some years back, obnoxious and premature. I
    decide on Colburn as publisher, not from liberality of his terms, but
    his courage, and trusting that as little as possible will be omitted;
    and, by the bye, I wish you to keep copies, for I have none, of those
    parts which are omitted. Enough of this. Of Clare I have seen nothing.
    Do not you, dear Mary, abandon me by following the evil examples of
    my other ladies. I should not wonder if fate, without our choice,
    united us; and who can control his fate? I blindly follow his decrees,
    dear Mary.--Your

      E. J. T.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    SOMERSET STREET, _14th June 1831_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--Your work is in progress at last, and is being
    printed with great rapidity. Horace Smith undertook the revision, and
    sent a very favourable report of it to the publishers; to me he says:
    "Having written to you a few days ago, I have only to annex a copy of
    my letter to Colburn and Bentley, whence you will gather my opinion of
    the MS.; it is a most powerful, but rather perilous work, which will
    be much praised and much abused by the liberal and bigoted. I have
    read it with great pleasure and think it admirable, in everything but
    the conclusion;" by this he means, as he says to Colburn and Bentley,
    "The conclusion is abrupt and disappointing, especially as previous
    allusions have been made to his later life which is not given.
    Probably it is meant to be continued, and if so it would be better to
    state it, for I have no doubt that his first part will create a
    sufficient sensation to ensure the sale of a second."

    In his former letter to me H. S. says: "Any one who has proved himself
    the friend of yourself and of him whom we all deplore I consider to
    have strong claims on my regard, and I therefore willingly undertake
    the revision of the MS. Pray assure the author that I feel flattered
    by this little mark of his confidence in my judgment, and that it will
    always give me pleasure to render him these or any other services."
    And now, my dear Trelawny, I hope you will not be angry at the title
    given to your book; the responsibility of doing anything for any one
    so far away as you is painful, and I have had many qualms, but what
    could I do? The publishers strongly objected to the _History of a Man_
    as being no title at all, or rather one to lead astray. The one
    adopted is taken from the first words of your MS., where you declare
    yourself a younger son--words pregnant of meaning in this country,
    where to be the younger son of a man of property is to be virtually
    discarded,--and they will speak volumes to the English reader; it is
    called, therefore, _The Adventures of a Younger Son_. If you are angry
    with me for this I shall be sorry, but I knew not what to do. Your MS.
    will be preserved for you; and remember, also, that it is pretty well
    known whom it is by. I suppose the persons who read the MS. in Italy
    have talked, and, as I told you, your mother speaks openly about it.
    Still it will not appear in print, in no newspaper accounts over which
    I have any control as emanating from the publisher. Let me know
    immediately how I am to dispose of the dozen copies I shall receive on
    your account. One must go to H. Smith, another to me, and to whom
    else? The rest I will send to you in Italy.

    There is another thing that annoys me especially. You will be paid in
    bills dating from the day of publication, now not far distant; three
    of various dates. To what man of business of yours can I consign
    these? the first I should think I could get discounted at once, and
    send you the cash; but tell me what I am to do. I know that all these
    hitches and drawbacks will make you vituperate womankind, and had I
    ever set myself up for a woman of business, or known how to manage my
    own affairs, I might be hurt; but you know my irremediable
    deficiencies on those subjects, and I represented them strongly to you
    before I undertook my task; and all I can say in addition is, that as
    far as I have seen, both have been obliged to make the same
    concessions, so be as forgiving and indulgent as you can.

    We are full here of reform or revolution, whichever it is to be; I
    should think something approaching the latter, though the first may be
    included in the last. Will you come over and sit for the new
    parliament? what are you doing? Have you seen Clare? how is she? She
    never writes except on special occasions, when she wants anything.
    Tell her that Percy is quite well.

    You tell me not to marry,--but I will,--any one who will take me out
    of my present desolate and uncomfortable position. Any one,--and with
    all this do you think that I shall marry? Never,--neither you nor
    anybody else. Mary Shelley shall be written on my tomb,--and why? I
    cannot tell, except that it is so pretty a name that though I were to
    preach to myself for years, I never should have the heart to get rid
    of it.

    Adieu, my dear friend. I shall be very anxious to hear from you; to
    hear that you are not angry about all the _contretemps_ attendant on
    your publication, and to receive your further directions.--Yours very
    truly,

      M. W. SHELLEY.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    POSTE RESTANTE, FIRENZE,
    _29th June 1831_.

    DEAR MARY--Your letter, dated 14th June, I have received, after a long
    interval, and your letter before that is dated 22d March. It would
    appear by your last that you must have written another letter between
    March and June, by allusions in this last respecting my Mother. If so,
    it has never reached me, so that if it contained anything which is
    necessary for me to know, I pray you let me have a transcript, so far
    as your memory will serve to give it me. I am altogether ignorant of
    what arrangements you have made with Colburn; and am only in
    possession of the facts contained in the second, to wit, that Horace
    Smith is revising the work for publication. I trust he will not be too
    liberal with the pruning-knife. When will the cant and humbug of these
    costermonger times be reformed? Nevertheless tell H. Smith that the
    author is fully sensible of his kindness and (for once, at least, in
    his life) with all his heart joins his voice to that of the world in
    paying tribute to the sterling ability of Mr. Horace Smith; and I
    remember Shelley and others speaking of him as one often essayed on
    the touchstone of proof, and never found wanting. Horace Smith's
    criticism on the _Life_ is flattering, and as regards the perilous
    part--why I never have, and never shall, crouch to those I utterly
    despise, to wit, the bigoted. The Roman Pontiff might as well have
    threatened me with excommunication when on board the _Grub_, if I
    failed to strike my top-sails, and lower my proud flag to the lubberly
    craft which bore his silly banner, bedaubed with mitres, crosses, and
    St. Peter's Keys.

    I did not mean to call my book _The History of a Man_, but simply
    thus, _A Man's Life_; "Adventures" and "Younger Son" are commonplace,
    and I don't like it; but if it is to be so, why, I shall not waste
    words in idle complaints: would it were as I had written it. By the
    bye, you say justly the MS. ends abruptly; the truth is, as you know,
    it is only the first part of my life, and to conclude it will fill
    three more volumes: that it is to be concluded, I thought I had stated
    in a paragraph annexed to the last chapter of that which is now in the
    press, which should run thus--

    "I am, or rather have, continued this history of my life, and it will
    prove I have not been a passive instrument of despotism, nor shall I
    be found consorting with those base, sycophantic, and mercenary
    wretches who crouch and crawl and fawn on kings, and priests, and
    lords, and all in authority under them. On my return to Europe, its
    tyrants had gathered together all their helots and gladiators to
    restore the cursed dynasty of the Bourbons, and thousands of slaves
    went forth to extinguish and exterminate liberty, truth, and justice.
    I went forth, too, my hand ever against them, and when tyranny had
    triumphed, I wandered an exile in the world and leagued myself with
    men worthy to be called so, for they, inspired by wisdom, uncoiled the
    frauds contained in lying legends, which had so long fatally deluded
    the majority of mankind. Alas! those apostles have not lived to see
    the tree they planted fructify; would they had tarried a little while
    to behold this new era of 1830-31, how they would have rejoiced to
    behold the leagued conspiracy of kings broken, and their bloodhound
    priests and nobles muzzled, their impious confederacy to enslave and
    rob the people paralysed by a blow that has shaken their usurpation to
    the base, and must inevitably be followed by their final overthrow.
    Yes, the sun of freedom is dawning on the pallid slaves of Europe,"
    etc.

    The conclusion of this diatribe I am certain you have, and if you have
    not the beginning, why put it in beginning with the words: "I have
    continued the history of my life."

    If I thought there was a probability that I could get a seat in the
    reformed House of Commons, I would go to England, or if there was a
    probability of revolution. I was more delighted with your resolve not
    to change your name than with any other portion of your letter.
    Trelawny, too, is a good name, and sounds as well as Shelley; it fills
    the mouth as well and will as soon raise a spirit. By the bye, when
    you send my books, send me also Mary Wollstonecraft's _Rights of
    Women_, and Godwin's new work on _Man_, and tell me what you are now
    writing. The Hares are at Lucca Baths. Never omit to tell me what you
    know of Caroline. Do you think there is any opening among the
    demagogues for me? It is a bustling world at present, and likely so to
    continue. I must play a part. Write, Mary mine, speedily.

    Is my book advertised? If so, the motto from Byron should accompany
    it.

    Clare only remained in Florence about ten days; some sudden death of a
    relative of the family she resides with recalled them to Russia. I saw
    her three or four times. She was very miserable, and looked so pale,
    thin, and haggard. The people she lived with were bigots, and treated
    her very badly. I wished to serve her, but had no means. Poor lady, I
    pity her; her life has been one of continued misery. I hope on Sir
    Timothy's death it will be bettered; her spirits are broken, and she
    looks fifty; I have not heard of her since her departure. Mrs. Hare
    once saw her, but she was so prejudiced against her, from stories she
    had heard against her from the Beauclercs, that she could hardly be
    induced to notice her. You are aware that I do not wish my book to
    appear as if written for publication, and therefore have avoided all
    allusions which might induce people to think otherwise. I wish all the
    mottoes to be inserted, as they are a selection of beautiful poetry,
    and many of them not published.

    The bills, you say, Colburn and Bentley are to give you; perhaps
    Horace Smith may further favour me by getting them negotiated. I am
    too much indebted to him to act so scurvily as not to treat him with
    entire confidence, so with the injunction of secrecy you may tell him
    my name. If he dislikes the affair of the bills, as I cannot employ
    any of my people of business, why give the bills, or rather place them
    in the hands of a man who keeps a glover's shop (I know him well). His
    name is Moon, and his shop is corner one in Orange Street, Bloomsbury
    Square. When I get your reply, I will, if necessary, write to him on
    the subject. I pray you write me on receipt of this. My child Zella is
    growing up very pretty, and with a soul of fire. She is living with
    friends of mine near Lucca.

    The only copies of the book I wish you to give away are to Horace
    Smith, Mary Shelley, Lady Burghersh, No. 1 Hyde Park Terrace, Oxford
    Road, and Jane Williams, to remind her that she is not forgotten.
    Shelley's tomb and mine in Rome, is, I am told, in a very dilapidated
    state. I will see to its repair. Send me out six copies by sea; one if
    you can sooner. Address them to Henry Dunn, Leghorn.

      E. J. TRELAWNY.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    POSTE RESTANTE, FIRENZE,
    _19th July 1831_.

           *       *       *       *       *

    By the bye, Mary, if it is not too late, I should wish the name of
    Zella to be spelt in the correct Arabic, thus, _Zellâ_, in my book. I
    changed it in common with several others of the names to prevent my
    own being too generally recognised; with regard to hers, if not too
    late, I should now wish it to appear in its proper form, besides
    which, in the chapter towards the conclusion, wherein I narrate an
    account of a pestilence which was raging in the town of Batavia, I
    wish the word Java fever to be erased, and cholera morbus substituted.
    For we alone had the former malady on board the schooner, having
    brought it into the Batavia Roads with us, but on our arrival there
    we found the cholera raging with virulence, most of those attacked
    expiring in the interval of the setting and rising of the sun. Luis,
    our steward, I thought died from fever, as we had had it previously on
    board, but the medicals pronounced it or denounced it cholera. If the
    alteration can be made, it will be interesting, as in the history of
    the cholera I see published, they only traced the origin to 1816, when
    the fact is, it was in 1811 that I am speaking of, and no doubt it has
    existed for thousands of years before, but it is only of late, like
    the natives of Hindoostan, it has visited Europe. It is sent by
    Nemesis, a fitting retribution for the gold and spices we have robbed
    them of. The malediction of my Malayan friends has come to pass, for I
    have no doubt the Russian caravans which supply that empire with tea,
    silks, and spices introduced the cholera, or gave it into the bargain,
    or as _bona mano_. I wish you would write, for I am principally
    detained here by wishing to get a letter from you ere I go to some
    other place.--Yours, and truly,

      E. T.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    SOMERSET STREET, _26th July 1831_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--Your third volume is now printing, so I should
    imagine that it will very soon be published; everything shall be
    attended to as you wish. The letter to which I alluded in my former
    one was a tiny one enclosed to Clare, which perhaps you have received
    by this time. It mentioned the time of the agreement; £300 in bills of
    three, six, and eight months, dated from the day of publication, and
    £100 more on a second edition. The mention I made of your mother was,
    that she speaks openly in society of your forthcoming memoirs, so that
    I should imagine very little real secrecy will attend them. However,
    you will but gain reputation and admiration through them.

    I hope you are going on, for your continuation will, I am sure, be
    ardently looked for. I am so sorry for the delay of all last winter,
    yet I did my best to conclude the affair; but the state of the nation
    has so paralysed bookselling that publishers were very backward,
    though Colburn was in his heart eager to get at your book. As to the
    price, I have taken pains to ascertain; and you receive as much as is
    given to the best novelists at this juncture, which may console your
    vanity if it does not fill your pocket.

    The Reform Bill will pass, and a considerable revolution in the
    government of the country will, I imagine, be the consequence.

    You have talents of a high order. You have powers; these, with
    industry and discretion, would advance you in any career. You ought
    not, indeed you ought not to throw away yourself as you do. Still, I
    would not advise your return on the speculation, because England is so
    sad a place that the mere absence from it I consider a peculiar
    blessing.

    My name will _never_ be Trelawny. I am not so young as I was when you
    first knew me, but I am as proud. I must have the entire affection,
    devotion, and, above all, the solicitous protection of any one who
    would win me. You belong to womenkind in general, and Mary Shelley
    will _never_ be yours.

    I write in haste, but I will write soon again, more at length. You
    shall have your copies the moment I receive them. Believe me, with all
    gratitude and affection, yours,

      M. W. SHELLEY.

    Jane thanks you for the book promised. I am infinitely chagrined at
    what you tell me concerning Clare. If the B.'s spoke against her, that
    means Mrs. B. and her stories were gathered from Lord Byron, who
    feared Clare and did not spare her; and the stories he told were such
    as to excuse the prejudice of any one.


    THE SAME TO THE SAME.

    SOMERSET STREET, _2d October 1831_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--I suppose that I have now some certain intelligence
    to send you, though I fear that it will both disappoint and annoy
    you. I am indeed ashamed that I have not been able to keep these
    people in better order, but I trusted to honesty, when I ought to have
    ensured it; however, thus it stands: your book is to be published in
    the course of the month, and then your bills are to be dated. As soon
    as I get them I will dispose of them as you direct, and you will
    receive notice on the subject without delay. I cannot procure for you
    a copy until then; they pretend that it is not all printed. If I can
    get an opportunity I will send you one by private hand, at any rate I
    shall send them by sea without delay. I will write to Smith about
    negotiating your bills, and I have no doubt that I shall be able
    somehow or other to get you money on them. I will go myself to the
    City to pay Barr's correspondent as soon as I get the cash. Thus your
    _pretty dear_ (how fascinating is flattery) will do her best, as soon
    as these tiresome people fulfil their engagements. In some degree they
    have the right on their side, as the day of publication is a usual
    time from which to date the bills, and that was the time which I
    acceded to; but they talked of such hurry and speed that I expected
    that that day was nearer at hand than it now appears to be. November
    _is_ the publishing month, and no new things are coming out now. In
    fact, the Reform Bill swallows up every other thought. You have heard
    of the Lords' majority against it, much longer than was expected,
    because it was not imagined that so many bishops would vote against
    Government....

    Do whenever you write send me news of Clare. She never writes herself,
    and we are all excessively anxious about her. I hope she is better.
    God knows when fate will do anything for us. I despair. Percy is well,
    I fancy that he will go to Harrow in the spring; it is not yet finally
    arranged, but this is what I wish, and therefore I suppose it will be,
    as they have promised to increase my allowance for him, and leave me
    pretty nearly free, only with Eton prohibited; but Harrow is now in
    high reputation under a new head-master. I am delighted to hear that
    Zella is in such good hands, it is so necessary in this world of woe
    that children should learn betimes to yield to necessity; a girl
    allowed to run wild makes an unhappy woman.

    Hunt has set up a penny daily paper, literary and theatrical; it is
    succeeding very well, but his health is wretched, and when you
    consider that his sons, now young men, do not contribute a penny
    towards their own support, you may guess that the burthen on him is
    very heavy. I see them very seldom, for they live a good way off, and
    when I go he is out, she busy, and I am entertained by the children,
    who do not edify me. Jane has just moved into a house about half a
    mile further from town, on the same road; they have furnished it
    themselves. Dina improves, or rather she always was, and continues to
    be, a very nice child.

           *       *       *       *       *

The _Adventures_ did not reach a second edition in their original form;
the first edition failed, indeed, to repay its expenses; but they were
afterwards republished in _Colburn's Family Library_. The second part of
Trelawny's Autobiography took the chatty and discursive form, so popular
at the present day, of "Reminiscences." It is universally known as
_Recollections[11] of Shelley, Byron, and the Author_.

So long as Shelley and Byron survive as objects of interest in this world,
so long must this fascinating book share their existence. As originally
published, it has not a dull page. Life-like as if written at the moment
it all happened, it yet has the pictorial sense of proportion which can
rarely exist till a writer stands at such a distance (of time) from the
scenes he describes that he can estimate them, not only as they are, but
in their relation to surrounding objects. It would seem as if, for the
conversations at least, Trelawny must sometimes have drawn on his
imagination as well as his memory; if so, it can only be replied that, by
his success, he has triumphantly vindicated his artistic right to do so.
Terse, original, and characteristic, each speech paints its speaker in
colours which we know and feel to be true. Nothing seems set down for
effect; it is spontaneous, unstudied, everyday reality. And if the history
of Trelawny's own exploits in Greece somewhat recall the "tarasconnades"
of his early adventures, it at least puts a thrilling finish to a book it
was hard to conclude without falling into bathos. As a writer on Shelley,
Trelawny surely stands alone. Many authors have praised Shelley, others
have condemned and decried him, others again have tried to pity and
"excuse" him. No one has apprehended as happily as Trelawny the peculiar
_timbre_, if it may be so described, of his nature, or has brought out so
vividly, and with so few happy touches, his moral and social
characteristics. Saint or sinner, the Shelley of Trelawny is no lay
figure, no statue even, no hero of romance; it is _Shelley_, the man, the
boy, the poet. Trelawny assures us that Hogg's picture of Shelley as a
youth is absolutely faithful. But Hogg's picture only shows us Shelley in
his "salad days," and even that we are never allowed to contemplate
without the companion-portrait of the biographer, smiling with cynical
amusement while he yields his tribute of heartfelt, but patronising
praise.

The conclusions to which Hogg had come by observation Trelawny arrived at
by intuition. Fiery and imaginative, his nature was by far the more
sympathetic of the two; though it may be that, in virtue of very
unlikeness, Hogg would have proved, in the long run, the fitter companion
for Shelley.

Between Trelawny and Mary there existed the same kind of adjustable
difference. His descriptions of her have been largely drawn upon in
earlier chapters of the present work, and need not be reverted to here.
She had been seven years dead when the _Recollections_ were published.
Twenty years later, when Mary Shelley had been twenty-seven years in her
grave, there appeared a second edition of the book. In those twenty years,
what change had come over the spirit of its pages? An undefinable
difference, like that which comes over the face of Nature when the wind
changes from west to east,--and yet not so undefinable either, for it had
power to reverse some very definite facts. Byron's feet, for instance,
which--as the result of an investigation after death--were described, in
1858, as having, both, been "clubbed and withered to the knee," "the feet
and legs of a sylvan satyr," are, in 1878, pronounced to have been
_faultless_, but for the contraction of the back sinews (the "Tendon
Achilles"), which prevented his heels from resting on the ground.
"Unfortunately," to quote Mr. Garnett's comment on this discrepancy, in
his article on _Shelley's Last Days_, "as in the natural world the same
agencies that are elevating one portion of the earth's surface are at the
same time depressing another, so, in the microcosm of Mr. Trelawny's
memory and judgment, the embellishment of Lord Byron's feet has been
accompanied by a corresponding deterioration of Mrs. Shelley's heart and
head."

