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to Shelley's mind to have a justification which would appeal to all the world and ordinary ways of thinking; but, when time disclosed such justification, he made use of it to strengthen his action in his own eyes and the eyes of Mary, and, though only by implication, in Southey's judgment. He appears never to have mentioned the matter to others. Shelley's habitual reticence was far greater than he has ever received credit for.

Shelley and Mary had for a companion on their voyage Miss Clairmont, a daughter of the second Mrs. Godwin by her first marriage. They visited Paris, crossed France, and stopped on the shores of Lake Lucerne, near Brunnen. There they remained but a short time, and, descending the Rhine to Cologne, journeyed by Rotterdam to England, where they arrived September 13. Peacock describes the following winter as the most solitary period of Shelley's life. He settled in London, and was greatly embarrassed with his affairs, endeavoring to raise money and to keep out of the way of creditors. He had written to Harriet during his journey, often saw her in London, and seems to have been upon pleasant terms with her. Godwin, who bad at first been very angry, renewed his relations under the stress of his own financial difficulties, and the money to be had from Shelley. In January, 1815, old Sir Bysshe's death greatly improved Shelley's position by making him the immediate heir. He went home, and was refused admittance by his father; but negotiations could not be long delayed. They lasted for eighteen months. He was given the choice of entailing the entire estate, £200,000, surrendering his claim to that part of the property, £80,000, which could not be taken from him, and accepting a life interest, on which condition he should receive the whole; or, refusing this, he should be deprived of the £120,000, which would go to his younger brother, John. Shelley refused to execute the entail, which he thought wrong, and yielded the larger part of the property. To pay his immediate debts he sold his succession to the fee-simple of a portion of the estate, valued at £18,000, to his father for £11,000, in June, 1815, and by the same agreement received a fixed annual allowance of £1,000, and also a considerable sum of money. He sent Harriet £200 for her debts, and directed his bankers to pay her £200 annually from his allowance. Mr. Westbrook also continued to his daughter his allowance of £200, so that she now had £400 a year.

Early in this year Shelley was told that he was dying rapidly of consumption. His health was certainly broken before this time, but every symptom of pulmonary disease suddenly and completely passed away. In February Mary's first child was born, but died within a fortnight. In the spring he settled at Bishopgate and there wrote 'Alastor.' In 1816, Mary's second child, William, was born. In May, Shelley, with Mary and Miss Clairmont, left England for the Continent, and within two weeks arrived at Lake Geneva. There he became acquainted with Byron, and spent the summer boating with him. Unknown to Shelley or Mary, Miss Clairmont, before leaving London, had become Byron's mistress, and the intrigue went on at Geneva without their knowledge. There Shelley also met Monk Lewis. On returning to England, where he arrived September 7, he settled at Bath for some months. The two incidents that saddened the year occurred in quick succession. On October 8, Mary's half-sister Fanny, daughter of Mary Wollstonecraft and Imlay, committed suicide by taking laudanum at an inn in Swansea. Shelley was much shocked by this event, but another blow was in store for him. He seems to have lost sight of Harriet during his residence abroad, and it is doubtful whether he saw her after reaching England. She had received her allowances regularly. In November Shelley sought for and could not find her. It is affirmed that she was living under the protection of her father until shortly before her death. She was in lodgings, however, in that month, and did not return to them after November 9. On

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December 10 her body was found in the Serpentine River. Of the two suicides, he said that he felt that of Fanny most acutely; but it is plain that, while he said at a later time she had a heart of stone,' the fate of Harriet brought a melancholy that was not to pass away, though he had ceased to love her. Unfortunately there is no doubt that she had erred in her life after leaving his protection, but the letters she wrote to an Irish friend excite pity and sympathy with her.

