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in the neighborhood where he lived), he was obliged to leave the room in order to destroy the impression."*
The belief to which he clung with most tenacity, we are told by his friend Hunt, was in the existence of some great pervading "spirit of intellectual beauty." The sweet cadences of melodious music, the lustre of the stars, the loveliness of flowers, the beauties of nature, the excellencies of art-these, we are told, were the spiritual influences which went to the formation of his religious opinions. The works of Bernard de St. Pierre contributed, perhaps, to make him a natural religionist; and one work of Mr. Godwin, on "Political Justice," made him a philosophical Radical and a metaphysical Republican.
"Shelley's figure was tall and most unnaturally attenuated, so as to bend to the earth like a plant that had been deprived of its vital air; his features had an unnatural sharpness, and an unhealthy paleness, like a flower that has been kept from the light of day; his eyes had an almost superhuman brightness, and his voice a preternatural elevation of pitch and a shrillness of tone, all which peculiarities probably arose from some accidental circumstances connected with his early nurture and bringing up. But all these Hazlitt tortured into external types and symbols of that unnatural and unwholesome craving after injurious excitement, that morbid tendency toward interdicted topics and questions of moral good and evil, and that forbidden search into the secrets of our nature and ultimate destiny, into which he strangely and inconsequentially resolved the whole of Shelley's productions."+
Shelley's lines-“Written in dejection, near Naples"-contain some passages exquisitely beautiful and pathetic; some, too, of a mournful interest, and calculated to recall his own sad fate:
"I see the deep's untrampled floor,
With green and purple sea-weeds strown;
Like light dissolved in star-showers thrown.
The lightning of the noontide ocean
Is flashing round me, and a tone
Arises from its measured motion,
How sweet! did my heart share in my emotion.
Alas! I have nor hope, nor health,
Nor peace within, nor calm around,
And walked around with inward glory crown'd;
* Moore's Life of Byron, p. 394, 8vo edit., 1838.
"My Friends and Acquaintances," by P. G. Patmore, vol. iii., p. 134.
Others I see whom these surround;
Smiling they live, and call life pleasure:
To me, that cup has been dealt in another measure.
Yet now despair itself is mild,
E'en the winds and waters are;
I could lie like a tired child,
And weep away the life of care
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
The second Mrs. Shelley was the daughter of William Godwin, by his union with Mary Woolstonecraft, the author of the "Rights of Women." This gifted lady became the wife of P. B. Shelley in 1818. Soon after their marriage, they left their residence at Great Marlow, in Buckinghamshire, for Italy, where they resided till the fatal accident by which Shelley perished, in his thirtieth year, in the Gulf of Terici, with his friend, Edward Elleker Williams, on the 8th of July, 1822. Her first work, written during her residence in Italy, was "Frankenstein," one of the most remarkable works of fiction of the time. After Shelley's death she had to devote herself to literature to enable her to provide for herself and two young children. She produced, at intervals, " Valperga," "The Last Man," "Iodore," one or two other works of fiction, biographies of foreign artists and men of letters for the "Cabinet Cyclopædia." She edited, moreover, the poems and various fragments of Shelley, and, lastly, published, in 1843, in 2 vols. 8vo, her "Rambles in Germany and Italy in 1840, 1842, and 1843." Mrs. Shelley's elder son, William, died in childhood; the survivor is the present Sir Percy Florence Shelley, Bart., who succeeded his grandfather, Sir Timothy Shelley, in that title in 1844. Mrs. Shelley died at her residence, 24 Chester Square, London, aged fifty-three, on the 1st of February, 1851.
"The remains of Shelley are deposited near those of his friend Keats, in the cemetery at the base of the pyramidal tomb of Caius Cestius in Rome. In his preface to his lament over Keats, Shelley says, 'He was buried in the romantic and lonely cemetery of the Protestants, under the pyramid which is the tomb of Cestius, and the massy walls and towers, now mouldering and desolate, which formed the circuit of ancient Rome. It is an open space among the ruins, covered in winter with violets and daisies. It might make one in love with death to think that one should be buried in so sweet a place.' The inscription on the monument of Keats, who died in Rome in 1821, briefly tells the sad story of the short career of the young English poet, the friend of Shelley: 'This grave contains all that was mortal of a young English poet, who, on his death-bed, in the bitterness of his heart at the malicious power of his
enemies, desired these words to be engraved on his tomb: HERE LIES ONE WHOSE NAME WAS WRITTEN IN WATER.'"
