_The Last Man_, Mrs. Shelley's third novel, was published early in 1826.

It differed widely from its predecessors. _Frankenstein_ was an

allegorical romance; _Valperga_ a historical novel, Italian, of the
fifteenth century; the plot of the one depends for its interest chiefly on
incident, that of the other on the development of character, but both have
a definite purpose in the inculcation of certain moral or philosophical
truths. The story of _The Last Man_ is purely romantic and imaginary,
probabilities and possibilities being entirely discarded. Its supposed
events take place in the twenty-first century of our era, when a devouring
plague depopulates by degrees the whole world, until the narrator remains,
to his own belief, the only surviving soul. At the book's conclusion he is
left, in a little boat, coasting around the shores of the sea-washed
countries of the Mediterranean, with the forlorn hope of finding a
companion solitary. He writes the history of his fate and that of his race
on the leaves of trees,--supposed to be discovered and deciphered long
afterwards in the Sibyl's Cave at Baiae,--the world having been (as we
must infer) repeopled by that time. It is not difficult to understand the
kind of fascination this curious, mournful fancy had for Mary in her
solitude. Much other matter is, of course, interwoven with the leading
idea. The characteristics of the hero, Adrian, his benevolence of heart,
his winning aspect, his passion of justice and self-devotion, and his
fervent faith in the possibilities of human nature and the future of the
human race, are unmistakably sketched from Shelley, and the portrait was
at once recognised by Shelley's earliest friend, the value of whose
appreciation was, if anything, enhanced by the fact of the great
unlikeness between his temperament and Shelley's.

T. J. HOGG TO MRS. SHELLEY.

YORK, _22d March 1826_.

MY DEAR MARY--As I am about to send a frank to dearest Jane, I enclose

a note to you to thank you for the pleasure you have given me. I read
your _Last Man_ with an intense interest and not without tears. I
began it at Stamford yesterday morning as soon as it was light; I read
on all day, even during the short time that was allowed us for dinner,
and, if I had not finished it before it was dark, I verily believe
that I should have bought a candle and held it in my hand in the mail.
I think that it is a decided improvement, and that the character of
Adrian is most happy and most just.--I am, dear Mary, yours ever
faithfully,

T. J. HOGG.

The appearance of Mary's novel had for its practical consequence the
stoppage of her supplies. The book was published anonymously, as "by the
author of _Frankenstein_," but Mrs. Shelley's name found its way into some
newspaper notices, and this misdemeanour (for which she was not
responsible) was promptly punished by the suspension of her allowance.
Peacock's good offices were again in request, to try and avert this
misfortune, but it was not at once that he prevailed. He impressed on
Whitton (the solicitor) that the name did not appear in the title-page,
and that its being brought forward at all was the fault of the publisher
and quite contrary to the wishes of the writer, who, solitary and
despondent, could not be reasonably condemned for employing her time
according to her tastes and talents, with a view to bettering her
condition. This Whitton acknowledged, but said, "the name was the matter;
it annoyed Sir Timothy." He would promise nothing, and Peacock could only
assure Mary that he felt little doubt of her getting the money at last,
though she might be punished by a short delay.

It may be assumed that this turned out so. Late in the year, however,
another turn was given to Mary's affairs by the death of Shelley's eldest
boy.

_Journal, September 1826._--Charles Shelley died during this month.

Percy is now Shelley's only son.

Mary's son being now direct heir to the estates, and her own prospects
being materially improved by this fact, she at once thought of others
whom Shelley had meant to benefit by his will, and who, she was resolved,
should not be losers by his early death, if she lived to carry out for him
his unwritten intentions. She did not think, when she wrote to Leigh Hunt
the letter which follows, that nearly twenty years more would elapse
before the will could take effect.

MARY SHELLEY TO LEIGH HUNT.

5 BARTHOLOMEW PLACE, KENTISH TOWN,

_30th October 1826_.

