NOTES TO

THE COMPLETE POETICAL WORKS OF PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY

BY

MARY W. SHELLEY. 

PREFACE BY MRS. SHELLEY

TO FIRST COLLECTED EDITION, 1839. 

Obstacles have long existed to my presenting the public with a perfectedition of Shelley's Poems. These being at last happily removed, Ihasten to fulfil an important duty, --that of giving the productions of asublime genius to the world, with all the correctness possible, and of, at the same time, detailing the history of those productions, as theysprang, living and warm, from his heart and brain. I abstain from anyremark on the occurrences of his private life, except inasmuch as thepassions which they engendered inspired his poetry. This is not the timeto relate the truth; and I should reject any colouring of the truth. Noaccount of these events has ever been given at all approaching realityin their details, either as regards himself or others; nor shall Ifurther allude to them than to remark that the errors of actioncommitted by a man as noble and generous as Shelley, may, as far as heonly is concerned, be fearlessly avowed by those who loved him, in thefirm conviction that, were they judged impartially, his character wouldstand in fairer and brighter light than that of any contemporary. Whatever faults he had ought to find extenuation among his fellows, since they prove him to be human; without them, the exalted nature ofhis soul would have raised him into something divine. 

The qualities that struck any one newly introduced to Shelleywere, --First, a gentle and cordial goodness that animated hisintercourse with warm affection and helpful sympathy. The other, theeagerness and ardour with which he was attached to the cause of humanhappiness and improvement; and the fervent eloquence with which hediscussed such subjects. His conversation was marked by its happyabundance, and the beautiful language in which he clothed his poeticideas and philosophical notions. To defecate life of its misery and itsevil was the ruling passion of his soul; he dedicated to it every powerof his mind, every pulsation of his heart. He looked on politicalfreedom as the direct agent to effect the happiness of mankind; and thusany new-sprung hope of liberty inspired a joy and an exultation moreintense and wild than he could have felt for any personal advantage. Those who have never experienced the workings of passion on general andunselfish subjects cannot understand this; and it must be difficult ofcomprehension to the younger generation rising around, since they cannotremember the scorn and hatred with which the partisans of reform wereregarded some few years ago, nor the persecutions to which they wereexposed. He had been from youth the victim of the state of feelinginspired by the reaction of the French Revolution; and believing firmlyin the justice and excellence of his views, it cannot be wondered that anature as sensitive, as impetuous, and as generous as his, should putits whole force into the attempt to alleviate for others the evils ofthose systems from which he had himself suffered. Many advantagesattended his birth; he spurned them all when balanced with what heconsidered his duties. He was generous to imprudence, devoted toheroism. 

These characteristics breathe throughout his poetry. The struggle forhuman weal; the resolution firm to martyrdom; the impetuous pursuit, theglad triumph in good; the determination not to despair;--such were thefeatures that marked those of his works which he regarded with mostcomplacency, as sustained by a lofty subject and useful aim. 

In addition to these, his poems may be divided into two classes, --thepurely imaginative, and those which sprang from the emotions of hisheart. Among the former may be classed the "Witch of Atlas", "Adonais", and his latest composition, left imperfect, the "Triumph of Life". Inthe first of these particularly he gave the reins to his fancy, andluxuriated in every idea as it rose; in all there is that sense ofmystery which formed an essential portion of his perception of life--aclinging to the subtler inner spirit, rather than to the outward form--acurious and metaphysical anatomy of human passion and perception. 

The second class is, of course, the more popular, as appealing at onceto emotions common to us all; some of these rest on the passion of love;others on grief and despondency; others on the sentiments inspired bynatural objects. Shelley's conception of love was exalted, absorbing, allied to all that is purest and noblest in our nature, and warmed byearnest passion; such it appears when he gave it a voice in verse. Yethe was usually averse to expressing these feelings, except when highlyidealized; and many of his more beautiful effusions he had cast asideunfinished, and they were never seen by me till after I had lost him. Others, as for instance "Rosalind and Helen" and "Lines written amongthe Euganean Hills", I found among his papers by chance; and with somedifficulty urged him to complete them. There are others, such as the"Ode to the Skylark and The Cloud", which, in the opinion of manycritics, bear a purer poetical stamp than any other of his productions. They were written as his mind prompted: listening to the carolling ofthe bird, aloft in the azure sky of Italy; or marking the cloud as itsped across the heavens, while he floated in his boat on the Thames. 

No poet was ever warmed by a more genuine and unforced inspiration. Hisextreme sensibility gave the intensity of passion to his intellectualpursuits; and rendered his mind keenly alive to every perception ofoutward objects, as well as to his internal sensations. Such a gift is, among the sad vicissitudes of human life, the disappointments we meet, and the galling sense of our own mistakes and errors, fraught with pain;to escape from such, he delivered up his soul to poetry, and felt happywhen he sheltered himself, from the influence of human sympathies, inthe wildest regions of fancy. His imagination has been termed toobrilliant, his thoughts too subtle. He loved to idealize reality; andthis is a taste shared by few. We are willing to have our passing whimsexalted into passions, for this gratifies our vanity; but few of usunderstand or sympathize with the endeavour to ally the love of abstractbeauty, and adoration of abstract good, the to agathon kai to kalon ofthe Socratic philosophers, with our sympathies with our kind. In this, Shelley resembled Plato; both taking more delight in the abstract andthe ideal than in the special and tangible. This did not result fromimitation; for it was not till Shelley resided in Italy that he madePlato his study. He then translated his "Symposium" and his "Ion"; andthe English language boasts of no more brilliant composition thanPlato's Praise of Love translated by Shelley. To return to his ownpoetry. The luxury of imagination, which sought nothing beyond itself(as a child burdens itself with spring flowers, thinking of no usebeyond the enjoyment of gathering them), often showed itself in hisverses: they will be only appreciated by minds which have resemblance tohis own; and the mystic subtlety of many of his thoughts will share thesame fate. The metaphysical strain that characterizes much of what hehas written was, indeed, the portion of his works to which, apart fromthose whose scope was to awaken mankind to aspirations for what heconsidered the true and good, he was himself particularly attached. There is much, however, that speaks to the many. When he would consentto dismiss these huntings after the obscure (which, entwined with hisnature as they were, he did with difficulty), no poet ever expressed insweeter, more heart-reaching, or more passionate verse, the gentler ormore forcible emotions of the soul. 

A wise friend once wrote to Shelley: 'You are still very young, and incertain essential respects you do not yet sufficiently perceive that youare so. ' It is seldom that the young know what youth is, till they havegot beyond its period; and time was not given him to attain thisknowledge. It must be remembered that there is the stamp of suchinexperience on all he wrote; he had not completed hisnine-and-twentieth year when he died. The calm of middle life did notadd the seal of the virtues which adorn maturity to those generated bythe vehement spirit of youth. Through life also he was a martyr toill-health, and constant pain wound up his nerves to a pitch ofsusceptibility that rendered his views of life different from those of aman in the enjoyment of healthy sensations. Perfectly gentle andforbearing in manner, he suffered a good deal of internal irritability, or rather excitement, and his fortitude to bear was almost always on thestretch; and thus, during a short life, he had gone through moreexperience of sensation than many whose existence is protracted. 'If Idie to-morrow, ' he said, on the eve of his unanticipated death, 'I havelived to be older than my father. ' The weight of thought and feelingburdened him heavily; you read his sufferings in his attenuated frame, while you perceived the mastery he held over them in his animatedcountenance and brilliant eyes. 

He died, and the world showed no outward sign. But his influence overmankind, though slow in growth, is fast augmenting; and, in theameliorations that have taken place in the political state of hiscountry, we may trace in part the operation of his arduous struggles. His spirit gathers peace in its new state from the sense that, thoughlate, his exertions were not made in vain, and in the progress of theliberty he so fondly loved. 

He died, and his place, among those who knew him intimately, has neverbeen filled up. He walked beside them like a spirit of good to comfortand benefit--to enlighten the darkness of life with irradiations ofgenius, to cheer it with his sympathy and love. Any one, once attachedto Shelley, must feel all other affections, however true and fond, aswasted on barren soil in comparison. It is our best consolation to knowthat such a pure-minded and exalted being was once among us, and nowexists where we hope one day to join him;--although the intolerant, intheir blindness, poured down anathemas, the Spirit of Good, who canjudge the heart, never rejected him. 

In the notes appended to the poems I have endeavoured to narrate theorigin and history of each. The loss of nearly all letters and paperswhich refer to his early life renders the execution more imperfect thanit would otherwise have been. I have, however, the liveliestrecollection of all that was done and said during the period of myknowing him. Every impression is as clear as if stamped yesterday, and Ihave no apprehension of any mistake in my statements as far as they go. In other respects I am indeed incompetent: but I feel the importance ofthe task, and regard it as my most sacred duty. I endeavour to fulfil itin a manner he would himself approve; and hope, in this publication, tolay the first stone of a monument due to Shelley's genius, hissufferings, and his virtues:--

 Se al seguir son tarda, Forse avverra che 'l bel nome gentile Consacrero con questa stanca penna. 

POSTSCRIPT IN SECOND EDITION OF 1839. 

In revising this new edition, and carefully consulting Shelley'sscattered and confused papers, I found a few fragments which hadhitherto escaped me, and was enabled to complete a few poems hithertoleft unfinished. What at one time escapes the searching eye, dimmed byits own earnestness, becomes clear at a future period. By the aid of afriend, I also present some poems complete and correct which hithertohave been defaced by various mistakes and omissions. It was suggestedthat the poem "To the Queen of my Heart" was falsely attributed toShelley. I certainly find no trace of it among his papers; and, as thoseof his intimate friends whom I have consulted never heard of it, I omitit. 

Two poems are added of some length, "Swellfoot the Tyrant" and "PeterBell the Third". I have mentioned the circumstances under which theywere written in the notes; and need only add that they are conceived ina very different spirit from Shelley's usual compositions. They arespecimens of the burlesque and fanciful; but, although they adopt afamiliar style and homely imagery, there shine through the radiance ofthe poet's imagination the earnest views and opinions of the politicianand the moralist. 

At my request the publisher has restored the omitted passages of "QueenMab". I now present this edition as a complete collection of myhusband's poetical works, and I do not foresee that I can hereafter addto or take away a word or line. 

Putney, November 6, 1839. 

PREFACE BY MRS. SHELLEY

TO THE VOLUME OF POSTHUMOUS POEMS PUBLISHED IN 1824. 

 In nobil sangue vita umile e queta, Ed in alto intelletto un puro core Frutto senile in sul giovenil fibre, E in aspetto pensoso anima lieta. --PETRARCA. 

It had been my wish, on presenting the public with the Posthumous Poemsof Mr. Shelley, to have accompanied them by a biographical notice; as itappeared to me that at this moment a narration of the events of myhusband's life would come more gracefully from other hands than mine, Iapplied to Mr. Leigh Hunt. The distinguished friendship that Mr. Shelleyfelt for him, and the enthusiastic affection with which Mr. Leigh Huntclings to his friend's memory, seemed to point him out as the personbest calculated for such an undertaking. His absence from this country, which prevented our mutual explanation, has unfortunately rendered myscheme abortive. I do not doubt but that on some other occasion he willpay this tribute to his lost friend, and sincerely regret that thevolume which I edit has not been honoured by its insertion. 

The comparative solitude in which Mr. Shelley lived was the occasionthat he was personally known to few; and his fearless enthusiasm in thecause which he considered the most sacred upon earth, the improvement ofthe moral and physical state of mankind, was the chief reason why he, like other illustrious reformers, was pursued by hatred and calumny. Noman was ever more devoted than he to the endeavour of making thosearound him happy; no man ever possessed friends more unfeignedlyattached to him. The ungrateful world did not feel his loss, and the gapit made seemed to close as quickly over his memory as the murderous seaabove his living frame. Hereafter men will lament that his transcendentpowers of intellect were extinguished before they had bestowed on themtheir choicest treasures. To his friends his loss is irremediable: thewise, the brave, the gentle, is gone for ever! He is to them as a brightvision, whose radiant track, left behind in the memory, is worth all therealities that society can afford. Before the critics contradict me, letthem appeal to any one who had ever known him. To see him was to lovehim: and his presence, like Ithuriel's spear, was alone sufficient todisclose the falsehood of the tale which his enemies whispered in theear of the ignorant world. 

His life was spent in the contemplation of Nature, in arduous study, orin acts of kindness and affection. He was an elegant scholar and aprofound metaphysician; without possessing much scientific knowledge, hewas unrivalled in the justness and extent of his observations on naturalobjects; he knew every plant by its name, and was familiar with thehistory and habits of every production of the earth; he could interpretwithout a fault each appearance in the sky; and the varied phenomena ofheaven and earth filled him with deep emotion. He made his study andreading-room of the shadowed copse, the stream, the lake, and thewaterfall. Ill health and continual pain preyed upon his powers; and thesolitude in which we lived, particularly on our first arrival in Italy, although congenial to his feelings, must frequently have weighed uponhis spirits; those beautiful and affecting "Lines written in Dejectionnear Naples" were composed at such an interval; but, when in health, hisspirits were buoyant and youthful to an extraordinary degree. 

Such was his love for Nature that every page of his poetry isassociated, in the minds of his friends, with the loveliest scenes ofthe countries which he inhabited. In early life he visited the mostbeautiful parts of this country and Ireland. Afterwards the Alps ofSwitzerland became his inspirers. "Prometheus Unbound" was written amongthe deserted and flower-grown ruins of Rome; and, when he made his homeunder the Pisan hills, their roofless recesses harboured him as hecomposed the "Witch of Atlas", "Adonais", and "Hellas". In the wild butbeautiful Bay of Spezzia, the winds and waves which he loved became hisplaymates. His days were chiefly spent on the water; the management ofhis boat, its alterations and improvements, were his principaloccupation. At night, when the unclouded moon shone on the calm sea, heoften went alone in his little shallop to the rocky caves that borderedit, and, sitting beneath their shelter, wrote the "Triumph of Life", thelast of his productions. The beauty but strangeness of this lonelyplace, the refined pleasure which he felt in the companionship of a fewselected friends, our entire sequestration from the rest of the world, all contributed to render this period of his life one of continuedenjoyment. I am convinced that the two months we passed there were thehappiest which he had ever known: his health even rapidly improved, andhe was never better than when I last saw him, full of spirits and joy, embark for Leghorn, that he might there welcome Leigh Hunt to Italy. Iwas to have accompanied him; but illness confined me to my room, andthus put the seal on my misfortune. His vessel bore out of sight with afavourable wind, and I remained awaiting his return by the breakers ofthat sea which was about to engulf him. 

