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THE SNAKE.

In his perverse and moody humors, Byron would give vent to his Satanic vein. After a long silence, one day on horseback, he began :

"I have a conscience, although the world gives me no credit for it; I am now repenting, not of the few sins I have committed, but of the many I have not committed. There are things, too, we should not do, if they were not forbidden. My Don Juan was cast aside and almost forgotten, until I heard that the pharisaic synod in John Murray's back parlor had pronounced it as highly immoral, and unfit for publication. 'Because thou art virtuous thinkest thou there shall be no more cakes and ale?' Now my brain is throbbing and must have vent. I opined gin was inspiration, but cant is stronger. Today I had another letter warning me against the Snake (Shelley). He, alone, in this age of humbug, dares stem the current, as he did to-day the flooded Arno in his skiff, although I could not observe he made any progress. The attempt is better than being swept along as all the rest are, with the filthy garbage scoured from its banks."

Taking advantage of this panegyric on Shelley I observed, he might do him a great service at little cost, by a friendly word or two in his next work, such as he had bestowed on authors of less merit.

Assuming a knowing look, he continued,

"All trades have their mysteries; if we crack up a popular author, he repays us in the same coin, principal and interest. A friend may have repaid money lent,—can't say any of mine have; but who over heard of the interest being added thereto ? " I rejoined,

"By your own showing you are indebted to Shelley; some of his best verses are to express his admiration of your genius."

“Ay,” he said, with a significant look, "who reads them? If we puffed the Snake, it might not turn out a profitable investment. If he cast off the slough of his mystifying metaphysics, he would want no puffing."

Seeing I was not satisfied, he added,

"If we introduced Shelley to our readers, they might draw comparisons, and they are 'odorous."

After Shelley's death, Byron, in a letter to Moore, of the 2d of August, 1822, says,

"There is another man gone, about whom the world was illnaturedly, and ignorantly, and brutally mistaken. It will, perhaps, do him justice now, when he can be no better for it." In a letter to Murray of an earlier date, he says, “You were all mistaken about Shelley, who was, without exception, the best and least selfish man I ever knew.”

And, again, he says, "You are all mistaken about Shelley; you do not know how mild, how tolerant, how good he was."

What Byron says of the world, that it will, perhaps, do Shelley justice when he can be no better for it, is far more applicable to himself. If the world erred, they did so in ignorance; Shelley was a myth to them. Byron had no such plea to offer, but he was neither just nor generous, and never drew his weapon to redress any wrongs but his own.

In the annals of authors I cannot find one who wrote under so many discouragements as Shelley; for even Bunyan's dungeon walls echoed the cheers of hosts of zealous disciples on the outside, whereas Shelley could number his readers on his fingers. He said, “I can only print my writings by stinting myself in food!" Published, or sold openly, they were not.

The utter loneliness in which he was condemned to pass the largest portion of his life would have paralyzed any brains less subtilized by genius than his were. Yet he was social and cheerful, and, although frugal himself, most liberal to others, while to serve a friend he was ever ready to make any sacrifice. It was, perhaps, fortunate he was known to so few, for those few kept him close shorn. He went to Ravenna in 1821 on Byron's business, and, writing to his wife, makes this comment on the Pilgrim's asking him to execute a delicate commission: "But it seems destined that I am always to have some active part in the affairs of everybody whom I approach.” And so he had.

L

Shelley, in his elegy on the death of Keats, gives this picture

of himself:

"Midst others of less note, came one frail Form,

A phantom amongst men; companionless

As the last cloud of an expiring storm,
Whose thunder is its knell; he, as I guess,

Had gazed on Nature's naked loveliness,
Actæon-like, and now he fled astray

With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness,

And his own thoughts, along that rugged way,

Pursued, like raging hounds, their father and their prey."

Every day I passed some hours with Byron, and very often my evenings with Shelley and Williams, so that when my memory summons one of them to appear, the others are sure to follow in his wake. If Byron's reckless frankness and apparent cordiality warmed your feelings, his sensitiveness, irritability, and the perverseness of his temper, cooled them. I was not then thirty, and the exigences of my now full-blown vanities were unsated, and my credulity unexhausted. I believed in many things then, and believe in some now; I could not sympathize with Byron, who believed in nothing.

