August. Will that be too hot, and would you preferably recommend October? Let me hear from you fully, and believe me always, My dear Shelley, Yours very sincerely, HORATIO SMITH. From Horace Smith to Shelley. DEAR SHELLEY, London, April 19th, 1821. I wrote you on the 17th inst., with a budget of letters relative to this law-suit; and annexed I hand you a copy of Sir Timothy's reply, received yesterday. I am most glad that I wrote to him, for it turns out that my conjecture that he was unacquainted with the affair is correct, and that the law proceedings were literally cooked up by the lawyers. It appears a most scandalous liberty in Mr. Whitton, not only to make your father a party without his privity, but actually to stop your money on his own authority. I have this day written a few lines to Sir Timothy, stating that I had seen a letter at Wright's from Whitton, certainly implying that he had communicated with Sir T.; and I leave the lawyer to get out of this dilemma as well as he can. Of Whitton I know nothing; but I seem to dislike him by instinct. Having written you so many letters lately, I have nothing further to say than to repeat the pleasant assurance that I shall this summer or autumn take you by the hand, when we can talk over all these Your letter of the 13th inst. I received this day. 'Tis the first intimation I have had of the business you allude to, either in law proceedings or otherwise, more than last year I did hear the payment had been countermanded; but, hearing nothing further, I concluded it had been rectified. I shall lay your letter before my solicitor, to be informed of any circumstances that may have necessarily arisen that concern my name as a party. I have the honour to be, Sir, Your obedient servant, T. SHELLEY. From Horace Smith to Shelley. MY DEAR SHELLEY, Paris, August 30th, 1821. I wrote you on the 10th, and have since had the pleasure of receiving yours, by Mr. and Mrs. Gisborne, who made a very short stay here, and left us a few days ago for England. He handed me also your poem on Keats's death, which I like, with the exception of the Cenci, better than anything you have written, finding in it a great deal of fancy, feeling, and beautiful language, with none of the metaphysical abstraction which is so apt to puzzle the uninitiated in your productions. It reminded me of Lycidas, more from the similarity of the subject than anything in the mode of treatment. You must expect a fresh stab from Southey whenever he has an opportunity. Mrs. G. also left me a copy for Moore, who is residing in the neighbourhood of Paris, though I have not seen him. About a fortnight ago, my wife became worse, and the weather setting in about the same time with an unusual intensity of heat, so completely overcame her that I was obliged to have medical advice, and the physician (an Englishman settled here) dissuades me from taking her to a more southern latitude. Terrified at the intensity of the heat here, where unfortunately it has been of a very uncommon fierceness, she now dreads encountering the sun of Italy; and, in the face of these insuperable dissuasives, I cannot of course proceed. The disappointment and vexation of this sudden overthrow of all my long-cherished plans is not less painful to me than the cause of it is distressing. I have also to regret the trouble I have unnecessarily given you, and the disappointment (for I have vanity enough to believe you will think it such) to which I have exposed you. In the midst of these more serious annoyances, I have hardly time to attend to the petty inconveniences to which we must be subjected by wintering here without any of our clothes, books, or comforts, all of which have been shipped to Leghorn. I think of taking a house at Versailles, but at present I am quite unsettled in everything. When I have arranged my plans, I shall write to you again; till when, and always, I am, my dear Shelley, Your very sincere and disappointed friend, HORATIO SMITH. Towards the close of December, Mrs. Shelley wrote a letter to Mrs. Gisborne, in which she says: Since writing my last letter, we have heard of the departure of Hunt,* and now anxiously await his arrival. He will be more comfortable than he dreams of now; for Lord Byron has furnished the pian terreno of his own house for him, so that (more lucky than the rest of the economical English, who come here) he will find clean and spacious apartments, with every comfort about him, and a climate-such a climate! We dine in a room without a fire, with all the windows open; a tramontano reigns, which renders the sky clear, and the warm sun pours into our apartments. It is cold at night, but as yet not uncomfortably so; and it now verges towards Christmas-day. I am busy in arranging Hunt's rooms, since that task devolves upon me. Lord Byron is now living very sociably, giving dinners to his male acquaintance, and writing divinely. Perhaps by this time you have seen Cain, and will agree with us in thinking it his finest production. Of some works one says-one has thought of such things, though one could not have expressed them so well. It is not thus with Cain. One has, perhaps, stood on the extreme verge of such ideas, and from the midst of the darkness which had surrounded us the voice of the poet now is heard, telling a wondrous tale. * Leigh Hunt and his family had indeed departed, but were driven back by stress of weather; so that their voyage was postponed for some months.-ED. Our friends in Greece are getting on famously. All the Morea is subdued, and much treasure was acquired with the capture of Tripoliza. Some cruelties have ensued; but the oppressor must in the end buy tyranny with blood: such is the law of necessity. The young Greek Prince you saw at our house is made the head of the Provisional Government in Greece. He has sacrificed his whole fortune to his country; and, heart and soul, is bent upon her cause. You will be glad to hear that Shelley's health is much improved this winter. He is not quite well, but he is much better. The air of Pisa is so mild and delightful, and the exercise on horseback agrees with him particularly. Williams, also, is quite recovered. We think that we may probably spend next summer at La Spezzia-at least, I hope that we shall be near the sea. The clock strikes twelve. I have taken to sit up rather late this last month, and, when all the world is in bed or asleep, find a little of that solitude one cannot get in a town through the day. Yet daylight brings with it all the delights of a town residence, and all the delights of friendly and social intercourse-few of the pains; for my horizon is so contracted that it shuts most of those out. Most sincerely yours, CHAPTER XII. THE BAY OF SPEZZIA. THE end now rapidly approaches. We have arrived at the year which saw the close of Shelley's short life; but a few minor incidents remain to be recorded before we stand in the presence of death. Shelley, The winter of 1822 was spent at Pisa. during part of the time, was engaged on the dramatic fragment, Charles the First--a subject which he had at one time proposed to Mrs. Shelley; but, being dissatisfied with the progress he was making, he threw aside the conception, and devoted his thoughts to a mystical poem in the terza rima, called the Triumph of Life—also left incomplete, and the last of his long productions. He likewise, about the same time, made several translations from Goethe, Calderon, Homer, &c., with a view to their publication in the Liberal. In the January of this year, or towards the end of the previous December, Shelley became acquainted with Mr. Trelawny, who called on him at Pisa, and who, in his recently published Recollections of the last Days of Shelley and Byron, has given an interesting account of his introduction. It was dusk when he arrived at |