He spent a week at Pisa, employed in kind offices toward his friend, andenjoying with keen delight the renewal of their intercourse. He thenembarked with Mr. Williams, the chosen and beloved sharer of hispleasures and of his fate, to return to us. We waited for them in vain;the sea by its restless moaning seemed to desire to inform us of what wewould not learn:--but a veil may well be drawn over such misery. Thereal anguish of those moments transcended all the fictions that the mostglowing imagination ever portrayed; our seclusion, the savage nature ofthe inhabitants of the surrounding villages, and our immediate vicinityto the troubled sea, combined to imbue with strange horror our days ofuncertainty. The truth was at last known, --a truth that made our lovedand lovely Italy appear a tomb, its sky a pall. Every heart echoed thedeep lament, and my only consolation was in the praise and earnest lovethat each voice bestowed and each countenance demonstrated for him wehad lost, --not, I fondly hope, for ever; his unearthly and elevatednature is a pledge of the continuation of his being, although in analtered form. Rome received his ashes; they are deposited beneath itsweed-grown wall, and 'the world's sole monument' is enriched by hisremains. 

I must add a few words concerning the contents of this volume. "Julianand Maddalo", the "Witch of Atlas", and most of the "Translations", werewritten some years ago; and, with the exception of the "Cyclops", andthe Scenes from the "Magico Prodigioso", may be considered as havingreceived the author's ultimate corrections. The "Triumph of Life" washis last work, and was left in so unfinished a state that I arranged itin its present form with great difficulty. All his poems which werescattered in periodical works are collected in this volume, and I haveadded a reprint of "Alastor, or the Spirit of Solitude": the difficultywith which a copy can be obtained is the cause of its republication. Many of the Miscellaneous Poems, written on the spur of the occasion, and never retouched, I found among his manuscript books, and havecarefully copied. I have subjoined, whenever I have been able, the dateof their composition. 

I do not know whether the critics will reprehend the insertion of someof the most imperfect among them; but I frankly own that I have beenmore actuated by the fear lest any monument of his genius should escapeme than the wish of presenting nothing but what was complete to thefastidious reader. I feel secure that the lovers of Shelley's poetry(who know how, more than any poet of the present day, every line andword he wrote is instinct with peculiar beauty) will pardon and thankme: I consecrate this volume to them. 

The size of this collection has prevented the insertion of any prosepieces. They will hereafter appear in a separate publication. 

MARY W. SHELLEY. 

London, June 1, 1824. 

NOTE ON QUEEN MAB, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Shelley was eighteen when he wrote "Queen Mab"; he never published it. When it was written, he had come to the decision that he was too youngto be a 'judge of controversies'; and he was desirous of acquiring 'thatsobriety of spirit which is the characteristic of true heroism. ' But henever doubted the truth or utility of his opinions; and, in printing andprivately distributing "Queen Mab", he believed that he should furthertheir dissemination, without occasioning the mischief either to othersor himself that might arise from publication. It is doubtful whether hewould himself have admitted it into a collection of his works. Hissevere classical taste, refined by the constant study of the Greekpoets, might have discovered defects that escape the ordinary reader;and the change his opinions underwent in many points would haveprevented him from putting forth the speculations of his boyish days. But the poem is too beautiful in itself, and far too remarkable as theproduction of a boy of eighteen, to allow of its being passed over:besides that, having been frequently reprinted, the omission would bevain. In the former edition certain portions were left out, as shockingthe general reader from the violence of their attack on religion. Imyself had a painful feeling that such erasures might be looked upon asa mark of disrespect towards the author, and am glad to have theopportunity of restoring them. The notes also are reprinted entire--notbecause they are models of reasoning or lessons of truth, but becauseShelley wrote them, and that all that a man at once so distinguished andso excellent ever did deserves to be preserved. The alterations hisopinions underwent ought to be recorded, for they form his history. 

A series of articles was published in the "New Monthly Magazine" duringthe autumn of the year 1832, written by a man of great talent, afellow-collegian and warm friend of Shelley: they describe admirably thestate of his mind during his collegiate life. Inspired with ardour forthe acquisition of knowledge, endowed with the keenest sensibility andwith the fortitude of a martyr, Shelley came among his fellow-creatures, congregated for the purposes of education, like a spirit from anothersphere; too delicately organized for the rough treatment man usestowards man, especially in the season of youth, and too resolute incarrying out his own sense of good and justice, not to become a victim. To a devoted attachment to those he loved he added a determinedresistance to oppression. Refusing to fag at Eton, he was treated withrevolting cruelty by masters and boys: this roused instead of taming hisspirit, and he rejected the duty of obedience when it was enforced bymenaces and punishment. To aversion to the society of hisfellow-creatures, such as he found them when collected together insocieties, where one egged on the other to acts of tyranny, was joinedthe deepest sympathy and compassion; while the attachment he felt forindividuals, and the admiration with which he regarded their powers andtheir virtues, led him to entertain a high opinion of the perfectibilityof human nature; and he believed that all could reach the highest gradeof moral improvement, did not the customs and prejudices of societyfoster evil passions and excuse evil actions. 

The oppression which, trembling at every nerve yet resolute to heroism, it was his ill-fortune to encounter at school and at college, led him todissent in all things from those whose arguments were blows, whose faithappeared to engender blame and hatred. 'During my existence, ' he wroteto a friend in 1812, 'I have incessantly speculated, thought, and read. 'His readings were not always well chosen; among them were the works ofthe French philosophers: as far as metaphysical argument went, hetemporarily became a convert. At the same time, it was the cardinalarticle of his faith that, if men were but taught and induced to treattheir fellows with love, charity, and equal rights, this earth wouldrealize paradise. He looked upon religion, as it is professed, and aboveall practised, as hostile instead of friendly to the cultivation ofthose virtues which would make men brothers. 

Can this be wondered at? At the age of seventeen, fragile in health andframe, of the purest habits in morals, full of devoted generosity anduniversal kindness, glowing with ardour to attain wisdom, resolved atevery personal sacrifice to do right, burning with a desire foraffection and sympathy, --he was treated as a reprobate, cast forth as acriminal. 

The cause was that he was sincere; that he believed the opinions whichhe entertained to be true. And he loved truth with a martyr's love; hewas ready to sacrifice station and fortune, and his dearest affections, at its shrine. The sacrifice was demanded from, and made by, a youth ofseventeen. It is a singular fact in the history of society in thecivilized nations of modern times that no false step is so irretrievableas one made in early youth. Older men, it is true, when they opposetheir fellows and transgress ordinary rules, carry a certain prudence orhypocrisy as a shield along with them. But youth is rash; nor can itimagine, while asserting what it believes to be true, and doing what itbelieves to be right, that it should be denounced as vicious, andpursued as a criminal. 

Shelley possessed a quality of mind which experience has shown me to beof the rarest occurrence among human beings: this was his UNWORLDLINESS. The usual motives that rule men, prospects of present or futureadvantage, the rank and fortune of those around, the taunts andcensures, or the praise, of those who were hostile to him, had noinfluence whatever over his actions, and apparently none over histhoughts. It is difficult even to express the simplicity and directnessof purpose that adorned him. Some few might be found in the history ofmankind, and some one at least among his own friends, equallydisinterested and scornful, even to severe personal sacrifices, of everybaser motive. But no one, I believe, ever joined this noble but passivevirtue to equal active endeavours for the benefit of his friends andmankind in general, and to equal power to produce the advantages hedesired. The world's brightest gauds and its most solid advantages wereof no worth in his eyes, when compared to the cause of what heconsidered truth, and the good of his fellow-creatures. Born in aposition which, to his inexperienced mind, afforded the greatestfacilities to practise the tenets he espoused, he boldly declared theuse he would make of fortune and station, and enjoyed the belief that heshould materially benefit his fellow-creatures by his actions; while, conscious of surpassing powers of reason and imagination, it is notstrange that he should, even while so young, have believed that hiswritten thoughts would tend to disseminate opinions which he believedconducive to the happiness of the human race. 

If man were a creature devoid of passion, he might have said and doneall this with quietness. But he was too enthusiastic, and too full ofhatred of all the ills he witnessed, not to scorn danger. Variousdisappointments tortured, but could not tame, his soul. The more enmityhe met, the more earnestly he became attached to his peculiar views, andhostile to those of the men who persecuted him. 

He was animated to greater zeal by compassion for his fellow-creatures. His sympathy was excited by the misery with which the world is burning. He witnessed the sufferings of the poor, and was aware of the evils ofignorance. He desired to induce every rich man to despoil himself ofsuperfluity, and to create a brotherhood of property and service, andwas ready to be the first to lay down the advantages of his birth. Hewas of too uncompromising a disposition to join any party. He did not inhis youth look forward to gradual improvement: nay, in those days ofintolerance, now almost forgotten, it seemed as easy to look forward tothe sort of millennium of freedom and brotherhood which he thought theproper state of mankind as to the present reign of moderation andimprovement. Ill-health made him believe that his race would soon berun; that a year or two was all he had of life. He desired that theseyears should be useful and illustrious. He saw, in a fervent call on hisfellow-creatures to share alike the blessings of the creation, to loveand serve each other, the noblest work that life and time permitted him. In this spirit he composed "Queen Mab". 

He was a lover of the wonderful and wild in literature, but had notfostered these tastes at their genuine sources--the romances andchivalry of the middle ages--but in the perusal of such German works aswere current in those days. Under the influence of these he, at the ageof fifteen, wrote two short prose romances of slender merit. Thesentiments and language were exaggerated, the composition imitative andpoor. He wrote also a poem on the subject of Ahasuerus--being led to itby a German fragment he picked up, dirty and torn, in Lincoln's InnFields. This fell afterwards into other hands, and was considerablyaltered before it was printed. Our earlier English poetry was almostunknown to him. The love and knowledge of Nature developed byWordsworth--the lofty melody and mysterious beauty of Coleridge'spoetry--and the wild fantastic machinery and gorgeous scenery adopted bySouthey--composed his favourite reading; the rhythm of "Queen Mab" wasfounded on that of "Thalaba", and the first few lines bear a strikingresemblance in spirit, though not in idea, to the opening of that poem. His fertile imagination, and ear tuned to the finest sense of harmony, preserved him from imitation. Another of his favourite books was thepoem of "Gebir" by Walter Savage Landor. From his boyhood he had awonderful facility of versification, which he carried into anotherlanguage; and his Latin school-verses were composed with an ease andcorrectness that procured for him prizes, and caused him to be resortedto by all his friends for help. He was, at the period of writing "QueenMab", a great traveller within the limits of England, Scotland, andIreland. His time was spent among the loveliest scenes of thesecountries. Mountain and lake and forest were his home; the phenomena ofNature were his favourite study. He loved to inquire into their causes, and was addicted to pursuits of natural philosophy and chemistry, as faras they could be carried on as an amusement. These tastes gave truth andvivacity to his descriptions, and warmed his soul with that deepadmiration for the wonders of Nature which constant association with herinspired. 

He never intended to publish "Queen Mab" as it stands; but a few yearsafter, when printing "Alastor", he extracted a small portion which heentitled "The Daemon of the World". In this he changed somewhat theversification, and made other alterations scarcely to be calledimprovements. 

Some years after, when in Italy, a bookseller published an edition of"Queen Mab" as it originally stood. Shelley was hastily written to byhis friends, under the idea that, deeply injurious as the meredistribution of the poem had proved, the publication might awaken freshpersecutions. At the suggestion of these friends he wrote a letter onthe subject, printed in the "Examiner" newspaper--with which I closethis history of his earliest work. 

TO THE EDITOR OF THE 'EXAMINER. '

'Sir, 'Having heard that a poem entitled "Queen Mab" has been surreptitiouslypublished in London, and that legal proceedings have been institutedagainst the publisher, I request the favour of your insertion of thefollowing explanation of the affair, as it relates to me. 

'A poem entitled "Queen Mab" was written by me at the age of eighteen, Idaresay in a sufficiently intemperate spirit--but even then was notintended for publication, and a few copies only were struck off, to bedistributed among my personal friends. I have not seen this productionfor several years. I doubt not but that it is perfectly worthless inpoint of literary composition; and that, in all that concerns moral andpolitical speculation, as well as in the subtler discriminations ofmetaphysical and religious doctrine, it is still more crude andimmature. I am a devoted enemy to religious, political, and domesticoppression; and I regret this publication, not so much from literaryvanity, as because I fear it is better fitted to injure than to servethe sacred cause of freedom. I have directed my solicitor to apply toChancery for an injunction to restrain the sale; but, after theprecedent of Mr. Southey's "Wat Tyler" (a poem written, I believe, atthe same age, and with the same unreflecting enthusiasm), with littlehope of success. 

'Whilst I exonerate myself from all share in having divulged opinionshostile to existing sanctions, under the form, whatever it may be, whichthey assume in this poem, it is scarcely necessary for me to protestagainst the system of inculcating the truth of Christianity or theexcellence of Monarchy, however true or however excellent they may be, by such equivocal arguments as confiscation and imprisonment, andinvective and slander, and the insolent violation of the most sacredties of Nature and society. 

'SIR, 'I am your obliged and obedient servant, 'PERCY B. SHELLEY. 

