part are the eyes, which, though good and gentle, want the mazy depth of colour behind colour, with which the intellectual women of England and Germany entangle the heart in soul-inwoven labyrinths. This is holy-week, and Rome is quite full. The Emperor of Austria is here, and Maria Louisa is coming. On their journey through the other cities of Italy, she was greeted with loud acclamations, and vivas of Napoleon. Idiots and slaves! Like the frogs in the fable, because they are discontented with the log, they call upon the stork, who devours them. Great festas, and magnificent funzioni here-we cannot get tickets to all. There are five thousand strangers in Rome, and only room for five hundred, at the celebration of the famous Miserere, in the Sixtine chapel, the only thing I regret we shall not be present at. After all, Rome is eternal; and were all that is extinguished, that which has been, the ruins and the sculptures, would remain, and Raffael and Guido be alone regretted. In the Square of St. Peter's there are about three hundred fettered criminals at work, hoeing out the weeds that grow between the stones of the pavement. Their legs are heavily ironed, and some are chained two by two. They sit in long rows, hoeing out the weeds, dressed in particoloured clothes. Near them sit or saunter, groups of soldiers, armed with loaded muskets. The iron discord of those innumerable chains clanks up into the sonorous air, and produces, contrasted with the musical dashing of the fountains, and the deep azure beauty of the sky, and the magnificence of the architecture around, a conflict of sensations allied to madness. It is the emblem of Italymoral degradation contrasted with the glory of nature and the arts. We see no English society here; it is not probable that we could if we desired it, and I am certain that we should find it insupportable. The manners of the rich English are wholly insupportable, and they assume pretensions which they would not venture upon in their own country. I am yet ignorant of the event of Hobhouse's election. I saw the last numbers were-Lamb, 4200; and Hobhouse, 3900-14th day. There is little hope. That mischievous Cobbett has divided and weakened the interest of the popular party, so that the factions that prey upon our country have been able to coalesce to its exclusion. The N- s you have not seen. I am curious to know what kind of a girl Octavia becomes; she promised well. Tell Hhis Melpomene is in the Vatican, and that her attitude and drapery surpass, if possible, the graces of her countenance. My "Prometheus Unbound" is just finished, and in a month or two I shall send it. It is a drama, with characters and mechanism of a kind yet unattempted; and I think the execution is better than any of my former attempts. By-thebye, have you seen Ollier? I never hear from him, and am ignorant whether some verses I sent him from Naples, entitled, I think, "Lines on the Euganean hills," have reached him in safety or not. As to the Reviews, I suppose there is nothing but abuse; and this is not hearty or sincere enough to amuse me. As to the poem now printing, I lay no stress on it one way or the other. The concluding lines are natural. I believe, my dear P., that you wish us to come back to England. How is it possible? Health, competence, tranquillity-all these Italy permits, and England takes away. I am regarded by all who know or hear of me, except, I think, on the whole, five individuals, as a rare prodigy of crime and pollution, whose look even might infect. This is a large computation, and I don't think I could mention more than three. Such is the spirit of the English abroad as well as at home.† Few compensate, indeed, for all the rest, and it I were alone I should laugh; or if I were rich enough to do all things, which I shall never be. Pity me for my absence from those social enjoyments which England might afford me, and which I know so well how to appreciate. Still, I shall return some fine morning, out of pure weakness of heart. My dear P., most faithfully yours, LETTER XIX. To MR. AND MRS. GISBORNE. Rome, April 6th, 1819. MY DEAR FRIENDS,-A combination of circumstances, which Mary will explain to you, leads us * Rosalind and Helen. + These expressions show how keenly Shelley felt the calumnies heaped on him during his life. The very exaggeration of which he is guilty, is a clue to much of his despondency. His seclusion from society resulted greatly from his extreme ill health, and his dislike of strangers and numbers, as well as the system of domestic economy which his lavish benevolence forced us to restrict within narrow bounds. In justice to our countrymen, I must mention that several distinguished for intellectual eminence, among them, Frederic Earl of Guildford, and Sir William Drummond, called on him at Rome. Accident at