she gossips about her own estimate of her literary powers. She states that, when she saw Kean on her return to England, she greatly desired to write for the stage, but that her father earnestly dissuaded her. Nevertheless, she felt persuaded that she could have written a good tragedy; but she adds that she could not do so then, as her feelings were blighted, her ambition gone, and her mind wrecked by loneliness.

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"You speak of women's intellect," she continues: we can scarcely do more than judge by ourselves. I know that, however clever I may be, there is in me a want of eagle-winged resolution, that appertains to my intellect as well as my moral character, and renders me what I am one of broken purposes, failing thoughts, and a heart all wounds. My mother had more energy of character; still, she had not sufficient fire of imagination. In short, my belief is-whether there be sex in souls or not-that the sex of our material mechanism makes us quite different creatures; better, though weaker, but wanting in the higher grades of intellect. I am almost sorry to send you this letter-it is so querulous and sad; yet, if I write with any effusion, the truth will creep out, and my life since you went has been so strained by sorrows and disappointments, I have no hope. In a few years, when I get over my present feelings, and live wholly in Percy, I shall be happier."

William Godwin died in 1836; an event which, though it could not have been much longer postponed, as the philosopher had reached the age of eighty, was a

great grief to Mrs. Shelley, who was tenderly attached to her father.

In the following year, her son went to Cambridge, and in 1844, on the death of Sir Timothy Shelley, he succeeded to the title.

But, at the same moment that happier and brighter prospects seemed to open to her view, and when she had made arrangements for writing the life of her husband, symptoms of illness, of a threatening character, showed themselves. From time to time they appeared and subsided; but gradually her old energy went, and she died in London on the 21st of February, 1851, in the fifty-fourth year of her age.

The following verses on her death appeared in the Leader :

LINES ON THE DEATH OF MRS. SHELLEY.

Another, yet another, snatch'd away,

By Death's grasp, from among us! Yet one more
Of Heaven's anointed band,-
,—a child of genius,-

A peeress, girt about with magic powers,—
That could at will evoke from her wild thought
Spirits unearthly, monster-shaped, to strike
Terror within us, and strange wonderment,—
Renewing, realizing, once again,

With daring fancy, on her thrilling page,
The fabled story of Prometheus old.

O gifted sister, lovely in thyself,

And claiming from the world the meed of love!
How fondly art thou link'd within our breasts
With his dear memory whose name thou bear'st;
How doubly loved because entwined with him!

Mourn her not, Earth! her spirit, disenthrall'd,
No more shall droop in lonely widowhood;

Its happy flight is wing'd to join again

In endless fellowship, 'mid brighter spheres,
The husband of her heart,—the bright-eyed child
Whom Fate tore from us in his early bloom,
The Poet of the Soul! whose Orphic song,
Steep'd to its depths within the light divine
Of Nature's loveliness, and fraught all o'er
With struggling yearnings for the weal of man,
Descended on each sorrow-canker'd life
Like heaven's dews upon the sunburnt plain.

Mourn her not, Earth! she is at rest with him,
The mighty minstrel of the impassion'd lay,-
The Poet-martyr of a creed too bright,
Whose lofty hymnings were so oft attuned
Unto the music of her own pure name,

The theme and inspiration of his lyre.

Happy departed ones! a brief farewell,
Till friend clasps friend upon the silent shore!

E. W. L.

Edinburgh, February 24th, 1851.

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EXTRACTS

FROM

MRS. SHELLEY'S PRIVATE JOURNAL.

[SOME quotations from this Journal have been made in the preceding pages; but further extracts are here appended, for the sake of the interest they possess.]

"October 2nd, 1822.-On the 8th of July I finished my journal. This is a curious coincidence. The date still remains-the fatal 8th-a monument to show that all ended then. And I begin again? Oh, never! But several motives induce me, when the day has gone down, and all is silent around me, steeped in sleep, to pen, as occasion wills, my reflections and feelings. First, I have no friend. For eight years I communicated, with unlimited freedom, with one whose genius, far transcending mine, awakened and guided my thoughts. I conversed with him; rectified my errors of judgment; obtained new lights from him; and my mind was satisfied. Now I am alone-oh, how alone! The stars may behold my tears, and the winds drink my sighs; but my thoughts

are a sealed treasure, which I can confide to none. But can I express all I feel? Can I give words to thoughts and feelings that, as a tempest, hurry me along? Is this the sand that the ever-flowing sea of thought would impress indelibly? Alas! I am alone. No eye answers mine; my voice can with none assume its natural modulation. What a change! O my beloved Shelley! how often during those happy days - happy, though chequered-I thought how superiorly gifted I had been in being united to one to whom I could unveil myself, and who could understand me! Well, then, I am now reduced to these white pages, which I am to blot with dark imagery. As I write, let me think what he would have said if, speaking thus to him, he could have answered me. Yes, my own heart, I would fain know what think of you my desolate state; what think I ought to do, what to think. I guess you would answer thus: Seek to know your own heart, and, learning what it best loves, try to enjoy that.' Well, I cast my eyes around, and, looking forward to the bounded prospect in view, I ask myself what pleases me there? My child; so many feelings arise when I think of him, that I turn aside to think no more. Those I most loved are gone for ever; those who held the second rank are absent; and among those near me as yet, I trust to the disinterested kindness of one alone. Beneath all this, my imagination ever flags. Literary labours, the improvement of my mind, and the enlargement of my ideas, are the only occupations that elevate me from my lethargy: all events seem to lead me to that one point,

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