'Pisa, June 22, 1821. '

NOTE ON "ALASTOR", BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

"Alastor" is written in a very different tone from "Queen Mab". In thelatter, Shelley poured out all the cherished speculations of hisyouth--all the irrepressible emotions of sympathy, censure, and hope, towhich the present suffering, and what he considers the proper destiny ofhis fellow-creatures, gave birth. "Alastor", on the contrary, containsan individual interest only. A very few years, with their attendantevents, had checked the ardour of Shelley's hopes, though he stillthought them well-grounded, and that to advance their fulfilment was thenoblest task man could achieve. 

This is neither the time nor place to speak of the misfortunes thatchequered his life. It will be sufficient to say that, in all he did, heat the time of doing it believed himself justified to his ownconscience; while the various ills of poverty and loss of friendsbrought home to him the sad realities of life. Physical suffering hadalso considerable influence in causing him to turn his eyes inward;inclining him rather to brood over the thoughts and emotions of his ownsoul than to glance abroad, and to make, as in "Queen Mab", the wholeuniverse the object and subject of his song. In the Spring of1815, an eminent physician pronounced that he was dying rapidly of aconsumption; abscesses were formed on his lungs, and he suffered acutespasms. Suddenly a complete change took place; and though through lifehe was a martyr to pain and debility, every symptom of pulmonary diseasevanished. His nerves, which nature had formed sensitive to an unexampleddegree, were rendered still more susceptible by the state of his health. 

As soon as the peace of 1814 had opened the Continent, he went abroad. He visited some of the more magnificent scenes of Switzerland, andreturned to England from Lucerne, by the Reuss and the Rhine. Theriver-navigation enchanted him. In his favourite poem of "Thalaba", hisimagination had been excited by a description of such a voyage. In thesummer of 1815, after a tour along the southern coast of Devonshire anda visit to Clifton, he rented a house on Bishopsgate Heath, on theborders of Windsor Forest, where he enjoyed several months ofcomparative health and tranquil happiness. The later summer months werewarm and dry. Accompanied by a few friends, he visited the source of theThames, making a voyage in a wherry from Windsor to Crichlade. Hisbeautiful stanzas in the churchyard of Lechlade were written on thatoccasion. "Alastor" was composed on his return. He spent his days underthe oak-shades of Windsor Great Park; and the magnificent woodland was afitting study to inspire the various descriptions of forest scenery wefind in the poem. 

None of Shelley's poems is more characteristic than this. The solemnspirit that reigns throughout, the worship of the majesty of nature, thebroodings of a poet's heart in solitude--the mingling of the exultingjoy which the various aspects of the visible universe inspires with thesad and struggling pangs which human passion imparts--give a touchinginterest to the whole. The death which he had often contemplated duringthe last months as certain and near he here represented in such coloursas had, in his lonely musings, soothed his soul to peace. Theversification sustains the solemn spirit which breathes throughout: itis peculiarly melodious. The poem ought rather to be considered didacticthan narrative: it was the outpouring of his own emotions, embodied inthe purest form he could conceive, painted in the ideal hues which hisbrilliant imagination inspired, and softened by the recent anticipationof death. 

NOTE ON THE "REVOLT OF ISLAM", BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Shelley possessed two remarkable qualities of intellect--a brilliantimagination, and a logical exactness of reason. His inclinations led him(he fancied) almost alike to poetry and metaphysical discussions. I say'he fancied, ' because I believe the former to have been paramount, andthat it would have gained the mastery even had he struggled against it. However, he said that he deliberated at one time whether he shoulddedicate himself to poetry or metaphysics; and, resolving on the former, he educated himself for it, discarding in a great measure hisphilosophical pursuits, and engaging himself in the study of the poetsof Greece, Italy, and England. To these may be added a constant perusalof portions of the old Testament--the Psalms, the Book of Job, theProphet Isaiah, and others, the sublime poetry of which filled him withdelight. 

As a poet, his intellect and compositions were powerfully influenced byexterior circumstances, and especially by his place of abode. He wasvery fond of travelling, and ill-health increased this restlessness. Thesufferings occasioned by a cold English winter made him pine, especiallywhen our colder spring arrived, for a more genial climate. In 1816 heagain visited Switzerland, and rented a house on the banks of the Lakeof Geneva; and many a day, in cloud or sunshine, was passed alone in hisboat--sailing as the wind listed, or weltering on the calm waters. Themajestic aspect of Nature ministered such thoughts as he afterwardsenwove in verse. His lines on the Bridge of the Arve, and his "Hymn toIntellectual Beauty", were written at this time. Perhaps during thissummer his genius was checked by association with another poet whosenature was utterly dissimilar to his own, yet who, in the poem he wroteat that time, gave tokens that he shared for a period the more abstractand etherealised inspiration of Shelley. The saddest events awaited hisreturn to England; but such was his fear to wound the feelings of othersthat he never expressed the anguish he felt, and seldom gave vent to theindignation roused by the persecutions he underwent; while the course ofdeep unexpressed passion, and the sense of injury, engendered the desireto embody themselves in forms defecated of all the weakness and evilwhich cling to real life. 

He chose therefore for his hero a youth nourished in dreams of liberty, some of whose actions are in direct opposition to the opinions of theworld; but who is animated throughout by an ardent love of virtue, and aresolution to confer the boons of political and intellectual freedom onhis fellow-creatures. He created for this youth a woman such as hedelighted to imagine--full of enthusiasm for the same objects; and theyboth, with will unvanquished, and the deepest sense of the justice oftheir cause, met adversity and death. There exists in this poem amemorial of a friend of his youth. The character of the old man wholiberates Laon from his tower prison, and tends on him in sickness, isfounded on that of Doctor Lind, who, when Shelley was at Eton, had oftenstood by to befriend and support him, and whose name he never mentionedwithout love and veneration. 

During the year 1817 we were established at Marlow in Buckinghamshire. Shelley's choice of abode was fixed chiefly by this town being at nogreat distance from London, and its neighbourhood to the Thames. Thepoem was written in his boat, as it floated under the beech groves ofBisham, or during wanderings in the neighbouring country, which isdistinguished for peculiar beauty. The chalk hills break into cliffsthat overhang the Thames, or form valleys clothed with beech; the wilderportion of the country is rendered beautiful by exuberant vegetation;and the cultivated part is peculiarly fertile. With all this wealth ofNature which, either in the form of gentlemen's parks or soil dedicatedto agriculture, flourishes around, Marlow was inhabited (I hope it isaltered now) by a very poor population. The women are lacemakers, andlose their health by sedentary labour, for which they were very illpaid. The Poor-laws ground to the dust not only the paupers, but thosewho had risen just above that state, and were obliged to pay poor-rates. The changes produced by peace following a long war, and a bad harvest, brought with them the most heart-rending evils to the poor. Shelleyafforded what alleviation he could. In the winter, while bringing outhis poem, he had a severe attack of ophthalmia, caught while visitingthe poor cottages. I mention these things, --for this minute and activesympathy with his fellow-creatures gives a thousandfold interest tohis speculations, and stamps with reality his pleadings for the humanrace. 

The poem, bold in its opinions and uncompromising in their expression, met with many censurers, not only among those who allow of no virtue butsuch as supports the cause they espouse, but even among those whoseopinions were similar to his own. I extract a portion of a letterwritten in answer to one of these friends. It best details the impulsesof Shelley's mind, and his motives: it was written with entireunreserve; and is therefore a precious monument of his own opinion ofhis powers, of the purity of his designs, and the ardour with which heclung, in adversity and through the valley of the shadow of death, toviews from which he believed the permanent happiness of mankind musteventually spring. 

'Marlowe, December 11, 1817. 

'I have read and considered all that you say about my general powers, and the particular instance of the poem in which I have attempted todevelop them. Nothing can be more satisfactory to me than the interestwhich your admonitions express. But I think you are mistaken in somepoints with regard to the peculiar nature of my powers, whatever betheir amount. I listened with deference and self-suspicion to yourcensures of "The Revolt of Islam"; but the productions of mine which youcommend hold a very low place in my own esteem; and this reassures me, in some degree at least. The poem was produced by a series of thoughtswhich filled my mind with unbounded and sustained enthusiasm. I felt theprecariousness of my life, and I engaged in this task, resolved to leavesome record of myself. Much of what the volume contains was written withthe same feeling--as real, though not so prophetic--as thecommunications of a dying man. I never presumed indeed to consider itanything approaching to faultless; but, when I consider contemporaryproductions of the same apparent pretensions, I own I was filled withconfidence. I felt that it was in many respects a genuine picture of myown mind. I felt that the sentiments were true, not assumed. And in thishave I long believed that my power consists; in sympathy, and that partof the imagination which relates to sentiment and contemplation. I amformed, if for anything not in common with the herd of mankind, toapprehend minute and remote distinctions of feeling, whether relative toexternal nature or the living beings which surround us, and tocommunicate the conceptions which result from considering either themoral or the material universe as a whole. Of course, I believe thesefaculties, which perhaps comprehend all that is sublime in man, to existvery imperfectly in my own mind. But, when you advert to myChancery-paper, a cold, forced, unimpassioned, insignificant piece ofcramped and cautious argument, and to the little scrap about"Mandeville", which expressed my feelings indeed, but cost scarcely twominutes' thought to express, as specimens of my powers more favourablethan that which grew as it were from "the agony and bloody sweat" ofintellectual travail; surely I must feel that, in some manner, either Iam mistaken in believing that I have any talent at all, or you in theselection of the specimens of it. Yet, after all, I cannot but beconscious, in much of what I write, of an absence of that tranquillitywhich is the attribute and accompaniment of power. This feeling alonewould make your most kind and wise admonitions, on the subject of theeconomy of intellectual force, valuable to me. And, if I live, or if Isee any trust in coming years, doubt not but that I shall do something, whatever it may be, which a serious and earnest estimate of my powerswill suggest to me, and which will be in every respect accommodated totheir utmost limits. 

[Shelley to Godwin. ]

NOTE ON ROSALIND AND HELEN BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

"Rosalind and Helen" was begun at Marlow, and thrown aside--till I foundit; and, at my request, it was completed. Shelley had no care for any ofhis poems that did not emanate from the depths of his mind, and developsome high or abstruse truth. When he does touch on human life and thehuman heart, no pictures can be more faithful, more delicate, moresubtle, or more pathetic. He never mentioned Love but he shed a graceborrowed from his own nature, that scarcely any other poet has bestowedon that passion. When he spoke of it as the law of life, which inasmuchas we rebel against we err and injure ourselves and others, hepromulgated that which he considered an irrefragable truth. In his eyesit was the essence of our being, and all woe and pain arose from the warmade against it by selfishness, or insensibility, or mistake. Byreverting in his mind to this first principle, he discovered the sourceof many emotions, and could disclose the secrets of all hearts, and hisdelineations of passion and emotion touch the finest chords of ournature. 

"Rosalind and Helen" was finished during the summer of 1818, while wewere at the Baths of Lucca. 

NOTE BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

From the Baths of Lucca, in 1818, Shelley visited Venice; and, circumstances rendering it eligible that we should remain a few weeks inthe neighbourhood of that city, he accepted the offer of Lord Byron, wholent him the use of a villa he rented near Este; and he sent for hisfamily from Lucca to join him. 

I Capuccini was a villa built on the site of a Capuchin convent, demolished when the French suppressed religious houses; it was situatedon the very overhanging brow of a low hill at the foot of a range ofhigher ones. The house was cheerful and pleasant; a vine-trellised walk, a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to asummer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, andin which he began the "Prometheus"; and here also, as he mentions in aletter, he wrote "Julian and Maddalo". A slight ravine, with a road inits depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins ofthe ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo, and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, asthe crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We lookedfrom the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west bythe far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in mistydistance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine, and chestnut-wood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitelygratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our newabode. 

Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even moreseverely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose smallfeatures I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, showedsymptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate. Teething increasedher illness and danger. We were at Este, and when we became alarmed, hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we arrived at Fusina, wefound that we had forgotten our passport, and the soldiers on dutyattempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but they could not resistShelley's impetuosity at such a moment. We had scarcely arrived atVenice before life fled from the little sufferer, and we returned toEste to weep her loss. 

After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed byvisits to Venice, we proceeded southward. 

NOTE ON "PROMETHEUS UNBOUND", BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

On the 12th of March, 1818, Shelley quitted England, never to return. His principal motive was the hope that his health would be improved by amilder climate; he suffered very much during the winter previous to hisemigration, and this decided his vacillating purpose. In December, 1817, he had written from Marlow to a friend, saying:

'My health has been materially worse. My feelings at intervals are of adeadly and torpid kind, or awakened to such a state of unnatural andkeen excitement that, only to instance the organ of sight, I find thevery blades of grass and the boughs of distant trees present themselvesto me with microscopic distinctness. Towards evening I sink into a stateof lethargy and inanimation, and often remain for hours on the sofabetween sleep and waking, a prey to the most painful irritability ofthought. Such, with little intermission, is my condition. The hoursdevoted to study are selected with vigilant caution from among theseperiods of endurance. It is not for this that I think of travelling toItaly, even if I knew that Italy would relieve me. But I haveexperienced a decisive pulmonary attack; and although at present it haspassed away without any considerable vestige of its existence, yet thissymptom sufficiently shows the true nature of my disease to beconsumptive. It is to my advantage that this malady is in its natureslow, and, if one is sufficiently alive to its advances, is susceptibleof cure from a warm climate. In the event of its assuming any decidedshape, IT WOULD BE MY DUTY to go to Italy without delay. It is not merehealth, but life, that I should seek, and that not for my own sake--Ifeel I am capable of trampling on all such weakness; but for the sake ofthose to whom my life may be a source of happiness, utility, security, and honour, and to some of whom my death might be all that is thereverse. '

In almost every respect his journey to Italy was advantageous. He leftbehind friends to whom he was attached; but cares of a thousand kinds, many springing from his lavish generosity, crowded round him in hisnative country, and, except the society of one or two friends, he had nocompensation. The climate caused him to consume half his existence inhelpless suffering. His dearest pleasure, the free enjoyment of thescenes of Nature, was marred by the same circumstance. 