Shelley was married to Mary December 30, in St. Mildred's Church. He immediately ty undertook to recover his children from the Westbrooks. These children had been placed, before Harriet's death, under the care of the Rev. John Kendall, at Budbrooke. The Westbrooks were determined to contest Shelley's possession of them. The affair was brought into the Chancery Court. It was set forth that Shelley was a man of atheistical and immoral principles, and 'Queen Mab,' which had been distributed only in a private way, was offered in proof. The case was heard early in 1817 before Lord Eldon. Shelley was represented by his lawyers. On March 27 Lord Eldon gave judgment against Shelley, basing it on his opinions as affecting his conduct. The children were not placed in the hands of the Westbrooks, but were made wards, and the persons nominated by Shelley, Dr. and Mrs. Hume, were appointed guardians. Shelley was to be allowed to visit them twelve times in the year, but only in the presence of their guardians, and the Westbrooks were given the same privilege without that restriction. Shelley settled at Marlow early in 1817, having with him Miss Clairmont and her newborn child Allegra, and his own two children, William and Clara. In the summer he wrote The Revolt of Islam,' besides prose pamphlets upon politics; but he had now really begun his serious life as a poet. The only cloud on his happiness was the separation from his children, which his poems sufficiently illustrate. Hunt, with whom he was now intimate, says, that after the decision Shelley 'never dared to trust himself with mentioning their names in my hearing, though I had stood at his-side throughout the business.' He was in fear lest his other children should be taken from him; and he finally determined to leave England and settle in Italy, being partly led thereto by the state of his health, for which he was advised to try a warm climate.

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The private and intimate view of Shelley, from the time of his union with Mary in the summer of 1814 to that of his final departure from England in the spring of 1818, is given by Peacock and Hunt. Peacock had become his familiar friend, though Shelley was less confidential with him than Peacock supposed. In the solitary winter of 1814-15, which was spent drearily in London, Peacock saw him often; and in the next summer, during his residence at Bishopgate, the pleasant voyage up the Thames to Lechlade was taken. It was on this excursion that Peacock's favorite prescription for Shelley's ills — 'three mutton chops well peppered' — effected so sudden a cure. Peacock attributes much of Shelley's physical ills to his vegetarian diet. He observes that whenever Shelley took a journey and was obliged to live on what he could get,' as Shelley said, he became better in health, so that his frequent wanderings were beneficial to him. On these journeys, he notes, too, Shelley always took with him pistols for self-defence, and laudanum as a resource from the extreme fits of pain to which he was subject. Shelley was apprehensive of personal danger, and he had a vague fear, till he left England, that his father would attempt to restrain his liberty on a charge of madness. He also had at one time the suspicion that he was afflicted with elephantiasis. Peacock took these incidents more seriously than is at all warranted. Shelley's mind was, in general, strong, active and sound; his industry, both in acquisition and creation, was remarkable; and the theory that be was really unbalanced in any material degree is not in harmony with his constant

intellectual power, his very noticeable practical sense and carefulness in such business as he had to execute, and his adherence to fact in those cases where his account can be tested by another's. He had visions, both waking and sleeping; he had wandering fears that became ideas temporarily, perhaps approaching the point of hallucination; but to give such incidents, which are not extraordinary, undue weight is to disturb a just impression of Shelley's mind and life, as a whole, which were singularly distinguished by continuai intellectual force, tenacity and consistency of principle, and studies and moral aims maintained in the midst of confusing and annoying affairs, perpetual discouragement, and bodily weariness and pain. The excess of ideality in him disturbed his judgment of women, but in other relations of life, except at times of illness, he did not vary from the normal more than is the lot of genius.

Peacock brings out, more than other friends, the manner of Shelley, his temperance in discussion, especially when his own affairs were concerned, and his serene demeanor. One anecdote is illustrative of this courtesy, and at the same time indicates that limitation under which his friendship with Peacock went on:

'I was walking with him in Bisham Wood, and we had been talking in the usual way of our ordinary subjects, when he suddenly fell into a gloomy reverie. I tried to rouse him out of it, and made some remarks which I thought might make him laugh at his own abstraction. Suddenly he said to me, still with the same gloomy expression: "There is one thing to which I have decidedly made up my mind. I will take a great glass of ale every night." I said, laughingly, "A very good resolution, as the result of a melancholy musing." "Yes," he said, "but you do not know why I take it. I shall do it to deaden my feelings; for I see that those who drink ale have none." The next day he said to me, "You must have thought me very unreasonable yesterday evening?" I said, "I did, certainly." "Then," he said, "I will tell you what I would not tell any one else. I was thinking of Harriet." I told him I had no idea of such a thing; it was so long since he had named her.'

