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the sea), and a wild, bare, uninhabited country, parched by the saline air, and exhibiting no other vegetation than a few stunted and bent tufts of underwood. A row of high, square watch-towers, stood along the coast; and above, in the hot stillness, soared a solitary curlew, which occasionally circled close to the pile, uttering its shrill scream, and defying all attempts to drive it away.

The body was placed entire in the furnace, and wine, frankincense, &c., as in the case of Williams, were cast on to the pyre. The flames, which were of a rich golden hue, broad and towering, glistened and quivered, and threw out, together with the sunlight, so intense a heat, that the atmosphere became tremulous and wavy. Leigh Hunt witnessed the ceremony from Lord Byron's carriage, occasionally drawing back when he was too much overcome to allow his emotions to be seen; while Byron himself, finding his fortitude unequal to the occasion, left before the conclusion of the rites.

The ashes of Shelley were deposited in the Protestant burial-ground at Rome, by the side of his son William, and of his brother-poet Keats. An inscription in Latin, simply setting forth the facts, was written by Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Trelawny added a few lines from Shakspeare's Tempest (one of Shelley's favorite plays) :·

"Nothing of him that doth fade,

But doth suffer a sea-change

Into something rich and strange."

The same gentleman also planted eight cypresses round

the spot, of which seven were flourishing in 1844, and probably are still.*

And so the sea and the earth closed over one who was great as a poet, and still greater as a philanthropist ; and of whom it may be said, that his wild, spiritual character, seems to have fitted him for being thus snatched from life under circumstances of mingled terror and beauty, while his powers were yet in their spring freshness, and age had not come to render the ethereal body decrepit, or to wither the heart which could not be consumed by fire.

The facts, on which the foregoing description of the burning of the bodies is based, are derived from Captain Medwin's Conversations of Lord Byron; Mr. Trelawny's Recollections of the Last Days of Shelley and Byron; and Leigh Hunt's Autobiography.

CHAPTER XIV.

MARY SHELLEY.

A WIDOW at four-and-twenty years of age; left in a foreign land, with no certain income, and with a child to support; coldly regarded by her husband's family, and possessed of no influential friends in England; Mrs. Shelley now entered on a struggle, which she has described as "lonely" and "unsolaced," but which she encountered in the true spirit of heroism, and lived to see crowned with success, and rewarded by happier days.

The first emotions of horror at the death of her husband gave place to grief of a calmer, but intenser, kind. It will be seen in the ensuing letters, and in the journal which follows them, how deep was the agony which the young widowed heart endured; how abiding the sense of loss; how omnipresent the recollection of him, whose genius now became associated with all sights and sounds of earth, sky, and ocean. Italy had been the chosen land of Shelley; and his widow, though meeting everywhere with some ghost of old companionship, some memory of that which had vanished forever in this life, clung for a long while to the country which had witnessed her

greatest joy and her wildest sorrow. She very speedily, however, left the Bay of Spezzia, and took up her residence at Pisa.

But she was not without comforters in her grief. Foremost among the letters she received from England must be placed one from her father, who, on the 9th of August, 1822, writes:

"My poor girl! What do you mean to do with yourself? You surely do not mean to stay in Italy? How glad I should be to be near you, and to endeavor by new expedients each day to make up for your loss! But you are the best judge. If Italy is a country to which in these few years you are naturalized, and if England is become dull and odious to you, then stay.

"I should think, however, that now you have lost your closest friend, your mind would naturally turn homewards, and [to] your earliest friend. Is it not so? Surely we might be a great support to each other, under the trials to which we are reserved. What signify a few outward adversities, if we find a friend at home?

"Above all, let me entreat you to keep up your courage. You have many duties to perform; you must now be the father, as well as the mother; and I trust you have energy of character enough to enable you to perform your duties honorably and well.

"Ever and ever most affectionately yours,

"W. GODWIN."

FROM MRS. SHELLEY TO MISS CURRAN.

"MY DEAR MISS CURRAN,

"Pisa, July 26th, 1822.

"You will have received my letter concerning the pictures, and now I have another request to make. Your kind

ness to us when we were both so unhappy

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kindness - makes me do this without that feeling of unwillingness which I have in asking favors of any other person. Besides, you are unhappy, and therefore can better sympathize with and console the miserable. You would greatly oblige me, if you would get me from one of those shops in the Piazza di Spagna two mosaic stones, about as large as a halfcrown piece. On one I wish an heart's-ease to be depicted; they call these flowers in Italian Socera huora, or Viola far falla, Viola regolina, Viola renagola; on the other (I think I have seen such a one), a view of the tomb of Cestius. I remember, also, that in one of your rooms there was a view of this place, and the people of the house might part with it, or a modern artist at Rome might make one for me, which would give me great pleasure. The difficulty is to pay you for these things; but as soon (if you have the extreme kindness to fulfil my requests) as I know what money you spend for me, I will take care it shall be remitted to you without delay.

"Will you indeed, my dear Miss Curran, do as I ask you ? Alas! these trifles (not the picture that is no trifle) serve as

a kind of vent for those sentiments of personal affection and attentions which are so cruelly crushed forever. In a little poem of his are these words: Pansies let my flowers be.' Pansies are heart's-ease; and in another he says, that pansies mean memory. So I would make myself a locket to wear in eternal memory, with the representation of his flower, and with his hair; such things must now do instead of words of love, and the dear habit of seeing him daily. Pity me, then, and indulge me.

"In my last letter I was so selfish, that I did not ask after your welfare. Pray write to me. I must ever be grateful to you for your kindness to us in misfortune; and how much more when, through your talents and your goodness, I shall possess the only likeness that is of my husband's earthly form.

*From the loss of their son William, at Rome. - ED.

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