"I have been here to-day, to see the graves of Keats and Shelley. With a cloudless sky, and the most delicious air ever breathed, we sat down upon the marble slab laid over the ashes of poor Shelley, and read his own lament over Keats, who sleeps just below, at the foot of the hill. The cemetery is rudely formed into three terraces, with walks between; and Shelley's grave occupies a small nook above, made by the projections of a mouldering walltower, and crowned with ivy and shrubs, and a peculiarly fragrant yellow flower, which perfumes the air around for several feet. The avenue by which you ascend from the gate is lined with high bushes of the marsh rose in the most luxuriant bloom, and all over the cemetery the grass is thickly mingled with flowers of every dye."*
Moore's anecdotal talents have been referred to at page 270 of this volume. In 1835 I dined with Moore, in Dublin, at a large party of upward of twenty persons, many of whom were distinguished intellectual people. At dinner I sat between Moore and a barrister not remarkable for talent, but highly respected, an amiable, inoffensive, meek, well-mannered, gentleman-like, goodhumored person, naturally timid and retiring, and rather advanced in years, who was named Cornelius, but was no centurion, and, though familiarly called Con by his intimate friends, was never supposed to be a descendant of him "of the hundred fights." On the opposite side, near the head of the table, sat an important-looking personage, tall, gaunt, and bony, once evidently of Herculean strength and stature, now bent and somewhat shrunken, but still of formidable breadth of shoulders and size of hands, if one might be allowed to use that expression in speaking of such enormous appendages to human wrists. This portentous-looking gentleman, of a grim aspect and a gruff voice, was the redoubtable Tom, commonly spoken of as a younger brother of Jack the Giant-Killer. Tom was the representative of a class now happily defunct in Ireland-the Sir Lucius O'Trigger school, of pleasure-loving, reckless, rollicking, elderly gentlemen of good family, who always went into society on full cock, and generally went off, leaving some striking proofs of their valor, and the value they set on their own opinions, behind them-men of a great fame for fighting duels, of indisputable authority in all controversies concerning hair-triggers and matters of etiquette in affairs of honor, in pacing the ground, and placing a friend well on it; capital judges of prime port and claret, flaming patriots after dinner, greatly disposed to be oratorical and tuneful, and with a slight dash of sedition in their songs and speeches. He belonged to that school whose disciples, like the good Master Shallows of former times, * Willis's Pencilings by the Way, p. 84.
as they grow old, remember "the mad days that they have spent," when they were "such swinge bucklers in all the Inns of Court," and "heard the chimes at night," and "drew a good long bow, and shot a good shoot"-veterans who had seen much service in the field with the hounds, after the fox and the hare, and in the hunt elsewhere, after other game, in their early days, when “the watchword was 'Hem, boys!"-lusty fellows once, "who would have done any thing, and roundly too," but who, in their latter years, "poor esquires in the county," and justices of the peace, begin to think, "as death is certain, that all must die ;" all their "old friends are dead,” and then, being dejected, and becoming sanctimonious, kindly take the interests of religion and the state under their immediate protection, and ultimately obtain some celebrity as Cawtholic notabilities, "voteens, suffering Loyalists," and arbiters of all matters in controversy in society affecting their opinions of what is genteel, pious, or well-affected to the Constitution, and the Hanoverian succession, as established in the house of Brunswick.