He went direct to Italy, avoiding even Paris, and did not make any pausetill he arrived at Milan. The first aspect of Italy enchanted Shelley;it seemed a garden of delight placed beneath a clearer and brighterheaven than any he had lived under before. He wrote long descriptiveletters during the first year of his residence in Italy, which, ascompositions, are the most beautiful in the world, and show how truly heappreciated and studied the wonders of Nature and Art in that divineland. 

The poetical spirit within him speedily revived with all the power andwith more than all the beauty of his first attempts. He meditated threesubjects as the groundwork for lyrical dramas. One was the story ofTasso; of this a slight fragment of a song of Tasso remains. The otherwas one founded on the Book of Job, which he never abandoned in idea, but of which no trace remains among his papers. The third was the"Prometheus Unbound". The Greek tragedians were now his most familiarcompanions in his wanderings, and the sublime majesty of Aeschylusfilled him with wonder and delight. The father of Greek tragedy does notpossess the pathos of Sophocles, nor the variety and tenderness ofEuripides; the interest on which he founds his dramas is often elevatedabove human vicissitudes into the mighty passions and throes of gods anddemi-gods: such fascinated the abstract imagination of Shelley. 

We spent a month at Milan, visiting the Lake of Como during thatinterval. Thence we passed in succession to Pisa, Leghorn, the Baths ofLucca, Venice, Este, Rome, Naples, and back again to Rome, whither wereturned early in March, 1819. During all this time Shelley meditatedthe subject of his drama, and wrote portions of it. Other poems werecomposed during this interval, and while at the Bagni di Lucca hetranslated Plato's "Symposium". But, though he diversified his studies, his thoughts centred in the Prometheus. At last, when at Rome, during abright and beautiful Spring, he gave up his whole time to thecomposition. The spot selected for his study was, as he mentions in hispreface, the mountainous ruins of the Baths of Caracalla. These arelittle known to the ordinary visitor at Rome. He describes them in aletter, with that poetry and delicacy and truth of description whichrender his narrated impressions of scenery of unequalled beauty andinterest. 

At first he completed the drama in three acts. It was not till severalmonths after, when at Florence, that he conceived that a fourth act, asort of hymn of rejoicing in the fulfilment of the prophecies withregard to Prometheus, ought to be added to complete the composition. 

The prominent feature of Shelley's theory of the destiny of the humanspecies was that evil is not inherent in the system of the creation, butan accident that might be expelled. This also forms a portion ofChristianity: God made earth and man perfect, till he, by his fall, 'Brought death into the world and all our woe. '

Shelley believed that mankind had only to will that there should be noevil, and there would be none. It is not my part in these Notes tonotice the arguments that have been urged against this opinion, but tomention the fact that he entertained it, and was indeed attached to itwith fervent enthusiasm. That man could be so perfectionized as to beable to expel evil from his own nature, and from the greater part of thecreation, was the cardinal point of his system. And the subject he lovedbest to dwell on was the image of One warring with the Evil Principle, oppressed not only by it, but by all--even the good, who were deludedinto considering evil a necessary portion of humanity; a victim full offortitude and hope and the spirit of triumph emanating from a reliancein the ultimate omnipotence of Good. Such he had depicted in his lastpoem, when he made Laon the enemy and the victim of tyrants. He now tooka more idealized image of the same subject. He followed certainclassical authorities in figuring Saturn as the good principle, Jupiterthe usurping evil one, and Prometheus as the regenerator, who, unable tobring mankind back to primitive innocence, used knowledge as a weapon todefeat evil, by leading mankind, beyond the state wherein they aresinless through ignorance, to that in which they are virtuous throughwisdom. Jupiter punished the temerity of the Titan by chaining him to arock of Caucasus, and causing a vulture to devour his still-renewedheart. There was a prophecy afloat in heaven portending the fall ofJove, the secret of averting which was known only to Prometheus; and thegod offered freedom from torture on condition of its being communicatedto him. According to the mythological story, this referred to theoffspring of Thetis, who was destined to be greater than his father. Prometheus at last bought pardon for his crime of enriching mankind withhis gifts, by revealing the prophecy. Hercules killed the vulture, andset him free; and Thetis was married to Peleus, the father of Achilles. 

Shelley adapted the catastrophe of this story to his peculiar views. Theson greater than his father, born of the nuptials of Jupiter and Thetis, was to dethrone Evil, and bring back a happier reign than that ofSaturn. Prometheus defies the power of his enemy, and endures centuriesof torture; till the hour arrives when Jove, blind to the real event, but darkly guessing that some great good to himself will flow, espousesThetis. At the moment, the Primal Power of the world drives him from hisusurped throne, and Strength, in the person of Hercules, liberatesHumanity, typified in Prometheus, from the tortures generated by evildone or suffered. Asia, one of the Oceanides, is the wife ofPrometheus--she was, according to other mythological interpretations, the same as Venus and Nature. When the benefactor of mankind isliberated, Nature resumes the beauty of her prime, and is united to herhusband, the emblem of the human race, in perfect and happy union. Inthe Fourth Act, the Poet gives further scope to his imagination, andidealizes the forms of creation--such as we know them, instead of suchas they appeared to the Greeks. Maternal Earth, the mighty parent, issuperseded by the Spirit of the Earth, the guide of our planet throughthe realms of sky; while his fair and weaker companion and attendant, the Spirit of the Moon, receives bliss from the annihilation of Evil inthe superior sphere. 

Shelley develops, more particularly in the lyrics of this drama, hisabstruse and imaginative theories with regard to the Creation. Itrequires a mind as subtle and penetrating as his own to understand themystic meanings scattered throughout the poem. They elude the ordinaryreader by their abstraction and delicacy of distinction, but they arefar from vague. It was his design to write prose metaphysical essays onthe nature of Man, which would have served to explain much of what isobscure in his poetry; a few scattered fragments of observations andremarks alone remain. He considered these philosophical views of Mindand Nature to be instinct with the intensest spirit of poetry. 

More popular poets clothe the ideal with familiar and sensible imagery. Shelley loved to idealize the real--to gift the mechanism of thematerial universe with a soul and a voice, and to bestow such also onthe most delicate and abstract emotions and thoughts of the mind. Sophocles was his great master in this species of imagery. 

I find in one of his manuscript books some remarks on a line in the"Oedipus Tyrannus", which show at once the critical subtlety ofShelley's mind, and explain his apprehension of those 'minute and remotedistinctions of feeling, whether relative to external nature or theliving beings which surround us, ' which he pronounces, in the letterquoted in the note to the "Revolt of Islam", to comprehend all that issublime in man. 

'In the Greek Shakespeare, Sophocles, we find the image, Pollas d' odous elthonta phrontidos planois:

a line of almost unfathomable depth of poetry; yet how simple are theimages in which it is arrayed!

 "Coming to many ways in the wanderings of careful thought. "

If the words odous and planois had not been used, the line might havebeen explained in a metaphorical instead of an absolute sense, as we say"WAYS and means, " and "wanderings" for error and confusion. But theymeant literally paths or roads, such as we tread with our feet; andwanderings, such as a man makes when he loses himself in a desert, orroams from city to city--as Oedipus, the speaker of this verse, wasdestined to wander, blind and asking charity. What a picture does thisline suggest of the mind as a wilderness of intricate paths, wide as theuniverse, which is here made its symbol; a world within a world which hewho seeks some knowledge with respect to what he ought to do searchesthroughout, as he would search the external universe for some valuedthing which was hidden from him upon its surface. '

In reading Shelley's poetry, we often find similar verses, resembling, but not imitating the Greek in this species of imagery; for, though headopted the style, he gifted it with that originality of form andcolouring which sprung from his own genius. 

In the "Prometheus Unbound", Shelley fulfils the promise quoted from aletter in the Note on the "Revolt of Islam". (While correcting theproof-sheets of that poem, it struck me that the poet had indulged in anexaggerated view of the evils of restored despotism; which, howeverinjurious and degrading, were less openly sanguinary than the triumph ofanarchy, such as it appeared in France at the close of the last century. But at this time a book, "Scenes of Spanish Life", translated byLieutenant Crawford from the German of Dr. Huber, of Rostock, fell intomy hands. The account of the triumph of the priests and the serviles, after the French invasion of Spain in 1823, bears a strong and frightfulresemblance to some of the descriptions of the massacre of the patriotsin the "Revolt of Islam". ) The tone of the composition is calmer andmore majestic, the poetry more perfect as a whole, and the imaginationdisplayed at once more pleasingly beautiful and more varied and daring. The description of the Hours, as they are seen in the cave ofDemogorgon, is an instance of this--it fills the mind as the mostcharming picture--we long to see an artist at work to bring to our viewthe

 'cars drawn by rainbow-winged steeds Which trample the dim winds: in each there stands A wild-eyed charioteer urging their flight. Some look behind, as fiends pursued them there, And yet I see no shapes but the keen stars: Others, with burning eyes, lean forth, and drink With eager lips the wind of their own speed, As if the thing they loved fled on before, And now, even now, they clasped it. Their bright locks Stream like a comet's flashing hair: they all Sweep onward. '

Through the whole poem there reigns a sort of calm and holy spirit oflove; it soothes the tortured, and is hope to the expectant, till theprophecy is fulfilled, and Love, untainted by any evil, becomes the lawof the world. 

England had been rendered a painful residence to Shelley, as much by thesort of persecution with which in those days all men of liberal opinionswere visited, and by the injustice he had lately endured in the Court ofChancery, as by the symptoms of disease which made him regard a visit toItaly as necessary to prolong his life. An exile, and strongly impressedwith the feeling that the majority of his countrymen regarded him withsentiments of aversion such as his own heart could experience towardsnone, he sheltered himself from such disgusting and painful thoughts inthe calm retreats of poetry, and built up a world of his own--with themore pleasure, since he hoped to induce some one or two to believe thatthe earth might become such, did mankind themselves consent. The charmof the Roman climate helped to clothe his thoughts in greater beautythan they had ever worn before. And, as he wandered among the ruins madeone with Nature in their decay, or gazed on the Praxitelean shapes thatthrong the Vatican, the Capitol, and the palaces of Rome, his soulimbibed forms of loveliness which became a portion of itself. There aremany passages in the "Prometheus" which show the intense delight hereceived from such studies, and give back the impression with a beautyof poetical description peculiarly his own. He felt this, as a poet mustfeel when he satisfies himself by the result of his labours; and hewrote from Rome, 'My "Prometheus Unbound" is just finished, and in amonth or two I shall send it. It is a drama, with characters andmechanism of a kind yet unattempted; and I think the execution is betterthan any of my former attempts. '

I may mention, for the information of the more critical reader, that theverbal alterations in this edition of "Prometheus" are made from a listof errata written by Shelley himself. 

NOTE ON THE CENCI, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

The sort of mistake that Shelley made as to the extent of his own geniusand powers, which led him deviously at first, but lastly into the directtrack that enabled him fully to develop them, is a curious instance ofhis modesty of feeling, and of the methods which the human mind uses atonce to deceive itself, and yet, in its very delusion, to make its wayout of error into the path which Nature has marked out as its right one. He often incited me to attempt the writing a tragedy: he conceived thatI possessed some dramatic talent, and he was always most earnest andenergetic in his exhortations that I should cultivate any talent Ipossessed, to the utmost. I entertained a truer estimate of my powers;and above all (though at that time not exactly aware of the fact) I wasfar too young to have any chance of succeeding, even moderately, in aspecies of composition that requires a greater scope of experience in, and sympathy with, human passion than could then have fallen to mylot, --or than any perhaps, except Shelley, ever possessed, even at theage of twenty-six, at which he wrote The Cenci. 

On the other hand, Shelley most erroneously conceived himself to bedestitute of this talent. He believed that one of the first requisiteswas the capacity of forming and following-up a story or plot. He fanciedhimself to be defective in this portion of imagination: it was thatwhich gave him least pleasure in the writings of others, though he laidgreat store by it as the proper framework to support the sublimestefforts of poetry. He asserted that he was too metaphysical andabstract, too fond of the theoretical and the ideal, to succeed as atragedian. It perhaps is not strange that I shared this opinion withhimself; for he had hitherto shown no inclination for, nor given anyspecimen of his powers in framing and supporting the interest of astory, either in prose or verse. Once or twice, when he attempted such, he had speedily thrown it aside, as being even disagreeable to him as anoccupation. 

The subject he had suggested for a tragedy was Charles I: and he hadwritten to me: 'Remember, remember Charles I. I have been alreadyimagining how you would conduct some scenes. The second volume of "St. Leon" begins with this proud and true sentiment: "There is nothing whichthe human mind can conceive which it may not execute. " Shakespeare wasonly a human being. ' These words were written in 1818, while we were inLombardy, when he little thought how soon a work of his own would provea proud comment on the passage he quoted. When in Rome, in 1819, afriend put into our hands the old manuscript account of the story of theCenci. We visited the Colonna and Doria palaces, where the portraits ofBeatrice were to be found; and her beauty cast the reflection of its owngrace over her appalling story. Shelley's imagination became stronglyexcited, and he urged the subject to me as one fitted for a tragedy. More than ever I felt my incompetence; but I entreated him to write itinstead; and he began, and proceeded swiftly, urged on by intensesympathy with the sufferings of the human beings whose passions, so longcold in the tomb, he revived, and gifted with poetic language. Thistragedy is the only one of his works that he communicated to me duringits progress. We talked over the arrangement of the scenes together. Ispeedily saw the great mistake we had made, and triumphed in thediscovery of the new talent brought to light from that mine of wealth(never, alas, through his untimely death, worked to its depths)--hisrichly gifted mind. 

We suffered a severe affliction in Rome by the loss of our eldest child, who was of such beauty and promise as to cause him deservedly to be theidol of our hearts. We left the capital of the world, anxious for a timeto escape a spot associated too intimately with his presence and loss. (Such feelings haunted him when, in "The Cenci", he makes Beatrice speakto Cardinal Camillo of

 'that fair blue-eyed child Who was the lodestar of your life:'--and say-- All see, since his most swift and piteous death, That day and night, and heaven and earth, and time, And all the things hoped for or done therein Are changed to you, through your exceeding grief. ')

Some friends of ours were residing in the neighbourhood of Leghorn, andwe took a small house, Villa Valsovano, about half-way between the townand Monte Nero, where we remained during the summer. Our villa wassituated in the midst of a podere; the peasants sang as they workedbeneath our windows, during the heats of a very hot season, and in theevening the water-wheel creaked as the process of irrigation went on, and the fireflies flashed from among the myrtle hedges: Nature wasbright, sunshiny, and cheerful, or diversified by storms of a majesticterror, such as we had never before witnessed. 