This is the single instance of expression of the remorse which Shelley felt for Harriet's fate.

Peacock mentions the heartiness of Shelley's laughter, in connection with his failure to cultivate a taste for comedy in him, for Shelley felt the pain of comedy and its necessary insensibility to finer humane feeling; but this did not make him enjoy less his familiar, harmless humor, in which there was a dash of his early wild spirits. He was always fond of amusements of a childlike sort. Peacock thought that it was from him Shelley learned the sport of sailing paper-boats, happy if he could load them with pennies for the boys on the other side of stream or pond. At Marlow he used to play with a little girl who had attracted him, pushing a table across the floor to her, and when he went away he gave her nuts and raisins heaped on a plate, which she kept through life in memory of him, and on her death willed it, so that it is now among the few personal relics of the poet. At Marlow, too, he visited the poor in their homes, as his custom was, helping and advising. His house there was a large one with many rooms, and handsomely furnished, the library being large enough for a ball-room, and the garden pleasant. Peacock's last service was to introduce him to the Italian opera, of which he became fond, just before leaving England.

Hunt had once seen Shelley in earlier years, and in prison had received letters of admiration and encouragement from him; but he did not really know him until the end of 1816, just at the time of Harriet's death. He is more evenly appreciative, and no such allowances as are made for Hogg and Peacock have to be observed in his case. Shelley

was especially fond of Hunt's children, and would play with them to their great delight. The anecdote of their begging him 'not to do the horn' (meaning that he should not twist his hair on his forehead in acting the monster) is well known. It had been the temptation of setting off fireworks with the Newton children that took Shelley away from Godwin on his first night with the philosopher and introduced him to the vegetarian circle. Hunt was in many ways more fitted by nature to enter into sympathy with Shelley than any one he had known; the friendship they formed was delightful to both, and Shelley's part in it caused him to show some of his finest qualities of tact, toleration and service, that asked no thanks and knew no bounds. On the other hand, Hunt several times defended Shelley's good name under virulent and slanderous attacks, and after his death was one of those who repeatedly spoke out for him. Hunt ascribes Shelley's disrepute in England in considerable measure to the effect of the Lord Chancellor's decree depriving him of his children. He says:

'He was said to be keeping a seraglio at Marlow, and his friends partook of the scandal. This keeper of a seraglio, who, in fact, was extremely difficult to please in such matters, and who had no idea of love unconnected with sentiment, passed his days like a hermit. He rose early in the morning, walked and read before breakfast, took that meal sparingly, wrote and studied the greater part of the morning, walked and read again, dined on vegetables (for he took neither meat nor wine) conversed with nis friends (to whom his house was ever open), again walked out, and usually finished with reading to his wife till ten o'clock, when he went to bed. This was his daily existence. His book was generally Plato, or Homer, or one of the Greek tragedies, or the Bible, in which last he took a great, though peculiar, and often admiring interest.'

Hunt notices, as others have done, the great variability of Shelley's expression, due to his responsiveness to the scenes about him or his own memories, and in particular the suddenness with which he would droop into an aspect of dejection. He admired his character, and did not distrust his temperament because some of his moods might seem at the time inexplicable. He especially praises his generosity, and the noble way of it, as he had reason to do, having at one time received £1,400 from him, besides the loans (which were the same as gifts) in the ordinary course of affairs; and, indeed, nothing but its emptiness ever closed Shelley's purse to any of his friends, who, it must be said, availed themselves somewhat freely of his liberal nature. One anecdote told by Hunt brings Shelley before the eye better than pages of description, and with it he closes his reminis cences of the Marlow period:

