 CHAPTER XV. LATER WORKS. The writing of these novels, with other literary work, we must refer to, passed over the many years of Mrs. Shelley's life until 1837, and saved her from the ennui of a quiet life in London with few friends. Only in Mary's case there had been a reason for the neglect of society, which at times she bitterly deplored, and as she had little other than intellectual and amiable qualities to recommend her for many years, she was naturally not sought after by the more successful of her contemporaries. There are instances even of her being cruelly mortified by marked rudeness at some receptions she attended. In one case, years later, when her fidelity to her husband in his memory might have appeased the sternest moralists. During these early years, which she writes of afterwards, as years of privation which caused her to shed many bitter tears at the time, though they were frequently gilded by imagination, Mrs. Shelley was cheered by seeing her son grow up entirely to her satisfaction, passing through the child stage and the school boys at Harrow, from which place he proceeded to Cambridge, and many and substantially happy years must have been passed, during which Claire was not forgotten. Poor Claire, who passed through much severe servitude from which Mary would feign have spared her, as she wrote once to Mr. Trelawney, that this was one of her chief reasons for wishing for independence. But old time, or eternity, as she called Sir Timothy, who certainly had no reason to claim her affection, was long in passing, and though a small allowance before 1831 of 300 pounds a year had increased to 400 pounds a year when her only child reached his majority in 1841, for this, on Sir Timothy's death, she had to repay 13,000 pounds. It had enabled her to make a tour in Germany with her son. Of this journey we will speak after, referring to her, lives of eminent literary men. These lives, written for Lardner's Cyclopedia, and published in 1835, are a most interesting series of biographies, written by a woman who could appreciate the poet's character, and enter into the injustices and sorrows from which few poets have been exempt. They show careful study, her knowledge of various countries gives local color to her descriptions, and her love of poetry makes her an admirable critic. She is said to have written all the Italian and Spanish lives, with the exception of Galileo and Tasso, and certainly her writing contrasts most favorably with the life of Tasso, to whomever this may have been assigned. Mary was much disappointed at not having this particular sketch to write. To her life of Dante she affixes Byron's lines from the prophecy of Dante, "'Tis the doom of spirits of my order to be wracked, in life to wear their hearts out and consume their days in endless strife and die alone. In future thousands crowd around their tomb, and pilgrims come from climes where they have known, the name of him who now is but a name, spread this by him unheard, unheeded fame.' Mary felt how these beautiful lines were appropriate to more than one poet. Freedom from affectation and a genuine love of her subject make her biographies most readable, and for the ordinary reader there is a fund of information. The next life, that of Petrarch, is equally attractive. In fact there is little that can exceed the interest of lives of these mortal beings when written, with the comprehension here displayed. Even the complicated history of the period is made clear, and the poet, whose tortures came from the heart, is as feelingly touched on as he who suffered from the political factions of the Bianche and the Nerei, and who felt the steepness of other stares and the salt-saver of others' bread. Petrarch's banishment through love is not less feelingly described, and we are taken to the life and the homes of the time and the living descriptions given by Mary. One passage ought in fairness to be given to show her enthusiastic understanding and appreciation of the poet she writes of. Dante, as hath been already intimated, is the hero of his own poem, and the Divina Comedia is the only example of an attempt triumphantly achieved and placed beyond the reach of scorn or neglect wherein from the beginning to end the author discourses concerning himself individually. Had this been done in any other way than the consummately simple, delicate, and unobtrusive one which he has adopted, the whole would have been an insufferable ecotism, disgusting coxcombrie, or oppressive dullness. Whereas this personal identity is the charm, the strength, the soul of the book, he lives, he breathes, he moves through it, his pulse beats or stands still, his eye kindles or fades, his cheek grows pale with horror, colors with shame, or burns with indignation. We hear his voice, his step in every page, we see his shape by the flame of hell, his shadow in the land where there is no other shadow, purgatoria, and his countenance gaining angelic elevation from colloquy sublime with glorified intelligence in the paradise above. Nor does he ever go out of his natural character, he is indeed the lover from infancy of Beatrice, the aristocratic magistrate of a fierce democracy, the valiant soldier in the field of Campaldino, the fervent patriot in the feuds of the Guelphs and the Gibleens, the eloquent and sole disputant in the school of theology, the melancholy exile wandering from court to court, depending for bread and shelter on petty princes, who knew not his worth, except as a splendid captive in their train, and above all he is the poet anticipating his own assured renown, though not obtrusively so, and dispensing at his will honor or infamy to others. Whom he need but to name, and the sound must be heard to the end of time and echoed from all regions of the globe, Dante in his vision is Dante as he lived, as he died, and as he expected to live in both worlds beyond death, and immortal spirit in the one, an unforgotten poet in the other. You feel this is written from the heart of the woman who herself felt as she wrote, who would feign go through her different biographies, tracing her feelings, her apprehension, and poetic enthusiasm throughout, but that is impossible. She takes us through Bocaccio's life, and as by the reflection of a sunset from a mirror, we are warmed with the glow and mirth, from distant and long past times in Italy. One feels through her works the innate delicacy of her mind. Through Bocaccio's life, as through all the others, the history of the times and the noteworthy facts concerning the poets are brought forward, such as the sums of money Bocaccio spent, though poor, to promote the study of Greek, so long before the taking of Constantinople by the Turks. In the friendship of Petrarch and Bocaccio, she shows how great souls can love, and makes you love them in return, and you feel the riches of the meetings of such people, these dictators of mankind, not of a faction-tossed