the time prevented him from cultivating their acquaintance-the death of our son, and our subsequent retirement at Pisa, shut us out still more from the world. I confess that the insolence of some of the more vulgar among the travelling English, rendered me anxious that Shelley should be more willing to extend his acquaintance among the better sort, but his health was an insuperable bar. MIA & Wa stil romain, snd mail remain nearly two monthe longer, at Livorno. Our hon-e *a melancholy one, and only cheered by letters from Endland. I got your note, in which you apena of theen letters having been sent to Napies. which I have written few. I have heard also from #1 , who confrina the news of your succem, an intelligence most grateful to me. • Berth () Caniates, and having come, forget, as do I, hem witting here, th retum hom". * We had wat ter midest, and, at that time, only child, the preceding month at Rome, I met war u = What I want you presentation as C character. Bentries. Nel and t mest God Strònd has I would tear my nerv perts it is fitted t chef male character. unwing that asy that is impossible, an an inferior actor. I people of that theat knows them; and wh you may say enough, to reject it without consideration--but of this, per- rate. Write to me as soon as you can on this subject, because it is necessary that I should present it, or, if rejected by the theatre, print it this coming season; lest somebody else should get hold of it, as the story, which now exists only in manuscript, begins to be generally known among the English. The translation which I send you is to be prefixed to the play, together with a print of Beatrice. I have a copy of her picture by Guido, now in the Colonna palace at Rome-the most beautiful creature you can conceive. Of course, you will not show the manuscript to any one-and write to me by return of post, at which time the play will be ready to be sent. I expect soon to write again, and it shall be a less selfish letter. As to Ollier, I don't know what has been published, or what has arrived at his hands. My "Prometheus," though ready, I do not send till I know more. Ever yours, most faithfully, LETTER XXI. P. B. S. To LEIGH HUNT, Esq. Livorno, August 15th, 1819. MY DEAR FRIEND,-How good of you to write to us so often, and such kind letters! But it is like lending a beggar. What can I offer in return? Though surrounded by suffering and disquietude, and, latterly, almost overcome by our strange misfortune, I have not been idle. My " Prometheus" is finished, and I am also on the eve of completing another work †, totally different from anything you might consider that I should write; of a more popular kind; and, if anything of mine could deserve attention, of higher claims. "Be innocent of the knowledge, dearest chuck, till thou approve the performance." I send you a little poem to give to Ollier for publication, but without my name. P. will correct the proofs. I wrote it with the idea of offering it to the "Examiner," but I find it is too long. It was composed last year at Este; two of the characters you will recognise; and the third is also in some degree a painting from nature, but, with respect to time and place, ideal. You will find the little piece, I think, in some degree consistent with your own ideas of the manner in which poetry The sudden death of William Shelley, then our only child, which happened in Rome, 6th June, 1819. The Conci. Julian and Maddalo. ought to be written. I have employed a certain familiar style of language to express the actual way in which people talk with each other, whom education and a certain refinement of sentiment have placed above the use of vulgar idioms. I use the word vulgar in its most extensive sense. The vulgarity of rank and fashion is as gross in its way as that of poverty, and its cant terms equally expressive of bare conceptions and therefore equally unfit for poetry. Not that the familiar style is to be admitted in the treatment of a subject wholly ideal, or in that part of any subject which relates to common life, where the passion, exceeding a certain limit, touches the boundaries of that which is ideal. Strong passion expresses itself in metaphor, borrowed from objects alike remote or near, and casts over all the shadow of its own greatness. But what am I about! If my grandmother sucks eggs, was it I who taught her? If you would really correct the proof, I need not trouble P., who, I suppose, has enough. Can you take it as a compliment that I prefer to trouble you? one. I do not particularly wish this poem to be known as mine; but, at all events, I would not put my name to it. I leave you to judge whether it is best to throw it into the fire, or to publish it. So much for self-self, that burr that will stick to Your kind expressions about my Eclogue gave me great