Yes; the Mary Shelley with whom, in early days, even Trelawny could find
no fault, save perhaps for a tendency to mournfulness in solitude and an
occasional fit of literary abstraction when she might have been looking
after the commissariat--who in later years was his trusty friend, his sole
correspondent, his literary editor, his man of business--and withal his
"pretty dear" "every day dearer" to him, "Mary--my Mary"--superior surely
to the rest of her sex, with whom at one time it seems plain enough that
he would have been nothing loth to enter into an alliance, offensive and
defensive, for life, would she but have preferred the name of Trelawny to
that of Shelley,--this Mary whose voice had been silent for seven and
twenty years, and to whom he himself had raised a monument of praise,
rises from her tomb as conventional and commonplace, unsympathetic and
jealous, narrow, orthodox, and worldly.

Yet she had borne with his exactions and scoldings and humours for
friendship's sake, and with full faith in the loyalty and generosity of
his heart. A pure and delicate-minded woman, she had not been scandalised
by his lawless morals. She had had the courage to withstand him when he
was wrong, working for him the while like a devoted slave. Never was a
more true and disinterested friendship than hers for him; and he, who knew
her better than most people did, was well aware of it.

Where then was the change? Alas! It was in himself. In this revolving
world, where "Time that gave doth now his gift confound," and where
"nought may endure but mutability," the "flourish set on youth" is soon
transfixed.

Greek fevers and gunshot wounds told on the "Pirate's" disposition as well
as on his constitution. The habits of mind he had cultivated and been
proud of,--combativeness, opposition to all authority as such--finally
became his masters; he could not even acquiesce in his own experience. Age
and the ravages of Time were to blame for his morbid censoriousness;
Time--that "feeds on the rarities of Nature's truth." These later
recollections are but the distorted images of a blurred mirror. But, none
the less, the tale is a sad one. We can but echo Trelawny's own words to
Mary[12]--"Can such things be, and overcome us like a summer cloud,
without our especial wonder?"




CHAPTER XXIII

OCTOBER 1831-OCTOBER 1839


Trelawny's book was only one among many things which claimed Mrs.
Shelley's attention during these three years.

In 1830 Godwin published his _Thoughts on Man_. The relative positions of
father and daughter had come to be reversed, and Mary now negotiated with
the publishers for the sale of his work, as he had formerly done for her.
Godwin himself set a high value, even for him, on this book, and
anticipated for it a future and an influence which were not to be
realised.

    GODWIN TO MARY.

    _15th April 1830._

    DEAR MARY--If you do me the favour to see Murray, I know not how far
    you can utter the following things; or if you do, how far they will
    have any weight with his highness; yet I cannot but wish you should
    have them in your mind.

    The book I offer is a collection of ten new and interesting truths,
    illustrated in no unpopular style. They are the fruit of thirty years'
    meditation (it being so long since I wrote the _Enquirer_), in the
    full maturity of my understanding.

    The book, therefore, will be very far from being merely one book more
    added to the number of books already existing in English literature.
    It must, as I conceive, when published make a deep impression, and
    cause the thinking part of the public to perceive--There are here laid
    before us ten interesting truths never before delivered.

    Whether it is published during my life or after my death it is a light
    that cannot be extinguished--"the precious life-blood of a discerning
    spirit, embalmed and treasured up on purpose to a life beyond life."

In the following amusing letter Clare gives Mary a few commissions. She
was to interest her literary acquaintance in Paris in the publication and
success of a French poem by a friend of Clare's at Moscow, the greatest
wish of whose heart was to appear in print. She was also to find a means
of preventing the French translatress of Moore's _Life of Byron_ from
introducing Clare's name into her elucidatory footnotes. This was indeed
all-important to Clare, as any revival of scandal about her might have
robbed her of the means of subsistence, but it was also an extremely
difficult and delicate task for Mary. But no one ever hesitated to make
her of use. Her friends estimated her power by her goodwill, and her
goodwill by their own need of her services; and they were generally right,
for the will never failed, and the way was generally found.

    CLARE TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    NICE, _11th December 1830_.

    MY DEAR MARY--Your last letter, although so melancholy, gave me much
    pleasure, merely, therefore, because it came from you.

    I intended to have written to all and each of you, but until now have
    not been able to put my resolution into execution. It must seem to you
    that I am strangely neglectful of my friends, or perhaps you think
    since I am so near Trelawny that I have been taking a lesson from him
    in the art of cultivating one's friendships; but neither of these is
    the case, my silence is quite on another principle than this.

    I am not desperately in love, nor just risen from my bed at four in
    the afternoon in order to write my millionth love letter, nor am I
    indifferent to those whom time and the malice of fortune have yet
    spared to me, but simply I have been too busy.

    Since I have been at Nice I have had to change lodgings four times;
    besides this, we were a long time without a maid, and received and
    paid innumerable visits. My whole day was spent in shifting my
    character. In the morning I arose a waiting-maid, and, having attended
    to the toilette of Natalie, sank into a house-maid, a laundry-maid,
    and, after noon, I fear me, a cook, having to look to the cleaning of
    the rooms, the getting up of linen, and the preparation of various
    pottages fit for the patient near me. At mid-day I turned into a
    governess, gave my lessons, and at four or five became a fine lady for
    the rest of the day, and paid visits or received them, for at Nice it
    is the custom, so soon as a stranger arrives, that everybody _comme il
    faut_ in the place comes to call upon you; nor can you shut your doors
    against them even if you were dying, for as Nice is the resort of the
    sick, and as everybody either is sick or has been sick, nursing has
    become the common business.

    So we went on day after day. We had _dejeuners dansants_, _soirées
    dansantes_ (_dîners dansants_ are considered as _de trop_ by order of
    the physicians), _bals parés_, _théatres_, _opéras_, _grands dîners_,
    _petits soupers_, _concerts_, _visites de matin_, _promenades à âne_,
    _parties de campagne_, _réunions littéraires_, _grands cercles_,
    _promenades en bateau_, _coteries choisies_, _thunder-storms_ from
    the sea, and _political storms_ from France; in short, if we had only
    had an earthquake, or the shock of one, we should have run through the
    whole series of modifications of which human existence is susceptible.
    _Voilà Paris, Voilà Paris_, as the song says.

    You may perhaps expect that the novelty of society should have
    suggested to me remarks and observations as multifarious as the forms
    under which I observed it. Sorry I am to say that either from its
    poverty, or from my own poverty of intellect, I have not gathered from
    it anything beyond the following couple of conclusions, that people of
    the world, disguise themselves as they may, possess but two qualities,
    a great want of understanding, and a vast pretension to sentiment.
    From this duplexity arises the duplicity with which they are so often
    charged, and no wonder, for with hearts so heavy, and heads so light,
    how is it possible to keep anything like a straightforward course? In
    alleviation of this, I must confess that wherever I went I carried
    about with me my own identity (that unhappy identity which has cost me
    so dear, and of which, with all my pains, I have never been able to
    lose a particle), and contemplated the people I judge through the
    medium of its rusty atoms.

    I must speak to you of an affair that interests me deeply. M. Gambs
    has informed me that he has sent to Paris a poem of his in manuscript
    called _Möise_. He gave it to the Prince Nicolas Scherbatoff at
    Moscow, just upon his setting out for Paris; this is many months ago.
    Whether the Prince gave any promise to endeavour to get it published I
    do not know; but if he did, he is such a very indolent and selfish man
    that his efforts would never get the thing done. M. Gambs has written
    to me to ask if you have any literary friends in Paris who would be
    kind enough to interest themselves about it. The address of the Prince
    is as follows: Son Excellence Le Prince Nicolas Scherbatoff, Rue St.
    Lazare, No. 17, à Paris. Can you not get some one to call upon him to
    ask about the manuscript, and to propose it to some bookseller?

    This some one may enter into a direct correspondence with M. Gambs by
    addressing him Chez M. Lenhold, Marchand de Musique, à Moscow. I
    should be highly delighted if you could settle things in this way, as
    I know my friend has nothing more at heart than to appear in print,
    and that I should be glad to be the means of communicating some
    pleasure to an existence which I know is almost utterly without it,
    and of showing my gratitude for the kindness and goodness he has
    showered upon me; nor, as far as my poor judgment goes, is the work
    unworthy of inspiring interest, and of being saved from oblivion. It
    pleased me much when it was read to me; but then it is true I was in a
    desert, and there a drop of water will often seem to us more precious
    than the finest jewel.

    Another subject connected with Paris also presses itself on my mind.
    In Moore's _Life of Lord Byron_ only the most distant allusion was
    made to Lady Caroline Lamb; yet, in the French translation, its
    performer, Madame Sophie Bellay (or some such name) had the indelicacy
    to unveil the mystery in a note, and to expose it in distinct and
    staring characters to the public. This piece of impudence was harmless
    to Lady Caroline, since her independence of others was assured beyond
    a doubt; but to any one whose bread depends upon the public a printed
    exposure of their conduct will infallibly bring on destitution, and
    reduce them to the necessity of weighing upon their relations for
    support.

    I know the subject is a disagreeable one, and that you do not like
    disagreeable subjects. I know nothing of business or whether there
    exists any means of averting this blow; perhaps a representation to
    the translator of the evils that would follow would be sufficient; but
    as I have no means of trying this, I am reduced to suggest the subject
    to your attention, with the firm hope that you will find some method
    of warding off the threatened mischief.

    What you tell me of the state of family resources has naturally
    depressed my spirits. Will the future never cease unrolling new shapes
    of misery? Stair above stair of wretchedness is all we know; the
    present, bad as it is, is always better than what comes after. Of all
    the crowd of eager inquirers at the Delphic shrine was there ever
    found one who thanked, or had any reason to thank, the Pythia for what
    she disclosed to him? For me, I have long abandoned hope and the
    future, and am now diligently pursuing and retracing the past, going
    the back way as it were to eternity in order to avoid the
    disappointments and perplexities of an unknown course. But I must beg
    pardon for my cowardice and disagreeableness, and leave it, or else I
    shall be recollected with as much reluctance as the Pythia.

    I wish I could give you any idea of the beauty of Nice. So long as I
    can walk about beside the sounding sea, beneath its ambient heaven,
    and gaze upon the far hills enshrined in purple light, I catch such
    pleasure from their loveliness that I am happy without happiness; but
    when I come home, then it seems to me as if all the phantasmagoria of
    hell danced before my eyes.

    Mrs. K. has arrived and in no very amiable humour. The only
    conversation I hear is, first, the numberless perfections of herself,
    husband, and child; this, as it is true, would be well enough, but
    still upon repetition it tires; second, the infinite superiority of
    Russia over all other countries, since it is an established truth that
    liberty and civilisation are the most dreadful of all evils. I, to
    avoid ill-temper, assent to all they say; then in company, when
    opposed in their doctrines, they drag me forward, and the tacit
    consent I have given, as an argument in favour of their way of
    thinking, and I am at once set down by everybody either as a fawning
    creature or an utter fool. However, I am glad she has come, as the
    responsibility of Natalie's health was too much. For heaven's sake
    excuse me to dear Jane that I have not written. My first moment shall
    be given to do so.

    I think of England and my friends all day long. Entreat everybody to
    write to me. Do pray do so yourself. My love to my Mother and Papa,
    and William and everybody. How happy was I that Percy was well.--In
    haste, ever yours,

      C. CLAIRMONT.

Mrs. Shelley's mind was much occupied during 1831 by the serious question
of sending her son to a public school. She wished to give him the best
possible education, and she wished, too, to give it him in such a form as
would place him at no disadvantage among other young men when he took his
place in English society.

Shelley (she mentions in one of her letters) had expressed himself in
favour of a public school, but Shelley's family had also to be consulted,
and she seems to have had reason to hope they would help in the matter.

They quite concurred in her views for Percy, only putting a veto on Eton,
where legends of his father's school-days might still be lingering about.
Nothing was better than that she should send him to a public school--_if
she could_. These last words were implied, not expressed. But a public
school education in England is not to be given on a very limited income.
Funds had to be found; and Mrs. Shelley made, through the lawyer, a direct
request to Sir Timothy for assistance.

She received the following answer--

    MR. WHITTON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    STONE HALL, _6th November 1831_.

    DEAR MADAM--I have been, from the time I received your last favour to
    the present, in correspondence with Sir Timothy Shelley as to your
    wishes of an advance upon the £300 per annum he now makes to you, and
    I recommended him to consult his friend and solicitor, Mr. Steadman,
    of Horsham, thereon, and which he did.

    You have not perhaps well put together and estimated on the great
    amount of the charges upon the estate by the late Mr. Shelley, and on
    the legacies given by his will; but looking at all these, and the very
    limited interest of the estate now vested in you, Sir Timothy has
    paused in his consideration thereof, and in the result has brought his
    mind, that, having regard to the other provisions he is bound to make
    for his other children, he ought not to increase the allowance to you,
    and upon that ground he declines so doing; and therefore feels the
    necessity of your making such arrangements as you may find necessary
    to make the £300 per annum answer the purposes for yourself and for
    your son, and he has this morning stated to me his fixed determination
    to abide thereby; and I lose not a moment, after I receive this
    communication from him, to make it known to you, and I trust and hope
    you will find it practicable to give him a good education out of the
    £300 a year.--I remain, Madam, your very obedient servant,

      WM. WHITTON.

The seeming brutality of the concluding sentence must in fairness be
ascribed to the writer and not to those he represented.

To Mrs. Shelley, knowing the impossibility of carrying out the public
school plan on her own income, the wishes and hopes must have sounded a
mockery. It had to be done, however, if it was the best thing for the boy.
The money must be earned, and she worked on.

One day she received from her father a new kind of petition, which,
showing the effect on him of advancing years, must have struck a pang to
her heart. She was accustomed to his requests for money, but now he wrote
to her for _an idea_.

    GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _13th April 1832._

    MY DEAR MARY--You desire me to write to you, if I have anything
    particular to say.

    I write, then, to say that I am still in the same dismaying
    predicament in which I have been for weeks past--at a loss for
    materials to make up my third volume. This is by no means what I
    expected.

    I knew, and I know, that incidents of hair-breadth escapes and
    adventures are innumerable, and that without having fixed on any one
    of them, I took for granted they would come when I called for them.
    Such is the mischievous effect, the anxious expectation, that is
    produced by past success.

    I believe that when I came to push with all my force against the
    barriers that seemed to shut me in they would give way, and place all
    the treasures of invention before me.

    Meanwhile, it unfortunately happens that I cannot lay my present
    disappointment to the charge of advancing age.

    I find all my faculties and all my strength in full bloom about me. My
    disappointment has put that to a sharp trial. I thought that the
    severe stretch of my faculties would cause them to yield, and subside
    into feebleness and torpor. No such thing. Day after day, week after
    week, I apply to this one question, without remission and with
    discernment. But I cannot please myself. If I make the round of all my
    thoughts, and come home empty-handed, it would seem that in the flower
    and vigour of my youth I should have done the same.

    Meanwhile, my situation is deplorable. I am not free to choose the
    thing I would do. I have written two volumes and a quarter, and have
    received five-sixths of the price of my work.

    I am afraid you will think I am useless, by teasing you with
    "conceptions only proper to myself." But it is not altogether so. A
    bystander may see a point of game which a player overlooks. Though I
    cannot furnish myself with satisfactory incidents I have disciplined
    my mind into a tone that would enable me to improve them, if offered
    to me.

    My mind is like a train of gunpowder, and a single spark, now happily
    communicated, might set the whole in motion and activity.

    Do not tease yourself about my calamity; but give it one serious
    thought. Who knows what such a thought may produce?--Your affectionate
    Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

In the spring of 1832 the cholera appeared in London. Clare, at a
distance, was torn to pieces between real apprehension for the safety of
her friends, and distracting fears lest the disease should select among
them for its victim some one on whose life depended the realisation of
Shelley's will. For Percy especially she was solicitous. Mary must take
him away at once, to the seaside--anywhere: if money was an obstacle she,
Clare, was ready to help to defray the cost out of her salary.

Mrs. Shelley did leave London, although, it may safely be asserted, at no
one's expense but her own. She stayed for a month at Southend, and
afterwards for a longer time at Sandgate.

Besides contributing tales and occasionally verses to the _Keepsake_, she
was employed now and during the next two or three years in preparing and
writing the Italian and Spanish Lives of Literary Men for Lardner's
_Cabinet Cyclopædia_. These included, among the Italians--Petrarch,
Boccaccio, Bojardo, Macchiavelli, Metastasio, Goldoni, Alfieri, Ugo
Foscolo, etc.; among the Spanish and Portuguese--Cervantes, Lope de Vega,
Calderon, Camoens, and a host of others, besides notices of the
Troubadours, the "Romances Moriscos," and the early poets of Portugal.

Clare, too, tried her hand at a story, to which she begged Mary to be a
kind of godmother.

    I have written a tale, which I think will do for the _Keepsake_. I
    shall send it home for your perusal. Will you correct it? Do write and
    let me know where I may send it, so as to be sure to find you. Will
    you be angry with me if I beg you to write the last scene of it? I am
    now so unwell I can't.

    My only time for writing is after 10 at night; the rest of the tale
    was composed at that hour, after having been scolding and talking and
    giving lessons from 7 in the morning.

    It was very near its end when I got so ill, I gave it up. If you
    cannot do anything with it you can at least make curl-papers of it,
    and that is always something. Do not mention it to anybody; should it
    be printed one can speak of it, and if you judge it not worthy, then
    it is no use mortifying my vanity.

    The truth, is I should never think of writing, knowing well my
    incapacity for it, but I want to gain money. What would one not do for
    that, since it is the only key of freedom? One is even impudent enough
    to ask a great authoress to finish one's tale for one. I think, in
    your hands, it might get into the _Keepsake_, for it is about a Pole,
    and that is the topic of the day.

    If it should get any money, half will naturally belong to you. Should
    you have the kindness to arrange it, Julia would perhaps also be so
    kind as to copy it out for me, that the alterations in your hand may
    not be seen. I wish it to be signed "Mont Obscur."...

Mary did what was asked of her. Trelawny, now in England again, had
influence in some literary quarters, and, at her request, willingly
consented to exert it on Clare's behalf.

Meanwhile he requested her to receive his eldest daughter on a visit of
considerable length.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _17th July 1832._

    MY DEAR MARY--I am awaiting an occasion of sending ---- to Italy, my
    friend, Lady D., undertaking the charge of her.

    It may be a month before she leaves England. At the end of this month
    Mrs. B. leaves London, and you will do me a great service if you will
    permit my daughter to reside with you till I can make the necessary
    arrangements for going abroad; she has been reared in a rough school,
    like her father. I wish her to live and do as you do, and that you
    will not put yourself to the slightest inconvenience on her account.

    As we are poor, the rich are our inheritance, and we are justified on
    all and every occasion to rob and use them.

    But we must be honest and just amongst ourselves, therefore ---- must
    to the last fraction pay her own expenses, and neither put you to
    expense nor inconvenience. For the rest, I should like ---- to learn
    to lean upon herself alone--to see the practical part of life: to
    learn housekeeping on trifling means, and to benefit by her
    intercourse with a woman like you; but I am ill at compliments.

    If you will permit ---- to come to you, I will send or bring her to
    you about the 25th of this month. I should like you and ---- to know
    each other before she leaves England, and thus I have selected you to
    take charge of her in preference to any other person; but say if it
    chimes in with your wishes.

    Adieu, dear Mary.--Your attached friend,

      EDWARD TRELAWNY.

    By the bye, tell me where the Sandgate coach starts from, its time of
    leaving London, and its time of arrival at Sandgate, and where you
    are, and if they will give you another bedroom in the house you are
    lodging in; and if you have any intention of leaving Sandgate soon.