country or continent. How paltry do the triumphs of conquerors, which end with the night, the feasts of princes which leave still hungry appear beside the triumphs of intellect, the symposium of souls. After Bocaccio, Mary rapidly ran over the careers of Lorenzo, DiMidici, Fettino, Picodella, Merendola, Policien, and the Pulci, exhibiting again, after the laps of a century, the study in Italy of the Greek language. The story of the truly great prince, with his circle of poet friends, one of whom, Policien, died of a broken heart at the death of his beloved patron, as well told. From these, she passes on to the followers of the romantic style, begun by Pulci, Ciccio de Ferreira, Burquiello, Bojardo, then Bernie, born at the end of the fifteenth century, who carried on or recast Bojardo's Orlando in Amorato, which was followed by Arostio's Orlando Firiozzo, the delight of Italy. In Ariosto's life, Mary, as ever, delights in showing the filial affection and the fine traits of the poet's nature. She quotes his lines, Our mother's years with pity fill my heart, for without infamy she could not be, by all of us at once forsaken. But with these commendations she strongly denounces the profligacy of his writing as presumably of his life. She says, An author may not be answerable to posterity for the evil of his mortal life, but for the profligacy of that life which he lives through after ages, contaminating by irrepressible and incurable infection, the minds of others, he is amenable even in his grave. Through the intricacies of Machiavelli, Mary's clear head and conscientious treatment lead the reader till light appears to gleam. The many-sided character of the man comes out, the difficulties of the time he wrote in, while advising princes how to act in times of danger and so admonishing the people how to resist. Did he not foresee tyranny worked out and resistance complete, in his own favorite republic succeeding to the death of tyrants? One remark of Mary's with regard to the time when Machiavelli considered himself most neglected is worth recording. He bitterly laments the inaction of his life and expresses an ardent desire to be employed. Meanwhile he created occupation for himself, and it is one of the lessons that we may derive from becoming acquainted with the feelings and actions of celebrated men, to learn that this very period during which Machiavelli repined at the neglect of his contemporaries and the tranquillity of his life was that during which his fame took root and which brought his name down to us, he occupied his leisure in writing those works which have occasioned his immortality. A short life of Guacchier Dini follows. Then Mrs. Shelley comes to the congenial subject of Vittoria Colonna, the noble widow of the Marquis of Pascara. The dear friend in her latter years of Michelangelo, the woman whose writings, accomplishments and virtues, have made her the pride of Italy. With her Mary Shelley gives a few of the long list of names of women who won fame in Italy from their intellect. The beautiful daughter of a professor who lectured behind a veil in Petroc's time. The mother of Lorenzo D'Medici, Ippolita Sforza, Alessandra Scala, Esota of Padua, Bianca Deste, Damagella Torella, Cassandra Fidelli. We next pass to the life of Guarini, and missing Tasso, whose life Mary Shelley did not write, we come to Chiebrera, who tried to introduce the form of Greek poetry into Italian. Tasso, Marini, Fili-Ciaha are agreeable but shortly touched on. Then Metastasio is reached, whose youthful genius, as an improvisatore, early gained him applause, which was followed up by his successful writing of three act dramas for the opera, and a subsequent calm and prosperous life at Vienna under the success of protection of the Emperor Charles VI, Maria Theresa, and Joseph II. The contrast of the even prosperity of Metastasio's life with that of some of the great poets is striking. Next, Galdoni claims attention, whose comedies of Italian manners throw much light upon the frivolous life and society before the French Revolution, his own career adding to the pictures of the time. Then Alfieri's varied life story is well told, his sad period of youth, when taken from his mother to suffer much educational and other neglect, the difficulties he passed through owing to his Piedmontese origin and consequent ignorance of the pure Italian language. She closes the modern Italian poets with Monte and Hugo Foscolo, whose sad life in Italy is exhibited. Mary's studies in Spanish enabled her to treat equally well the poets of Spain and of Portugal. Her introduction is a good essay, on the poetry and poets of Spain and some of the translations which are her own are very happily given. The poetic impulse in Spain is traced from the Iberians through the Romans, Visigoths, Moors, and the early unknown Spanish poets, among whom there were many fine examples. She leads us to Boscón at the commencement of the 16th century. Boscón seems to have been one of those rare beings, a poet endowed with all the favors of fortune, including contentment and happiness. His friends, Garcilazzo, De Vega, and Mendoza, aided greatly in the formation of Spanish poetry. All three having studied the Italian school in Petrarch. This century rich in poets gives us also Luis de Leon, Harara, Sade Miranda, Jorge de Montemayor, Castilejo, the dramatists, Ander Silla, the soldier poet who in the expedition for the conquest of Peru went to Iroco and wrote the poem named Oracana. From him we passed to one of the great men of all time, Cervantes, to one whom understood the workings of the human heart, and was so much raised above the common level as to be neglected in the magnitude of his own work. Originally of noble family and having served his country in war, losing his left hand at the Battle of Lepanto, he received no recognition of his services after his return from a cruel captivity among the Moas. Instead of reward, Cervantes seems to have met with every indignity that could be devised by the multitudes of pygmies to lower a great man, were that possible. Maria Zewer rises with her subject, she remarks. It is certainly curious that in those days when it was considered part of a noble's duties to protect and patronize men of letters, Cervantes should have been thus passed over, and thus while his book was passing through Europe with admiration, Cervantes remained poor and neglected. So does the world frequently honor its greatest, as if jealous of the renown to which they can never attain. From Cervantes we pass on to Lope de Vega, of whose thousand dramas what remains, and yet what honors and fortune were showered upon him during his life. A more even balance of qualities enabled him to write entertaining plays, and to flatter the weakness of those in power. From Gongora and Cavedo Mary passes to Calderón, whom she justly considers the master of Spanish poetry. She deplores the little that is