and of not writing to you as I ought, and it assured me of your kind

thoughts in that happy land where as angels in heaven you can afford
pity to us Arctic islanders. It is too bad, is it not, that when such
a Paradise does exist as fair Italy, one should be chained here,
without the infliction of such absolutely cold weather? I have never
suffered a more ungenial winter. Winter it is still; a cold east wind
has prevailed the last six weeks, making exercise in the open air a
positive punishment. This is truly English; half a page about the
weather, but here this subject has every importance; is it fine? you
guess I am happy and enjoying myself; is it as it always is? you know
that one is fighting against a domestic enemy which saps at the very
foundations of pleasure.

I am glad that you are occupying yourself, and I hope that your two
friends will not cease urging you till you really put to paper the
strange wild adventures you recount so well. With regard to the other
subject, you may guess, my dear Friend, that I have often thought,
often done more than think on the subject. There is nothing I shrink
from more fearfully than publicity. I have too much of it, and, what
is worse, I am forced by my hard situation to meet it in a thousand
ways. Could you write my husband's life without naming me, it would be
something; but even then I should be terrified at the rousing the
slumbering voice of the public;--each critique, each mention of your
work might drag me forward. Nor indeed is it possible to write
Shelley's life in that way. Many men have his opinions,--none heartily
and conscientiously act on them as he did,--it is his act that marks
him.

You know me, or you do not--in which case I will tell you what I am--a
silly goose, who, far from wishing to stand forward to assert myself
in any way, now that I am alone in the world, have but the time to
wrap night and the obscurity of insignificance around me. This is
weakness, but I cannot help it; to be in print, the subject of men's
observations, of the bitter hard world's commentaries, to be attacked
or defended, this ill becomes one who knows how little she possesses
worthy to attract attention, and whose chief merit--if it be one--is
a love of that privacy which no woman can emerge from without regret.

Shelley's life must be written. I hope one day to do it myself, but it

must not be published now. There are too many concerned to speak
against him; it is still too sore a subject. Your tribute of praise,
in a way that cannot do harm, can be introduced into your own life.
But remember, I pray for omission, for it is not that you will not be
too kind, too eager to do me more than justice. But I only seek to be
forgotten.

Clare has written to you she is about to return to Germany. She will,
I suppose, explain to you the circumstances that make her return to
the lady she was before with desirable. She will go to Carlsbad, and
the baths will be of great service to her. Her health is improved,
though very far from restored. For myself, I am as usual well in
health and longing for summer, when I may enjoy the peace that alone
is left me. I am another person under the genial influence of the sun;
I can live unrepining with no other enjoyment but the country made
bright and cheerful by its beams; till then I languish. Percy is quite
well; he grows very fast and looks very healthy.

It gives me great pleasure to hear from you, dear friend, so write

often. I have now answered your letter, though I can hardly call this
 one. So you may very soon expect another. How are your dogs? and where
is Roberts? Have you given up all idea of shooting? I hear Medwin is a
great man at Florence, so Pisa and economy are at an end.
Adieu.--Yours,

M. S.

The fiery "Pirate" was much disappointed at Mary's refusal to collaborate

with him, and quite unable to understand her unwillingness to be the
instrument of making the facts of her own and Shelley's life the subject
of public discussion. His resentment soon passed away, but his first wrath
was evidently expressed with characteristic vigour.

MARY SHELLEY TO TRELAWNY.

_15th December 1829._

... Your last letter was not at all kind. You are angry with me, but
what do you ask, and what do I refuse? You talk of writing Shelley's
life, and ask me for materials. Shelley's life, as far as the public
have to do with it, consisted of few events, and these are publicly
known; the private events were sad and tragical. How would you relate
them? As Hunt has, slurring over the real truth? Wherefore write
fiction? and the truth, any part of it, is hardly for the rude cold
world to handle. His merits are acknowledged, his virtues;--to bring
forward actions which, right or wrong (and that would be a matter of
dispute), were in their results tremendous, would be to awaken
calumnies and give his enemies a voice.