    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _27th July 1832._

    MY DEAR MARY--You told me in your letter that it would be more
    convenient for you to receive ---- on the last of the month, so I made
    my arrangements accordingly. I now find it will suit me better to come
    to you on Wednesday, so that you may expect ---- on the evening of
    that day by the coach you mention. I shall of course put up at the
    inn.

    As to your style of lodging or living, ---- is not such a fool as to
    let that have any weight with her; if you were in a cobbler's stall
    she would be satisfied; and as to the dulness of the place, why, that
    must mainly depend on ourselves. Brompton is not so very gay, and the
    reason of my removing ---- to Italy is that Mrs. B. was about sending
    her to reside with strangers at Lincoln; besides ---- is acting
    entirely by her own free choice, and she gladly preferred Sandgate to
    Lincoln. At all events, come we shall; and if you, by barricading or
    otherwise, oppose our entrance, why I shall do to you, not as I would
    have others do unto me, but as I do unto others,--make an onslaught on
    your dwelling, carry your tenement by assault, and give the place up
    to plunder.

    So on Wednesday evening (at 5, by your account) you must be prepared
    to quietly yield up possession or take the consequences. So as you
    shall deport yourself, you will find me your friend or foe,

      TRELAWNY.

Mary's guest stayed with her over a month. During this time she was
saddened by the sudden death of her friendly acquaintance, Lord Dillon.
She was anxious, too, about her father, whose equable spirits had failed
him this year. No assistance seemed to avail much to ease his
circumstances; he was not far from his eightieth year, and still his hopes
were anchored in a yet-to-be-written novel.

    "I feel myself able and willing to do everything, and to do it well,"
    so he wrote, "and nobody disposed to give me the requisite
    encouragement. If I can agree with these tyrants" (his publishers)
    "for £300, £400, or £500 for a novel, and to be subsisted by them
    while I write it, I probably shall not starve for a twelvemonth to
    come ... but this dancing attendance wears my spirits and destroys my
    tranquillity. 'Hands have I, but I handle not; I have feet, but I walk
    not; neither is there any breath in my nostrils.'

    "Meanwhile my life wears away, and 'there is no work, nor device, nor
    knowledge, nor wisdom in the grave whither I go.' But, indeed, I am
    wrong in talking of that, for I write now, not for marble to be placed
    over my remains, but for bread to put into my mouth."

Mary tried in the summer to tempt him down to Sandgate for a change. But
the weather was very cold, and he declined.

    _28th August 1832._

    DEAR MARY--

          See, Winter comes, to rule the varied year,
      Sullen and sad, with all his rising train--
      Vapours, and clouds, and storms.

    I am shivering over a little fire at the bottom of my grate, and have
    small inclination to tempt the sea-breezes and the waves; we must
    therefore defer our meeting till it comes within the walls of London.

           *       *       *       *       *

    _Au revoir!_ To what am I reserved? I know not.

    The wide (no not) the unbounded prospect lies before me,
    But shadows, clouds, and darkness rest upon it.

A new shadow was now to fall upon the poor old man, in the death from
cholera of his only son, Mary's half-brother, William. This son in his
early youth had given some trouble and caused some anxiety, but his
character, as he grew up, had become steadier and more settled. He was
happily married, and seemed likely to be a source of real comfort and
satisfaction to his parents in their old age. By profession he was a
reporter, but he had his hereditary share of literary ability and of
talent "turned for the relation of fictitious adventures," and left in MS.
a novel called _Transfusion_, published by his father after his death,
with the motto--

    Some noble spirits, judging by themselves,
    May yet conjecture what I might have been.

Although inevitably somewhat hardened against misfortune of the heart by
his self-centred habits of mind and anxiety about money, Godwin was much
saddened by this loss, and to Mrs. Godwin it was a very great and bitter
grief indeed.

Clare saw at once in this the beginning of fresh troubles; the realisation
of all the gloomy forebodings in which she had indulged. She wrote to Jane
Hogg--

    That nasty year, 1832, could not go over without imitating in some
    respects 1822, and bringing death and misfortune to us. From the time
    it came in till it went out I trembled, expecting at every moment to
    hear the most gloomy tidings.

    William's death came, and fulfilled my anticipations; misfortune as it
    was, it was not such a heavy one to me as the loss of others might
    have been. I, however, was fond of him, because I did not view his
    faults in that desponding light which his other relations did. I have
    seen more of the world, and, comparing him with other young men, his
    frugality, his industry, his attachment to his wife, and his talents,
    raised him, in my opinion, considerably above the common par.

    But in our family, if you cannot write an epic poem or novel that by
    its originality knocks all other novels on the head, you are a
    despicable creature, not worth acknowledging. What would they have
    done or said had their children been fond of dress, fond of cards,
    drunken, profligate, as most people's children are?

To Mary she wrote in a somewhat different tone, assuming that she, Clare,
was the victim on whom all misfortune really fell, and wondering at Mary's
incredible temerity in allowing her boy, that all-important heir-apparent,
to face the perils of a public school.

And then, losing sight for a moment of her own feverish anxiety, she
gives a vivid sketch of Mrs. Mason's family.

    MISS CLAIRMONT TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    PISA, _26th October 1832_.

    MY DEAR MARY--Though your last letter was on so melancholy a subject,
    yet I am so destitute of all happiness that to receive it was one to
    me.

    I have not yet got over the shock of William's death; from the moment
    I heard of it until now I have been in a complete state of
    annihilation. How long it will last I am sure I cannot tell; I hope
    not much longer, or perhaps I shall go mad.

    A horrible and most inevitable future is the image that torments me,
    just as it did ten years ago, in this very city. But I won't torment
    you, who have a thousand enjoyments that veil it from you, and need
    not feel the blow till it comes. Our fates were always different; mine
    is to feel the shadow of coming misfortunes, and to sicken beneath it.
    There seems to have been great imprudence on William's part: my Mother
    says he went to Bartholomew Fair the day before he was taken ill; then
    he did not have medical assistance so soon as ill, which they say is
    of the highest importance in the cholera, so altogether I suppose his
    life was thrown away--a most lucky circumstance for himself, but God
    knows what it will be for the Godwins.

    His death changed my plans. I had settled to go to Vienna, but as the
    cholera is still there, I no longer considered myself free to offer
    another of my Mother's children to be its victim. Mrs. Mason
    represented the imprudence of it, considering my weak health, the
    depressed state of my spirits for the last twelve years, the fatigue
    of the long journey, and the chilliness of the season of the year,
    which are all things that predispose excessively to the disease, and I
    yielded out of regard to my Mother. I thought she would prefer
    anything to my dying, or else at Vienna, Charles tells me, I could
    earn more than I am likely to earn here. For the same reason Paris
    was abandoned. I beg you will tell her this, and hope she will think I
    have done well.

    In the meantime I stay with Mrs. Mason, and have got an engagement as
    day governess with an English family, which will supply me with money
    for my own expenses, but nothing more. In the spring they wish to take
    me entirely, but the pay is not brilliant. When I know more about them
    I will tell you. Nothing can equal Mrs. Mason's kindness to me. Hers
    is the only house, except my Mother's, in which all my life I have
    always felt at home. With her, I am as her child; from the merest
    trifle to the greatest object, she treats me as if her happiness
    depended on mine. Then she understands me so completely. I have no
    need to disguise my sentiments; to barricade myself up in silence, as
    I do almost with everybody, for fear they should see what passes in my
    mind, and hate me for it, because it does not resemble what passes in
    theirs. This ought to be a great happiness to me, and would, did not
    her unhappiness and her precarious state of health darken it with the
    torture of fear. It is too bitter, after a long life passed in
    unbroken misery, to find a good only that you may lose it.

    Laurette's marriage is to take place at the end of November. Mrs.
    Mason having tried every means to hinder it, and seeing that she
    cannot, is now impatient it should be over. Their present state is too
    painful. She cannot disguise her dislike of Galloni; he having nearly
    killed her with his scenes, and Laurette cannot sympathise with her;
    being on the point of marrying him, and feeling grateful for his
    excessive attachment, she wishes to think as well of him as she can.
    It is the first time the mother and daughter have ever divided in
    opinion, and galls both in a way that seems unreasonable to those who
    live in the world, and are accustomed to meet rebuffs in their dearest
    feelings at every moment. But our friends live in solitude, and have
    nursed themselves into a height of romance about everything. They both
    think their destinies annihilated, because the union of their minds
    has suffered this interruption. However, no violence mingles with
    this sentiment and excites displeasure; on the contrary, I wish it
    did, for it would be easier to heal than the tragic immutable sorrow
    with which they take it.

    While these two dissolve in quiet grief, Nerina, the Italian, agitates
    herself on the question; she forgets all her own love affairs, and all
    the sabre slashes and dagger stabs of her own poor heart, to fall into
    fainting fits and convulsions every time she sees Laurette and her
    mother fix their eyes mournfully upon each other; then she talks and
    writes upon the subject incessantly, even till 3 o'clock in the
    morning. She has a band of young friends of both sexes, and with them,
    either by word of mouth or by letter, she _sfogares_ herself of her
    hatred of Galloni, of the unparalleled cruelty of Laurette's fate, and
    of the terrific grave that is yawning for her mother; her mind is
    discursive, and she introduces into her lamentations observations upon
    the faulty manner in which she and her sister have been educated,
    strictures upon the nature of love, objurgations against the whole
    race of man, and eloquent appeals to the female sex to prefer
    patriotism to matrimony.

    All the life that is left in the house is now concentrated in Nerina,
    and I am sure she cannot complain of a dearth of sensations, for she
    takes good care to feel with everything around her, for if the chair
    does but knock the table, she shudders and quakes for both, and runs
    into her own study to write it down in her journal. Into this small
    study she always hurries me, and pours out her soul, and I am well
    pleased to listen, for she is full of genius; when the tide has flowed
    so long, it has spent itself, we generally pause, and then begin to
    laugh at the ridiculous figures human beings cut in struggling all
    their might and main against a destiny which forces millions and
    millions of enormous planets on their way, and against which all
    struggling is useless.


    _8th November._

    My letter has been lying by all this time, I not having time to write.
    I am afraid this winter I shall scarcely be able to keep up a
    correspondence at all. I must be out at 9 in the morning, and am not
    home before 10 at night. I inhabit at Mrs. Mason's a room without a
    fire, so that when I get home there is no sitting in it without
    perishing with cold. I cannot sit with the Masons, because they have a
    set of young men every night to see them, and I do not wish to make
    their acquaintance. I walk straight into my own room on my return.
    Writing either letters or articles will be a matter of great
    difficulty. The season is very cold here. My health always diminishes
    in proportion to the cold.

    I am very glad to hear that Percy likes Harrow, but I shudder from
    head to foot when I think of your boldness in sending him there. I
    think in certain things you are the most daring woman I ever knew.
    There are few mothers who, having suffered the misfortunes you have,
    and having such advantages depending upon the life of an only son,
    would venture to expose that life to the dangers of a public school.

    As for me, it is not for nothing that my fate has been taken out of my
    own hands and put into those of people who have wantonly torn it into
    miserable shreds and remnants; having once endured to have my whole
    happiness sacrificed to the gratification of some of their foolish
    whims, why I can endure it again, and so my mind is made up and my
    resolution taken. I confess, I could wish there were another world in
    which people were to answer for what they do in this! I wish this,
    because without it I am afraid it will become a law that those who
    inflict must always go on inflicting, and those who have once suffered
    must always go on suffering.

    I hope nothing will happen to Percy; but the year, the school itself
    that you have chosen, and the ashes[13] that lie near it, and the
    hauntings of my own mind, all seem to announce the approach of that
    consummation which I dread.

    I am very glad you are delighted with Trelawny. My affections are
    entirely without jealousy; the more those I love love others, and are
    loved by them, the better pleased am I. I am in a vile humour for
    writing a letter; you would not wonder at it if you knew how I am
    plagued. I can say from experience that the wonderful variety there is
    of miseries in this world is truly astonishing; if some Linnæus would
    class them as he did flowers, the number of their kinds would far
    surpass the boasted infinitude of the vegetable creation. Not a day
    nor hour passes but introduces me to some new pain, and each one
    contains within itself swarms of smaller ones--animalculæ pains which
    float up and down in it, and compose its existence and their own. What
    Mademoiselle de L'Espinasse was for love, I am for pain,--all my
    letters are on the same subject, and yet I hope I do not repeat
    myself, for truly, with such diversity of experience, I ought not.

    Our friends here send their best love to you, and are interested in
    your perilous destiny. I have just received a letter from my Mother,
    and in obedience to her representations draw my breath as peacefully
    as I can till the month of January. Will you explain to me one phrase
    of her letter? Talking of the chances of their getting money, she
    says: "Then Miss Northcote is not expected to live over the winter,"
    and not a word beside. Who in the world is Miss Northcote? and what
    influence can her death have in bettering their prospects?

    Notwithstanding my writing such a beastly letter as this to you, pray
    do write. I work myself into the most dreadful state of irritation
    when I am long without letters from some of you. Tell Jane I entreat
    her to write, and tell my Mother that the bill of lading of the parcel
    for me is come, but Mrs. Mason sent it off to Leghorn without my
    seeing it, and was too ill herself to look at the date, so I know not
    when it was shipped, but as Mr. Routh has the bill, I suppose I shall
    hear when it has arrived and performed quarantine.

    Thank Trelawny for me for his kindness about the article. Pisa is very
    dull yet. I am told there are seven or eight English families arrived,
    but I have not seen them.

    Farewell, my dear Mary. Be well and happy, and excuse my
    dulness.--Yours ever affectionately,

      C. CLAIRMONT.

One term's experience was enough to convince Mrs. Shelley that she could
only afford to continue her son's school education by leaving London
herself and settling with him at Harrow for some years.

In January 1833 she wrote an account of her affairs to her old friend,
Mrs. Gisborne--

    Never was poor body so worried as I have been ever since I last wrote,
    I think; worries which plague and press on one, and keep one fretting.
    Money, of course, is the Alpha and Omega of my tale. Harrow proves so
    fearfully expensive that I have been sadly put to it to pay Percy's
    bill for one quarter (£60, _soltanto_), and, to achieve it, am
    hampered for the whole year. My only resource is to live at Harrow,
    for in every other respect I like the school, and would not take him
    from it. He will become a home boarder, and school expenses will be
    very light. I shall take a house, being promised many facilities for
    furnishing it by a kind friend.

    To go and live at pretty Harrow, with my boy, who improves each day
    and is everything I could wish, is no bad prospect, but I have much to
    go through, and am so poor that I can hardly turn myself. It is hard
    on my poor dear Father, and I sometimes think it hard on myself to
    leave a knot of acquaintances I like; but that is a fiction, for half
    the times I am asked out I cannot go because of the expense, and I am
    suffering now for the times when I do go, and so incur debt.

    No, Maria mine, God never intended me to do other than struggle
    through life, supported by such blessings as make existence more than
    tolerable, and yet surrounded by such difficulties as make fortitude a
    necessary virtue, and destroy all idea of great and good luck. I might
    have been much worse off, and I repeat this to myself ten thousand
    times a day to console myself for not being better.

    My Father's novel is printed, and, I suppose, will come out soon. Poor
    dear fellow! It is hard work for him.

    I am in all the tremor of fearing what I shall get for my novel, which
    is nearly finished. His and my comfort depend on it. I do not know
    whether you will like it. I cannot guess whether it will succeed.
    There is no writhing interest; nothing wonderful nor tragic--will it
    be dull? _Chi lo sa?_ We shall see. I shall, of course, be very glad
    if it succeeds.

    Percy went back to Harrow to-day. He likes his school much. Have I any
    other news for you? Trelawny is gone to America; he is about to cross
    to Charlestown directly there is a prospect of war--war in America. I
    am truly sorry. Brothers should not fight for the different and
    various portions of their inheritance. What is the use of republican
    principles and liberty if peace is not the offspring? War is the
    companion and friend of monarchy; if it be the same of freedom, the
    gain is not much to mankind between a sovereign and president.

           *       *       *       *       *

Not long after taking up her residence at Harrow, which she did in April
1833, Mrs. Shelley was attacked by influenza, then prevailing in a
virulent form. She did not wholly recover from its effects till after the
Midsummer holidays, which she spent at Putney for change of air. She found
the solitude of her new abode very trying. Her boy had, of course, his
school pursuits and interests to occupy him, and, though her literary work
served while it lasted to ward off depression, the constant mental strain
was attended with an inevitable degree of reaction for which a little
genial and sympathetic human intercourse would have been the best--indeed,
the only--cure.

As for her father, now she had gone he missed her sadly.

    GODWIN TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    _July 1833._

    DEAR MARY--I shall certainly not come to you on Monday. It would do
    neither of us good. I am a good deal of a spoiled child. And were I
    not so, and could rouse myself, like Diogenes, to be independent of
    all outward comforts, you would treat me as if I could not, so that it
    would come to the same thing.

    What a while it is since I saw you! The last time was the 10th of
    May,--towards two months,--we who used to see each other two or three
    times a week! But for the scale of miles at the bottom of the map, you
    might as well be at Timbuctoo or in the deserts of Arabia.

    Oh, this vile Harrow! Your illness, for its commencement or duration,
    is owing to that place. At one time I was seriously alarmed for you.

    And now that I hope you are better, with what tenaciousness does it
    cling to you! If I ever see you again I wonder whether I shall know
    you. I am much tormented by my place, by my book, and hardly suppose I
    shall ever be tranquil again.

    I am disposed to adopt the song of Simeon, and to say, "Lord, now
    lettest thou thy servant depart in peace!" At seventy years of age,
    what is there worth living for? I have enjoyed existence, been active,
    strenuous, proud, but my eyes are dim, and my energies forsake
    me.--Your affectionate Father,

      WILLIAM GODWIN.

The next letter is addressed to Trelawny, now in America,

    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    HARROW, _7th May 1834_.

    DEAR TRELAWNY--I confess I have been sadly remiss in not writing to
    you. I have written once, however, as you have written once (but
    once) to me. I wrote in answer to your letter. I am sorry you did not
    get it, as it contained a great deal of gossip. It was misdirected by
    a mistake of Jane's.... It was sent at the end of last September to
    New York. I told you in it of the infidelity of several of your
    womankind,--how Mrs. R. S. was flirting with Bulwer, to the infinite
    jealousy of Mrs. Bulwer, and making themselves the talk of the
    town.... Such and much tittle-tattle was in that letter, all old news
    now.... The S.'s (Captain Robert and wife, I mean) went to Paris and
    were ruined, and are returned under a cloud to rusticate in the
    country in England.

    Bulwer is making the amiable to his own wife, who is worth in beauty
    all the Mrs. R. S.'s in the world....

    Jane has been a good deal indisposed, and has grown very thin. Jeff
    had an appointment which took him away for several months, and she
    pined and grew ill on his absence; she is now reviving under the
    beneficent influence of his presence.

    I called on your mother a week or two ago; she always asks after you
    with _empressement_, and is very civil indeed to me. She was looking
    well, but ---- tells me, in her note enclosing your letter, that she
    is ill of the same illness as she had two years ago, but not so bad. I
    think she lives too well.

    ---- is expecting to be confined in a very few weeks, or even days.
    She is very happy with B.... He is a thoroughly good-natured and
    estimable man; it is a pity he is not younger and handsomer; however,
    she is a good girl, and contented with her lot; we are very good
    friends.... I should like much to see your friend, Lady Dorothea, but,
    though in Europe, I am very far from her. I live on my hill,
    descending to town now and then. I should go oftener if I were richer.
    Percy continues quite well, and enjoys my living at Harrow, which is
    more than I do, I am sorry to say, but there is no help.

    My Father is in good health. Mrs. Godwin has been very ill lately, but
    is now better.