known of his life, and that after him the fine period of Spanish literature declines, owing to the tyranny and misrule which were crushing and destroying the spirit and intellect of Spain. For, unfortunately, art and poetry require not only the artist and the poet but congenial atmosphere to survive in. Writing for this cyclopedia was evidently very apposite work for Mrs. Shelley. She wrote also for lives of some of the French poets. Some stories were also written. In these she was less happy, as likewise in her novel Perkin Warbeck, a pallid imitation of Walter Scott, which does not call for any special comment. Shortly after her father's death Mrs. Shelley wrote from 14 North Bank, Regent's Park, to Moxon, wishing to arrange with him about the publication of Godwin's autobiography, letters, et cetera. But some ten years later we find her still expressing the wish to do some work of the kind, as a solemn duty, if her health would permit. Probably the very numerous notes which Mrs. Shelley, made about her father and his surroundings, were towards this object. Mrs. Shelley's health caused her at times considerable trouble from this period onwards. Harrow had not suited her, and in 1839 she moved to Potney, and the next year, 1840, she was able to make the tour above mentioned, which we cannot do better than refer to at once. In Mary Shelley's rambles in Germany and Italy, in 1840, 42, and 43, published in 1844, we have not only a pleasing account of herself with her son and friends during a pleasure trip, but some very interesting and charming descriptions of continental life at that time. Mary with her son and two college friends decided in June 1840 to spend their vacation on the banks of the Lake of Como. The idea of again visiting a country where she had so truly lived, and where she had passed through the depths of sorrow, filled her with much emotion, her failing health made her feel the advantage that traveling and change of country would be to her. After spending an enjoyable two months of the spring at Richmond, visiting Raphael's cartoons amped in court, she went by way of Brighton and Hastings. On her way to Dover she noticed how Hastings, a few years ago a mere fishing village, had then become a new town. They were delayed at Dover by a tempest, but left the next morning the wind still blowing agale. Reaching Calais they were further delayed by the tide. At length Paris was arrived at, and we find Mary making her first experience at a tabla d'hote. Mary was now traveling with a maid, which no doubt her somewhat weakened health made a necessity to her. They went to the hotel chatham at Paris. She felt all the renovating feeling of being in a fresh country, out of the little island. The weight of cares seemed to fall from her. The life in Paris cheered her, though the streets were dirty enough then. Dirtyer than those of London, whereas the contrast is now in the opposite direction. After a week here they went on towards Como by way of Frankfurt. They were to pass Metz, Trevis, the Moselle, Koblenz, and the Rhine, to Mayans. The freedom from care and worries in a foreign land, with sufficient means, and only in the company of young people, open to enjoyment, gave new life to Mary. After staying a night at Metz, the clean little town on the Moselle, they passed on to Trevis. At Thionville, the German frontier, they were struck by the wretched appearance of the cottages in contrast to the French. From Trevis they proceeded to boat up the Moselle, the winding banks of the Moselle, with vineyards sheltered by mountains, are well described. The peasants are content and prosperous, as after the French Revolution they bought up the confiscated estates of the nobles, and so were able to cultivate the land. The travellers rode into the Rhine on reaching Koblenz, and rested at the Bellevue, and now they passed by the grander beauties of the Rhine. These made Mary wish to spend a sum of their, exploring its recesses. They reached Mayance at midnight, in the next morning left by rail for Frankfurt, the first train they had entered on the continent. Mary much preferred the comfort of railway travelling. From Frankfurt they engaged of Watterie, to Schoffhausen, staying at Baden-Baden. The ruined castle recalled memories of changed times, and Mary remarks how, except in England and Italy, every houses of the rich seem unknown. At Darmstadt, where they stopped to lunch, they were annoyed and amused too, by the inconvenience and inattention they were subjected to from the expected arrival of the Grand Duke. On reaching Heidelberg, she remarks how, in travelling, one is struck by the way that the pride of princes, for further dominion, causes the devastation of the fairest countries. From the ruined castle they looked over the Palentinate, which had been laid waste owing to the ambition of the Princess Elizabeth, daughter of our James the First. Mary could have lingered long among the picturesque weed-grown walls, but had to continue the route to their destination. At Baden they visited the gambling saloon, and saw Rougé-Noix played. They were much struck by the falls of the Rhine at Schoffhausen. And on reaching Chiavenna, Mary had again the delight of hearing and speaking Italian. After crossing the blank mountains, who has not experienced the delight of this sensation has not yet known one of the joys of existence. On arriving at their destination at Lake Como, their temporary resting-place, a passing depression seized the party, the feeling that often comes when shut in by mountains away from home. No doubt Mary having reached Italy, the land she loved, with Shelley, the feeling of being without him assailed her. At Caddenabia, on Lake Como, they had to consider ways and means. It turned out that apartments, with all their difficulties, would equal hotel expenses without the same amount of comfort, so they decided on accepting the moderate terms offered by the landlord, and were comfortably or even luxuriously installed, with five little bedrooms and large private saloon. In one nook of this Mrs. Shelley established her embroidery frame, desk, books, and such things, showing her taste for order and elegance. So for some weeks she and her son and two companions were able to pass their time free from all household worries. The lake and neighborhood are picturesquely described. One drawback to Mary's peace of mind was the arrival of her son's boat. He seemed to have inherited his father's love of boating, and this naturally filled her with apprehension. They made many pleasant excursions, of which she always gives good descriptions, and also enters clearly into any historical details connected with the country. At times she was carried by the beauty and repose of the scene into rapt moods, which she thus describes. It has seemed to me, and on such an evening, I have felt it, that the world, endowed as it is, outwardly with endless shapes and