* * * * *

As to giving Moore materials for Lord Byron's life, I thought--I

think--I did right. I think I have achieved a great good by it. I wish
it to be kept secret--decidedly I am averse to its being published,
for it would destroy me to be brought forward in print. I commit
myself on this point to your generosity. I confided the fact to you as
I would anything I did, being my dearest friend, and had no idea that
I was to find in you a harsh censor and public denouncer....

Did I uphold Medwin? I thought that I had always disliked him. I am

sure I thought him a great annoyance, and he was always borrowing
crowns which he never meant to pay and we could ill spare. He was
Jane's friend more than any one's.

To be sure, we did not desire a duel, nor a horsewhipping, and Lord

Byron and Mrs. B. ... worked hard to promote peace.--Affectionately
yours,

M. W. S.

During this year Mrs. Shelley was busily employed on her own novel,
_Perkin Warbeck_, the subject of which may have occurred to her in
connection with the historic associations of Arundel Castle. It is a work
of great ingenuity and research, though hardly so spontaneous in
conception as her earlier books. In spite of her retired life she had come
to be looked on as a celebrity, and many distinguished literary people
sought her acquaintance. Among these was Lord Dillon, conspicuous by his
good looks, his conversational powers, his many rare qualities of head and
heart, and his numerous oddities. Between him and Mrs. Shelley a strong
mutual regard existed, and the following letter is of sufficient interest
to be inserted here. The writer had desired Mary's opinion on the subject
of one of his poems.

LORD DILLON TO MRS. SHELLEY.

DITCHLEY, _18th March 1829_.

MY DEAR MRS. SHELLEY--I return you many thanks for your letter and
your favourable opinion. It is singular that you should have hit upon
the two parts that I almost think the best of all my poem. I fear that
my delineations of women do not please you, or persons who think as
you do. I have a classic feeling about your sex--that is to say, I
prefer nature to what is called delicacy.... I must be excused,
however; I have never loved or much liked women of refined sentiment,
but those of strong and blunt feelings and passions.... Pray tell me
candidly, for I believe you to be sincere, though at first I doubted
it, for your manner is reserved, and that put me on my guard; but now
I admit you to my full confidence, which I seldom give. Is not
Eccelino considered as too free? Tell me then truly--I never quote
whenever I write to a person. You may trust me. You might tell me all
the secrets in the world; they would never be breathed. I shall see
you in May, and then we may converse more freely, but I own you look
more sly than I think you are, and therefore I never was so candid
with you as I think I ought to be. Have not people who did not know
you taken you for a cunning person? You have puzzled me very much.
Women always feel flattered when they are told they have puzzled
people. I will tell you what has puzzled me. Your writings and your
manner are not in accordance. I should have thought of you--if I had
only read you--that you were a sort of my Sybil, outpouringly
enthusiastic, rather indiscreet, and even extravagant; but you are
cool, quiet, and feminine to the last degree--I mean in delicacy of
manner and expression. Explain this to me. Shall I desire my brother
to call on you with respect to Mr. Peter in the Tower? He is his
friend, not mine. He is very clever, and I think you would like him.
Pray tell Miss G. to write to me.--Yours most truly,

DILLON.

_Journal, October 8_ (1829).--I was at Sir Thomas Lawrence's to-day

whilst Moore was sitting, and passed a delightful morning. We then
went to the Charter House, and I saw his son, a beautiful boy.

_January 9_ (1830).--Poor Lawrence is dead.

Having seen him so lately, the suddenness of this event affects me

deeply. His death opens all wounds. I see all those I love die around
me, while I lament.

_January 22._--I have begun a new kind of life somewhat, going a

little into society and forming a variety of acquaintances. People
like me, and flatter and follow me, and then I am left alone again,
poverty being a barrier I cannot pass. Still I am often amused and
sometimes interested.

_March 23._--I gave a _soirée_, which succeeded very well. Mrs. Hare
is going, and I am very sorry. She likes me, and she is gentle and
good. Her husband is clever and her set very agreeable, rendered so by
the reunion of some of the best people abou