MY DEAR HUNT--Is it, or is it not, right that these few lines should
be addressed to you now? Yet if the subject be one that you may judge
better to have been deferred, set my _delay_ down to the account of
over-zeal in writing to relieve you from a part of the care which I
know is just now oppressing you; too happy I shall be if you permit
any act of mine to have that effect.

I told you long ago that our dear Shelley intended on rewriting his
will to have left you a legacy. I think the sum mentioned was £2000. I
trust that hereafter you will not refuse to consider me your debtor
for this sum merely because I shall be bound to pay it you by the laws
of honour instead of a legal obligation. You would, of course, have
been better pleased to have received it immediately from dear
Shelley's bequest; but as it is well known that he intended to make
such an one, it is in fact the same thing, and so I hope by you to be
considered; besides, your kind heart will receive pleasure from the
knowledge that you are bestowing on me the greatest pleasure I am
capable of receiving. This is no resolution of to-day, but formed from
the moment I knew my situation to be such as it is. I did not mention
it, because it seemed almost like an empty vaunt to talk and resolve
on things so far off. But futurity approaches, and a feeling haunts me
as if this futurity were not far distant. I have spoken vaguely to
you on this subject before, but now, you having had a recent
disappointment, I have thought it as well to inform you in express
terms of the meaning I attached to my expressions. I have as yet made
no will, but in the meantime, if I should chance to die, this present
writing may serve as a legal document to prove that I give and
bequeath to you the sum of £2000 sterling. But I hope we shall both
live, I to acknowledge dear Shelley's intentions, you to honour me so
far as to permit me to be their executor.

I have mentioned this subject to no one, and do not intend; an act is

not aided by words, especially an act unfulfilled, nor does this
letter, methinks, require any answer, at least not till after the
death of Sir Timothy Shelley, when perhaps this explanation would have
come with better grace; but I trust to your kindness to put my writing
now to a good motive.--I am, my dear Hunt, yours affectionately and
 obliged,

MARY WOLLSTONECRAFT SHELLEY.

It was admitted by the Shelley family that, Percy being now the heir, some
sort of settlement should be made for his mother, yet for some months
longer nothing was done or arranged. Apparently Mary wrote to Trelawny in
low spirits, and to judge from his reply, her letter found him in little
better plight than herself.

TRELAWNY TO MRS. SHELLEY.

ZANTE, _16th December 1826_.

DEAR MARY--I received your letter the other day, and nothing gives me
greater pleasure than to hear from you, for however assured we are of
a friend's durability of affection, it is soothing to be occasionally
reassured of it. I sympathise in your distresses. I have mine, too, on
the same score--a bountiful will and confined means are a curse, and
often have I execrated my fortunes so ill corresponding with my
wishes. But who can control his fate? Old age and poverty is a
frightful prospect; it makes the heart sick to contemplate, even in
the mind's eye the reality would wring a generous nature till the
heart burst. Poverty is the vampyre which lives on human blood, and
haunts its victims to destruction. Hell can fable no torment exceeding
it, and all the other calamities of human life--wars, pestilence,
fire--cannot compete with it. It is the climax of human ill. You may
be certain that I could not write thus on what I did not feel. I am
glad you say you have better hopes; when things are at the worst, they
say, there is hope. So do I hope. Lord Cochrane and his naval
expedition having so long and unaccountably been kept back, delayed me
here from month to month till the winter has definitively set in, and
I am in no state for a winter's voyage; my body is no longer
weatherproof. But I must as soon as possible get to England, though my
residence there will be transitory. I shall then most probably hurry
on to Italy.

The frigate from America is at last arrived in Greece, but whether

Cochrane is on board of her I know not. With the loss of my friend
Odysseus, my enthusiasm has somewhat abated; besides that I could no
longer act with the prospect of doing service, and toiling in vain is
heartless work. But have I not done so all my life? The affairs of
Greece are so bad that little can be done to make them worse. If
Cochrane comes, and is supported with means sufficient, there is still
room for hope. I am in too melancholy a mood to say more than that,
whatever becomes of me.--I am always your true and affectionate

E. TRELAWNY.

Mary answered him at once, doing and saying, to console him, all that
friendship could.