influences of beauty and enjoyment, is peopled also in its spiritual life, by myriads of loving spirits, from whom, unaware, we catch impressions which mold our thoughts to good, and thus they guide beneficially the course of events administered to the destiny of man. Whether the beloved dead make a portion of this holy company, I dare not guess. But that such exist, I feel. They keep far off while we are worldly, evil, selfish, but drawn near, imparting the reward of heaven-born joy, when we are animated by noble thoughts incapable of disinterested actions. Surely such gather round me to-night, part of that atmosphere of peace and love, which it is paradise to breathe. I had thought such ecstasy dead in me for ever, but the son of Italy has thawed the frozen strain. Such poetic feelings with the natural outcome of the quiet and repose after the life of care and anxiety poor Mary had long been subjected to. She always seems more in her element when describing mountain cataracts, alpine storms, water lashed into waves and foam by the wind, all the changes of mountain and lake scenery. But this quiet holiday with her son came to an end, and they had to think of turning homewards. Before doing so they passed by Milan, enjoyed the opera there, and went to see Leonardo da Vinci's Last Supper, which Mary naturally much admires. She mentions loueness without enthusiasm, while here the non-arrival of a letter caused great anxiety to Mary, as they were now obliged to return on account of Percy's term commencing, and there was barely enough money for him to travel without her. However, that was the only thing possible, and so it had to be done. Percy returned to England with his two friends, and his mother had to remain at Milan awaiting the letter. Days passed without any letter coming to hand. Lost days. For Mary was too anxious and worried to be able to take any pleasure in her stay, nor had she any acquaintances in the place. She could scarcely endure to go down alone to tablodote dinner, although she overcame this feeling as it was her only time of seeing any one. Ten days thus passed by, days of storm and tempest, during which her son and his companions recrossed the Alps. They had left her on the 20th September, and it was not till she reached Paris on the 12th October that she became aware of the disastrous journey they had gone through, and how impossible it would have been for them to manage, even as they did, had she been with them. Indeed, she could hardly have lived through it. The description of this journey was written to Mrs. Shelley in a most graphic and picturesque letter by one of her son's companions. They were nearly drowned while crossing the lake in the diligence of a raft during a violent storm. Next they were informed that the road of the Dazio Grande to Airolo was washed away sixty feet under the present torrent. They with a guide had to find their way over an unused mountain track, rendered most dangerous by the storm. They all lost shoes and stockings, and had to run on as best they could. Percy with some others had lost the track. But they, providentially, met the rest of the party at an inn at Paiota, and from there managed to reach Ariolo, and so they crossed the stupendous, stank-gothered pass, one of the wonders of the world. Mrs. Shelley, having at last recovered the letter from the post office, returned with her maid and a venturino, who had three Irish ladies with him by way of Geneva staying at Isolabella. After passing the lago Maggiore, a turn in the road shut the lake in Italy from her sight, and she proceeded on her journey with a heavy heart, as many a traveller has done and many more will do, the fascination of Italy under most circumstances, being intense. Mary then describes one of the evils of Italy, in its then divided state, the southern side of the Simplon belonged to the king of Sardinia, but its road led at once into Austrian boundary. The Sardinian sovereign, therefore, devoted this splendid pass to ruin, to force people to go by Monta Chenise, and thus rented the road most dangerous for those who were forced to traverse it. The journey over the Simplon proved most charming, and Mrs. Shelley was very much pleased with the civility of her venturino, who managed everything admirably. Now, on her way to Geneva, she passed the same scenes she had lived first in with Shelley, she thus describes them. The far Alps were hid, the wide lake looked drear. At length I caught a glimpse of the scenes among which I had lived, when first I stepped out from childhood into life. There on the shores of Belarive stood Dio de Tai, and our humble dwelling, Maison, Ohapwes. Nestled close to the lake below, there were the terraces, the vineyards, the upward path threading them, the little port where I boat lay moored. I could mark and recognize a thousand peculiarities, familiar objects then, forgotten since, now replete with recollections and associations. Was I the same person who had lived there, the companion of the dead, for all were gone. Even my young child, whom I had looked upon as the joy of future years, had died in infancy. Not one hope, then in fair bud, had opened into maturity. Storm and blight and death had passed over and destroyed all. While yet very young, I had reached the position of an aged person, driven back on memory for companionship with the beloved. And now I looked on the inanimate objects that had surrounded me, which survived the same an aspect as then, to feel that all my life since is an unreal fantasmagoria. The shades that gathered round that scene were the realities, the substances, and truth of the soul's life which I shall, I trust hereafter rejoin. Mary digresses at some length on the change of manners in the French since the Revolution of 1830, saying that they had lost so much of their pleasant, agreeable manner, their monsieur and madame, which sounded so pretty. From Geneva by Lyons, through Chalons, the diligence slowly carries her to Paris, and hence she shortly returned to England in October. Mary's next tour with her son was in 1842 by way of Amsterdam, through Germany and Italy. From Frankfurt she describes to a friend her journey with its various mishaps. After spending a charming week with friends in Hampshire, and then passing a day or two in London to bid farewell to old friends, Mrs. Shelley, her son and Mr. Knox embarked for Antwerp on June 12, 1842, after the sea passage, which Mary dreaded, the pleasure of entering the quiet skeld is always great, but she does not seem to have recognized the charm of the Belgian or Dutch quiet scenery. With her love of mountains these picturesque aspects seem lost on her. At least she remarks that it is strange that a scene, in itself uninteresting, becomes agreeable to look at in a picture, from the truth with which it is depicted, and a perfection of coloring which at once contrasts and harmonizes the hues of sky and water. Mary does