    I thought Fanny Kemble was to marry and settle in America: what a
    singular likeness you have discovered! I never saw her, except on the
    stage.

    So much for news. They say it is a long lane that has no turning. I
    have travelled the same road for nearly twelve years; adversity,
    poverty, and loneliness being my companions. I suppose it will change
    at last, but I have nothing to tell of myself except that Percy is
    well, which is the beginning and end of my existence.

    I am glad you are beginning to respect women's feelings.... You have
    heard of Sir H.'s death. Mrs. B. (who is great friends with S., now
    Sir William, an M.P.) says that it is believed that he has left all he
    could to the Catholic members of his family. Why not come over and
    marry Letitia, who in consequence will be rich? and, I daresay, still
    beautiful in your eyes, though thirty-four.

    We have had a mild, fine winter, and the weather now is as warm,
    sunny, and cheering as an Italian May. We have thousands of birds and
    flowers innumerable, and the trees of spring in the fields.

    Jane's children are well. The time will come, I suppose, when we may
    meet again more (richly) provided by fortune, but youth will have
    flown, and that in a woman is something....

    I have always felt certain that I should never again change my name,
    and that is a comfort, it is a pretty and a dear one. Adieu, write to
    me often, and I will behave better, and as soon as I have accumulated
    a little news, write again.--Ever yours,

      M. W. S.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    _17th July 1834._

    I am satisfied with my plan as regards him (Percy). I like the school,
    and the affection thus cultivated for me will, I trust, be the
    blessing of my life.

    Still there are many drawbacks; this is a dull, inhospitable place. I
    came counting on the kindness of a friend who lived here, but she
    died of the influenza, and I live in a silence and loneliness not
    possible anywhere except in England, where people are so _islanded_
    individually in habits; I often languish for sympathy, and pine for
    social festivity.

    Percy is much, but I think of you and Henry, and shrink from binding
    up my life in a child who may hereafter divide his fate from mine. But
    I have no resource; everything earthly fails me but him; except on his
    account I live but to suffer. Those I loved are false or dead; those I
    love, absent and suffering; and I, absent and poor, can be of no use
    to them. Of course, in this picture, I subtract the enjoyment of good
    health and usually good spirits,--these are blessings; but when driven
    to think, I feel so desolate, so unprotected, so oppressed and
    injured, that my heart is ready to break with despair. I came here, as
    I said, in April 1833, and 9th June was attacked by the influenza, so
    as to be confined to my bed; nor did I recover the effects for several
    months.

    In September, during Percy's holidays, I went to Putney, and recovered
    youth and health; Julia Robinson was with me, and we spent days in
    Richmond Park and on Putney Heath, often walking twelve or fourteen
    miles, which I did without any sense of fatigue. I sorely regretted
    returning here. I am too poor to furnish. I have lodgings in the
    town,--disagreeable ones,--yet often, in spite of care and sorrow, I
    feel wholly compensated by my boy.... God help me if anything was to
    happen to him--I should not survive it a week. Besides his society I
    have also a good deal of occupation.

    I have finished a novel, which, if you meet with, read, as I think
    there are parts which will please you. I am engaged writing the lives
    of some of the Italian _literati_ for Dr. Lardner's _Cyclopædia_. I
    have written those of Petrarch, Boccaccio, etc., and am now engaged on
    Macchiavelli; this takes up my time, and is a source of interest and
    pleasure.

    My Father, I suppose you know, has a tiny, shabby place under
    Government. The retrenchments of Parliament endanger and render us
    anxious. He is quite well, but old age takes from his enjoyments. Mrs.
    Godwin, after influenza, has been suffering from the tic-doloreux in
    her arm most dreadfully; they are trying all sorts of poisons on her
    with little effect. Their discomfort and low spirits will force me to
    spend Percy's holidays in town, to be near them. Jane and Jeff are
    well; he was sent last autumn and winter by Lord Brougham as one of
    the Corporation Commissioners; he was away for months, and Jane took
    the opportunity to fall desperately in love with him--she pined and
    grew ill, and wasted away for him. The children are quite well. Dina
    spent a week here lately; she is a sweet girl. Edward improves daily
    under the excellent care taken of his education. I leave Jane to
    inform you of their progress in Greek. Dina plays wonderfully well,
    and has shown great taste for drawing, but this last is not
    cultivated.

    I did not go to the Abbey, nor the Opera, nor hear Grisi; I am shut
    out from all things--like you--by poverty and loneliness. Percy's
    pleasures are not mine; I have no other companion.

    What effect Paganini would have had on you, I cannot tell; he threw me
    into hysterics. I delight in him more than I can express. His wild,
    ethereal figure, rapt look, and the sounds he draws from his violin
    are all superhuman--of human expression. It is interesting to see the
    astonishment and admiration of Spagnoletti and Nervi as they watch his
    evolutions.

    Bulwer is a man of extraordinary and delightful talent. He went to
    Italy and Sicily last winter, and, I hear, disliked the inhabitants.
    Yet, notwithstanding, I am sure he will spread inexpressible and
    graceful interest over the _Last Days of Pompeii_, the subject of his
    new novel. Trelawny is in America, and not likely to return. Hunt
    lives at Chelsea, and thrives, I hear, by his London pursuit. I have
    not seen him for more than a year, for reasons I will not here
    detail--they concern his family, not him.

    Clare is in a situation in Pisa, near Mrs. Mason. Laurette and Nerina
    are married; the elder badly, to one who won her at the dagger's
    point--a sad unintelligible story; Nerina, to the best and most
    delightful Pistoiese, by name Bartolomeo Cini--both to Italians.
    Laurette lives at Genoa, Nerina at Livorno; the latter is only newly a
    bride, and happier than words can express. My Italian maid, Maria,
    says to Clare, _Non vedrò ora mai la mia Padrona ed il mio Bimbo?_ her
    Bimbo--as tall as I am and large in proportion--has good health
    withal....

    Pray write one word of information concerning your health before I
    attribute your silence to forgetfulness; but you must not trifle now
    with the anxiety you have awakened. I will write again soon. With
    kindest regards to your poor, good husband, the fondest hopes that
    your health is improved, and anxious expectation of a letter, believe
    me, ever affectionately yours,

      M. W. SHELLEY.


    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    HARROW, _30th October 1834_.

    MY DEAREST MARIA--Thank you many times for your kind dear letter. God
    grant that your constitution may yet bear up a long time, and that you
    may continue impressed with the idea of your happiness. To be loved is
    indeed necessary. Sympathy and companionship are the only sweets to
    make the nauseous draught of life go down; and I, who feel this, live
    in a solitude such as, since the days of hermits in the desert, no one
    was ever before condemned to! I see no one, speak to no one--except
    perhaps for a chance half-hour in the course of a fortnight. I never
    walk beyond my garden, because I cannot walk alone. You will say I
    ought to force myself; so I thought once, and tried, but it would not
    do. The sense of desolation was too oppressive. I only find relief
    from the sadness of my position by living a dreamy existence from
    which realities are excluded; but going out disturbed this; I wept; my
    heart beat with a sense of injury and wrong; I was better shut up.
    Poverty prevents me from visiting town; I am too far for visitors to
    reach me; I must bear to the end. Twelve years have I spent, the
    currents of life benumbed by poverty; life and hope are over for me,
    but I think of Percy!

    Yet for the present something more is needed--something not so
    _unnatural_ as my present life. Not that I often feel _ennui_--I am
    too much employed--but it hurts me, it destroys the spring of my mind,
    and makes me at once over-sensitive with my fellow-creatures, and yet
    their victim and their dupe. It takes all strength from my character,
    and makes me--who by nature am too much so--timid. I used to have one
    resource, a belief in my _good fortune_; this is exchanged after
    twelve years--one adversity, blotted and sprinkled with many
    adversities; a dark ground, with sad figures painted on it--to a
    belief in my ill fortune.

    Percy is spared to me, because I am to live. He is a blessing; my
    heart acknowledges that perhaps he is as great an one as any human
    being possesses; and indeed, my dear friend, while I suffer, I do not
    repine while he remains. He is not all you say; he has no ambition,
    and his talents are not so transcendent as you appear to imagine; but
    he is a fine, spirited, clever boy, and I think promises good things;
    if hereafter I have reason to be proud of him, these melancholy days
    and weeks at Harrow will brighten in my imagination--and they are not
    melancholy. I am seldom so, but they are not right, and it will be a
    good thing if they terminate happily soon.

    At the same time, I cannot in the least regret having come here: it
    was the only way I had of educating Percy at a public school, of which
    institution, at least here at Harrow, the more I see the more I like;
    besides that, it was Shelley's wish that his son should be brought up
    at one. It is, indeed, peculiarly suited to Percy; and whatever he may
    be, he will be twice as much as if he had been brought up in the
    narrow confinement of a private school.

    The boys here have liberty to the verge of licence; yet of the latter,
    save the breaking of a few windows now and then, there is none. His
    life is not quite what it would be if he did not live with me, but
    the greater scope given to the cultivation of the affections is surely
    an advantage.

           *       *       *       *       *

    You heard of the dreadful fire at the Houses of Parliament. We saw it
    here from the commencement, raging like a volcano; it was dreadful to
    see, but, fortunately, I was not aware of the site. Papa lives close
    to the Speaker's, so you may imagine my alarm when the news reached
    me, fortunately without foundation, as the fire did not gain that part
    of the Speaker's house near them, so they were not even
    inconvenienced. The poor dear Speaker has lost dreadfully; what was
    not burnt is broken, soaked, and drenched--all their pretty things;
    and imagine the furniture and princely chambers--the house was a
    palace. For the sake of convenience to the Commons, they are to take
    up their abode in the ruins. With kindest wishes for you and S. G.,
    ever dearest friend, your affectionate

      MARY W. SHELLEY.


    THE SAME TO THE SAME.

    _February 1835._

    ... I must tell you that I have had the offer of £600 for an edition
    of Shelley's works, with _Life and Notes_. I am afraid it cannot be
    arranged, yet at least, and the _Life_ is out of the question; but in
    talking over it the question of letters comes up. You know how I
    shrink from all private detail for the public; but Shelley's letters
    are beautifully written, and everything private might be omitted.

    Would you allow the publisher to treat with you for their being added
    to my edition? If I could arrange all as I wish, they might be an
    acquisition to the books, and being transacted through me, you could
    not see any inconvenience in receiving the price they would be worth
    to the bookseller. This is all _in aria_ as yet, but I should like to
    know what you think about it. I write all this, yet am very anxious to
    hear from you; never mind postage, but do write.

    Percy is reading the _Antigone_; he has begun mathematics. Mrs.
    Cleveland[14] and Jane dined with me the other day. Mrs. Cleveland
    thought Percy wonderfully improved.

    The volume of Lardner's _Cyclopædia_, with my _Lives_, was published
    on the first of this month; it is called _Lives of Eminent Literary
    Men_, vol. i. The lives of Dante and Ariosto are by Mr. Montgomery,
    the rest are mine.

    Do write, my dearest Maria, and believe me ever and ever,
    affectionately yours,

      M. W. SHELLEY.

_Lodore_, Mrs. Shelley's fifth novel, came out in 1835. It differs from
the others in being a novel of society, and has been stigmatised, rather
unjustly, as weak and colourless, although at the time of its publication
it had a great success. It is written in a style which is now out of date,
and undoubtedly fails to fulfil the promise of power held out by
_Frankenstein_ and to some extent by _Valperga_, but it bears on every
page the impress of the refinement and sensibility of the author, and has,
moreover, a special interest of its own, due to the fact that some of the
incidents are taken from actual occurrences in her early life, and some of
the characters sketched from people she had known.

Thus, in the description of Clorinda, it is impossible not to recognise
Emilia Viviani. The whole episode of Edward Villier's arrest and
imprisonment for debt, and his young wife's anxieties, is an echo of her
own experience at the time when Shelley was hiding from the bailiffs and
meeting her by stealth in St. Paul's or Holborn. Lodore himself has some
affinity to Byron, and possibly the account of his separation from his
wife and of their daughter's girlhood is a fanciful train of thought
suggested by Byron's domestic history. Most of Mary's novels present the
contrast of the Shelleyan and Byronic types. In this instance the latter
was recognised by Clare, and drew from her one of those bitter tirades
against Byron, which, natural enough in her at the outset, became in the
course of years quite morbidly venomous. Not content with laying Allegra's
death to his charge, she, in her later letters, accuses him of
treacherously plotting and conspiring, out of hatred to herself, to do
away with the child, an allegation unjust and false. In the present
instance, however, she only entered an excited protest against his
continual reappearance as the hero of a novel.

    Mrs. Hare admired _Lodore_ amazingly; so do I, or should I, if it were
    not for that modification of the beastly character of Lord Byron of
    which you have composed Lodore. I stick to _Frankenstein_, merely
    because that vile spirit does not haunt its pages as it does in all
    your other novels, now as Castruccio, now as Raymond,[15] now as
    Lodore. Good God! to think a person of your genius, whose moral tact
    ought to be proportionately exalted, should think it a task befitting
    its powers to gild and embellish and pass off as beautiful what was
    the merest compound of vanity, folly, and every miserable weakness
    that ever met together in one human being! As I do not want to be
    severe on the poor man, because he is dead and cannot defend himself,
    I have only taken the lighter defects of his character, or else I
    might say that never was a nature more profoundly corrupted than his
    became, or was more radically vulgar than his was from the very
    outset. Never was there an individual less adapted, except perhaps
    Alcibiades, for being held up as anything but an object of
    commiseration, or as an example of how contemptible is even
    intellectual greatness when not joined with moral greatness. I shall
    be anxious to see if the hero of your new novel will be another
    beautified Byron. Thank heaven! you have not taken to drawing your
    women upon the same model. Cornelia I like the least of them; she is
    the most like him, because she is so heartlessly proud and selfish,
    but all the others are angels of light.

    Euthanasia[16] is Shelley in female attire, and what a glorious being
    she is! No author, much less the ones--French, English, or German--of
    our day, can bring a woman that matches her. Shakespeare has not a
    specimen so perfect of what a woman ought to be; his, for amiability,
    deep feeling, wit, are as high as possible, but they want her
    commanding wisdom, her profound benevolence.

    I am glad to hear you are writing again; I am always in a fright lest
    you should take it into your head to do what the warriors do after
    they have acquired great fame,--retire and rest upon your laurels.
    That would be very comfortable for you, but very vexing to me, who am
    always wanting to see women distinguishing themselves in literature,
    and who believe there has not been or ever will be one so calculated
    as yourself to raise our sex upon that point. If you would but know
    your own value and exert your powers you could give the men a most
    immense drubbing! You could write upon metaphysics, politics,
    jurisprudence, astronomy, mathematics--all those highest subjects
    which they taunt us with being incapable of treating, and surpass
    them; and what a consolation it would be, when they begin some of
    their prosy, lying, but plausible attacks upon female inferiority, to
    stop their mouths in a moment with your name, and then to add, "and if
    women, whilst suffering the heaviest slavery, could out-do you, what
    would they not achieve were they free?"

With this manifesto on the subject of women's genius in general and of
Mary's in particular--perhaps just redeemed by its tinge of irony from the
last degree of absurdity--it is curious to contrast Mrs. Shelley's own
conclusions, drawn from weary personal experience, and expressed, towards
the end of the following letter, in a mood which permitted her no
illusions and few hopes.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO MRS. GISBORNE.

    HARROW, _11th June 1835_.

    MY DEAREST FRIEND--It is so inexpressibly warm that were not a frank
    lying before me ready for you, I do not think I should have courage to
    write. Do not be surprised, therefore, at stupidity and want of
    connection. I cannot collect my ideas, and this is a goodwill offering
    rather than a letter.

    Still I am anxious to thank S. G. for the pleasure I have received
    from his tale of Italy--a tale all Italy, breathing of the land I
    love. The descriptions are beautiful, and he has shed a charm round
    the concentrated and undemonstrative person of his gentle heroine. I
    suppose she is the reality of the story; did you know her?

    It is difficult, however, to judge how to procure for it the
    publication it deserves. I have no personal acquaintance with the
    editors of any of the annuals--I had with that of the _Keepsake_, but
    that is now in Mrs. Norton's hands, and she has not asked me to write,
    so I know nothing about it; but there arises a stronger objection from
    the length of the story. As the merit lies in the beauty of the
    details, I do not see how it could be cut down to _one quarter_ of its
    present length, which is as long as any tale printed in an annual.
    When I write for them, I am worried to death to make my things shorter
    and shorter, till I fancy people think ideas can be conveyed by
    intuition, and that it is a superstition to consider words necessary
    for their expression.

    I was so very delighted to get your last letter, to be sure the
    "Wisest of Men" said no news was good news, but I am not apt to think
    so, and was uneasy. I hope this weather does not oppress you. What an
    odd climate! A week ago I had a fire, and now it is warmer than Italy;
    warmer at least in a box pervious to the sun than in the stone palaces
    where one can breathe freely. My Father is well. He had a cough in the
    winter, but after we had persuaded him to see a doctor it was easily
    got rid of. He writes to me himself, "I am now well, now nervous, now
    old, now young." One sign of age is, that his horror is so great of
    change of place that I cannot persuade him ever to visit me here. One
    would think that the sight of the fields would refresh him, but he
    likes his own nest better than all, though he greatly feels the
    annoyance of so seldom seeing me.

    Indeed, my kind Maria, you made me smile when you asked me to be civil
    to the brother of your kind doctor. I thought I had explained my
    situation to you. You must consider me as one buried alive. I hardly
    ever go to town; less often I see any one here. My kind and dear young
    friends, the Misses Robinson, are at Brussels. I am cut off from my
    kind. What I suffer! What I have suffered! I, to whom sympathy,
    companionship, the interchange of thought is more necessary than the
    air I breathe, I will not say. Tears are in my eyes when I think of
    days, weeks, months, even years spent alone--eternally alone. It does
    me great harm, but no more of so odious a subject. Let me speak rather
    of my Percy; to see him bright and good is an unspeakable blessing;
    but no child can be a companion. He is very fond of me, and would be
    wretched if he saw me unhappy; but he is with his boys all day long,
    and I am alone, so I can weep unseen. He gets on very well, and is a
    fine boy, very stout; this hot weather, though he exposes himself to
    the sun, instead of making him languid, heightens the colour in his
    cheeks and brightens his eyes. He is always gay and in good humour,
    which is a great blessing.

    You talk about my poetry and about the encouragement I am to find from
    Jane and my Father. When they read all the fine things you said they
    thought it right to attack me about it, but I answered them simply,
    "She exaggerates; you read the best thing I ever wrote in the
    _Keepsake_ and thought nothing of it." I do not know whether you
    remember the verses I mean. I will copy it in another part; it was
    written for music. Poor dear Lord Dillon spoke of it as you do of the
    rest; but "one swallow does not make a summer." I can never write
    verses except under the influence of strong sentiment, and seldom even
    then. As to a tragedy, Shelley used to urge me, which produced his
    own. When I returned first to England and saw Kean, I was in a fit of
    enthusiasm, and wished much to write for the stage, but my Father very
    earnestly dissuaded me. I think that he was in the wrong. I think
    myself that I could have written a good tragedy, but not now. My good
    friend, every feeling I have is blighted, I have no ambition, no care
    for fame. Loneliness has made a wreck of me. I was always a dependent
    thing, wanting fosterage and support. I am left to myself, crushed by
    fortune, and I am nothing.

    You speak of woman's intellect. We can scarcely do more than judge by
    ourselves. I know that, however clever I may be, there is in me a
    vacillation, a weakness, a want of eagle-winged resolution that
    appertains to my intellect as well as to my moral character, and
    renders me what I am, one of broken purposes, failing thoughts, and a
    heart all wounds. My mother had more energy of character, still she
    had not sufficient fire of imagination. In short, my belief is,
    whether there be sex in souls or not, that the sex of our material
    mechanism makes us quite different creatures, better, though weaker,
    but wanting in the higher grades of intellect.