Moore had been particularly joyous and brilliant in conversation during dinThe cloth was removed, the contagion of his wit and humor had spread around him, the dullest person in company had become animated, every one had some anecdote to tell. Poor Con, the barrister, the mildest and most harmless of men, told a story of Father O'Leary and the Protestant bishop of his diocese dining together, and joking on a point of discipline, the gist of the story being some facetious observation of the prelate, which had been taken in jest, and had been enjoyed as a joke by Father O'Leary himself. Every body at table laughed at the story but one person, and that unpleased and very unpleasant individual was Tom, who looked unutterable things, the obvious meaning of which was, "Shall we have incision? Shall we imbrue? Have we not hiren here?" "Now let the welkin roar!" Now for "a goodly tumult !"
Slowly, and with alarming solemnity of aspect, the large, bony frame of the fire-eater of former times was seen rising up, supporting its great bulk on the knuckles of both hands, planted on the table far inward toward the centre, and stretching across decanters and glasses in a most formidable attitude in the direction of the unhappy Cornelius, who looked exceedingly astonished and alarmed. Moore gazed around him on the faces of the guests inquiringly, and, if he dared to speak, would evidently have asked what the deuce was the meaning of the coming row. The generality of the guests awaited the explosion, as if a thunderbolt was about to fall on the head of the petrified barrister. Tom took a minute or two to fix himself in his terrible position, and to concentrate his fiery glances and scathing frowns on the pale and shrinking victim, the ill-starred Con. Not a word was spoken, but a hollow, grumbling noise could be distinguished, a kind of preface to a horrid growl-" mugitus labyrinthi”—such a grumble as a sick giant, in the recesses of some deep cavern, might be expected to utter in extremity; and now the bellowing of the mountain of a man, marvelously distempered by his choler, commenced in good
earnest. His volcanic fury thus disembogued in a torrent of incoherent threats, denunciations, and invective:
“How dar you speak disrepectfully of the clergy of my Church? How dar you do it, sir? I say, Con, how dar you insult my religion?"
Poor Con, terror-stricken, held up his hands imploringly, and, in most tremulous accents, vainly protested he meant no offense whatever to the faith or feelings of any man, woman, or child in Christendom.
"How dar you, Con-tell me what you mean? How dar you attempt to interrupt me? You had the baseness, Con, and you know it, sir, to insult the ministers of my religion. How dar you deny the cowardly attack, sir?” Con, pale as death, but with no better success than before, made another imploring appeal to be allowed to deny the alleged insult.
"There was a time, Con, when, with this hand [lifting his right arm as he spoke, clinching his fist, and shaking it vehemently across the table at his victim]-there was a time, Con, and well you know it, when I would have smashed you for this outrage. But I scorn you too much to take any other than this slight notice of your heinous offense against every thing sacred and profane!"
Frowning awfully, the indignant champion resumed his seat, and the dismayed barrister, who began to pluck up his courage from the moment Tom declared his excess of scorn prevented him from having recourse to actual violence, began to sit up more perpendicularly in his chair; for, previously to that, he had been sinking gradually, fading away before the face of his infuriated assailant's overwhelming wrath, till it was to be feared he would eventually have slidden down altogether from his seat and slipped under the table.
Silence reigned; the guests looked at one another, discreetly holding their tongues; Moore seemed to be exceedingly annoyed and sickened. After a little time, he whispered to me to follow him, and, to the great disappointment of the company, he rose before any of the guests had stirred, and took his departure. I followed him, and the first words he uttered when we were in the street were the following: "So disgusting an exhibition of brutality I never witnessed in my life.”
We went to the theatre; it was a command night, and Lord and Lady Mulgrave were there in state. Moore was soon recognized by the audience, and greeted with loud cheers and plaudits. After a short time, one of the aids-de-camp came to the box where we were sitting, and conveyed an invitation to Moore to sup with his excellency at the vice-regal lodge. Moore then accompanied the aid-de-camp to the box of the vice-regal party, and on his appearance there the cheering for him was renewed. He returned to the box I was in before his excellency made his exit, and brought me an invitation from Lord Mulgrave (whom I had the honor of knowing in Jamaica) to the supper-party that night at the Park. I accompanied Moore to that entertainment, without exception the most delightful I ever enjoyed. The principal guests at supper were Lord and Lady Cloncurry, the lord who was a prisoner in the Tower in 1798, and his lady, the near relative of the foully-mur