pleasure; indeed, my great stimulus in writing, is to have the approbation of those who feel kindly towards me. The rest is mere duty. I am also delighted to hear that you think of us and form fancies about us. We cannot yet come home. Most affectionately yours, P. B. SHELLEY. LETTER XXII To LEIGH HUNT, Esq. Livorno, Sept. 8, 1819. MY DEAR FRIEND, At length has arrived Ollier's parcel, and with it the portrait. What a delightful present! It is almost yourself, and we sat talking with it, and of it, all the evening. It is a great pleasure to us to possess it, a pleasure in time of need, coming to us when there are few others. How we wish it were you, and not your picture! How I wish we were with you! This parcel, you know, and all its letters, are now a year old-some older. There are all kinds of dates, from March to August, and "your date," to use Shakspeare's expression," is better in a pic or a pudding, than in your letter."-" Virginity," Parolles says, but letters are the same thing in another shape. With it came, too, Lamb's works. I have looked at none of the other books yet. What a lovely thing is his "Rosamund Gray !" How much knowledge of the sweetest and deepest parts of our nature in it! When I think of such a mind as Lamb's when I see how unnoticed remain things of such exquisite and complete perfection, what should I hope for myself, if I had not higher objects in view than fame? I have seen too little of Italy, and of pictures. Perhaps P. has shown you some of my letters to him. But at Rome I was very ill, seldom able to go out without a carriage; and though I kept horses for two months there, yet there is so much to see! Perhaps I attended more to sculpture than painting, its forms being more easily intelligible than that of the latter. Yet, I saw the famous works of Raffaele, whom I agree with the whole world in thinking the finest painter. With respect to Michael Angelo I dissent, and think with astonishment and indignation of the common notion that he equals, and, in some respects, exceeds Raffaele. He seems to me to have no sense of moral dignity and loveliness; and the energy for which he has been so much praised, appears to me to be a certain rude, external, mechanical quality, in comparison with anything possessed by Raffaele, or even much inferior artists. His famous painting in the Sixtine Chapel seems to me deficient in beauty and majesty, both in the conception and the execution. He has been called the Dante of painting; but if we find some of the gross and strong outlines which are employed in the most distasteful passages of the "Inferno," where shall we find your Francesca-where the spirit coming over the sea in a boat, like Mars rising from the vapours of the horizon-where Matilda gathering flowers, and all the exquisite tenderness, and sensibility, and ideal beauty, in which Dante excelled all poets except Shakspeare? As to Michael Angelo's Moses-but you have a cast of that in England. I write these things, heaven knows why! I have written something and finished it, different from anything else, and a new attempt for me; and I mean to dedicate it to you. I should not have done so without your approbation, but I asked your picture last night, and it smiled assent. If I did not think it in some degree worthy of you, I would not make you a public offering of it. expect to have to write to you soon about it. If Ollier is not turned Jew, Christian, or become infected with the Murrain, he will publish it. Don't let him be frightened, for it is nothing which, by any courtesy of language, can be termed either moral or immoral. Mary has written to Marianne for a parcel, in I which I beg you wi know would most in (a sweet extract fr ner,) and the other for some friends of cel, which must be October, but don't line or so. When My love to Maria too, and Percy, &c.. way in which I cou me. I will enquire have no idea of the LET To LE MY DEAR FRIEND, leaving this place f taken pleasant apar brings us to the 1st new flowers and nev the earth and in the tination is yet unde Florence, except as streets; but its phy city which, though possesses most amiab meet us there in the muster up a "lieta br them the pestilence might act over again cutors in Boccaccio. this most divine write the word, a poet, and and harmony of vers certainly to Dante or to Tasso and Ariosto, of a colder day. I c productions of the vi nation-as rivulets fi which fed the greatn rence and Pisa, and of the German empere obscurer channels, R drew the light and t tion. When the seco the corrupting blight ing on every bud of ger and unity of idea, were in the finest passages expression which at al to those of Dante and Petrarch. How much do I admire Boccaccio! What descriptions of nature are those in his little introductions to every new day! It is the morning of life stripped of