not seem to understand that the artist who does this selects the beauties of nature to represent. A truthful representation of a vulgarized piece of nature would be very painful for an artist to look on or to paint. The English or Italian billas of Lake Como or the Riviera would require a great deal of neglect by the artist not to vulgarize the glorious scenes round them. But this lesson has yet to be wildly learnt in modern times. That beauty can never spoil nature, however humble. But no amount of wealth expended on a palace or mansion can make it fit for a picture, without the artist's feeling. Any more than the beauties of Italy on canvas can be other than an eyesore without the same subtle power. At Leage, fresh worries assail the party. The difficulty of getting all their luggage as well as a theft of sixteen pounds from her son's bedroom in the night did not add to the pleasures of the commencement of their tour. But as Mary said, the discomfort was nothing to what it would have been in 1840 when their means were far narrower and she feels, welcome this evil so that it be the only one. For as she says, one whose life had been so stained by tragedy could never regain a healthy tone if that is needed not to fear for those we love. On reaching Cologne, the party went up the Rhine to Koblenz. As neither Mary nor her companions had previously done this, they were again much imposed upon by the steward. She recalls her former voyage with Shelly and Claire. When in an open boat they passed the night on the rapid river, tethered to a willow on the bank. When Frankfurt is at length reached, they have to decide where to pass the summer. Kiesingen has decided on for Mrs. Shelly to try the baths. Here they take lodgings and all the discomforts of trying to get the necessaries of life in some order, when quite ignorant of the language of the place are amusingly described by Mrs. Shelly. The treatment and diet at the baths seems to have been very severe, nearly every usual necessary of life being forbidden by the government in order to do justice to the efficacy of the baths. CHAPTER XVI Passing through various German towns their way to Lipzig, they stay at Weemer, where Mary rather staddles the reader by remarking that she is not sure she would give the superiority to Goethe. That Schiller had always appeared to her the greater man, so complete. It is true she only knew the poets by translations, but the wonderful passages translated from Goethe by Shelly might have impressed her more. Mary is much struck on seeing the tombs of the poets by their being placed in the same narrow chamber as the princes, showing the genuine admiration of the latter for those who had cast a luster on their kingdom, and their desire to share even in the grave the poets renown. Mary, within the country of Frederick the Great, shows little enthusiasm for that great monarch, so simple in his own life, so just, so beloved, and so surrounded by dangers which he overcame for the welfare of the country. What Frederick might have been in Napoleon's place after the Revolution it is difficult to conceive or how he might have acted. Certainly not for mere self-aggrandizement, but the tyrannies of the petty German princes Mary Justly does not pass over, such as the terrible story told in Schiller's Cabal in Love. She recalls how the Duke of Hess Castle sold his peasants for the American War to give with their pay jewels to his mistress, and how on her astonishment being expressed the servant replied they only cost seven thousand children of the soil just sent to America. On this, Mary remarks, history fails fearfully in its duty when it makes over to the poet the record and memory of such an event, one it is to be hoped that can never be renewed, and yet what acts of cruelty and tyranny may not be reacted on the stage of the world which we boast of as civilized. If one man has uncontrolled power over the lives of many, the unwritten story of Russia may hereafter tell. This seems to point to reminiscences of Clare's life in Russia. Mrs. Shelly also remarks great superiority in the comfort order and cleanliness in the Protestant over the Catholic parts of Germany, where liberty of conscience has been gained and is profoundly touched on visiting Luther's Chamber in the castle of Warburg overlooking the Thuringian forest. Her visits to Berlin in Dresden during the heat of summer do not much strike the reader by her feeling for pictorial art. She is impressed by world-renowned pictures, but her remarks, though those of a clever woman, show that the love of nature, especially in its most majestic forms, does not give or imply love of art. The feeling for plastic art requires the emotion which runs through all art, and without it it is nothing, to be distinctly innate as in the artist, or to have been cultivated by surroundings and influence. True, it is apparently difficult always to trace the influence. There is no one step from the contemplation of the Alps to the knowledge of plastic art. Literary art does not necessarily understand pictorial art. It may profess to expound the latter, and the reader, equally or still more ignorant, fancies that he appreciates the pictorial art because he relishes its literary exposition. Surely a piece of true plastic art, constantly before a child for it to learn to love, would do more than much after study. The best of all ought to be given to children, music, poetry, art, for it is easier then to instill than later to eradicate. It is true these remarks may seem unnecessary with regard to Mary Shelley, as with all her real gifts and insight into poetry, she is most modest about her deficiencies in art knowledge, and is even apologetic concerning the remarks made in her letters. And for this her truth of nature is to be commended. In music also she seems more really moved by her own emotional nature than purely by the music. How otherwise should she have been disappointed at hearing Mazzaniello while admiring German music, when Ober's grand opera has had the highest admiration from the chief German musicians? But she had not been previously moved towards it, and this is the great difference between perception and acquired knowledge, and why so frequently the art of literature is mistaken for perception. But Mary uses her powers justly and drew the line where she was conscious of knowledge. She had real imagination of her own and used the precious gift justifiably, and thus kept honor and independence a difficult task for a woman in her position. She expresses pity for the travellers she meets, who simply are anxious to have done everything. She truly remarks, we must become a part of the scenes around us, and they must mingle and become a portion of us, while we see without seeing and study without learning. There is no good, no knowledge, unless we can go out from and take some of the external into ourselves. This is the secret of mathematics as