'Shelley, in coming to our house that night, had found a woman lying near the top of the hill in fits. It was a fierce winter night, with snow upon the ground; and winter loses nothing of its fierceness at Hampstead. My friend, always the promptest as well as most pitying on these occasions, knocked at the first houses he could reach, in order to have the woman taken in. The invariable answer was that they could not do it. He asked for an outhouse to put her in, while he went for a doctor. Impossible. In vain he assured them that she was no impostor. They would not dispute the point with him; but doors were closed, and windows shut down. Time flies. The poor woman is in convulsions; her son, a young man, lamenting over her. At last my friend sees a carriage driving up to a house at a little distance. The knock is given; the warm door opens; servants and lights pour forth. Now, thought he, is the time. He puts on his best address. . . . He tells his story. They only press on the faster. "Will you go and see her?" "No, sir; there's no necessity for that sort of thing, depend on it. Impostors swarm everywhere. The thing cannot be done. Sir, your conduct is extraordi

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nary.' "Sir," ," cried Shelley, assuming a very different manner and forcing the flourishing householder to stop out of astonishment, "I am sorry to say that your conduct is not extraordinary, and if my own seems to amaze you, I will tell you something which will amaze you more, and I hope will frighten you. It is such men as you who madden the spirits and the patience of the poor and wretched; and if ever a convulsion comes in this country (as is very probable) recollect what I tell you: you will have your house, that you refuse to put the miserable woman into, burnt over your head." "God bless me, sir! Dear me, sir!" exclaimed the poor, frightened man, and fluttered into his mansion. The woman was then brought to our house, which was at some distance and down a bleak path; and Shelley and her son were obliged to hold her till the doctor could arrive. It appeared that she had been attending this son in London, on a criminal charge made against him, the agitation of which had thrown her into fits on her return. The doctor said that she would have perished, had she remained there a short time longer. The next day my friend sent mother and son comfortably home to Hendon, where they were known, and whence they returned him thanks full of gratitude.'

Shelley left England for the last time on March 12, 1818, and travelled by the way of Paris and Mont Cenis to Milan. Thenceforth he resided in Italy, with frequent changes of abode at first, but finally at Pisa and its neighborhood. He had now matured, and his intimate life, his nature, and his character, are disclosed by himself in the rapidly produced works on which his fame rests. From this time it is not necessary to seek in others' impressions that knowledge of himself which is the end of biography; and the singular consistency and self-possession of his character and career, as shown in his poetry and prose, and in his familiar letters, bearing out as they do the permanent traits of his disposition already known, and correcting or shedding light upon what was extraordinary in his personality, give the best reason for belief that much in Shelley's earlier career which seems abnormal is due to the misapprehension and the misinterpretation of him by his friends. It was the life of a youth, impulsive and self-confident, and, moreover, it is the only full narrative of youth which our literature affords. If the thoughts and actions of first years were more commonly and minutely detailed, there might be less wonder, less distrust, less harsh judgment upon what seems erratic and foolish in Shelley's early days. His misfortune was that immaturity of mind and judgment became fixed in imprudent acts; his practical responsibility foreran its due time. Yet the story, as it stands, demonstrates generous aims, a sense of human duty, an interest in man's welfare, and a resolution to serve it, as exceptional as Shelley's poetic genius, intimate as the tie was between the two; for he was right in characterizing his poetic genius as in the main a moral one. The latter years, during which his life is contained and expressed in his works, require less attention to such details as have been followed thus far; his life in manhood must be read in his poetry and prose, and especially in his letters, but some account of external affairs is still necessary.

He had taken Miss Clairmont and her child with him, but at Milan the baby, Allegra, was sent to Byron, who undertook her bringing up and education. He enjoyed the opera at Milan, and made an excursion to Como in search of a house, but finally decided to go further south, and departed, on May 1, for Leghorn, where the party arrived within ten days. The presence there of the Gisbornes, old friends of Godwin, drew him to that city, which became, with Pisa, his principal place of residence. Mrs. Gisborne was a middleaged woman of sense and experience, and possessed of much literary cultivation. She had been brought up as a girl, in the East, and had married Reveley, the student of Athenian antiquities, in Rome. He was a Radical, and on returning to England became