that mist of familiarity which makes it obscure to us. Boccaccio seems to me to have possessed a deep sense of the fair ideal of human life, considered in its social relations. His more serious theories of Love agree especially with mine. He often expresses things lightly too, which have serious meanings of a very beautiful kind. He is a moral casuist, the opposite of the Christian, stoical, ready-made, and worldly system of morals. Do you remember one little remark, or rather maxim of his, which might do some good to the common narrow-minded conceptions of love," Bocca bacciata non perde ventura; anzi rinnuova, come fa la luna?" We expect Mary to be confined towards the It would give me much pleasure to know Mr. Whilst I went to Florence, Mary wrote, but I LETTER XXIV. To Mrs. GISBORNE. Florence, October 13th or 14th, 1819. MY DEAR FRIEND,-The regret we feel at our absence from you persuades me that it is a state which cannot last, and which, so long as it must last, will be interrupted by some intervals, one of which is destined to be, your all coming to visit us here. Poor Oscar! I feel a kind of remorse to think of the unequal love with which two animated beings regard each other, when I experience no such sensations for him, as those which he manifested for us. His importunate regret is, however, a type of ours, as regards you. Our memory--if you will accept so humble a metaphor-is for ever scratching at the door of your absence. About Henry and the steam-engine.* I am in Shelley set on foot the building of a steam-boat, to ply between Marseilles, Genoa, and Leghorn. Such an enterprise promised fortune to his friend who undertook to build it, and the anticipation filled him with delight. Unfortunately, an unforeseen complication of circumstances caused the design to be abandoned, when already far advanced towards completion. I insert a letter from Mrs. Gisborne, which will explain some portion of this letter: "MY DEAREST MRS. SHELLEY,-I began to feel a little uneasy at not hearing from you by Wednesday's post; you may judge, therefore, with how much pleasure I received your friendly lines, informing me of your safe arrival, and good state of health, and that of Mr. Shelley. A little agitation of the nerves is a trifling evil, and was to be expected after such a tremendous journey for you at such a time; yet you could not refrain from two littlo innocent quizzes, notwithstanding your hand trembling. I confess I dreaded the consequences when I saw the carriage drive off on the rough road. Did you observe that foolish dog Oscar, running by your side, waving his long slender tail? Giuseppe was obliged to catch him up in his arms to stop his course; he continued for several days at dinner-time to howl piteously, and to scratch with all his might at the door of your abandoned house. What a forlorn house! I cannot bear to look at it. My last letter from Mr. Gisborne is dated the 4th; he has been seriously indisposed ever since his first attack; he suffers now a return of his cough, which he can only mitigate by taking quantities of opium. I do not expect to see him till the end of the week. You see that he was not the person to undertake a land-journey to England by abominable French diligences. (What says C. to the words abominable and French ?) I think he might have suffered less in a foot journey, pursued leisurely e a suo comodo. All's well that ends well! Mr. G. gives a shocking account of Marseilles; be seems to think Tuscany a delightful country, compared to what he has seen of France. I remarked, in one of your letters, the account you give of your travelling with a French voiturier, so unlike the obligingness we have always experienced from our Italian vetturini; we have found them ever ready to sacrifice themselves and their horses, sooner than do an uncivil thing, and distressed beyond measure at our determination of going sometimes for miles on foot, though, at the same time, their beasts might scarcely have been able to drag the vehicle without us. This is in favour of the Italians; God knows there is enough to be said against them. "Now, I will tell you the news of the steam-boat. The contract was drawn and signed the day after your departure; the vessel to be complete, and launched, fit in every respect for the sea, excepting the finishing of the cabin, for 260 sequins. We have every reason to believe that the work will be well executed, and that it is an excellent bargain. Henry and Frankfort go on not only with vigour, but with fury; the lower part of the house is filled with models prepared for casting, forging, &c. We have procured the wood for the frame from the shipbuilder on credit, so that Frankfort can go on with bis work; but I am sorry to say, that from this time the general progress of the work will be retarded for want of |