well as of poetry. The trip to Prague, in its picturesque position, afforded great pleasure to her. The stirring and romantic history is well described. History, as Shelley truly says, is a record of crime and misery. The first reformers sprang up in Bohemia. The moderate of John Hus did not extinguish his enlightening influence, and while all the rest of Europe was enslaved in darkness, Bohemia was free with a pure religion. But such a bright example might not last. In Bohemia became a province of the Empire, and not a hundred Protestants remain in the country now. The interesting story of St. John Nepomuk, the history of Wallenstein, with Schiller's finest tragedy, all led their interest to Prague. In the journey through Bohemia and southern Germany, dirty and uncomfortable ends were conspicuous. The lake of Jamundin much struck Mary with its poetic beauty, and she felt it was the place she would like to retreat to for a summer. From Iskall they went over the Brenner Pass of the Lago di Giarda, on to Italy. Mary was particularly struck by the beauties of Salzburg, with the immense plain half encircled by mountains, crowned by castles, with the high Alps towering above all. She considered all this country superior to the Swiss Alps, and longed to past months there some time. By this beautiful route they reached Verona, and then Venice. On the road to Venice Mary became aware, as we have already noted, of an intimate remembrance of each object, and each turn in the road. It was by this very road she entered Venice twenty-five years before with her dying child. She remarked that Shakespeare knew the feeling, and endured the grief of queen Constance with terrible reality, and later the poem of the wood-spurge enforces the same sentiment. It was remarked by Holcroft that the notice the soul-takes of objects presented to the eye in its hour of agony is of relief afforded by nature to permit the nerves to endure pain. Unreaching Venice a search for lodgings was not successful, but two gentlemen, to whom they had introductions, found for the party and hotel within their still-limited means. Their bargain came to nine pounds a month, each for everything included. They visited again the Rialto, and Mrs. Shelley observes. Often when here before I visited the scene at this hour, or later, for I often expected Shelley's return from Palazzo, Mochanigo, till two or three in the morning. I watched the glancing of the oars and heard the far song, and saw the palaces sleeping in the light of the moon, which veils by its deep shadows all that grieve the eye and hurt the heart in the decaying palaces of Venice. Then I saw, as now I see, the bridge of the Rialto spanning the canal. All, all is the same, but as the poet says, the difference to me. She notices many of the most celebrated of the pictures in the academia, and she had the good fortune of seeing St. Peter Martyr, which she misnames St. Peter the Hermit, out of its dark niche in the Church of St. Giovanni de Paello. She gives a very good description of Venetian life at the time, and much commends its family affection and family life as being of a much less selfish nature than in England, as she remarks truly, if a traveller gets into a vicious or unpleasant set in any country, it would not do to judge all the rest of the nation by that standard, as she considered Shelley did when staying in Venice with Byron. The want of good education in Italy at the time, she considers the cause of the ruling indolence, love making with the young and money keeping with the elder, being the chief occupation. She gives a very good description of the noble families and their descent. Many of the Italian palaces preserved their pictures, and in the Palazzo, Pisani, Mary saw the Paul Veronis, now in the National Gallery, of the family of Darius at the feet of Alexander. Mary's love of Venice grew, and she seems to have entertained serious ideas of taking a place and settling there, but all the fancies of travellers are not realised. One moonlit evening she heard an old gondolier challenge a younger one, to alternate with him the stances of the Giulla Seme. The men stood on the Piazzetta, beside the Laguna, surrounded by other gondolieri in the moonlight. They chanted the death of Clarenda, and other favourite passages, and though owing to Venetian dialect Mary could not follow every word, she was much impressed by the dignity and beauty of the scene. The pigeons of St. Mark's existed then as now. Mary ended her stay in Venice by a visit to the opera, and joined a party by invitation to accompany the Austrian Archduke to the Lido on his departure. Mrs. Shelley much admired the expression in the early Masters at Padua, though she does not mention Giato. In Florence the expense of the hotels again obliged her to go through the tiresome work of seeking apartments. They fortunately found sunny rooms as the cold was intense. To cold followed rain, and she remarks, walking out as of the question, and driving how I at once envy and despise the happy rich who have carriages, and who use them only to drive every afternoon in the casino. If I could I would visit every spot mentioned in Florentine history, visit its towns of old renown, and ramble amid scenes familiar to Dante, Boccaccio, Petrach, and Machiavelli. The descriptions of Girolando's pictures in Florence are very good. Mary now evidently studies art with great care and intelligence, and makes some very clever remarks appertaining to it. She is also able to call attention to the fact that Mr. Currip had recently made the discovery of the head of Dante Alighieri, painted by Giato on the wall of the chapel of the palace of the Podesta at Florence. The fact was mentioned by Vasari, and Currip was enabled to remove the whitewash and uncover this inestimable treasure. Giato in the act of painting this portrait is the subject of one of the finest designs of the English school, alas not painted in any form of fresco on an English wall. From the art of Florence Mrs. Shelley turns to its history with her accustomed clearheaded method. Space will not admit all the interesting details, but her account of the factions and of the good work and terrible tragedies of the Carboneri is most interesting. The great quality in Florence is well noticed, accounting for the little real distress among the poor and the simplicity of life of the nobles. She next enters into an account of modern Italian literature, which she ranks high and hopes much from. The same struggle between romanticists and classicists existed as in other countries, and she classes Menzoni with Walter Scott, though admitting that he has not the same range of character. Mary and her party next proceeded by sea to Rome. Here again the glories of Italy and its art failed not to call forth eloquent remarks from Mary's pen. In her views, though at times somewhat contradictory, are always well expressed, she at least had a