    I am almost sorry to send you this letter, it is so querulous and sad;
    yet, if I write with any effusion, the truth will creep out, and my
    life since you left has been so stained by sorrow and disappointments.
    I have been so barbarously handled both by fortune and my
    fellow-creatures, that I am no longer the same as when you knew me. I
    have no hope. In a few years, when I get over my present feelings and
    live wholly in Percy, I shall be happier. I have devoted myself to him
    as no mother ever did, and idolise him; and the reward will come when
    I can forget a thousand memories and griefs that are as yet alive and
    burning, and I have nothing to do but brood.

    Percy is gone two miles off to bathe; he can swim, and I am obliged to
    leave the rest to fate. It is no use coddling, yet it costs me many
    pangs; but he is singularly trustworthy and careful. Do write, and
    believe me ever your truly attached friend,

      M. W. S.

        A DIRGE

        I

        This morn thy gallant bark, love,
            Sailed on a stormy sea;
        'Tis noon, and tempests dark, love,
        Have wrecked it on the lee.
        Ah woe! ah woe! ah woe!
            By spirits of the deep
        He's cradled on the billow
            To his unwaking sleep.

        II

        Thou liest upon the shore, love,
            Beside the knelling surge,
        But sea-nymphs ever more, love,
        Shall sadly chant thy dirge.
        Oh come! oh come! oh come!
            Ye spirits of the deep;
        While near his seaweed pillow
            My lonely watch I keep.

        III

        From far across the sea, love,
            I hear a wild lament,
        By Echo's voice for thee, love,
        From ocean's caverns sent.
        Oh list! oh list! oh list!
            Ye spirits of the deep,
        Loud sounds their wail of sorrow,
            While I for ever weep.

    _P.S._--Do you not guess why neither these nor those I sent you could
    please those you mention? Papa loves not the memory of Shelley,
    because he feels that he injured him; and Jane--do you not understand
    enough of her to be convinced of the thoughts that make it distasteful
    to her that I should feel, and above all be thought by others to feel,
    and to have a right to feel? Oh! the human heart! It is a strange
    puzzle.

The weary, baffled tone of this letter was partly due to a low state of
health, which resulted in a severe attack of illness. During her boy's
Midsummer holidays she went to Dover in search of strength, and, while
there, received a letter from Trelawny, who had returned from America, as
vivacious and irrepressible as ever.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    BEDFORD HOTEL, BRIGHTON,
    _12th September 1835_.

    MARY, DEAR--Six days I rest, and do all that I have to do on the
    seventh, because it is forbidden. If they would make it felony to
    obey the Commandments (without benefit of clergy), don't you think the
    pleasures of breaking the law would make me keep them?

           *       *       *       *       *

    I cannot surmise _one_ of the "thousand reasons" which you say are to
    prevent my seeing you. On the contrary, your being "chained to your
    rock" enables me to play the vulture at discretion. It is well for
    you, therefore, that I am "the most prudent of men." What a host of
    virtues I am gifted with! When I am dead, lady mine, build a temple
    over me and make pilgrimages. Talking of tombs, let it be agreed
    between you and me that whichever _first_ has _five hundred pounds_ at
    his disposal shall dedicate it to the placing a fitting monument over
    the ashes of Shelley.

    We will go to Rome together. The time, too, cannot be far distant,
    considering all things. Remember me to Percy. I shall direct this to
    Jane's, not that I think you are there. Adieu, Mary!--Your

      E. TRELAWNY.

During the latter part of Mary's residence in London she had seen a great
deal of Mrs. Norton, who was much attracted by her and very fond of her
society, finding in her a most sympathetic friend and confidant at the
time of those domestic troubles, culminating in the separation from her
children, which afterwards obtained a melancholy publicity. Mrs. Shelley
never became wholly intimate with her brilliant contemporary. Reserve, and
a certain pride of poverty, forbade it, but she greatly admired her, and
they constantly corresponded.

    _1835._

    ... "I do not wonder," Mary wrote to Trelawny, "at your not being able
    to deny yourself the pleasure of Mrs. Norton's society. I never saw a
    woman I thought so fascinating. Had I been a man I should certainly
    have fallen in love with her; as a woman, ten years ago, I should have
    been spellbound, and, had she taken the trouble, she might have wound
    me round her finger. Ten years ago I was so ready to give myself away,
    and being afraid of men, I was apt to get _tousy-mousy_ for women;
    experience and suffering have altered all that. I am more wrapt up in
    myself, my own feelings, disasters, and prospects for Percy. I am now
    proof, as Hamlet says, both against man and woman.

    "There is something in the pretty way in which Mrs. Norton's
    witticisms glide, as it were, from her lips, that is very charming;
    and then her colour, which is so variable, the eloquent blood which
    ebbs and flows, mounting, as she speaks, to her neck and temples, and
    then receding as fast; it reminds me of the frequent quotation of
    'eloquent blood,' and gives a peculiar attraction to her
    conversation--not to speak of fine eyes and open brow.

    "Now do not in your usual silly way show her what I say. She is,
    despite all her talents and sweetness, a London lady. She would quiz
    me--not, perhaps, to you--well do I know the London _ton_--but to
    every one else--in her prettiest manner."

The day after this she was writing again to Mrs. Gisborne.

    _13th October 1835._

    Of myself, my dearest Maria, I can give but a bad account. Solitude,
    many cares, and many deep sorrows brought on this summer an illness,
    from which I am only now recovering. I can never forget, nor cease to
    be grateful to Jane for her excessive kindness to me, when I needed it
    most, confined, as I was, to my sofa, unable to move. I went to Dover
    during Percy's holidays, and change of air and bathing made me so much
    better that I thought myself well, but on my return here I had a
    relapse, from which now this last week I am, I trust, fast
    recovering. Bark and port wine seem the chief means of my getting
    well. But in the midst of all this I had to write to meet my expenses.
    I have published a second volume of Italian Lives in Lardner's
    _Encyclopædia_. All in that volume, except Galileo and Tasso, are
    mine. The last is chief, I allow, and I grieve that it had been
    engaged to Mr. M. before I began to write. I am now about to write a
    volume of Spanish and Portuguese Lives. This is an arduous task, from
    my own ignorance, and the difficulty of getting books and information.
    The booksellers want me to write another novel, _Lodore_ having
    succeeded so well, but I have not as yet strength for such an
    undertaking.

    Then there is no Spanish circulating library. I cannot, while here,
    read in the Museum if I would, and I would not if I could. I do not
    like finding myself a stray bird alone among men, even if I knew
    them.[17] One hears how happy people will be to lend me their books,
    but when it comes to the point it is very difficult to get at them.
    However, as I am rather persevering, I hope to conquer these obstacles
    after all. Percy grows; he is taller than I am, and very stout. If he
    does not turn out an honour to his parents, it will be through no
    deficiency in virtue or in talents, but from a dislike of mingling
    with his fellow-creatures, except the two or three friends he cannot
    do without. He may be the happier for it; he has a good understanding,
    and great integrity of character. Adieu, my dear friend.-Ever
    affectionately yours,

      MARY W. SHELLEY.

In April 1836 poor old Godwin died, and with him passed away a large part
of Mary's life. Of those in whose existence her own was summed up only her
son now remained, and even he was not more dependent on her than her
father had been. Godwin had been to his daughter one of those lifelong
cares which, when they disappear, leave a blank that nothing seems to
fill, too often because the survivor has borne the burden so long as to
exhaust the power and energy indispensable to recovery. But she had also
been attached to him all her life with an "excessive and romantic
attachment," only overcome in one instance by a stronger devotion still--a
defection she never could and never did repent of, but for which her whole
subsequent life had been passed in attempting to make up. If she confided
any of her feelings to her diary, no fragment has survived.

She busied herself in trying to obtain from Government some assistance--an
annuity if possible--for Mrs. Godwin. It was very seldom in her life that
Mary asked anybody for anything, and the present exception was made in
favour of one whom she did not love, and who had never been a good friend
to her. But had Mrs. Godwin been her own mother instead of a disagreeable,
jealous, old stepmother, she could not have made greater exertions in her
behalf. Mrs. Norton was ready and willing to help by bringing influence to
bear in powerful quarters, and gave Mary some shrewd advice as to the
wording of her letter to Lord Melbourne. She wrote--

    ... Press _not_ on the politics of Mr. Godwin (for God knows how much
    gratitude for that ever survives), but on his _celebrity_, the widow's
    _age_ and _ill health_, and (if your proud little spirit will bear it)
    on your own _toils_; for, after all, the truth is that you, being
    generous, will, rather than see the old creature starve, work your
    brains and your pen; and you have your son and delicate health to
    hinder you from having _means_ to help her.

    As to petitioning, no one dislikes begging more than I do, especially
    when one begs for what seems mere justice; but I have long observed
    that though people will resist _claims_ (however just), they like to
    do _favours_. Therefore, when _I_ beg, I am a crawling lizard, a
    humble toad, a brown snake in cold weather, or any other simile most
    feebly _rampante_--the reverse of _rampant_, which would be the
    natural attitude for petitioning,--but which must never be assumed
    except in the poodle style, standing with one's paws bent to catch the
    bits of bread on one's nose.

    Forgive my jesting; upon my honour I feel sincerely anxious for your
    anxiety, and sad enough on my own affairs, but Irish blood _will_
    dance. My meaning is, that if one asks _at all_, one should rather
    think of the person written to than one's own feelings. He is an
    indolent man--talk of your literary labours; a kind man--speak of her
    age and infirmities; a patron of all _genius_--talk of your father's
    _and your own_; a prudent man--speak of the likelihood of the pension
    being a short grant (as you have done); lastly, he is a _great_
    man--take it all as a personal favour. As to not apologising for the
    intrusion, we ought always to kneel down and beg pardon for daring to
    remind people we are not so well off as they are.

What was asked was that Godwin's small salary, or a part of it, should be
continued to Mrs. Godwin for her life. As the nominal office Godwin had
held was abolished at his death, this could not be; but Lord Melbourne
pledged himself to do what he could to obtain assistance for the widow in
some form or other, so it is probable that Mary effected her purpose.

    TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    HASTINGS, _25th September 1836_.

    MARY, DEAR--Your letter was exceedingly welcome; it was honoured
    accordingly. You divine truly; I am leading a vegetable sort of a
    life. They say the place is pretty, the air is good, the sea is fine.
    I would willingly exchange a pretty place for a pretty girl. The air
    is keen and shrewish, and as to the sea, I am satisfied with a bath of
    less dimensions. Notwithstanding the want of sun, and the abundance of
    cold winds, I lave my sides daily in the brine, and thus I am
    gradually cooling down to the temperature--of the things round about
    me--so that the thinnest skinned feminine may handle me without fear
    of consequences. Possibly you may think that I am like the torpid
    snake that the forester warmed by his hearth. No, I am not. I am
    steeling myself with Plato and Platonics; so now farewell to love and
    womankind. "Othello's occupation's gone."

           *       *       *       *       *

From an allusion in one of Mrs. Norton's letters to Mary, it appears
likely that what follows refers to Fanny Kemble (Mrs. Butler).

    You say, "Had I seen those eyes you saw the other day." Yes, the darts
    shot from those eyes are still rankling in my body; yet it is a
    pleasing pain. The wound of the scorpion is healed by applying the
    scorpion to the wound. Is she not a glorious being? Have you ever seen
    such a presence? Is she not dazzling? There is enchantment in all her
    ways. Talk of the divine power of music, why, she is all melody, and
    poetry, and beauty, and harmony. How envious and malignant must the
    English be not to do her homage universal. They never had, or will
    have again, such a woman as that. I would rather be her slave than
    king of such an island of Calibans. You have a soul, and sense, and a
    deep feeling for your sex, and revere such "cunning patterns of
    excelling nature," therefore--besides, I owe it you--I will transcribe
    what she says of you: "I was nervous, it was my first visit to any
    one, and there is a gentle frankness in her manner, and a vague
    remembrance of the thought and feeling in her books which prevents my
    being as with a 'visiting acquaintance.'"

           *       *       *       *       *

    Zella is doing wondrous well, and chance has placed her with a
    womankind that even I (setting beauty aside) am satisfied with. By the
    bye, I wish most earnestly you could get me some good _morality_ in
    the shape of Italian and French. It is indispensable to the keeping
    alive her remembrance of those languages, and not a book is to be had
    here, nor do I know exactly how to get them by any other means, so
    pray think of it.

           *       *       *       *       *

    I am inundated with letters from America, and am answering them by
    Mrs. Jameson; she sailing immediately is a very heavy loss to me. She
    is the friendliest-hearted woman in the world. I would rather lose
    anything than her....

    I don't think I shall stay here much longer; it is a bad holding
    ground; my cable is chafing. I shall drift somewhere or other. It is
    well for Mamma Percy has so much of her temperate blood. When us three
    meet, we shall be able to ice the wine by placing it between us; that
    will be nice, as the girls say.

    A glance from Mrs. Nesbitt has shaken my firm nerves a little. There
    is a mystery--a deep well of feeling in those star-like eyes of hers.
    It is strange that actresses are the only true and natural people;
    they only act in the proper season and place, whilst all the rest seem
    eternally playing a part, and like dilettanti acting, damn'd absurdly.

      J. TRELAWNY.

From Brighton, at New Year, Mrs. Shelley sent Trelawny a cheery greeting.

    FROM MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    BRIGHTON, _3d January 1837_.

    MY DEAR TRELAWNY--This day will please you; it is a thaw; what snow we
    had! Hundreds of people have been employed to remove it during the
    last week; at first they cut down deep several feet as if it had been
    clay, and piled it up in glittering pyramids and masses; then they
    began to cart it on to the beach; it was a new sort of Augean stable,
    a never-ending labour. Yesterday, when I was out, it was only got rid
    of in a very few and very circumscribed spots. Nature is more of a
    Hercules; she puts out a little finger in the shape of gentle thaw,
    and it recedes and disappears.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Percy arrived yesterday, having rather whetted than satisfied his
    appetite by going seven times to the play. He plays like Apollo on the
    flageolet, and like Apollo is self-taught. Jane thinks him a miracle!
    it is very odd. He got a frock-coat at Mettes, and, if you had not
    disappointed us with your handkerchief, he would have been complete;
    he is a good deal grown, though not tall enough to satisfy me;
    however, there is time yet. He is quite a child still, full of
    theatres and balloons and music, yet I think there is a gentleness
    about him which shows the advent of the reign of petticoats--how I
    dread it!

           *       *       *       *       *

    Poor Jane writes dismally. She is so weak that she has frequent
    fainting fits; she went to a physician, who ordered her to wean the
    child, and now she takes three glasses of wine a day, and every other
    strengthening medicament, but she is very feeble, and has a cough and
    tendency to inflammation on the chest. I implored her to come down
    here to change the air, and Jeff gave leave, and would have given the
    money; but fear lest his dinner should be overdone while she was
    away, and lest the children should get a finger scratched, makes her
    resolve not to come; what bad bogie is this? If she got stronger how
    much better they would be in consequence! I think her in a critical
    state, but she will not allow of a remedy.

           *       *       *       *       *

    Poor dear little Zella. I hope she is well and happy.... Thank you for
    your offer about money. I have plenty at present, and hope to do well
    hereafter. You are very thoughtful, which is a great virtue. I have
    not heard from your mother or Charlotte since you left; a day or two
    afterwards I saw Betsy Freeman; she was to go to her place the next
    day. I paid her for her work; she looked so radiantly happy that you
    would have thought she was going to be married rather than to a place
    of hardship. I never saw any one look so happy. I told her to let me
    know how she got on, and to apply to me if she wanted assistance.... I
    am glad you are amused at your brother's. I really imagined that Fanny
    Butler had been the attraction, till, sending to the Gloucester, I
    found you were gone by the Southampton coach, and then I suspected
    another magnet--till I find that you are in all peace, or rather war,
    at Sherfield House--much better so.

    I am better a great deal; quite well, I believe I ought to call
    myself, only I feel a little odd at times. I have seen nothing of the
    S.'s. I have met with scarce an acquaintance here, which is odd; but
    then I do not look for them. I am too lazy. I hope this letter will
    catch you before you leave your present perch.--Believe me always,
    yours truly,

      M. W. SHELLEY.

    Will this be a happy New Year? Tell me; the last I can't say much for,
    but I always fear worse to come. Nobody's mare is dead,--if this frost
    does not kill,--my own (such as it will be) is far enough off still.

The next letter is dated only three weeks later. What happened in that
short time to account for its complete change of tone does not appear,
except that from one allusion it may be inferred that Mrs. Shelley was
overtaken by unexpected money difficulties at a moment when she had
fancied herself tolerably at ease on that score. Nothing more likely, for
in the matter of helping others she never learnt prudence or the art of
self-defence.[18] Probably, however, there was a deeper cause for her
sombre mood. She was being pressed on all sides to write the biography of
her father. The task would have been well suited to her powers; she
looked on it, moreover, in the light of a duty which she wished and
intended to perform. Fragments and sketches of hers for this book have
been published, and are among the best specimens of her writing. But
circumstances--scruples--similar to those which had hindered her from
writing Shelley's life stood between her and the present fulfilment of the
task. There were few people to whom she could bring herself to explain her
reasons, and those few need not have required, still less insisted on any
such explanation. But Trelawny, hot and vehement, could and would not see
why Mary did not rush into the field at once, to immortalise the man whose
system of philosophy, more than any other writer's, had moulded Shelley's.
He never spared words, and he probably taxed her with cowardice or
indolence, time-serving and "worldliness."

Shaken by her father's loss, and saddened by that of her friends, Mr. and
Mrs. Gisborne, who had died within a short time of each other shortly
before this, exhausted by work, her feelings warped by solitude, struggle,
and disappointment, this challenge to explain her conduct evoked the most
mournful of all her letters, as explicit as any one could wish; true in
its bitterness, and most bitter in its truth.

    MRS. SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

    BRIGHTON, _Thursday, 27th January 1837_.

    DEAR TRELAWNY--I am very glad to hear that you are amused and happy;
    fate seems to have turned her sunny side to you, and I hope you will
    long enjoy yourself. I know of but one pleasure in the world--sympathy
    with another, or others, rather; leaving out of the question the
    affections, the society of agreeable, gifted, congenial-minded beings
    is the only pleasure worth having in the world. My fate has debarred
    me from this enjoyment, but you seem in the midst of it.

    With regard to my Father's life I certainly could not answer it to my
    conscience to give it up. I shall therefore do it, but I must wait.
    This year I have to fight my poor Percy's battle, to try and get him
    sent to College without further dilapidation of his ruined prospects,
    and he has now to enter life at College. That this should be
    undertaken at a moment when a cry was raised against his mother, and
    that not on the question of _politics_ but _religion_, would mar all.
    I must see him fairly launched before I commit myself to the fury of
    the waves.

    A sense of duty towards my Father, whose passion was posthumous fame,
    makes me ready, as far as I am concerned, to meet the misery that must
    be mine if I become an object of scurrility and attack; for the rest,
    for my own private satisfaction, all I ask is obscurity. What can I
    care for the parties that divide the world, or the opinions that
    possess it? What has my life been? What is it? Since I lost Shelley I
    have been alone, and worse. I had my Father's fate for many a year
    pressing me to the earth; I had Percy's education and welfare to guard
    over, and in all this I had no one friendly hand stretched out to
    support me. Shut out from even the possibility of making such an
    impression as my personal merits might occasion, without a human being
    to aid or encourage, or even to advise me, I toiled on my weary
    solitary way. The only persons who deigned to share those melancholy
    hours, and to afford me the balm of affection, were those dear
    girls[19] whom you chose so long to abuse. Do you think that I have
    not felt, that I do not feel all this? If I have been able to stand up
    against the breakers which have dashed against my stranded, wrecked
    bark, it has been by a sort of passive, dogged resistance, which has
    broken my heart, while it a little supported my spirit. My happiness,
    my health, my fortunes, all are wrecked. Percy alone remains to me,
    and to do him good is the sole aim of my life. One thing I will add;
    if I have ever found kindness, it has not been from liberals; to
    disengage myself from them was the first act of my freedom. The
    consequence was that I gained peace and civil usage, which they denied
    me; more I do not ask; of fate I only ask a grave. I know not what my
    future life is, and shudder, but it must be borne, and for Percy's
    sake I must battle on.