At the top of the house there was a sort of terrace. There is often suchin Italy, generally roofed: this one was very small, yet not only roofedbut glazed. This Shelley made his study; it looked out on a wideprospect of fertile country, and commanded a view of the near sea. Thestorms that sometimes varied our day showed themselves mostpicturesquely as they were driven across the ocean; sometimes the darklurid clouds dipped towards the waves, and became water-spouts thatchurned up the waters beneath, as they were chased onward and scatteredby the tempest. At other times the dazzling sunlight and heat made italmost intolerable to every other; but Shelley basked in both, and hishealth and spirits revived under their influence. In this airy cell hewrote the principal part of "The Cenci". He was making a study ofCalderon at the time, reading his best tragedies with an accomplishedlady living near us, to whom his letter from Leghorn was addressedduring the following year. He admired Calderon, both for his poetry andhis dramatic genius; but it shows his judgement and originality that, though greatly struck by his first acquaintance with the Spanish poet, none of his peculiarities crept into the composition of "The Cenci"; andthere is no trace of his new studies, except in that passage to which hehimself alludes as suggested by one in "El Purgatorio de San Patricio". 

Shelley wished "The Cenci" to be acted. He was not a playgoer, being ofsuch fastidious taste that he was easily disgusted by the bad filling-upof the inferior parts. While preparing for our departure from England, however, he saw Miss O'Neil several times. She was then in the zenith ofher glory; and Shelley was deeply moved by her impersonation of severalparts, and by the graceful sweetness, the intense pathos, the sublimevehemence of passion she displayed. She was often in his thoughts as hewrote: and, when he had finished, he became anxious that his tragedyshould be acted, and receive the advantage of having this accomplishedactress to fill the part of the heroine. With this view he wrote thefollowing letter to a friend in London:

'The object of the present letter us to ask a favour of you. I havewritten a tragedy on a story well known in Italy, and, in my conception, eminently dramatic. I have taken some pains to make my play fit forrepresentation, and those who have already seen it judge favourably. Itis written without any of the peculiar feelings and opinions whichcharacterize my other compositions; I have attended simply to theimpartial development of such characters as it is probable the personsrepresented really were, together with the greatest degree of populareffect to be produced by such a development. I send you a translation ofthe Italian manuscript on which my play is founded; the chiefcircumstance of which I have touched very delicately; for my principaldoubt as to whether it would succeed as an acting play hangs entirely onthe question as to whether any such a thing as incest in this shape, however treated, would be admitted on the stage. I think, however, itwill form no objection; considering, first, that the facts are matter ofhistory, and, secondly, the peculiar delicacy with which I have treatedit. (In speaking of his mode of treating this main incident, Shelleysaid that it might be remarked that, in the course of the play, he hadnever mentioned expressly Cenci's worst crime. Every one knew what itmust be, but it was never imaged in words--the nearest allusion to itbeing that portion of Cenci's curse beginning--"That, if she have achild, " etc. )

'I am exceedingly interested in the question of whether this attempt ofmine will succeed or not. I am strongly inclined to the affirmative atpresent; founding my hopes on this--that, as a composition, it iscertainly not inferior to any of the modern plays that have been acted, with the exception of "Remorse"; that the interest of the plot isincredibly greater and more real; and that there is nothing beyond whatthe multitude are contented to believe that they can understand, eitherin imagery, opinion, or sentiment. I wish to preserve a completeincognito, and can trust to you that, whatever else you do, you will atleast favour me on this point. Indeed, this is essential, deeplyessential, to its success. After it had been acted, and successfully(could I hope for such a thing), I would own it if I pleased, and usethe celebrity it might acquire to my own purposes. 

'What I want you to do is to procure for me its presentation at CoventGarden. The principal character, Beatrice, is precisely fitted for MissO'Neil, and it might even seem to have been written for her (God forbidthat I should see her play it--it would tear my nerves to pieces); andin all respects it is fitted only for Covent Garden. The chief malecharacter I confess I should be very unwilling that any one but Keanshould play. That is impossible, and I must be contented with aninferior actor. '

The play was accordingly sent to Mr. Harris. He pronounced the subjectto be so objectionable that he could not even submit the part to MissO'Neil for perusal, but expressed his desire that the author would writea tragedy on some other subject, which he would gladly accept. Shelleyprinted a small edition at Leghorn, to ensure its correctness; as he wasmuch annoyed by the many mistakes that crept into his text when distanceprevented him from correcting the press. 

Universal approbation soon stamped "The Cenci" as the best tragedy ofmodern times. Writing concerning it, Shelley said: 'I have been cautiousto avoid the introducing faults of youthful composition; diffuseness, aprofusion of inapplicable imagery, vagueness, generality, and, as Hamletsays, "words, words". ' There is nothing that is not purely dramaticthroughout; and the character of Beatrice, proceeding, from vehementstruggle, to horror, to deadly resolution, and lastly to the elevateddignity of calm suffering, joined to passionate tenderness and pathos, is touched with hues so vivid and so beautiful that the poet seems tohave read intimately the secrets of the noble heart imaged in the lovelycountenance of the unfortunate girl. The Fifth Act is a masterpiece. Itis the finest thing he ever wrote, and may claim proud comparison notonly with any contemporary, but preceding, poet. The varying feelings ofBeatrice are expressed with passionate, heart-reaching eloquence. Everycharacter has a voice that echoes truth in its tones. It is curious, toone acquainted with the written story, to mark the success with whichthe poet has inwoven the real incidents of the tragedy into his scenes, and yet, through the power of poetry, has obliterated all that wouldotherwise have shown too harsh or too hideous in the picture. Hissuccess was a double triumph; and often after he was earnestly entreatedto write again in a style that commanded popular favour, while it wasnot less instinct with truth and genius. But the bent of his mind wentthe other way; and, even when employed on subjects whose interestdepended on character and incident, he would start off in anotherdirection, and leave the delineations of human passion, which he coulddepict in so able a manner, for fantastic creations of his fancy, or theexpression of those opinions and sentiments, with regard to human natureand its destiny, a desire to diffuse which was the master passion of hissoul. 

NOTE ON THE MASK OF ANARCHY, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Though Shelley's first eager desire to excite his countrymen to resistopenly the oppressions existent during 'the good old times' had fadedwith early youth, still his warmest sympathies were for the people. Hewas a republican, and loved a democracy. He looked on all human beingsas inheriting an equal right to possess the dearest privileges of ournature; the necessaries of life when fairly earned by labour, andintellectual instruction. His hatred of any despotism that looked uponthe people as not to be consulted, or protected from want and ignorance, was intense. He was residing near Leghorn, at Villa Valsovano, writing"The Cenci", when the news of the Manchester Massacre reached us; itroused in him violent emotions of indignation and compassion. The greattruth that the many, if accordant and resolute, could control the few, as was shown some years after, made him long to teach his injuredcountrymen how to resist. Inspired by these feelings, he wrote the "Maskof Anarchy", which he sent to his friend Leigh Hunt, to be inserted inthe Examiner, of which he was then the Editor. 

'I did not insert it, ' Leigh Hunt writes in his valuable and interestingpreface to this poem, when he printed it in 1832, 'because I thoughtthat the public at large had not become sufficiently discerning to dojustice to the sincerity and kind-heartedness of the spirit that walkedin this flaming robe of verse. ' Days of outrage have passed away, andwith them the exasperation that would cause such an appeal to the manyto be injurious. Without being aware of them, they at one time acted onhis suggestions, and gained the day. But they rose when human life wasrespected by the Minister in power; such was not the case during theAdministration which excited Shelley's abhorrence. 

The poem was written for the people, and is therefore in a more populartone than usual: portions strike as abrupt and unpolished, but manystanzas are all his own. I heard him repeat, and admired, thosebeginning

 'My Father Time is old and gray, '

before I knew to what poem they were to belong. But the most touchingpassage is that which describes the blessed effects of liberty; it mightmake a patriot of any man whose heart was not wholly closed against hishumbler fellow-creatures. 

NOTE ON PETER BELL THE THIRD, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

In this new edition I have added "Peter Bell the Third". A critique onWordsworth's "Peter Bell" reached us at Leghorn, which amused Shelleyexceedingly, and suggested this poem. 

I need scarcely observe that nothing personal to the author of "PeterBell" is intended in this poem. No man ever admired Wordsworth's poetrymore;--he read it perpetually, and taught others to appreciate itsbeauties. This poem is, like all others written by Shelley, ideal. Heconceived the idealism of a poet--a man of lofty and creativegenius--quitting the glorious calling of discovering and announcing thebeautiful and good, to support and propagate ignorant prejudices andpernicious errors; imparting to the unenlightened, not that ardour fortruth and spirit of toleration which Shelley looked on as the sources ofthe moral improvement and happiness of mankind, but false and injuriousopinions, that evil was good, and that ignorance and force were the bestallies of purity and virtue. His idea was that a man gifted, even astranscendently as the author of "Peter Bell", with the highest qualitiesof genius, must, if he fostered such errors, be infected with dulness. This poem was written as a warning--not as a narration of the reality. He was unacquainted personally with Wordsworth, or with Coleridge (towhom he alludes in the fifth part of the poem), and therefore, I repeat, his poem is purely ideal;--it contains something of criticism on thecompositions of those great poets, but nothing injurious to the menthemselves. 

No poem contains more of Shelley's peculiar views with regard to theerrors into which many of the wisest have fallen, and the perniciouseffects of certain opinions on society. Much of it is beautifullywritten: and, though, like the burlesque drama of "Swellfoot", it mustbe looked on as a plaything, it has so much merit and poetry--so much ofHIMSELF in it--that it cannot fail to interest greatly, and by rightbelongs to the world for whose instruction and benefit it was written. 

NOTE ON THE WITCH OF ATLAS, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four milesfrom Pisa. These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing hisnervous irritability. We made several excursions in the neighbourhood. The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesqueby ranges of near hills and more distant mountains. The peasantry are ahandsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spreadover us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful andbright. During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made asolitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino--amountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, theobject, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages. Theexcursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself toomuch, and the effect was considerable lassitude and weakness on hisreturn. During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in thethree days immediately succeeding to his return, the "Witch of Atlas". This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes--wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, torevel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested. 

The surpassing excellence of "The Cenci" had made me greatly desire thatShelley should increase his popularity by adopting subjects that wouldmore suit the popular taste than a poem conceived in the abstract anddreamy spirit of the "Witch of Atlas". It was not only that I wished himto acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that hewould obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greaterhappiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours. Thefew stanzas that precede the poem were addressed to me on myrepresenting these ideas to him. Even now I believe that I was in theright. Shelley did not expect sympathy and approbation from the public;but the want of it took away a portion of the ardour that ought to havesustained him while writing. He was thrown on his own resources, and onthe inspiration of his own soul; and wrote because his mind overflowed, without the hope of being appreciated. I had not the most distant wishthat he should truckle in opinion, or submit his lofty aspirations forthe human race to the low ambition and pride of the many; but I feltsure that, if his poems were more addressed to the common feelings ofmen, his proper rank among the writers of the day would be acknowledged, and that popularity as a poet would enable his countrymen to do justiceto his character and virtues, which in those days it was the mode toattack with the most flagitious calumnies and insulting abuse. That hefelt these things deeply cannot be doubted, though he armed himself withthe consciousness of acting from a lofty and heroic sense of right. Thetruth burst from his heart sometimes in solitude, and he would write afew unfinished verses that showed that he felt the sting; among such Ifind the following:--

 'Alas! this is not what I thought Life was. I knew that there were crimes and evil men, Misery and hate; nor did I hope to pass Untouched by suffering through the rugged glen. In mine own heart I saw as in a glass The hearts of others... And, when I went among my kind, with triple brass Of calm endurance my weak breast I armed, To bear scorn, fear, and hate--a woful mass!'

I believed that all this morbid feeling would vanish if the chord ofsympathy between him and his countrymen were touched. But my persuasionswere vain, the mind could not be bent from its natural inclination. Shelley shrunk instinctively from portraying human passion, with itsmixture of good and evil, of disappointment and disquiet. Such openedagain the wounds of his own heart; and he loved to shelter himselfrather in the airiest flights of fancy, forgetting love and hate, andregret and lost hope, in such imaginations as borrowed their hues fromsunrise or sunset, from the yellow moonshine or paly twilight, from theaspect of the far ocean or the shadows of the woods, --which celebratedthe singing of the winds among the pines, the flow of a murmuringstream, and the thousand harmonious sounds which Nature creates in hersolitudes. These are the materials which form the "Witch of Atlas": itis a brilliant congregation of ideas such as his senses gathered, andhis fancy coloured, during his rambles in the sunny land he so muchloved. 

NOTE ON OEDIPUS TYRANNUS, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

In the brief journal I kept in those days, I find recorded, in August, 1820, Shelley 'begins "Swellfoot the Tyrant", suggested by the pigs atthe fair of San Giuliano. ' This was the period of Queen Caroline'slanding in England, and the struggles made by George IV to get rid ofher claims; which failing, Lord Castlereagh placed the "Green Bag" onthe table of the House of Commons, demanding in the King's name that anenquiry should be instituted into his wife's conduct. Thesecircumstances were the theme of all conversation among the English. Wewere then at the Baths of San Giuliano. A friend came to visit us on theday when a fair was held in the square, beneath our windows: Shelleyread to us his "Ode to Liberty"; and was riotously accompanied by thegrunting of a quantity of pigs brought for sale to the fair. He comparedit to the 'chorus of frogs' in the satiric drama of Aristophanes; and, it being an hour of merriment, and one ludicrous association suggestinganother, he imagined a political-satirical drama on the circumstances ofthe day, to which the pigs would serve as chorus--and "Swellfoot" wasbegun. When finished, it was transmitted to England, printed, andpublished anonymously; but stifled at the very dawn of its existence bythe Society for the Suppression of Vice, who threatened to prosecute it, if not immediately withdrawn. The friend who had taken the trouble ofbringing it out, of course did not think it worth the annoyance andexpense of a contest, and it was laid aside. 