mind to appreciate the wonders of the stanza and to feel that genius and intellect are not out of their province in art. She only regrets that the great Italian art which can express so perfectly the religious sentiment and divine ecstasy did not attempt the grand feelings of humanity. The love which is faithful to death, the emotions such as Shakespeare describes. While this wish exists, and there are artists who can carry it out, art is not dead. After a very instructive chapter on the modern history of the papal states, we again find Mary among the scenes dearest to her heart and her nature. Her next letter is dated from Sorrento. She feels herself to be in paradise, and who that has been in that wonderful country would not sympathize with her enthusiasm. To be carried up the heights to Revello and to see the glorious panorama around, she considered surpassed all her previous most noble experiences. Revello, with its magnificent cathedral covered with mosaics, is indeed a sight to have seen. The road to Amalfi, the ruinous papermills in the ravine, the glorious picturesqueness, are all well expressed and understood. Mrs. Shelley seems to have considered June, 1844, the perfection of weather for Naples. Mrs. Shelley by Lucy Maddox Rosetti. Chapter 28. The Last Years. This last literary work by Mrs. Shelley, of which she herself speaks slidingly as a poor performance, was noticed about the time of its publication as an interesting and truthful piece of writing by an authority on the subject. Mrs. Shelley's very modest and retiring disposition gave her little confidence in herself, and she seems to have met with various discouraging remarks from acquaintances. She used to wonder afterwards that she was not able to defend herself and suppress impertinence. This last book is spoken of by Mary as written to help an unfortunate person, whose acquaintance Claire had made in Paris while standing in some capacity in that city with Lady Sussex Lennox. A title has a fictitious prestige with some people, and certainly in this case the acquaintance, which at first seemed advantageous to Mary, proved to be much the contrary, both in respect of money and of peace of mind. But before referring further to this subject, we must explain that the year 1844 brought with it a perhaps questionable advantage for her. Sir Timothy Shelley, who had been ailing for some while, in whom Percy Shelley had visited from time to time at field place, had him become rather a favorite with the old gentleman. Now reached the born of life, he was ninety. His death in April 1844 brought his grandson Percy Florence to the baronetcy. That portion of the estate which had been entailed previous to Sir Bish's proposed rearrangement of the entire property, now came to Mrs. Shelley by her husband's will. Owing to the poets' having refused to join in the entail, the larger portion of the property would not under any circumstances, as we have before mentioned, have devolved on him. A sum of eighty thousand pounds is mentioned by the different biographers of Shelley, as the probable value of the minor estate entailed on him, of which he had the absolute right of disposal. This estate on Sir Timothy's death was found to be burdened to the extent of fifty thousand pounds, which Mary borrowed on mortgage at three-and-a-half percent. This large sum included thirteen thousand due to the Lady Shelley for the pittance Mary had received. Four thousand five hundred pounds to John Shelley for a mortgage Shelley had signed to pay his debts, probably for the two thousand pounds borrowed on leaving Marlowe, when he paid all his debts there, so that if any trifle was left unpaid on that occasion it must have been from the oversight and want of Dunning, as he undoubtedly left there with sufficient money, having also resold his house for a thousand pounds. A jointure had to be paid Lady Shelley of five hundred pounds a year. The different legacies still do in eighteen forty-four were six thousand pounds to Ianthe, two sums of six thousand pounds to Clare, two thousand pounds to Hog, two thousand five hundred to Peacock. These various sums mounting up to forty thousand pounds, the remaining ten thousand pounds can easily have been swallowed up by other postal bits and legal expenses. The two sums of six thousand pounds each left to his two sons who died, and two thousand pounds left to Lord Byron, had lapsed to the estate. Mrs. Shelley's first care was to raise the necessary money and pay all the outstanding obligations. Her chief anxiety through her struggles had always been not to incur debts. Her next thought was to give an annual pension of fifty pounds to her brother's widow, and two hundred pounds a year afterwards reduced to a hundred and twenty pounds to lay hunt. This was her manner of driving immediate pleasure from her inheritance. By her husband's will executed in eighteen seventeen everything, whether in possession, reversion, remainder, or expectancy, was left to her. But as she always mentioned to her son, Sir Percy, is acting with herself and said that owing to the embarrassed condition of the estate, they intended to share all in common for a time. It is evident that Mary had made her son's interest her first duty. The estate had brought five thousand pounds the previous year, and this would agree, deducting one thousand seven hundred fifty pounds for interest on mortgage and five hundred pounds Lady Shelley's jointure, and reducing their income to a little below three thousand pounds a year, as Mrs. Shelley stated. Field Place was let in the first instance for sixty pounds a year. It was so damp. Mrs. Shelley continued with her son to live at Putney till eighteen forty-six. They had tried Putney in eighteen thirty-nine, and towards the end of eighteen forty-three she took a house there, the White Cottage, lower Richmond Road, Putney. Mary this describes it. Our cot is in on the banks of the Thames, not looking on it, but the garden gate opens on the towing path. It has a nice little garden, but sadly out of order. It is shabbily furnished, and has no spare room, except by great contrivance, if at all. So perforce economy will be the order of the day. It is secluded but cheerful. At the extreme verge of Putney, close to Bowne's Common, just the situation Percy desired, he has bought a boat. Mrs. Shelley moved into this house shortly after the visit to Clare in Paris, referred to at the commencement of this chapter. Her life in London, in spite of a few very good friends, often appeared solitary to her, for as she herself observes, those who produce and give original work to the world, require the social contact of their fellow beings. She was saddened by the neglect which she experienced. She tried to counteract it by sympathizing with those less fortunate than herself. But this, also, is at times a very difficult task to carry out single-handed beyond a certain point. During this visit