    If you wish for a copy of my novel[20] you shall have one, but I did
    not order it to be sent to you, because, being a rover, all luggage
    burthens. I have told them to send it to your mother, at which you
    will scoff, but it was the only way I had to show my sense of her
    kindness. You may pick and choose those from whom you deign to receive
    kindness; you are a man at a feast, champagne and comfits your diet,
    and you naturally scoff at me and my dry crust in a corner. Often have
    you scoffed and sneered at all the aliment of kindness or society that
    fate has afforded me. I have been silent, for the hungry cannot be
    dainty, but it is useless to tell a pampered man this. Remember in all
    this, except in one or two instances, my complaint is not against
    _persons_, but _fate_. Fate has been my enemy throughout. I have no
    wish to increase her animosity or her power by exposing [myself] more
    than I possibly can to her venomous attacks.

    You have sent me no address, so I direct this to your Mother; give her
    and Charlotte my love, and tell them I think I shall be in town at the
    beginning of next month; my time in this house is up on the 3d, and I
    ought to be in town with Percy to take him to Sir Tim's solicitors,
    and so begin my attack. I should advise you, by the bye, not to read
    my novel; you will not like it. I cannot _teach_; I can only
    paint--such as my paintings are,--and you will not approve of much of
    what I deem natural feeling, because it is not founded on the new
    light.

    I had a long letter from Mrs. N[orton]. I admire her excessively, and
    I _think_ I could love her infinitely, but I shall not be asked nor
    tried, and shall take very good care not to press myself. I know what
    her relations think.

    If you are still so rich, and can lend me £20 till my quarter, I shall
    be glad. I do not know that I absolutely [need] it here now, but may
    run short at last, so, if not inconvenient, will you send it next
    week?

    I shall soon be in town, I suppose; _where_, I do not yet know. I
    dread my return, for I shall have a thousand worries.

    Despite unfavourable weather, quiet and ease have much restored my
    health, but mental annoyance will soon make me as ill as ever. Only
    writing this letter makes me feel half dead. Still, to be thus at
    peace is an expensive luxury, and I must forego it for other duties,
    which I have been allowed to forget for a time, but my holiday is
    past.

    Happy is Fanny Butler if she can shed tears and not be destroyed by
    them; this luxury is denied me. I am obliged to guard against low
    spirits as my worst disease, and I do guard, and usually I am not in
    low spirits. Why then do you awaken me to thought and suffering by
    forcing me to explain the motives of my conduct? Could you not trust
    that I thought anxiously, decided carefully, and from disinterested
    motives, not to save myself, but my child, from evil. Pray let the
    stream flow quietly by, as glittering on the surface as it may, and do
    not awaken the deep waters which are full of briny bitterness. I never
    wish any one to dive into the secret depths; be content, if I can
    render the surface safe sailing, that I do not annoy you with clouds
    and tempests, but turn the silvery side outward, as I ought, for God
    knows I would not render any living creature so miserable as I could
    easily be; and I would also guard myself from the sense of woe which I
    tie hard about, and sink low, low, out of sight and fathom line.

    Adieu. Excuse all this; it is your own fault; speak of yourself. Never
    speak of me, and you will never again be annoyed with so much
    stupidity.--Yours truly,

      M. S.

The painful mood of this letter was not destined to find present relief.
From her father's death in 1836 till the year 1840 was to be perhaps the
hardest, dreariest, and most laborious time she had ever known. No chance
had she now to distract her mind or avoid the most painful themes. Her
very occupation was to tie her down to these. She was preparing her
edition of Shelley's works, with notes. The prohibition as to bringing his
name before the public seems to have been withdrawn or at any rate
slackened; it had probably become evident, even to those least disposed to
see, that the undesirable publicity, if not given by the right person,
would inevitably be given by the wrong one. Much may also have been due to
the fact that Mr. Whitton, Sir Timothy's solicitor, was dead, and had been
replaced by another gentleman who, unlike his predecessor, used his
influence to promote milder counsels and a better mutual understanding
than had prevailed hitherto.

This task was accepted by Mary as the most sacred of duties, but it is
probable that if circumstances had permitted her to fulfil it in the years
which immediately followed Shelley's death she would have suffered from it
less than now. It might not have been so well done, she might have written
at too great length, or have indulged in too much expression of personal
feeling; and in the case of omissions from his writings, the decision
might have been even harder to make. Still it would have cost her less.
Her heart, occupied by one subject, would have found a kind of relief in
the necessity for dwelling on it. But seventeen years had elapsed, and she
was forty-two, and very tired. Seventeen years of struggle, labour, and
loneliness; even the mournful satisfaction of retrospect poisoned and
distorted by Jane Williams' duplicity. She could no longer dwell on the
thought of that affection which had consoled her in her supreme
misfortune.

Mary had had many and bitter troubles and losses, but nothing entered
into her soul so deeply as the defection of this friend. Alienation is
worse than bereavement. Other sorrows had left her desolate; this one left
her different.

Hence the fact that an undertaking which would once have been a painful
pleasure was too often a veritable martyrdom. Who does not remember Hans
Andersen's little princess, in his story of the _White Swans_, who freed
her eleven brothers from the evil enchantment which held them transformed,
by spinning shirts of stinging-nettles? Such nettle-shirts had Mary now to
weave and spin, to exorcise the evil spirits which had power of
misrepresenting and defaming Shelley's memory, and to save Percy for ever
from their sinister spells.

Her health was weak, her heart was sore, her life was lonely, and, in
spite of her undaunted efforts, she was still so badly off that she was,
as the last letter shows, reduced to accepting Trelawny's offer of a loan
of money. Nor was it only her work that she had on her mind; she was also
very anxious about her son's future. He had, at this time, an idea of
entering the Diplomatic Service, and his mother overcame her diffidence so
far as to try and procure an opening for him--no easy thing to find. Among
the people she consulted and asked was Lytton Bulwer; his answer was not
encouraging.

    SIR E. L. BULWER TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    HERTFORD STREET, _17th March 1839_.

    MY DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--Many thanks for your kind congratulations. I am
    delighted to find you like _Richelieu_.

    With regard to your son, with his high prospects, the diplomacy may do
    very well; but of all professions it is the most difficult to rise in.
    The first steps are long and tedious. An Attaché at a small Court is
    an exile without pay, and very little opening to talent. However, for
    young men of fortune and expectations it fills up some years agreeably
    enough, what with flirting, dressing, dancing, and perhaps, if one has
    good luck, a harmless duel or two!

    To be serious, it is better than being idle, and one certainly learns
    languages, knowledge of the world, and good manners. Perhaps I may
    send my son, some seventeen years hence, if my brother is then a
    minister, into that career. But it will depend on his prospects. Are
    you sure that you can get an attachéship? It requires a good deal of
    interest, and there are plenty of candidates among young men of rank,
    and, I fear, claims more pressing and urging than the memory of
    genius. I could not procure that place for a most intimate friend of
    mine a little time ago. I will take my chance some evening, but I fear
    not Thursday; in fact, I am so occupied just at present that till
    after Easter I have scarcely a moment to myself, and at Easter I must
    go to Lincoln.--Yours ever,

      E. L. BULWER.

Mrs. Norton interested herself in the matter. She could not effect much,
but she was sympathetic and kind.

    "You have your troubles," she wrote, "struggling for one who, I trust,
    will hereafter repay you for every weary hour and years of
    self-denial, and I shall be glad to hear from you now and then how all
    goes on with you and him, so do not forget me when you have a spare
    half hour, and if ever I have any good news to send, do not doubt my
    then writing by the first post, for I think my happiest moments now
    are when, in the strange mixture of helplessness and power which has
    made the warp and woof of my destiny, I can accidentally serve some
    one who has had more of the world's buffets than its good fortune."

Some scraps of journal belonging to 1839 afford a little insight into Mrs.
Shelley's difficulties while editing her husband's MSS.

    _Journal, February 12_ (1839).--I almost think that my present
    occupation will end in a fit of illness. I am editing Shelley's Poems,
    and writing notes for them. I desire to do Shelley honour in the notes
    to the best of my knowledge and ability; for the rest, they are or are
    not well written; it little matters to me which. Would that I had more
    literary vanity, or vanity of any kind; I were happier. As it is, I am
    torn to pieces by memory. Would that all were mute in the grave!

    I _much_ disliked the leaving out any of _Queen Mab_. I dislike it
    still more than I can express, and I even wish I had resisted to the
    last; but when I was told that certain portions would injure the
    copyright of all the volumes to the publisher, I yielded. I had
    consulted Hunt, Hogg, and Peacock; they all said I had a right to do
    as I liked, and offered no one objection. Trelawny sent back the
    volume to Moxon in a rage at seeing parts left out....

    Hogg has written me an insulting letter because I left out the
    dedication to Harriet....

    Little does Jefferson, how little does any one, know me! When Clarke's
    edition of _Queen Mab_ came to us at the Baths of Pisa, Shelley
    expressed great pleasure that these verses were omitted. This
    recollection caused me to do the same. It was to do him honour. What
    could it be to me? There are other verses I should well like to
    obliterate for ever, but they will be printed; and any to her could in
    no way tend to my discomfort, or gratify one ungenerous feeling. They
    shall be restored, though I do not feel easy as to the good I do
    Shelley. I may have been mistaken. Jefferson might mistake me and be
    angry; that were nothing. He has done far more, and done his best to
    give another poke to the poisonous dagger which has long rankled in my
    heart. I cannot forgive any man that insults any woman. She cannot
    call him out,--she disdains words of retort; she must endure, but it
    is never to be forgiven; not, "indeed, cherished as matter of
    enmity"--that I never feel,--but of caution to shield oneself from the
    like again.

    In so arduous a task, others might ask for encouragement and kindness
    from their friends,--I know mine better. I am unstable, sometimes
    melancholy, and have been called on some occasions imperious; but I
    never did an ungenerous act in my life. I sympathise warmly with
    others, and have wasted my heart in their love and service.

    All this together is making me feel very ill, and my holiday at
    Woodlay only did me good while it lasted.

    _March._ ... Illness did ensue. What an illness! driving me to the
    verge of insanity. Often I felt the cord would snap, and I should no
    longer be able to rule my thoughts; with fearful struggles, miserable
    relapses, after long repose I became somewhat better.

    _October 5, 1839._--Twice in my life I have believed myself to be
    dying, and my soul being alive, though the bodily functions were faint
    and perishing, I had opportunity to look Death in the face, and I did
    not fear it--far from it. My feelings, especially in the first and
    most perilous instance, was, I go to no new creation. I enter under no
    new laws. The God that made this beautiful world (and I was then at
    Lerici, surrounded by the most beautiful manifestation of the visible
    creation) made that into which I go; as there is beauty and love here,
    such is there, and I feel as if my spirit would when it left my frame
    be received and sustained by a beneficent and gentle Power.

    I had no fear, rather, though I had no active wish but a passive
    satisfaction in death. Whether the nature of my illness--debility from
    loss of blood, without pain--caused this tranquillity of soul, I
    cannot tell; but so it was, and it had this blessed effect, that I
    have never since anticipated death with terror, and even if a violent
    death (which is the most repugnant to human nature) menaced me, I
    think I could, after the first shock, turn to the memory of that hour,
    and renew its emotion of perfect resignation.

The darkest moment is that which precedes the dawn. These unhappy years
were like the series of "clearing showers" which often concludes a stormy
day. The clouds were lifting, and though Mary Shelley could never be other
than what sorrow and endurance had made her, the remaining years of her
life were to bring alleviations to her lot,--slanting rays of afternoon
sunshine, powerless, indeed, to warm into life the tender buds of morning,
but which illumined the landscape and lightened her path, and shed over
her a mild radiance which she reflected back on others, affording to them
the brightness she herself could know no more, and diffusing around her
that sensation of peace which she was to know now, perhaps, for the first
time.




CHAPTER XXIV

OCTOBER 1839-FEBRUARY 1851


Mrs. Shelley's annotated edition of Shelley's works was completed by the
appearance, in 1840, of the collected prose writings; along with which was
republished the _Journal of a Six Weeks' Tour_ (a joint composition) and
her own two letters from Geneva, reprinted in the present work.

Mary's correspondence with Carlyle on the subject of a motto for her book
was the occasion of the following note--

    5 CHEYNE ROW, CHELSEA,
    _3d December 1839_.

    DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--There does some indistinct remembrance of a
    sentence like the one you mention hover in my head; but I cannot
    anywhere lay hand on it. Indeed, I rather think it was to this effect:
    "Treat men as what they should be, and you help to make them so."
    Further, is it not rather one of Wilhelm's kind speeches than of the
    Uncle's or the Fair Saint's? James Fraser shall this day send you a
    copy of the work; you, with your own clear eyes, shall look for
    yourself.

    I have no horse now; the mud forced me to send it into the country
    till dry weather came again. Layton House is so much the farther off.
    _Tant pis pour moi._--Yours always truly,

      T. CARLYLE.

The words ultimately prefixed to the collection are the following, from
Carlyle--

    That thou, O my Brother, impart to me truly how it stands with thee in
    that inner heart of thine; what lively images of things past thy
    memory has painted there; what hopes, what thoughts, affections,
    knowledge, do now dwell there. For this and no other object that I can
    see was the gift of hearing and speech bestowed on us two.

The proceeds of this work were such as to set her for some time at
comparative ease on the score of money; the Godwin quicksand was no longer
there to engulf them.

    _Journal, June 1, 1840_ (Brighton).--I must mark this evening, tired
    as I am, for it is one among few--soothing and balmy. Long oppressed
    by care, disappointment, and ill health, which all combined to depress
    and irritate me, I felt almost to have lost the spring of happy
    reverie. On such a night it returns--the calm sea, the soft breeze,
    the silver bow new bent in the western heaven--Nature in her sweetest
    mood, raised one's thoughts to God and imparted peace.

    Indeed I have many, many blessings, and ought to be grateful, as I am,
    though the poison lurks among them; for it is my strange fate that all
    my friends are sufferers--ill health or adversity bears heavily on
    them, and I can do little good, and lately ill health and extreme
    depression have even marred the little I could do. If I could restore
    health, administer balm to the wounded heart, and banish care from
    those I love, I were in myself happy, while I am loved, and Percy
    continues the blessing that he is. Still, who on such a night must not
    feel the weight of sorrow lessened? For myself, I repose in gentle and
    grateful reverie, and hope for others. I am content for myself. Years
    have--how much!--cooled the ardent and swift spirit that at such hours
    bore me freely along. Yet, though I no longer soar, I repose. Though
    I no longer deem all things attainable, I enjoy what is; and while I
    feel that whatever I have lost of youth and hope, I have acquired the
    enduring affection of a noble heart, and Percy shows such excellent
    dispositions that I feel that I am much the gainer in life.

    Fate does indeed visit some too heavily--poor R. for instance, God
    restore him! God and good angels guard us! surely this world, stored
    outwardly with shapes and influences of beauty and good, is peopled in
    its intellectual life by myriads of loving spirits that mould our
    thoughts to good, influence beneficially the course of events, and
    minister to the destiny of man. Whether the beloved dead make a
    portion of this company I dare not guess, but that such exist I
    feel--far off, when we are worldly, evil, selfish; drawing near and
    imparting joy and sympathy when we rise to noble thoughts and
    disinterested action. Such surely gather round one on such an evening,
    and make part of that atmosphere of love, so hushed, so soft, on which
    the soul reposes and is blest.

These serene lines were written by Mrs. Shelley within a few days of
leaving England on the first of those tours described by her in the series
of letters published as _Rambles in Germany and Italy_. It had been
arranged that her son and two college friends, both of whom, like him,
were studying for their degree, should go abroad for the Long Vacation,
and that Mrs. Shelley should form one of the reading party. Paris was to
be the general rendezvous. Mrs. Shelley, who was staying at Brighton,
intended travelling _viâ_ Dieppe, but her health was so far from strong
that she shrank from the long crossing, and started from Dover instead.
She was now accompanied by a lady's-maid, a circumstance which relieved
her from some of the fatigue incidental to a journey. They travelled by
diligence; a new experience to her, as, in her former wanderings with
Shelley, they had had their own carriage (save indeed on the first tour of
all, when they set off to walk through France with a donkey); and in more
recent years she had travelled, in England, by the newly-introduced
railroads--

    "To which, whatever their faults may be, I feel eternally grateful,"
    she says; adding afterwards, "a pleasant day it will be when there is
    one from Calais to Paris."

So recent a time, and yet how remote it seems! Mary had never been a good
traveller, but she found now, to her surprise and satisfaction, that in
spite of her nervous suffering she was better able than formerly to stand
the fatigue of a journey. She had painful sensations, but

    the fatigue I endured seemed to take away weariness instead of
    occasioning it. I felt light of limb and in good spirits. On the
    shores of France I shook the dust of accumulated cares from off me: I
    forgot disappointment and banished sorrow: weariness of body replaced
    beneficially weariness of soul--so much heavier, so much harder to
    bear.

Change, in short, did her more good than travelling did her harm.

    "I feel a good deal of the gipsy coming upon me," she wrote a few days
    later, "now that I am leaving Paris. I bid adieu to all
    acquaintances, and set out to wander in new lands, surrounded by
    companions fresh to the world, unacquainted with its sorrows, and who
    enjoy with zest every passing amusement. I myself, apt to be too
    serious, but easily awakened to sympathy, forget the past and the
    future, and am ready to be amused by all I see as much or even more
    than they."

From Paris they journeyed to Metz and Trèves, down the Moselle and the
Rhine, by Schaffhausen and Zurich, over the Splugen Pass to Cadenabbia on
the Lake of Como. Here they established themselves for two months. Mrs.
Shelley occupied herself in the study of Italian literature, while the
young men were busy with their Cambridge work. Her son's friends were
devoted to her, and no wonder. Indeed, her amiability and sweetness, her
enjoyment of travelling, her wide culture and great store of knowledge,
her acuteness of observation, and the keen interest she took in all she
saw, must have made her a most fascinating companion. On leaving Como they
visited Milan, and, on their way home, passing through Genoa, Mary looked
again on the Villa Diodati, and the little Maison Chapuis nestling below,
where she had begun to write _Frankenstein_. All unaltered; but in her,
what a change! Shelley, Byron, the blue-eyed William, where were they?
Where was Fanny, whose long letters had kept them informed of English
affairs? Mary herself, and Clare, were they the same people as the two
girls, one fair, one dark, who had excited so much idle and impertinent
speculation in the tourists from whose curiosity Byron had fled?

  But where are the snows of yester-year?

In autumn Mrs. Shelley and her son returned to England; but the next year
they again went abroad, and this time for a longer sojourn.

They were now better off than they had ever been, for, after Percy had
attained his majority and taken his degree, his grandfather made him an
allowance of £400 a year; a free gift, not subject to the condition of
repayment. This welcome relief from care came not a day too soon. Mrs.
Shelley's strength was much shaken, her attacks of nervous illness were
more frequent, and, had she had to resume her life of unvaried toil, the
results might have been serious.

It is probably to this event that Mrs. Norton refers in the following note
of congratulation--

    MRS. NORTON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--I cannot tell you how sincerely glad I was to get a
    note so cheerful, and cheerful on such good grounds as your last. I
    hope it is the _dawn_, that your day of struggling is over, and
    nothing to come but gradually increasing comfort. With tolerable
    prudence, and abroad, I should hope Percy would find his allowance
    quite sufficient, and I think it will be a relief that may lift your
    mind and do your health good to see him properly provided for.