Hesitation of whether it would do honour to Shelley prevented mypublishing it at first. But I cannot bring myself to keep back anythinghe ever wrote; for each word is fraught with the peculiar views andsentiments which he believed to be beneficial to the human race, and thebright light of poetry irradiates every thought. The world has a rightto the entire compositions of such a man; for it does not live andthrive by the outworn lesson of the dullard or the hypocrite, but by theoriginal free thoughts of men of genius, who aspire to pluck brighttruth

 'from the pale-faced moon; Or dive into the bottom of the deep Where fathom-line would never touch the ground, And pluck up drowned'

truth. Even those who may dissent from his opinions will consider thathe was a man of genius, and that the world will take more interest inhis slightest word than in the waters of Lethe which are so eagerlyprescribed as medicinal for all its wrongs and woe. This drama, however, must not be judged for more than was meant. It is a mere plaything ofthe imagination; which even may not excite smiles among many, who willnot see wit in those combinations of thought which were full of theridiculous to the author. But, like everything he wrote, it breathesthat deep sympathy for the sorrows of humanity, and indignation againstits oppressors, which make it worthy of his name. 

NOTE ON HELLAS, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

The South of Europe was in a state of great political excitement at thebeginning of the year 1821. The Spanish Revolution had been a signal toItaly; secrete societies were formed; and, when Naples rose to declarethe Constitution, the call was responded to from Brundusium to the footof the Alps. To crush these attempts to obtain liberty, early in 1821the Austrians poured their armies into the Peninsula: at first theircoming rather seemed to add energy and resolution to a people longenslaved. The Piedmontese asserted their freedom; Genoa threw off theyoke of the King of Sardinia; and, as if in playful imitation, thepeople of the little state of Massa and Carrara gave the conge to theirsovereign, and set up a republic. 

Tuscany alone was perfectly tranquil. It was said that the Austrianminister presented a list of sixty Carbonari to the Grand Duke, urgingtheir imprisonment; and the Grand Duke replied, 'I do not know whetherthese sixty men are Carbonari, but I know, if I imprison them, I shalldirectly have sixty thousand start up. ' But, though the Tuscans had nodesire to disturb the paternal government beneath whose shelter theyslumbered, they regarded the progress of the various Italian revolutionswith intense interest, and hatred for the Austrian was warm in everybosom. But they had slender hopes; they knew that the Neapolitans wouldoffer no fit resistance to the regular German troops, and that theoverthrow of the constitution in Naples would act as a decisive blowagainst all struggles for liberty in Italy. 

We have seen the rise and progress of reform. But the Holy Alliance wasalive and active in those days, and few could dream of the peacefultriumph of liberty. It seemed then that the armed assertion of freedomin the South of Europe was the only hope of the liberals, as, if itprevailed, the nations of the north would imitate the example. Happilythe reverse has proved the fact. The countries accustomed to theexercise of the privileges of freemen, to a limited extent, haveextended, and are extending, these limits. Freedom and knowledge havenow a chance of proceeding hand in hand; and, if it continue thus, wemay hope for the durability of both. Then, as I have said--in1821--Shelley, as well as every other lover of liberty, looked upon thestruggles in Spain and Italy as decisive of the destinies of the world, probably for centuries to come. The interest he took in the progress ofaffairs was intense. When Genoa declared itself free, his hopes were attheir highest. Day after day he read the bulletins of the Austrian army, and sought eagerly to gather tokens of its defeat. He heard of therevolt of Genoa with emotions of transport. His whole heart and soulwere in the triumph of the cause. We were living at Pisa at that time;and several well-informed Italians, at the head of whom we may place thecelebrated Vacca, were accustomed to seek for sympathy in their hopesfrom Shelley: they did not find such for the despair they too generallyexperienced, founded on contempt for their southern countrymen. 

While the fate of the progress of the Austrian armies then invadingNaples was yet in suspense, the news of another revolution filled himwith exultation. We had formed the acquaintance at Pisa of severalConstantinopolitan Greeks, of the family of Prince Caradja, formerlyHospodar of Wallachia; who, hearing that the bowstring, the accustomedfinale of his viceroyalty, was on the road to him, escaped with histreasures, and took up his abode in Tuscany. Among these was thegentleman to whom the drama of "Hellas" is dedicated. PrinceMavrocordato was warmed by those aspirations for the independence of hiscountry which filled the hearts of many of his countrymen. He oftenintimated the possibility of an insurrection in Greece; but we had noidea of its being so near at hand, when, on the 1st of April 1821, hecalled on Shelley, bringing the proclamation of his cousin, PrinceYpsilanti, and, radiant with exultation and delight, declared thathenceforth Greece would be free. 

Shelley had hymned the dawn of liberty in Spain and Naples, in two odesdictated by the warmest enthusiasm; he felt himself naturally impelledto decorate with poetry the uprise of the descendants of that peoplewhose works he regarded with deep admiration, and to adopt thevaticinatory character in prophesying their success. "Hellas" waswritten in a moment of enthusiasm. It is curious to remark how well heovercomes the difficulty of forming a drama out of such scant materials. His prophecies, indeed, came true in their general, not theirparticular, purport. He did not foresee the death of Lord Londonderry, which was to be the epoch of a change in English politics, particularlyas regarded foreign affairs; nor that the navy of his country wouldfight for instead of against the Greeks, and by the battle of Navarinosecure their enfranchisement from the Turks. Almost against reason, asit appeared to him, he resolved to believe that Greece would provetriumphant; and in this spirit, auguring ultimate good, yet grievingover the vicissitudes to be endured in the interval, he composed hisdrama. 

"Hellas" was among the last of his compositions, and is among the mostbeautiful. The choruses are singularly imaginative, and melodious intheir versification. There are some stanzas that beautifully exemplifyShelley's peculiar style; as, for instance, the assertion of theintellectual empire which must be for ever the inheritance of thecountry of Homer, Sophocles, and Plato:--

 'But Greece and her foundations are Built below the tide of war, Based on the crystalline sea Of thought and its eternity. '

And again, that philosophical truth felicitously imaged forth--

 'Revenge and Wrong bring forth their kind, The foul cubs like their parents are, Their den is in the guilty mind, And Conscience feeds them with despair. '

The conclusion of the last chorus is among the most beautiful of hislyrics. The imagery is distinct and majestic; the prophecy, such aspoets love to dwell upon, the Regeneration of Mankind--and thatregeneration reflecting back splendour on the foregone time, from whichit inherits so much of intellectual wealth, and memory of past virtuousdeeds, as must render the possession of happiness and peace of tenfoldvalue. 

NOTE ON THE EARLY POEMS, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

The remainder of Shelley's Poems will be arranged in the order in whichthey were written. Of course, mistakes will occur in placing some of theshorter ones; for, as I have said, many of these were thrown aside, andI never saw them till I had the misery of looking over his writingsafter the hand that traced them was dust; and some were in the hands ofothers, and I never saw them till now. The subjects of the poems areoften to me an unerring guide; but on other occasions I can only guess, by finding them in the pages of the same manuscript book that containspoems with the date of whose composition I am fully conversant. In thepresent arrangement all his poetical translations will be placedtogether at the end. 

The loss of his early papers prevents my being able to give any of thepoetry of his boyhood. Of the few I give as "Early Poems", the greaterpart were published with "Alastor"; some of them were writtenpreviously, some at the same period. The poem beginning 'Oh, there arespirits in the air' was addressed in idea to Coleridge, whom he neverknew; and at whose character he could only guess imperfectly, throughhis writings, and accounts he heard of him from some who knew him well. He regarded his change of opinions as rather an act of will thanconviction, and believed that in his inner heart he would be haunted bywhat Shelley considered the better and holier aspirations of his youth. The summer evening that suggested to him the poem written in thechurchyard of Lechlade occurred during his voyage up the Thames in 1815. He had been advised by a physician to live as much as possible in theopen air; and a fortnight of a bright warm July was spent in tracing theThames to its source. He never spent a season more tranquilly than thesummer of 1815. He had just recovered from a severe pulmonary attack;the weather was warm and pleasant. He lived near Windsor Forest; and hislife was spent under its shades or on the water, meditating subjects forverse. Hitherto, he had chiefly aimed at extending his politicaldoctrines, and attempted so to do by appeals in prose essays to thepeople, exhorting them to claim their rights; but he had now begun tofeel that the time for action was not ripe in England, and that the penwas the only instrument wherewith to prepare the way for better things. 

In the scanty journals kept during those years I find a record of thebooks that Shelley read during several years. During the years of 1814and 1815 the list is extensive. It includes, in Greek, Homer, Hesiod, Theocritus, the histories of Thucydides and Herodotus, and DiogenesLaertius. In Latin, Petronius, Suetonius, some of the works of Cicero, alarge proportion of those of Seneca and Livy. In English, Milton'spoems, Wordsworth's "Excursion", Southey's "Madoc" and "Thalaba", Locke"On the Human Understanding", Bacon's "Novum Organum". In Italian, Ariosto, Tasso, and Alfieri. In French, the "Reveries d'un Solitaire" ofRousseau. To these may be added several modern books of travel. He readfew novels. 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1816, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Shelley wrote little during this year. The poem entitled "The Sunset"was written in the spring of the year, while still residing atBishopsgate. He spent the summer on the shores of the Lake of Geneva. The "Hymn to Intellectual Beauty" was conceived during his voyage roundthe lake with Lord Byron. He occupied himself during this voyage byreading the "Nouvelle Heloise" for the first time. The reading it on thevery spot where the scenes are laid added to the interest; and he was atonce surprised and charmed by the passionate eloquence and earnestenthralling interest that pervade this work. There was something in thecharacter of Saint-Preux, in his abnegation of self, and in the worshiphe paid to Love, that coincided with Shelley's own disposition; and, though differing in many of the views and shocked by others, yet theeffect of the whole was fascinating and delightful. 

"Mont Blanc" was inspired by a view of that mountain and its surroundingpeaks and valleys, as he lingered on the Bridge of Arve on his waythrough the Valley of Chamouni. Shelley makes the following mention ofthis poem in his publication of the "History of a Six Weeks' Tour, andLetters from Switzerland": 'The poem entitled "Mont Blanc" is written bythe author of the two letters from Chamouni and Vevai. It was composedunder the immediate impression of the deep and powerful feelings excitedby the objects which it attempts to describe; and, as an undisciplinedoverflowing of the soul, rests its claim to approbation on an attempt toimitate the untamable wildness and inaccessible solemnity from whichthose feelings sprang. '

This was an eventful year, and less time was given to study than usual. In the list of his reading I find, in Greek, Theocritus, the"Prometheus" of Aeschylus, several of Plutarch's "Lives", and the worksof Lucian. In Latin, Lucretius, Pliny's "Letters", the "Annals" and"Germany" of Tacitus. In French, the "History of the French Revolution"by Lacretelle. He read for the first time, this year, Montaigne's"Essays", and regarded them ever after as one of the most delightful andinstructive books in the world. The list is scanty in English works:Locke's "Essay", "Political Justice", and Coleridge's "Lay Sermon", formnearly the whole. It was his frequent habit to read aloud to me in theevening; in this way we read, this year, the New Testament, "ParadiseLost", Spenser's "Faery Queen", and "Don Quixote". 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1817, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

The very illness that oppressed, and the aspect of death which hadapproached so near Shelley, appear to have kindled to yet keener lifethe Spirit of Poetry in his heart. The restless thoughts kept awake bypain clothed themselves in verse. Much was composed during this year. The "Revolt of Islam", written and printed, was a greateffort--"Rosalind and Helen" was begun--and the fragments and poems Ican trace to the same period show how full of passion and reflectionwere his solitary hours. 

In addition to such poems as have an intelligible aim and shape, many astray idea and transitory emotion found imperfect and abrupt expression, and then again lost themselves in silence. As he never wandered withouta book and without implements of writing, I find many such, in hismanuscript books, that scarcely bear record; while some of them, brokenand vague as they are, will appear valuable to those who love Shelley'smind, and desire to trace its workings. 

He projected also translating the "Hymns" of Homer; his version ofseveral of the shorter ones remains, as well as that to Mercury alreadypublished in the "Posthumous Poems". His readings this year were chieflyGreek. Besides the "Hymns" of Homer and the "Iliad", he read the dramasof Aeschylus and Sophocles, the "Symposium" of Plato, and Arrian's"Historia Indica". In Latin, Apuleius alone is named. In English, theBible was his constant study; he read a great portion of it aloud in theevening. Among these evening readings I find also mentioned the "FaerieQueen"; and other modern works, the production of his contemporaries, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Moore and Byron. 

His life was now spent more in thought than action--he had lost theeager spirit which believed it could achieve what it projected for thebenefit of mankind. And yet in the converse of daily life Shelley wasfar from being a melancholy man. He was eloquent when philosophy orpolitics or taste were the subjects of conversation. He was playful; andindulged in the wild spirit that mocked itself and others--not inbitterness, but in sport. The author of "Nightmare Abbey" seized on somepoints of his character and some habits of his life when he paintedScythrop. He was not addicted to 'port or madeira, ' but in youth he hadread of 'Illuminati and Eleutherarchs, ' and believed that he possessedthe power of operating an immediate change in the minds of men and thestate of society. These wild dreams had faded; sorrow and adversity hadstruck home; but he struggled with despondency as he did with physicalpain. There are few who remember him sailing paper boats, and watchingthe navigation of his tiny craft with eagerness--or repeating with wildenergy "The Ancient Mariner", and Southey's "Old Woman of Berkeley"; butthose who do will recollect that it was in such, and in the creations ofhis own fancy when that was most daring and ideal, that he shelteredhimself from the storms and disappointments, the pain and sorrow, thatbeset his life. 