to Paris, in 1843, she had the misfortune to meet at the house of Lady Sussex Lennox, an Italian adventurer of the name of Guteschi. They had known some people of that name formally in Florence, as noted in Clare's Diary of 1820, and this may have caused them to take a more special interest in him. Suffice it to say that he appeared to be in the greatest distress, and at the same time was considered by Mary and Clare to have the eclette of good birth, and also to have talents, which, if they got but a fair chance, might raise him to any post of eminence. These ideas continued for some time. On one occasion he helped Mrs. Shelley with her literary work, finding the historical passages for rambles in Germany and Italy. She and Clare used to contrive to give him small sums of money, in some delicate way, so as not to wound his feelings, as he would die of mortification. He was invited over to England in 1844, under the idea that he might obtain some place as tutor in a family, and he brought over manuscripts of his own which were thought highly of. While in England Guteschi lodged with Mr. Knox, who had traveled with Mrs. Shelley and her son as a friend of the latter. Mr. Knox seems to have been at that time on friendly terms with Guteschi, though Mrs. Shelley regretted that her son did not take to him. With all the impulse of a generous nature, she spared no pains to be of assistance to the Italian, and evidently must have written imprudently gushing letters at times to this object of her commiseration. Whilst Mary was, poor Guteschi must have approached sentimental gratitude. She says later, he cannot now be wishing to marry me, or he would not insult me. In fact, he had proposed to marry her when she came into her money. Guteschi waited his time. He aimed at larger sums of money. Failing to get these by fair means, the scoundrel began to use threats of publishing her correspondence with him. In 1845 he was said to be ravenous for money. In knowing how Mary had yielded to vehement letters on former occasions, and had at first answered him imprudently, instead of at once putting his letters into legal hands, the villain made each fresh letter a tool to serve his purpose. He thus worked upon her sensitive nature and dread of ridicule, especially at a time when she more than ever wished to stand well with the world, and the society which she felt that her son's right to belong to, her son who had never failed in his duty, and who she said was utterly without vice, although at times she wished he had more love of reading and steady application. It is easy to see now how perfectly innocent, although chaotically generous, Mary Shelley was, but it can also be discerned how difficult it would have been to stop the flood of social mirth and columny had more of this subject been made public. Mary, knowing this only too well, bitterly deplored it, and accused herself of folly in a way that might even now deceive a passing thinker, but it has been the pleasant task of the writer to make this subject perfectly clear to herself and some others. It must be added that the letters in question, written by Mrs. Shelley to Gateski, were obtained by a requisition of the French police under the pretext of political motives. Gateski had been known to be mixed up with an insurrection in Bologna. Mr. Knox, who managed this affair for Mrs. Shelley, showed the talents of an incipient police magistrate. The whole of Mary's correspondence with Claire Claremont is very collogial. Mary did her best to help her from time to time in her usual generous manner, and evidently gave her the best advice in her power. We find her regretting at times Claire's ill health, sending her carriage to her well on Osnaburg Street, and so on. She strongly urged her to come to England to settle about the investment of her money, telling her that, one six thousand pounds, she cannot interfere with, as Shelley had left it for an annuity which could not be lost or disposed of, but that the other six thousand pounds she can invest where she likes. At one time Mary tells her of a good investment she has heard of in an opera box, but that she must act for herself, as it is too dangerous a manner to give advice in. In 1845 Mary Shelley visited Brighton for her health, her nerves having been much shankened by anxiety she had gone through, while there she mentioned seeing Mr. and Mrs. John Shelley at the theatre, but they took no notice of her. When Mrs. Shelley went over field place, after Sir Timothy's death, Lady Shelley had expressed herself to a friend as being much pleased with her, and said she wished she had known her before. Mary on hearing this exclaimed, and why on earth didn't she? In 1846 they moved from Putney to Chester Square, and in the summer Mary went to Baden for her health. From here again she wrote how glad she was to be away from the mortifications of London, and that she detested Chester Square. Her health from this time needed frequent change. In 1847 she moved to field place, she found it damp, but visits to Brighton and elsewhere helped to keep her gradually failing health. The next year she had the satisfaction of seeing her son married to a lady, Mrs. St. John, in every way to her liking. A letter received by Mrs. Shelley from her daughter-in-law while on her wedding tour, and in close declare, shows how she wished the latter to partake in the joy she felt at the happy marriage for a son. Mary now had not only a son to love, but a daughter to care for her, and the pleasant duty was not unwillingly performed, for the lady speaks of it to this day with emotion. From this time there is little to record. We find Mary in 1849 inviting Willie Claremont, Clare's nephew to see her at field place, where she was living with her son and his wife. In the same year they rather dissuaded Clare, who was then at Maidstone, from a somewhat wild project which she entertained, that of going to California. The ground of dissuasion was still wilder than the project, for it was just now said the hoped for gold had turned out to be merely sulfate of iron. The house in Chester Square had been given up in 1848, and another was taken at 77 Warwick Square, before the marriage of Sir Percy, and thence at the end of that year Mary writes of an improvement in her health, but there was still a tendency to neuralgic rheumatism. The lifelong nerve strain for a time was relaxed, but without doubt the tension had been too strong and loving care would not prevail beyond a certain point. The next year the son and his wife took the drooping Mary to the niece for her health, and a short respite was given, but the pressure could not much longer remain. The strong brain and tender, if once too impassioned hard, failed on February 21st, 1851, and nothing remained but a cherished memory of the devoted daughter and mother and the faithful wife of Shelley. End of Chapter 17 End of Mrs. Shelley by Lucy Maddox-Rosetti