    I am too ill to leave the sofa or I should (by rights) be at Lord
    Palmerston's this evening, but, when I see any one likely to support
    the very modest request made to Lord P., I will speak about it to
    them; I have little doubt that, since they are not asked for a paid
    attachéship, you will succeed.

    ... In three weeks I am to set up the magnificence of a "one 'orse
    chay" myself, and then Fulham and the various streets of London where
    friends and foes live will become attainable; at present I have never
    stirred over the threshold since I came up from Brighton.--Ever yours
    very truly,

      CAR. NORTON.

They began their second tour by a residence at Kissingen, where Mrs.
Shelley had been advised to take the waters for her health. The "Cur" over
(by which she benefited a good deal), they proceeded to Gotha, Weimar,
Leipzig, Berlin, and Dresden--all perfectly new ground to Mary. Dresden
and its treasures of art were a delight to her, only marred by the
overwhelming heat of the summer.

Through Saxon Switzerland they travelled to Prague, and Mary was roused to
enthusiasm by the intense romantic interest of the Bohemian capital, as
she was afterwards by the magnificent scenery of the approach to Linz (of
which she gives in her letters a vivid description), and of Salzburg and
the Salzkammergut.

Through the Tyrol, over the Brenner Pass, by the Lake of Garda, they came
to Verona, and finally to Venice--another place fraught to Mary with
associations unspeakable.

    Many a scene which I have since visited and admired has faded in my
    mind, as a painting in a diorama melts away, and another struggles
    into the changing canvass; but this road was as distinct in my mind as
    if traversed yesterday. I will not here dwell on the sad circumstances
    that clouded my first visit to Venice. Death hovered over the scene.
    Gathered into myself, with my "mind's eye" I saw those before me long
    departed, and I was agitated again by emotions, by passions--and those
    the deepest a woman's heart can harbour--a dread to see her child even
    at that instant expire, which then occupied me. It is a strange, but,
    to any person who has suffered, a familiar circumstance, that those
    who are enduring mental or corporeal agony are strangely alive to
    immediate external objects, and their imagination even exercises its
    wild power over them.... I have experienced it; and the particular
    shape of a room, the progress of shadows on a wall, the peculiar
    flickering of trees, the exact succession of objects on a journey,
    have been indelibly engraved in my memory, as marked in and associated
    with hours and minutes when the nerves were strung to their utmost
    tension by endurance of pain, or the far severer infliction of mental
    anguish. Thus the banks of the Brenta presented to me a moving scene;
    not a palace, not a tree of which I did not recognise, as marked and
    recorded, at a moment when life and death hung upon our speedy arrival
    at Venice.

    And at Fusina, as then, I now beheld the domes and towers of the Queen
    of Ocean arise from the waves with a majesty unrivalled upon earth.

They spent the winter at Florence, and by April were in Rome. This indeed
was the Holy Land of Mary Shelley's pilgrimage. There was the spot where
William lay; there the tomb which held the heart of Shelley. Mary may well
have felt as if standing by her own graveside. Was not her heart of hearts
buried with them? And there, too, was the empty grave where now Trelawny
lies; the touching witness to that undying devotion of his to Shelley's
memory which Mary never forgot.

None of this is touched upon--it could not be--in the published letters.
The Eternal City itself filled her with such emotions and interests as not
even she had ever felt before. It is curious to compare some of these with
her earlier letters from abroad, and to notice how, while her power of
observation was undiminished, the intellectual faculties of thought and
comparison had developed and widened, while her interest was as keen as in
her younger days, nay keener, for her attention now, poor thing, was
comparatively undivided.

Scenery, art, historical associations, the political and social state of
the countries she visited, and the characteristics of the people, nothing
was lost on her, and on all she saw she brought to bear the ripened
faculties of a reflective and most appreciative mind. Some of her remarks
on Italian politics are almost prophetic in their clear-sighted
sagacity.[21] That after all she had suffered she should have retained
such keen powers of enjoyment as she did may well excite wonder. Perhaps
this enjoyment culminated at Sorrento, where she and her son positively
revelled in the luxuriant beauty and witchery of a perfect southern
summer.

Her impressions of these two tours were published in the form of letters,
and entitled _Rambles in Germany and Italy_, and were dedicated to Samuel
Rogers in 1844.

He thus acknowledged the copy of the work she sent him--

    ST. JAMES'S PLACE,
    _30th July 1844_.

    What can I say to you in return for the honour you have done me--an
    honour so undeserved! If some feelings make us eloquent, it is not so
    with others, and I can only thank you from the bottom of my heart, and
    assure you how highly I shall value and how carefully I shall preserve
    the two precious volumes on every account--for your sake and for their
    own.--Ever yours most sincerely,

      S. ROGERS.

In the spring of 1844 it became evident that Sir Timothy Shelley's life
was drawing to a close. In anticipation of what was soon to happen, Mary,
always mindful of her promise to Leigh Hunt, wrote to him as follows--

    PUTNEY, _20th April 1844_.

    MY DEAR HUNT--The tidings from Field Place seem to say that ere long
    there will be a change; if nothing untoward happens to us till then,
    it will be for the better. Twenty years ago, in memory of what
    Shelley's intentions were, I said that you should be considered one of
    the legatees to the amount of £2000. I need scarcely mention that when
    Shelley talked of leaving you this sum he contemplated reducing other
    legacies, and that one among them is (by a mistake of the solicitor)
    just double what he intended it to be.

    Twenty years have, of course, much changed my position. Twenty years
    ago it was supposed that Sir Timothy would not live five years.
    Meanwhile a large debt has accumulated, for I must pay back all on
    which Percy and I have subsisted, as well as what I borrowed for
    Percy's going to college. In fact, I scarcely know how our affairs
    will be. Moreover, Percy shares now my right; that promise was made
    without his concurrence, and he must concur to render it of avail. Nor
    do I like to ask him to do so till our affairs are so settled that we
    know what we shall have--whether Shelley's uncle may not go to law; in
    short, till we see our way before us.

    It is both my and Percy's great wish to feel that you are no longer so
    burdened by care and necessity; in that he is as desirous as I can be;
    but the form and the degree in which we can do this must at first be
    uncertain. From the time of Sir Timothy's death I shall give
    directions to my banker to honour your quarterly cheques for £30 a
    quarter; and I shall take steps to secure this to you, and to Marianne
    if she should survive you.

    Percy has read this letter, and approves. I know your _real_ delicacy
    about money matters, and that you will at once be ready to enter into
    my views; and feel assured that if any present debt should press, if
    we have any command of money, we will take care to free you from it.

    With love to Marianne, affectionately yours,

      MARY SHELLEY.

Sir Timothy died in this year, and Mary's son succeeded to the baronetcy
and estates. The fortune he inherited was much encumbered, as, besides
paying Shelley's numerous legacies and the portions of several members of
the family, he had also to refund, with interest, all the money advanced
to his mother for their maintenance for the last twenty-one years,
amounting now to a large sum, which he met by means of a mortgage effected
on the estates. But all was done at last. Clare was freed from the
necessity for toil and servitude; she was, indeed, well off, as she
inherited altogether £12,000. Hers is the legacy to which Mrs. Shelley
alludes as being, by a mistake, double what had been intended. When
Shelley made his will, he bequeathed to her £6000. Not long before the end
of his life he added a codicil, to the effect that _these_ £6000 should be
invested for her benefit, intending in this way (it is supposed) to secure
to her the interest of this sum, and to protect her against recklessness
on her own part or needy rapacity on the part of others. Through the
omission in the lawyer's draft of the word "these" this codicil was
construed into a second bequest of £6000, which she received. The Hunts,
by Shelley's bounty and the generosity of his wife and son, were made
comparatively easy in their circumstances. Byron had declined to be
numbered among Shelley's legatees; not so Mr. Hogg, whose letter on the
occasion is too characteristic to omit.

    HOGG TO MRS. SHELLEY.

    DEAR MARY--I have just had an interview with Mr. Gregson. He spoke of
    your affairs cheerfully, and thinks that, with prudence and economy,
    you and your baronet-boy will do well; and such, I trust and earnestly
    hope, will be the result of this long turmoil of worldly perplexity.

    Mr. Gregson paid me the noble tribute of the most generous and kind
    and munificent affection of our incomparable friend. He not only paid
    the legacy, but very obligingly offered me some interest; for which
    offer, and for such prompt payment, I return my best thanks to
    yourself and to Percy.

    I was glad to hear from Mr. Gregson, for the honour of poesy, that
    Lord Byron had declined to receive his legacy. How much I wish that my
    scanty fortunes would justify the like refusal on my part!

    I daresay you wish that you were a good deal richer--that this had
    happened and not that--and that a great deal, which was quite
    impossible, had been done, and so on! I should be sorry to believe
    that you were quite contented; such a state of mind, so preposterous
    and unnatural, especially in any person whose circumstances were
    affluent, would surely portend some great calamity.

    I hope that I may venture to look forward to the time when the Baronet
    will inhabit Field Place in a style not unworthy of his name. My
    desire grows daily in the strength to keep up _families_, for it is
    only from these that Shelleys and Byrons proceed.


[Illustration: THOMAS JEFFERSON HOGG,

AS HE SAT PLAYING AT CHESS AT BOSCOMBE.

FROM A SKETCH BY R. EASTON.

_To face Page 305 (Vol. ii.)_]


    If low people sometimes effect a little in some particular line, they
    always show that they are poor, creeping creatures in the main and in
    general.

    However this may be, and whatever you or yours may take of Shelley
    property, "either by heirship or conquest," as they say in Scotland, I
    hope that you may not be included in the unbroken entail of gout,
    which takes so largely from the comforts, and adds so greatly to the
    irritability natural to yours, dear Mary, very faithfully,

      T. J. HOGG.

For many and good reasons there could be little real sympathy between Hogg
and Mary Shelley. In lieu of it she willingly accepted his genuine
enthusiasm for Shelley, and she was a better friend to him than he was to
her. The veiled impertinence of his tone to her must have severely tried
her patience, if not her endurance. Indeed, the mocking style of his
ironical eulogies of her talents, and her fidelity to the memory of her
husband are more offensive to those who know what she was than any
ill-humoured tirade of Trelawny's.

The high esteem in which Mrs. Shelley was held by the eminent literary men
who were her contemporaries is pleasantly attested in a number of letters
and notes addressed to her by T. Moore, Samuel Rogers, Carlyle, Bulwer,
Prosper Merimée, and others; letters for the most part of no great
importance except in so far as they show the familiar and friendly terms
existing between the writers and Mrs. Shelley. One, however, from Walter
Savage Landor, deserves insertion here for its intrinsic interest--

    DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--It would be very ungrateful in me to delay for a
    single post an answer to your very kind letter. If only three or four
    like yourself (supposing there are that number in one generation) are
    gratified by my writings, I am quite content. Hardly do I know whether
    in the whole course of fifty years I have been so fortunate. For one
    of my earliest resolutions in life was never to read what was written
    about me, favourable or unfavourable; and another was, to keep as
    clear as possible of all literary men, well knowing their jealousies
    and animosities, and so little did I seek celebrity, or even renown,
    that on making a present of my Gebir and afterwards of my later poems
    to the bookseller, I insisted that they should not even be advertised.
    Whatever I have written since I have placed at the disposal and
    discretion of some friend. Are not you a little too enthusiastic in
    believing that writers can be much improved by studying my writings? I
    mean in their style. The style is a part of the mind, just as feathers
    are part of the bird. The style of Addison is admired--it is very lax
    and incorrect. But in his manner there is the shyness of the Loves;
    there is the graceful shyness of a beautiful girl not quite grown up!
    People feel the cool current of delight, and never look for its
    source. However, he wrote the Vision of Mirza, and no prose man in any
    age of the world had written anything so delightful. Alas! so far from
    being able to teach men how to write, it will be twenty years before I
    teach them how to spell. They will write simil_e_, for_ei_gn,
    sover_ei_gn, therefo_re_, imp_el_, comp_el_, reb_el_, etc. I wish they
    would turn back to Hooker, not for theology--the thorns of theology
    are good only to heat the oven for the reception of wholesome food.
    But Hooker and Jonson and Milton spelt many words better than we do.
    We need not wear their coats, but we may take the gold buttons off
    them and put them on smoother stuff.--Believe me, dear Mrs. Shelley,
    very truly yours,

      W. S. LANDOR.


[Illustration]


Of individuals as of nations, it may be true that those are happiest who
have no history. The later years of Mrs. Shelley, which offer no event of
public interest, were tranquil and comparatively happy. She brought out no
new work after 1844.[22] It had been her intention, now that the
prohibition which constituted the chief obstacle was removed, to undertake
the long-projected _Life of Shelley_. It seemed the more desirable as
there was no lack of attempts at biography. Chief among these was the
series of articles entitled "Shelley Papers," contributed by Mr. Hogg to
the _New Monthly_ magazine during 1832. They were afterwards incorporated
with that so-called _Life of Shelley_ which deals only with Shelley's
first youth, and which, though it consists of one halfpennyworth of
Shelley to an intolerable deal of Hogg, is yet a classic, and one of the
most amusing classics in the world; so amusing, indeed, that, for its
sake, we might address the author somewhat as Sterne is said to have
apostrophised Mrs. Cibber, after hearing her sing a pathetic air of
Handel, "Man, for this be all thy sins forgiven thee!" The second chapter
of the book includes some fragments of biography by Mary, a facsimile of
one of which, in her handwriting, is given here.

Medwin's _Life of Shelley_, inaccurate and false in facts, distasteful in
style and manner, had caused Mrs. Shelley serious annoyance. The author,
who wrote for money chiefly, actually offered to suppress the book _for a
consideration_; a proposal which Mrs. Shelley treated with the silent
contempt it deserved. These were, however, strong arguments in favour of
her undertaking the book herself. She summoned up her resolution and began
to collect her materials.

But it was not to be. Her powers and her health were unequal to the task.
The parallel between her and the Princess of the nettle-shirts was to be
carried out to the bitter end, for the last nettle-shirt lacked a sleeve,
and the youngest brother always retained one swan's wing instead of an
arm. The last service Mary could have rendered to Shelley was never to be
completed, and so the exact details of certain passages of Shelley's life
must remain for ever, to some extent, matters of speculation. No one but
Mary could have supplied the true history and, as she herself had said, in
the introductory note to her edition of his poems, it was not yet time to
do that. Too many were living who might have been wounded or injured; nay,
there still are too many to admit of a biographer's speaking with perfect
frankness. But, although she might have furnished to some circumstances a
key which is now for ever lost, it is equally true that there was much to
be said, which hardly could, and most certainly never would have been told
by her. Of his earliest youth and his life with Harriet she could,
herself, know nothing but by hearsay. But the chief difficulty lay in the
fact that too much of her own history was interwoven with his. How could
she, now, or at any time, have placed herself, as an observer, so far
outside the subject of her story as to speak of her married life with
Shelley, of its influence on the development of his character and genius,
of the effect of that development, and of her constant association with it
on herself? Yet any life of him which left this out of account would have
been most incomplete. More than that, no biography of such a man as
Shelley can be completely successful which is written under great
restrictions and difficulties. To paint a life-like picture of a nature
like his requires a genius akin to his, aglow with the fervour of
confident enthusiasm.

It was, then, as well that Mary never wrote the book. The invaluable notes
which she did write to Shelley's poems have done for him all that it was
in her power to accomplish, and all that is necessary. They put the reader
in possession of the knowledge it concerns him to have; that of the scenes
or the circumstances which inspired or suggested the poems themselves.

In 1847 she became acquainted with the lady to whom her son was afterwards
married, and who was to be to Mrs. Shelley a kind of daughter and sister
in one. No one, except her son, is living who knew Mary so well and loved
her so enthusiastically. A mutual friend had urged them to become
acquainted, assuring them both "they ought to know each other, they would
suit so perfectly." Some people think that this course is one which tends
oftener to postpone than to promote the desired intimacy. In the present
case it was justified by the result. Mrs. Shelley called. Her future
daughter-in-law, on entering the room, beheld something utterly unlike
what she had imagined or expected in the famous Mrs. Shelley,--a fair,
lovely, almost girlish-looking being, "as slight as a reed," with
beautiful clear eyes, who put out her hand as she rose, saying half
timidly, "I'm Mary Shelley." From that moment--we have her word for
it--the future wife of Sir Percy had lost her heart to his mother! Their
intercourse was frequent, and soon became necessary to both. The younger
lady had had much experience of sorrow, and this drew the bond all the
closer.

Not for some time after this meeting did Sir Percy appear on the scene.
His engagement followed at no distant date, and after his marriage he,
with his wife and his mother, who never during her life was to be parted
from them, again went abroad.

The cup of such happiness as in this world was possible to Mary Shelley
seemed now to be full, but the time was to be short during which she could
taste it. She only lived three years longer, years chequered by very great
anxiety (on account of illness), yet to those who now look back on them
they seem as if lived under a charm. To live with Mary Shelley was indeed
like entertaining an angel. Perfect unselfishness, _selflessness_ indeed,
characterised her at all times.

One illustration of this is afforded by her repression of the terror she
felt when she saw Shelley's passion for the sea asserting itself in his
son. Her own nerves had been shaken and her life darkened by a
catastrophe, but not for this would she let it overshadow the lives of
others. Not even when her son, with a friend, went off to Norway in a
little yacht, and she was dependent for news of them on a three weeks'
post, would she ever let him know the mortal anxiety she endured, but
after his marriage she told it to her daughter-in-law, saying, "Now he
will never wish to go to sea."

But of herself she never seemed to think at all; she lived in and for
others. Her gifts and attainments, far from being obtruded, were kept out
of sight; modest almost to excess as she was, she yet knew the secret of
putting others at their ease. She was ready with sympathy and help and
gentle counsel for all who needed them, and to the friends of her son she
was such a friend as they will never forget.

The thought of Shelley, the idea of his presence, never seemed to leave
her mind for a moment. She would constantly refer to what he might think,
or do, or approve of, almost as if he had been in the next room. Of his
history, or her own, she never spoke, nor did she ever refer to other
people connected with their early life, unless there was something good to
be said of them. Of those who had behaved ill to her, no word--on the
subject of their behaviour--passed her lips. Her daughter-in-law had so
little idea of what her associations were with Clare, that on one occasion
when Miss Clairmont was coming to stay at Field Place, and Lady Shelley,
who did not like her, expressed a half-formed intention of being absent
during her visit and leaving Mrs. Shelley to entertain her, she was
completely taken aback by the exclamation which escaped Mary's lips,
"Don't go, dear! don't leave me alone with her! she has been the bane of
my life ever since I was three years old!"

No more was ever said, but this was enough, even to those who did not know
all, to reveal a long history of endurance.

Clare came, and more than once, to stay at Field Place, but her
excitability and eccentricity had so much increased as, at times, to be
little if at all under her own control, and after one unmistakable proof
of this, it was deemed (by those who cared for Mrs. Shelley) desirable
that she should go and return no more.

She died at Florence in 1878.

Mary Shelley's strength was ebbing, her nervous ailments increased, and
the result was a loss of power in one side. Life at Field Place had had to
be abandoned on grounds of health (not her own), and Sir Percy Shelley had
purchased Boscombe Manor for their country home, anticipating great
pleasure from his mother's enjoyment of the beautiful spot and fine
climate. But she became worse, and never could be moved from her house in
Chester Square till she was taken to her last resting-place. She died on
the 21st of February 1851.

She died, "and her place among those who knew her intimately has never
been filled up. She walked beside them, like a spirit of good, to comfort
and benefit, to lighten the darkness of life, to cheer it with her
sympathy and love."

These, her own words about Shelley, may with equal fitness be applied to
her.

Her grave is in Bournemouth Churchyard, where, some time after, her
father and mother were laid by her side.