No words can express the anguish he felt when his elder children weretorn from him. In his first resentment against the Chancellor, on thepassing of the decree, he had written a curse, in which there breathes, besides haughty indignation, all the tenderness of a father's love, which could imagine and fondly dwell upon its loss and the consequences. 

At one time, while the question was still pending, the Chancellor hadsaid some words that seemed to intimate that Shelley should not bepermitted the care of any of his children, and for a moment he fearedthat our infant son would be torn from us. He did not hesitate toresolve, if such were menaced, to abandon country, fortune, everything, and to escape with his child; and I find some unfinished stanzasaddressed to this son, whom afterwards we lost at Rome, written underthe idea that we might suddenly be forced to cross the sea, so topreserve him. This poem, as well as the one previously quoted, were notwritten to exhibit the pangs of distress to the public; they were thespontaneous outbursts of a man who brooded over his wrongs and woes, andwas impelled to shed the grace of his genius over the uncontrollableemotions of his heart. I ought to observe that the fourth verse of thiseffusion is introduced in "Rosalind and Helen". When afterwards thischild died at Rome, he wrote, a propos of the English burying-ground inthat city: 'This spot is the repository of a sacred loss, of which theyearnings of a parent's heart are now prophetic; he is rendered immortalby love, as his memory is by death. My beloved child lies buried here. Ienvy death the body far less than the oppressors the minds of those whomthey have torn from me. The one can only kill the body, the othercrushes the affections. '

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1818, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

We often hear of persons disappointed by a first visit to Italy. Thiswas not Shelley's case. The aspect of its nature, its sunny sky, itsmajestic storms, of the luxuriant vegetation of the country, and thenoble marble-built cities, enchanted him. The sight of the works of artwas full enjoyment and wonder. He had not studied pictures or statuesbefore; he now did so with the eye of taste, that referred not to therules of schools, but to those of Nature and truth. The first entranceto Rome opened to him a scene of remains of antique grandeur that farsurpassed his expectations; and the unspeakable beauty of Naples and itsenvirons added to the impression he received of the transcendent andglorious beauty of Italy. 

Our winter was spent at Naples. Here he wrote the fragments of"Marenghi" and "The Woodman and the Nightingale", which he afterwardsthrew aside. At this time, Shelley suffered greatly in health. He puthimself under the care of a medical man, who promised great things, andmade him endure severe bodily pain, without any good results. Constantand poignant physical suffering exhausted him; and though he preservedthe appearance of cheerfulness, and often greatly enjoyed our wanderingsin the environs of Naples, and our excursions on its sunny sea, yet manyhours were passed when his thoughts, shadowed by illness, becamegloomy, --and then he escaped to solitude, and in verses, which he hidfrom fear of wounding me, poured forth morbid but too natural bursts ofdiscontent and sadness. One looks back with unspeakable regret andgnawing remorse to such periods; fancying that, had one been more aliveto the nature of his feelings, and more attentive to soothe them, suchwould not have existed. And yet, enjoying as he appeared to do everysight or influence of earth or sky, it was difficult to imagine that anymelancholy he showed was aught but the effect of the constant pain towhich he was a martyr. 

We lived in utter solitude. And such is often not the nurse ofcheerfulness; for then, at least with those who have been exposed toadversity, the mind broods over its sorrows too intently; while thesociety of the enlightened, the witty, and the wise, enables us toforget ourselves by making us the sharers of the thoughts of others, which is a portion of the philosophy of happiness. Shelley never likedsociety in numbers, --it harassed and wearied him; but neither did helike loneliness, and usually, when alone, sheltered himself againstmemory and reflection in a book. But, with one or two whom he loved, hegave way to wild and joyous spirits, or in more serious conversationexpounded his opinions with vivacity and eloquence. If an argumentarose, no man ever argued better. He was clear, logical, and earnest, insupporting his own views; attentive, patient, and impartial, whilelistening to those on the adverse side. Had not a wall of prejudice beenraised at this time between him and his countrymen, how many would havesought the acquaintance of one whom to know was to love and to revere!How many of the more enlightened of his contemporaries have sinceregretted that they did not seek him! how very few knew his worth whilehe lived! and, of those few, several were withheld by timidity or envyfrom declaring their sense of it. But no man was ever moreenthusiastically loved--more looked up to, as one superior to hisfellows in intellectual endowments and moral worth, by the few who knewhim well, and had sufficient nobleness of soul to appreciate hissuperiority. His excellence is now acknowledged; but, even whileadmitted, not duly appreciated. For who, except those who wereacquainted with him, can imagine his unwearied benevolence, hisgenerosity, his systematic forbearance? And still less is his vastsuperiority in intellectual attainments sufficiently understood--hissagacity, his clear understanding, his learning, his prodigious memory. All these as displayed in conversation, were known to few while helived, and are now silent in the tomb:

 'Ahi orbo mondo ingrato! Gran cagion hai di dever pianger meco; Che quel ben ch' era in te, perdut' hai seco. '

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1819, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

Shelley loved the People; and respected them as often more virtuous, asalways more suffering, and therefore more deserving of sympathy, thanthe great. He believed that a clash between the two classes of societywas inevitable, and he eagerly ranged himself on the people's side. Hehad an idea of publishing a series of poems adapted expressly tocommemorate their circumstances and wrongs. He wrote a few; but, inthose days of prosecution for libel, they could not be printed. They arenot among the best of his productions, a writer being always shackledwhen he endeavours to write down to the comprehension of those who couldnot understand or feel a highly imaginative style; but they show hisearnestness, and with what heart-felt compassion he went home to thedirect point of injury--that oppression is detestable as being theparent of starvation, nakedness, and ignorance. Besides theseoutpourings of compassion and indignation, he had meant to adorn thecause he loved with loftier poetry of glory and triumph: such is thescope of the "Ode to the Assertors of Liberty". He sketched also a newversion of our national anthem, as addressed to Liberty. 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1820, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

We spent the latter part of the year 1819 in Florence, where Shelleypassed several hours daily in the Gallery, and made various notes on itsancient works of art. His thoughts were a good deal taken up also by theproject of a steamboat, undertaken by a friend, an engineer, to plybetween Leghorn and Marseilles, for which he supplied a sum of money. This was a sort of plan to delight Shelley, and he was greatlydisappointed when it was thrown aside. 

There was something in Florence that disagreed excessively with hishealth, and he suffered far more pain than usual; so much so that weleft it sooner than we intended, and removed to Pisa, where we had somefriends, and, above all, where we could consult the celebrated Vacca asto the cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every other medical man, could only guess at that, and gave little hope of immediate relief; heenjoined him to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and to leavehis complaint to Nature. As he had vainly consulted medical men of thehighest repute in England, he was easily persuaded to adopt this advice. Pain and ill-health followed him to the end; but the residence at Pisaagreed with him better than any other, and there in consequence weremained. 

In the Spring we spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing the houseof some friends who were absent on a journey to England. It was on abeautiful summer evening, while wandering among the lanes whosemyrtle-hedges were the bowers of the fire-flies, that we heard thecarolling of the skylark which inspired one of the most beautiful of hispoems. He addressed the letter to Mrs. Gisborne from this house, whichwas hers: he had made his study of the workshop of her son, who was anengineer. Mrs. Gisborne had been a friend of my father in her youngerdays. She was a lady of great accomplishments, and charming from herfrank and affectionate nature. She had the most intense love ofknowledge, a delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved freshnessof mind after a life of considerable adversity. As a favourite friend ofmy father, we had sought her with eagerness; and the most open andcordial friendship was established between us. 

Our stay at the Baths of San Giuliano was shortened by an accident. Atthe foot of our garden ran the canal that communicated between theSerchio and the Arno. The Serchio overflowed its banks, and, breakingits bounds, this canal also overflowed; all this part of the country isbelow the level of its rivers, and the consequence was that it wasspeedily flooded. The rising waters filled the Square of the Baths, inthe lower part of which our house was situated. The canal overflowed inthe garden behind; the rising waters on either side at last burst openthe doors, and, meeting in the house, rose to the height of six feet. Itwas a picturesque sight at night to see the peasants driving the cattlefrom the plains below to the hills above the Baths. A fire was kept upto guide them across the ford; and the forms of the men and the animalsshowed in dark relief against the red glare of the flame, which wasreflected again in the waters that filled the Square. 

We then removed to Pisa, and took up our abode there for the winter. Theextreme mildness of the climate suited Shelley, and his solitude wasenlivened by an intercourse with several intimate friends. Chance castus strangely enough on this quiet half-unpeopled town; but its verypeace suited Shelley. Its river, the near mountains, and not distantsea, added to its attractions, and were the objects of many delightfulexcursions. We feared the south of Italy, and a hotter climate, onaccount of our child; our former bereavement inspiring us with terror. We seemed to take root here, and moved little afterwards; often, indeed, entertaining projects for visiting other parts of Italy, but stilldelaying. But for our fears on account of our child, I believe we shouldhave wandered over the world, both being passionately fond oftravelling. But human life, besides its great unalterable necessities, is ruled by a thousand lilliputian ties that shackle at the time, although it is difficult to account afterwards for their influence overour destiny. 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that whichsealed our earthly fate, and each poem, and each event it records, has areal or mysterious connection with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that Iam incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The heartof the man, abhorred of the poet, who could

 'peep and botanize Upon his mother's grave, '

does not appear to me more inexplicably framed than that of one who candissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groansdrawn from them in the throes of their agony. 

The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the Baths of San Giuliano. Wewere not, as our wont had been, alone; friends had gathered round us. Nearly all are dead, and, when Memory recurs to the past, she wandersamong tombs. The genius, with all his blighting errors and mightypowers; the companion of Shelley's ocean-wanderings, and the sharer ofhis fate, than whom no man ever existed more gentle, generous, andfearless; and others, who found in Shelley's society, and in his greatknowledge and warm sympathy, delight, instruction, and solace; havejoined him beyond the grave. A few survive who have felt life a desertsince he left it. What misfortune can equal death? Change can convertevery other into a blessing, or heal its sting--death alone has no cure. It shakes the foundations of the earth on which we tread; it destroysits beauty; it casts down our shelter; it exposes us bare to desolation. When those we love have passed into eternity, 'life is the desert andthe solitude' in which we are forced to linger--but never find comfortmore. 

There is much in the "Adonais" which seems now more applicable toShelley himself than to the young and gifted poet whom he mourned. Thepoetic view he takes of death, and the lofty scorn he displays towardshis calumniators, are as a prophecy on his own destiny when receivedamong immortal names, and the poisonous breath of critics has vanishedinto emptiness before the fame he inherits. 

Shelley's favourite taste was boating; when living near the Thames or bythe Lake of Geneva, much of his life was spent on the water. On theshore of every lake or stream or sea near which he dwelt, he had a boatmoored. He had latterly enjoyed this pleasure again. There are nopleasure-boats on the Arno; and the shallowness of its waters (except inwinter-time, when the stream is too turbid and impetuous for boating)rendered it difficult to get any skiff light enough to float. Shelley, however, overcame the difficulty; he, together with a friend, contriveda boat such as the huntsmen carry about with them in the Maremma, tocross the sluggish but deep streams that intersect the forests, --a boatof laths and pitched canvas. It held three persons; and he was oftenseen on the Arno in it, to the horror of the Italians, who remonstratedon the danger, and could not understand how anyone could take pleasurein an exercise that risked life. 'Ma va per la vita!' they exclaimed. Ilittle thought how true their words would prove. He once ventured, witha friend, on the glassy sea of a calm day, down the Arno and round thecoast to Leghorn, which, by keeping close in shore, was verypracticable. They returned to Pisa by the canal, when, missing thedirect cut, they got entangled among weeds, and the boat upset; awetting was all the harm done, except that the intense cold of hisdrenched clothes made Shelley faint. Once I went down with him to themouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and swift, met thetideless sea, and disturbed its sluggish waters. It was a waste anddreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point surrounded by wavesthat broke idly though perpetually around; it was a scene very similarto Lido, of which he had said--

 'I love all waste And solitary places; where we taste The pleasure of believing what we see Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be: And such was this wide ocean, and this shore More barren than its billows. '

Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when weremoved to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano, fourmiles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by thecanal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full andpicturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered bytrees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day, multitudes of Ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, thefireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at noon-daykept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was apleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and inconstantspirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and moreattached to the part of the country were chance appeared to cast us. Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one ofthe near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and overlooking awide extent of country: or settling still farther in the maritimeApennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished poems wereinspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us. It is thenature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul oftener toexpress sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed by theweight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has recourseto the solace of expression in verse. 

Still, Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers, instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent onthe shores of the sea. It was very difficult to find a spot. We shrankfrom Naples from a fear that the heats would disagree with Percy:Leghorn had lost its only attraction, since our friends who had residedthere were returned to England; and, Monte Nero being the resort of manyEnglish, we did not wish to find ourselves in the midst of a colony ofchance travellers. No one then thought it possible to reside at ViaReggio, which latterly has become a summer resort. The low lands and badair of Maremma stretch the whole length of the western shores of theMediterranean, till broken by the rocks and hills of Spezia. It was avague idea, but Shelley suggested an excursion to Spezia, to see whetherit would be feasible to spend a summer there. The beauty of the bayenchanted him. We saw no house to suit us; but the notion took root, andmany circumstances, enchained as by fatality, occurred to urge him toexecute it. 

He looked forward this autumn with great pleasure to the prospect of avisit from Leigh Hunt. When Shelley visited Lord Byron at Ravenna, thelatter had suggested his coming out, together with the plan of aperiodical work in which they should all join. Shelley saw a prospect ofgood for the fortunes of his friend, and pleasure in his society; andinstantly exerted himself to have the plan executed. He did not intendhimself joining in the work: partly from pride, not wishing to have theair of acquiring readers for his poetry by associating it with thecompositions of more popular writers; and also because he might feelshackled in the free expression of his opinions, if any friends were tobe compromised. By those opinions, carried even to their outermostextent, he wished to live and die, as being in his conviction not onlytrue, but such as alone would conduce to the moral improvement andhappiness of mankind. The sale of the work might meanwhile, eitherreally or supposedly, be injured by the free expression of his thoughts;and this evil he resolved to avoid. 