"As for love, friendship, and your entusamusy," said he, "they must run their course. If you are not hanged or drowned before you are forty, you will wonder at all the foolish things they have made you say and do, as I do now."

"I will go over to the Shelleys,” I answered, “and hear their opinions on the subject."

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'Ay, the Snake has fascinated you; I am for making a man of the world of you; they will mould you into a Frankenstein monster so good-night!"

Goethe's Mephistopheles calls the serpent that tempted Eve, “My Aunt-the renowned snake;" and as Shelley translated and repeated passages of "Faust"—to, as he said, impregnate Byron's brain,—when he came to that passage, "My Aunt, the renowned snake," Byron said, "Then you are her nephew," and henceforth he often called Shelley the Snake; his bright eyes, slim figure, and noiseless movements, strengthened, if it did not suggest, the comparison. Byron was the

real snake-a dangerous mischief-maker; his wit or humor might force a grim smile, or hollow laugh, from the standers by, but they savored more of pain than playfulness, and made you dissatisfied with yourself and him. When I left his gloomy hall, and the echoes of the heavy iron plated door died away, I could hardly refrain from shouting with joy as I hurried along the broad-flagged terrace which overhangs the pleasant river, cheered on my course by the cloudless sky, soft air, and fading light, which close an Italian day.

SHELLEY'S AVERSION TO COMPANY.

After a hasty dinner at my albergo, I hastened along the Arno to the hospitable and cheerful abode of the Shelleys. There I found those sympathies and sentiments which the Pilgrim denounced as illusions believed in as the only realities.

Shelley's mental activity was infectious; he kept your brain in constant action. Its effect on his comrade was very striking. Williams gave up all his accustomed sports for books, and the bettering of his mind; he had excellent natural ability; and the Poet delighted to see the seeds he had sown, germinating. Shelley said he was the sparrow educating the young of the cuckoo. After a protracted labor, Ned was delivered of a fiveact play. Shelley was sanguine that his pupil would succeed as a dramatic writer. One morning I was in Mrs. Williams's drawing-room, by appointment, to hear Ned read an act of his drama. I sat with an aspect as caustic as a critic who was to decide his fate. Whilst thus intent Shelley stood before us with a most woeful expression.

Mrs. Williams started up, exclaiming, "What's the matter, Percy?"

66 Mary has threatened me."

"Threatened you with what?”

He looked mysterious and too agitated to reply.

Mrs. Williams repeated, "With what? to box your ears?" "Oh, much worse than that; Mary says she will have a party; there are English singers here, the Sinclairs, and she will ask them, and every one she or you know--oh, the horror!"

We all burst into a laugh except his friend Ned. "It will kill me."

"Music, kill you!" said Mrs. Williams. "Why, you have told me, you flatterer, that you loved music."

"So I do. It's the company terrifies me. For pity go to Mary and intercede for me; I will submit to any other species of torture than that of being bored to death by idle ladies and gentlemen."

After various devices it was resolved that Ned Williams should wait upon the lady,-he being gifted with a silvery tongue, and sympathizing with the Poet in his dislike of fine ladies, and see what he could do to avert the threatened invasion of the Poet's solitude. Meanwhile, Shelley remained in a state of restless ecstasy; he could not even read or sit. Ned returned with a grave face; the Poet stood as a criminal stands at the bar, whilst the solemn arbitrator of his fate decides it. "The lady," commenced Ned, has "set her heart on having a party, and will not be baulked ;" but, seeing the Poet's despair, he added, “It is to be limited to those here assembled, and some of Count Gamba's family; and instead of a musical feast -as we have no souls-we are to have a dinner." The Poet hopped off, rejoicing, making a noise I should have thought whistling, but that he was ignorant of that accomplishment.

SHELLEY AND BYRON CONTRASTED.

society, and the contrast The former, not thinking

I have seen Shelley and Byron in was as marked as their characters. of himself, was as much at ease as in his own home, omitting no occasion of obliging those whom he came in contact with, readily conversing with all or any who addressed him, irrespective of age or rank, dress or address. To the first party I went with Byron, as we were on our road, he said,

"It's so long since I have been in English society, you must tell me what are their present customs. Does rank lead the way, or does the ambassadress pair us off into the dining-room? Do they ask people to wine? Do we exit with the women, or stick to our claret?"

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