       *       *       *       *       *

As an author Mary Shelley did not accomplish all that was expected of her.
Her letters from abroad, both during her earlier and later tours, the
descriptive fragments intended for her father's biography, and above all
her notes on Shelley's works, are indeed valuable and enduring
contributions to literature. But it was in imaginative work that she had
aspired to excel, and in which both Shelley and Godwin had urged her to
persevere, confident that she could achieve a brilliant success. None of
her novels, however, except _Frankenstein_, can be said to have survived
the generation for which they were written. Only in that work has she left
an abiding mark on literature. Yet her powers were very great, her culture
very extensive, her ambition very high.

The friend whose description of her has been quoted in an earlier chapter
tries to account for this. She says--

    I think a partial solution for the circumscribed fame of Mrs. Shelley
    as a writer may be traced to her own shrinking and sensitive
    retiringness of nature. If, as Thackeray, perhaps justly, observes,
    "Persons, to succeed largely in this world, must assert themselves,"
    most assuredly Mary Shelley never tried that path to distinction....

    I never knew, in my life, either man or woman whose whole character
    was so entirely in harmony: no jarring discords--no incongruous,
    anomalous, antagonistic opposites met to disturb the perfect unity,
    and to counteract one day the impressions of the former. Gentleness
    was ever and always her distinguishing characteristic. Many years'
    friendship never showed me a deviation from it. But with this softness
    there was neither irresolution nor feebleness....

    Many have fancied and accused her of being cold and apathetic. She was
    no such thing. She had warm, strong affections: as daughter, wife, and
    mother she was exemplary and devoted. Besides this, she was a
    faithful, unswerving friend.

           *       *       *       *       *

    She was not a mirthful--scarcely could be called a cheerful person;
    and at times was subject to deep and profound fits of despondency,
    when she would shut herself up, and be quite inaccessible to all. Her
    undeviating love of truth was ever acted on--never swerved from. Her
    worst enemy could never charge her with falsification--even
    equivocation. Truth--truth--truth--was the governing principle in all
    the words she uttered, the thoughts and judgments she expressed. Hence
    she was most intolerant to deceit and falsehood, in any shape or
    guise, and those who attempted to practise it on her aroused as much
    bitter indignation as her nature was capable of....

    It is too often the case that authors talk too much of their writings,
    and all thereunto belonging. Mrs. Shelley was the extremest reverse of
    this. In fact, she was almost morbidly averse to the least allusion to
    herself as an authoress. To call on her and find her table covered
    with all the accessories and unmistakable traces of _book-making_,
    such as copy, proofs for correction, etc., made her nearly as nervous
    and unselfpossessed as if she had been detected in the commission of
    some offence against the conventionalities of society, or the code of
    morality....

    I really think she deemed it unwomanly to print and publish; and had
    it not been for the hard cash which, like so many of her craft, she so
    often stood in need of, I do not think she would ever have come
    before the world as an authoress....

    Like all raised in supremacy above their fellows, either mentally or
    physically, Mrs. Shelley had her enemies and detractors. But none ever
    dared to impugn the correctness of her conduct. From the hour of her
    early widowhood to the period of her death, she might have married
    advantageously several times. But she often said, "I know not what
    temptation could make me change the name of Shelley."

But the true cause lay deeper still, and may afford a clue to more puzzles
than this one. What Mary Godwin might have become had she remained Mary
Godwin for six or eight years longer it is impossible now to do more than
guess at. But the free growth of her own original nature was checked and a
new bent given to it by her early union with Shelley. Two original
geniuses can rarely develop side by side, certainly not in marriage, least
of all in a happy marriage. Two minds may, indeed, work consentaneously,
but one, however unconsciously, will take the lead; should the other
preserve its complete independence, angles must of necessity develop, and
the first fitness of things disappear. And in a marriage of enthusiastic
devotion and mutual admiration, the younger or the weaker mind, however
candid, will shirk or stop short of conclusions which, it instinctively
feels, may lead to collision. On the other hand, strong and pronounced
views or peculiarities on the part of one may tend to elicit their exact
opposite on the part of the other; both results being equally remote from
real independence of thought. However it may be, either in marriage or in
any intellectual partnership, it is a general truth that from the moment
one mind is penetrated by the influence of another, its own native power
over other minds has gone, and for ever. And Mary parted with this power
at sixteen, before she knew what it was to have it. When she left her
father's house with Shelley she was but a child, a thing of promise,
everything about her yet to be decided. Shelley himself was a half-formed
creature, but of infinite possibilities and extraordinary powers, and
Mary's development had not only to keep pace with his, but to keep in time
and tune with his. Sterne said of Lady Elizabeth Hastings that "to have
loved her was a liberal education." To love Shelley adequately and
worthily was that and more--it was a vocation, a career,--enough for a
life-time and an exceptional one.

Every reader of the present biography must see too that in Mary Shelley's
case physical causes had much to do with the limit of her intellectual
achievements. Between seventeen and twenty-five she had drawn too largely
on the reserve funds of life. Weak health and illness, a roving unsettled
life, the birth and rearing, and then the loss, of children; great joys
and great griefs, all crowded into a few young years, and coinciding with
study and brain-work and the constant call on her nervous energy
necessitated by companionship with Shelley, these exhausted her; and when
he who was the beginning and end of her existence disappeared, "and the
light of her life as if gone out,"[23] she was left,--left what those
eight years had made her, to begin again from the beginning all alone. And
nobly she began, manfully she struggled, and wonderfully, considering all
things, did she succeed. No one, however, has more than a certain,
limited, amount of vitality to express in his or her life; the vital force
may take one form or another, but cannot be used twice over. The best of
Mary's power spent itself in active life, in ministering to another being,
during those eight years with Shelley. What she gained from him, and it
was much, was paid back to him a hundredfold. When he was gone, and those
calls for outward activity were over, there lay before her the life of
literary labour and thought for which nature and training had
pre-eminently fitted her. But she could not call back the freshness of her
powers nor the wholeness of her heart. She did not fully know, or realise,
then, the amount of life-capital she had run through. She did realise it
at a later time, and the very interesting entry in her journal, dated
October 21, 1838, is a kind of profession of faith; a summary of her
views of life; the result of her reflections and of her experience--

    _Journal, October 21._--I have been so often abused by pretended
    friends for my lukewarmness in "the good cause," that I disdain to
    answer them. I shall put down here a few thoughts on this subject. I
    am much of a self-examiner. Vanity is not my fault, I think; if it is,
    it is uncomfortable vanity, for I have none that teaches me to be
    satisfied with myself; far otherwise--and, if I use the word disdain,
    it is that I think my qualities (such as they are) not appreciated
    from unworthy causes. In the first place, with regard to "the good
    cause"--the cause of the advancement of freedom and knowledge, of the
    rights of women, etc.--I am not a person of opinions. I have said
    elsewhere that human beings differ greatly in this. Some have a
    passion for reforming the world, others do not cling to particular
    opinions. That my parents and Shelley were of the former class makes
    me respect it. I respect such when joined to real disinterestedness,
    toleration, and a clear understanding. My accusers, after such as
    these, appear to me mere drivellers. For myself, I earnestly desire
    the good and enlightenment of my fellow-creatures, and see all, in the
    present course, tending to the same, and rejoice; but I am not for
    violent extremes, which only bring on an injurious reaction. I have
    never written a word in disfavour of liberalism: that I have not
    supported it openly in writing arises from the following causes, as
    far as I know--

    That I have not argumentative powers: I see things pretty clearly, but
    cannot demonstrate them. Besides, I feel the counter-arguments too
    strongly. I do not feel that I could say aught to support the cause
    efficiently; besides that, on some topics (especially with regard to
    my own sex) I am far from making up my mind. I believe we are sent
    here to educate ourselves, and that self-denial, and disappointment,
    and self-control are a part of our education; that it is not by
    taking away all restraining law that our improvement is to be
    achieved; and, though many things need great amendment, I can by no
    means go so far as my friends would have me. When I feel that I can
    say what will benefit my fellow-creatures, I will speak; not before.
    Then, I recoil from the vulgar abuse of the inimical press. I do more
    than recoil: proud and sensitive, I act on the defensive--an
    inglorious position. To hang back, as I do, brings a penalty. I was
    nursed and fed with a love of glory. To be something great and good
    was the precept given me by my Father; Shelley reiterated it. Alone
    and poor, I could only be something by joining a party; and there was
    much in me--the woman's love of looking up, and being guided, and
    being willing to do anything if any one supported and brought me
    forward--which would have made me a good partisan. But Shelley died
    and I was alone. My Father, from age and domestic circumstances, could
    not _me faire valoir_. My total friendlessness, my horror of pushing,
    and inability to put myself forward unless led, cherished and
    supported--all this has sunk me in a state of loneliness no other
    human being ever before, I believe, endured--except Robinson Crusoe.
    How many tears and spasms of anguish this solitude has cost me, lies
    buried in my memory.

    If I had raved and ranted about what I did not understand, had I
    adopted a set of opinions, and propagated them with enthusiasm; had I
    been careless of attack, and eager for notoriety; then the party to
    which I belonged had gathered round me, and I had not been alone.

    It has been the fashion with these same friends to accuse me of
    worldliness. There, indeed, in my own heart and conscience, I take a
    high ground. I may distrust my own judgment too much--be too indolent
    and too timid; but in conduct I am above merited blame.

    I like society; I believe all persons who have any talent (who are in
    good health) do. The soil that gives forth nothing may lie ever
    fallow; but that which produces--however humble its product--needs
    cultivation, change of harvest, refreshing dews, and ripening sun.
    Books do much; but the living intercourse is the vital heat. Debarred
    from that, how have I pined and died!

    My early friends chose the position of enemies. When I first
    discovered that a trusted friend had acted falsely by me, I was nearly
    destroyed. My health was shaken. I remember thinking, with a burst of
    agonising tears, that I should prefer a bed of torture to the
    unutterable anguish a friend's falsehood engendered. There is no
    resentment; but the world can never be to me what it was before. Trust
    and confidence, and the heart's sincere devotion are gone.

    I sought at that time to make acquaintances--to divert my mind from
    this anguish. I got entangled in various ways through my ready
    sympathy and too eager heart; but I never crouched to society--never
    sought it unworthily. If I have never written to vindicate the rights
    of women, I have ever befriended women when oppressed. At every risk I
    have befriended and supported victims to the social system; but I make
    no boast, for in truth it is simple justice I perform; and so I am
    still reviled for being worldly.

    God grant a happier and a better day is near! Percy--my
    all-in-all--will, I trust, by his excellent understanding, his clear,
    bright, sincere spirit and affectionate heart, repay me for sad long
    years of desolation. His career may lead me into the thick of life or
    only gild a quiet home. I am content with either, and, as I grow
    older, I grow more fearless for myself--I become firmer in my
    opinions. The experienced, the suffering, the thoughtful, may at last
    speak unrebuked. If it be the will of God that I live, I may ally my
    name yet to "the Good Cause," though I do not expect to please my
    accusers.

    Thus have I put down my thoughts. I may have deceived myself; I may be
    in the wrong; I try to examine myself; and such as I have written
    appears to me the exact truth.

    Enough of this! The great work of life goes on. Death draws near. To
    be better after death than in life is one's hope and endeavour--to be
    so through self-schooling. If I write the above, it is that those who
    love me may hereafter know that I am not all to blame, nor merit the
    heavy accusations cast on me for not putting myself forward. I cannot
    do that; it is against my nature. As well cast me from a precipice and
    rail at me for not flying.

The true success of Mary Shelley's life was not, therefore, the
intellectual triumph of which, during her youth, she had loved to dream,
and which at one time seemed to be actually within her grasp, but the
moral success of beauty of character. To those people--a daily increasing
number in this tired world--who erect the natural grace of animal spirits
to the rank of the highest virtue, this success may appear hardly worth
the name. Yet it was a very real victory. Her nature was not without
faults or tendencies which, if undisciplined, might have developed into
faults, but every year she lived seemed to mellow and ripen her finer
qualities, while blemishes or weaknesses were suppressed or overcome, and
finally disappeared altogether.

As to her theological views, about which the most contradictory opinions
have been expressed, it can but be said that nothing in Mrs. Shelley's
writings gives other people the right to formulate for her any dogmatic
opinions at all. Brought up in a purely rationalistic creed, her education
had of course, no tinge of what is known as "personal religion," and it
must be repeated here that none of her acts and views were founded, or
should be judged as if they were founded on Biblical commands or
prohibitions. That the temper of her mind, so to speak, was eminently
religious there can be no doubt; that she believed in God and a future
state there are many allusions to show.[24] Perhaps no one, having lived
with the so-called atheist, Shelley, could have accepted the idea of the
limitation, or the extinction of intelligence and goodness. Her liberality
of mind, however, was rewarded by abuse from some of her acquaintance,
because her toleration was extended even to the orthodox.

Her moral opinions, had they ever been formulated, which they never were,
would have approximated closely to those of Mary Wollstonecraft, limited,
however, by an inability, like her father's, _not_ to see both sides of a
question, and also by the severest and most elevated standard of moral
purity, of personal faith and loyalty. To be judged by such a standard she
would have regarded as a woman's highest privilege. To claim as a "woman's
right" any licence, any lowering of the standard of duty in these matters,
would have been to her incomprehensible and impossible. But, with all
this, she discriminated. Her standard was not that of the conventional
world.

At every risk, as she says, she befriended those whom she considered
"victims to the social system." It was a difficult course; for, while her
acquaintance of the "advanced" type accused her of cowardice and
worldliness for not asserting herself as a champion of universal liberty,
there were more who were ready to decry her for her friendly relations
with Countess Guiccioli, Lady Mountcashel, and others not named here; to
say nothing of Clare, to whom much of her happiness had been sacrificed.
She refrained from pronouncing judgment, but reserved her liberty of
action, and in all doubtful cases gave others the benefit of the doubt,
and this without respect of persons. She would not excommunicate a humble
individual for what was passed over in a man or woman of genius; nor
condemn a woman for what, in a man, might be excused, or might even add to
his social reputation. Least of all would she secure her own position by
shunning those whose case had once been hers, and who in their after life
had been less fortunate than she. Pure herself, she could be charitable,
and she could be just.

The influence of such a wife on Shelley's more vehement, visionary
temperament can hardly be over-estimated. Their moods did not always suit
or coincide; each, at times, made the other suffer. It could not be
otherwise with two natures so young, so strong, and so individual. But, if
forbearance may have been sometimes called for on the one hand, and on
the other a charity which is kind and thinks no evil, it was only a part
of that discipline from which the married life of geniuses is not exempt,
and which tests the temper and quality of the metal it tries; an ordeal
from which two noble natures come forth the purer and the stronger.

The indirect, unconscious power of elevation of character is great, and
not even a Shelley but must be the better for association with it, not
even he but must be the nobler, "yea, three times less unworthy" through
the love of such a woman as Mary. He would not have been all he was
without her sustaining and refining influence; without the constant sense
that in loving him she loved his ideals also. We owe him, in part, to her.

Love--the love of Love--was Shelley's life and creed. This, in Mary's
creed, was interpreted as love of Shelley. By all the rest she strove to
do her duty, but, when the end came, that survived as the one great fact
of her life--a fact she might have uttered in words like his--

  And where is Truth? On tombs; for such to thee
  Has been my heart; and thy dead memory
  Has lain from (girlhood), many a changeful year,
  Unchangingly preserved, and buried there.


_F. D. & Co._

_Printed by_ R. & R. CLARK, _Edinburgh_.




POSTSCRIPT


Since this book was printed, a series of letters from Harriet Shelley to
an Irish friend, Mrs. Nugent, containing references to the separation from
Shelley, has been published in the New York _Nation_. These letters,
however, add nothing to what was previously known of Harriet's history and
life with Shelley. After November 1813 the correspondence ceases. It is
resumed in August 1814, after the separation and Shelley's departure from
England. Harriet's account of these events--gathered by her at second-hand
from those who can, themselves, have had no knowledge of the facts they
professed to relate--embodies all the slanderous reports adverted to in
the seventh chapter of the present work, and all the gratuitous falsehoods
circulated by Mrs. Godwin;--falsehoods which Professor Dowden, in the
Appendix to his _Life of Shelley_, has been at the trouble directly to
disprove, statement by statement;--falsehoods of which the Author cannot
but hope that an amply sufficient, if an indirect, refutation may be found
in the present Life of Mary Shelley.




ERRATA


Vol. i. p. 55, footnote, _for_ "Schlabrendorf," _read_ "Schlaberndorf."

Vol. i. p. 84, line 7, _for_ "(including his own mother, in Skinner
Street)," _read_ "(including his own mother) in Skinner Street."

Vol. i. p. 170, line 20, _for_ "Heeding not the misery then spoken,"
_read_ "Heeding not the words then spoken."

Vol. ii. p. 200, line 7, _for_ "Moghiteff," _read_ "Moghileff."

Vol. ii. p. 216, line 12, _for_ "Zela," _read_ "Zella."




FOOTNOTES:

[1] Leigh Hunt used often to say that he was the dearest friend Shelley
had; I believe he was the most costly.--_Trelawny's Recollections._

[2] Mrs. Shelley's letter says twelve days, but this is an error, due, no
doubt, to her distress of mind. She gives the date of Trelawny's return to
Leghorn as the 25th of July; it should have been the 18th.

[3] Mrs. Mason.

[4] The Hunts.

[5] See Godwin's letter, page 96.

[6] So it happened, however.

[7] Mrs. Hunt, an amateur sculptress of talent, was also skilful in
cutting out profiles in cardboard. From some of these, notably from one of
Lord Byron, successful likenesses were made.

[8] Lord Byron.

[9] Fanny Wright subsequently married a Frenchman, M. Phiquepal Darusmont.
Under the head of "Darusmont" a sketch of her life, by Mr. R. Garnett,
containing many highly interesting details of her career, is to be found
in the _Dictionary of National Biography_.

[10] Miss Robinson.

[11] "Recollections" in the original; "Records" in the later and, now,
better known edition.

[12] Page 191.

[13] Allegra was buried at Harrow.

[14] Jane's mother.

[15] In _The Last Man_.

[16] The heroine of _Valperga_.

[17] Things have changed at the British Museum, not a little, since these
words were written.

[18] In a letter of Clare's, before this time, referring to the marriage
of one of the Miss Robinsons, she remarks, "I am quite glad to think that
for the future you may only have Percy and yourself to maintain."

[19] The Miss Robinsons.

[20] _Lodore._

[21] Such as the following, taken from the Preface: We have lately been
accustomed to look on Italy as a discontented province of Austria,
forgetful that her supremacy dates only from the downfall of Napoleon.
From the invasion of Charles VIII till 1815 Italy has been a battlefield,
where the Spaniard, the French, and the German have fought for mastery;
and we are blind indeed if we do not see that such will occur again, at
least among the two last. Supposing a war to arise between them, one of
the first acts of aggression on the part of France would be to try to
drive the Germans from Italy. Even if peace continue, it is felt that the
papal power is tottering to its fall,--it is only supported because the
French will not allow Austria to extend her dominions, and the Austrian is
eager to prevent any change that may afford pretence for the French to
interfere. Did the present Pope act with any degree of prudence, his
power, thus propped, might last some time longer; but as it is, who can
say how soon, for the sake of peace in the rest of Italy, it may not be
necessary to curtail his territories.

The French feel this, and begin to dream of dominion across the Alps; the
occupation of Ancona was a feeler put out; it gained no positive object
except to check Austria; for the rest its best effect was to reiterate the
lesson they have often taught, that no faith should be given to their
promises of liberation.

[22] She had published her last novel, _Falkner_, in 1837.

[23] Carlyle's epitaph on his wife.

[24] "My belief is," she says in the preface to her edition of Shelley's
prose works, "that spiritual improvement in this life prepares the way to
a higher existence."




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