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1822, BY MRS. SHELLEY. 

 This morn thy gallant bark Sailed on a sunny sea: 'Tis noon, and tempests dark Have wrecked it on the lee. Ah woe! ah woe! By Spirits of the deep Thou'rt cradled on the billow To thy eternal sleep. 

 Thou sleep'st upon the shore Beside the knelling surge, And Sea-nymphs evermore Shall sadly chant thy dirge. They come, they come, The Spirits of the deep, -- While near thy seaweed pillow My lonely watch I keep. 

 From far across the sea I hear a loud lament, By Echo's voice for thee From Ocean's caverns sent. O list! O list! The Spirits of the deep! They raise a wail of sorrow, While I forever weep. 

With this last year of the life of Shelley these Notes end. They are notwhat I intended them to be. I began with energy, and a burning desire toimpart to the world, in worthy language, the sense I have of the virtuesand genius of the beloved and the lost; my strength has failed under thetask. Recurrence to the past, full of its own deep and unforgotten joysand sorrows, contrasted with succeeding years of painful and solitarystruggle, has shaken my health. Days of great suffering have followed myattempts to write, and these again produced a weakness and languor thatspread their sinister influence over these notes. I dislike speaking ofmyself, but cannot help apologizing to the dead, and to the public, fornot having executed in the manner I desired the history I engaged togive of Shelley's writings. (I at one time feared that the correction ofthe press might be less exact through my illness; but I believe that itis nearly free from error. Some asterisks occur in a few pages, as theydid in the volume of "Posthumous Poems", either because they refer toprivate concerns, or because the original manuscript was left imperfect. Did any one see the papers from which I drew that volume, the wonderwould be how any eyes or patience were capable of extracting it from soconfused a mass, interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sensecould only be deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem ratherintuitive than founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made. )

The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that seasonwinter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but fewdays of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extremebeauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on thesubject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama;full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He hadrecommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a play. Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, orwhether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings andwanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he bestloved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside forone of the most mystical of his poems, the "Triumph of Life", on whichhe was employed at the last. 

His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among ourfriends several sailors. His favourite companion, Edward EllerkerWilliams, of the 8th Light Dragoons, had begun his life in the navy, andhad afterwards entered the army; he had spent several years in India, and his love for adventure and manly exercises accorded with Shelley'staste. It was their favourite plan to build a boat such as they couldmanage themselves, and, living on the sea-coast, to enjoy at every hourand season the pleasure they loved best. Captain Roberts, R. N. , undertook to build the boat at Genoa, where he was also occupied inbuilding the "Bolivar" for Lord Byron. Ours was to be an open boat, on amodel taken from one of the royal dockyards. I have since heard thatthere was a defect in this model, and that it was never seaworthy. Inthe month of February, Shelley and his friend went to Spezia to seek forhouses for us. Only one was to be found at all suitable; however, atrifle such as not finding a house could not stop Shelley; the one foundwas to serve for all. It was unfurnished; we sent our furniture by sea, and with a good deal of precipitation, arising from his impatience, madeour removal. We left Pisa on the 26th of April. 

The Bay of Spezia is of considerable extent, and divided by a rockypromontory into a larger and smaller one. The town of Lerici is situatedon the eastern point, and in the depth of the smaller bay, which bearsthe name of this town, is the village of San Terenzo. Our house, CasaMagni, was close to this village; the sea came up to the door, a steephill sheltered it behind. The proprietor of the estate on which it wassituated was insane; he had begun to erect a large house at the summitof the hill behind, but his malady prevented its being finished, and itwas falling into ruin. He had (and this to the Italians had seemed aglaring symptom of very decided madness) rooted up the olives on thehillside, and planted forest trees. These were mostly young, but theplantation was more in English taste than I ever elsewhere saw in Italy;some fine walnut and ilex trees intermingled their dark massy foliage, and formed groups which still haunt my memory, as then they satiated theeye with a sense of loveliness. The scene was indeed of unimaginablebeauty. The blue extent of waters, the almost landlocked bay, the nearcastle of Lerici shutting it in to the east, and distant Porto Venere tothe west; the varied forms of the precipitous rocks that bound in thebeach, over which there was only a winding rugged footpath towardsLerici, and none on the other side; the tideless sea leaving no sandsnor shingle, formed a picture such as one sees in Salvator Rosa'slandscapes only. Sometimes the sunshine vanished when the siroccoraged--the 'ponente' the wind was called on that shore. The gales andsqualls that hailed our first arrival surrounded the bay with foam; thehowling wind swept round our exposed house, and the sea roaredunremittingly, so that we almost fancied ourselves on board ship. Atother times sunshine and calm invested sea and sky, and the rich tintsof Italian heaven bathed the scene in bright and ever-varying tints. 

The natives were wilder than the place. Our near neighbours of SanTerenzo were more like savages than any people I ever before livedamong. Many a night they passed on the beach, singing, or ratherhowling; the women dancing about among the waves that broke at theirfeet, the men leaning against the rocks and joining in their loud wildchorus. We could get no provisions nearer than Sarzana, at a distance ofthree miles and a half off, with the torrent of the Magra between; andeven there the supply was very deficient. Had we been wrecked on anisland of the South Seas, we could scarcely have felt ourselves fartherfrom civilisation and comfort; but, where the sun shines, the latterbecomes an unnecessary luxury, and we had enough society amongourselves. Yet I confess housekeeping became rather a toilsome task, especially as I was suffering in my health, and could not exert myselfactively. 

At first the fatal boat had not arrived, and was expected with greatimpatience. On Monday, 12th May, it came. Williams records thelong-wished-for fact in his journal: 'Cloudy and threatening weather. M. Maglian called; and after dinner, and while walking with him on theterrace, we discovered a strange sail coming round the point of PortoVenere, which proved at length to be Shelley's boat. She had left Genoaon Thursday last, but had been driven back by the prevailing bad winds. A Mr. Heslop and two English seamen brought her round, and they speakmost highly of her performances. She does indeed excite my surprise andadmiration. Shelley and I walked to Lerici, and made a stretch off theland to try her: and I find she fetches whatever she looks at. In short, we have now a perfect plaything for the summer. '--It was thus thatshort-sighted mortals welcomed Death, he having disguised his grim formin a pleasing mask! The time of the friends was now spent on the sea;the weather became fine, and our whole party often passed the eveningson the water when the wind promised pleasant sailing. Shelley andWilliams made longer excursions; they sailed several times to Massa. They had engaged one of the seamen who brought her round, a boy, by nameCharles Vivian; and they had not the slightest apprehension of danger. When the weather was unfavourable, they employed themselves withalterations in the rigging, and by building a boat of canvas and reeds, as light as possible, to have on board the other for the convenience oflanding in waters too shallow for the larger vessel. When Shelley was onboard, he had his papers with him; and much of the "Triumph of Life" waswritten as he sailed or weltered on that sea which was soon to engulfhim. 

The heats set in in the middle of June; the days became excessively hot. But the sea-breeze cooled the air at noon, and extreme heat always putShelley in spirits. A long drought had preceded the heat; and prayersfor rain were being put up in the churches, and processions of relicsfor the same effect took place in every town. At this time we receivedletters announcing the arrival of Leigh Hunt at Genoa. Shelley was veryeager to see him. I was confined to my room by severe illness, and couldnot move; it was agreed that Shelley and Williams should go to Leghornin the boat. Strange that no fear of danger crossed our minds! Living onthe sea-shore, the ocean became as a plaything: as a child may sportwith a lighted stick, till a spark inflames a forest, and spreadsdestruction over all, so did we fearlessly and blindly tamper withdanger, and make a game of the terrors of the ocean. Our Italianneighbours, even, trusted themselves as far as Massa in the skiff; andthe running down the line of coast to Leghorn gave no more notion ofperil than a fair-weather inland navigation would have done to those whohad never seen the sea. Once, some months before, Trelawny had raised awarning voice as to the difference of our calm bay and the open seabeyond; but Shelley and his friend, with their one sailor-boy, thoughtthemselves a match for the storms of the Mediterranean, in a boat whichthey looked upon as equal to all it was put to do. 

On the 1st of July they left us. If ever shadow of future ill darkenedthe present hour, such was over my mind when they went. During the wholeof our stay at Lerici, an intense presentiment of coming evil broodedover my mind, and covered this beautiful place and genial summer withthe shadow of coming misery. I had vainly struggled with theseemotions--they seemed accounted for by my illness; but at this hour ofseparation they recurred with renewed violence. I did not anticipatedanger for them, but a vague expectation of evil shook me to agony, andI could scarcely bring myself to let them go. The day was calm andclear; and, a fine breeze rising at twelve, they weighed for Leghorn. They made the run of about fifty miles in seven hours and a half. The"Bolivar" was in port; and, the regulations of the Health-office notpermitting them to go on shore after sunset, they borrowed cushions fromthe larger vessel, and slept on board their boat. 

They spent a week at Pisa and Leghorn. The want of rain was severelyfelt in the country. The weather continued sultry and fine. I have heardthat Shelley all this time was in brilliant spirits. Not long before, talking of presentiment, he had said the only one that he ever foundinfallible was the certain advent of some evil fortune when he feltpeculiarly joyous. Yet, if ever fate whispered of coming disaster, suchinaudible but not unfelt prognostics hovered around us. The beauty ofthe place seemed unearthly in its excess: the distance we were at fromall signs of civilization, the sea at our feet, its murmurs or itsroaring for ever in our ears, --all these things led the mind to broodover strange thoughts, and, lifting it from everyday life, caused it tobe familiar with the unreal. A sort of spell surrounded us; and eachday, as the voyagers did not return, we grew restless and disquieted, and yet, strange to say, we were not fearful of the most apparentdanger. 

The spell snapped; it was all over; an interval of agonizing doubt--ofdays passed in miserable journeys to gain tidings, of hopes that tookfirmer root even as they were more baseless--was changed to thecertainty of the death that eclipsed all happiness for the survivors forevermore. 

There was something in our fate peculiarly harrowing. The remains ofthose we lost were cast on shore; but, by the quarantine-laws of thecoast, we were not permitted to have possession of them--the law withrespect to everything cast on land by the sea being that such should beburned, to prevent the possibility of any remnant bringing the plagueinto Italy; and no representation could alter the law. At length, through the kind and unwearied exertions of Mr. Dawkins, our Charged'Affaires at Florence, we gained permission to receive the ashes afterthe bodies were consumed. Nothing could equal the zeal of Trelawny incarrying our wishes into effect. He was indefatigable in his exertions, and full of forethought and sagacity in his arrangements. It was afearful task; he stood before us at last, his hands scorched andblistered by the flames of the funeral-pyre, and by touching the burntrelics as he placed them in the receptacles prepared for the purpose. And there, in compass of that small case, was gathered all that remainedon earth of him whose genius and virtue were a crown of glory to theworld--whose love had been the source of happiness, peace, and good, --tobe buried with him!

The concluding stanzas of the "Adonais" pointed out where the remainsought to be deposited; in addition to which our beloved child lay buriedin the cemetery at Rome. Thither Shelley's ashes were conveyed; and theyrest beneath one of the antique weed-grown towers that recur atintervals in the circuit of the massy ancient wall of Rome. He selectedthe hallowed place himself; there is

 'the sepulchre, Oh, not of him, but of our joy!-- ... And gray walls moulder round, on which dull Time Feeds, like slow fire upon a hoary brand; And one keen pyramid with wedge sublime, Pavilioning the dust of him who planned This refuge for his memory, doth stand Like flame transformed to marble; and beneath, A field is spread, on which a newer band Have pitched in Heaven's smile their camp of death, Welcoming him we lose with scarce extinguished breath. '

Could sorrow for the lost, and shuddering anguish at the vacancy leftbehind, be soothed by poetic imaginations, there was something inShelley's fate to mitigate pangs which yet, alas! could not be somitigated; for hard reality brings too miserably home to the mourner allthat is lost of happiness, all of lonely unsolaced struggle thatremains. Still, though dreams and hues of poetry cannot blunt grief, itinvests his fate with a sublime fitness, which those less nearly alliedmay regard with complacency. A year before he had poured into verse allsuch ideas about death as give it a glory of its own. He had, as it nowseems, almost anticipated his own destiny; and, when the mind figureshis skiff wrapped from sight by the thunder-storm, as it was last seenupon the purple sea, and then, as the cloud of the tempest passed away, no sign remained of where it had been (Captain Roberts watched thevessel with his glass from the top of the lighthouse of Leghorn, on itshomeward track. They were off Via Reggio, at some distance from shore, when a storm was driven over the sea. It enveloped them and severallarger vessels in darkness. When the cloud passed onwards, Robertslooked again, and saw every other vessel sailing on the ocean excepttheir little schooner, which had vanished. From that time he couldscarcely doubt the fatal truth; yet we fancied that they might have beendriven towards Elba or Corsica, and so be saved. The observation made asto the spot where the boat disappeared caused it to be found, throughthe exertions of Trelawny for that effect. It had gone down in tenfathom water; it had not capsized, and, except such things as hadfloated from her, everything was found on board exactly as it had beenplaced when they sailed. The boat itself was uninjured. Robertspossessed himself of her, and decked her; but she proved not seaworthy, and her shattered planks now lie rotting on the shore of one of theIonian islands, on which she was wrecked. )--who but will regard as aprophecy the last stanza of the "Adonais"?

 'The breath whose might I have invoked in song Descends on me; my spirit's bark is driven, Far from the shore, far from the trembling throng Whose sails were never to the tempest given; The massy earth and sphered skies are riven! I am borne darkly, fearfully, afar; Whilst burning through the inmost veil of Heaven, The soul of Adonais, like a star, Beacons from the abode where the Eternal are. '

Putney, May 1, 1839.