the army still, he was fairly apt at boatmanagement. Shelley, if anything so ætherial, and elf-like, and out of the common order of English beings, can be fitly described by a wholesome British term of tolerant and goodnatured reproach, was the veriest land-lubber, rashly and helplessly enamoured of the sea, perilously addicted at all times to the navigation of waters familiar or unfamiliar, unable to swim, and deprived by his very fearlessness, and by his constant preoccupation in study or composition, of any chance of safety in such a boat as he now had at constant command. No wonder that Mary, out of health as she was, felt a sense of impending doom as she gazed on the ever-present sea and that wildly picturesque coast, the very beauty of which seemed to her preternatural and disturbing. The death of the little Allègra was anything but a matter of indifference to her, apart from anxiety about the bereaved mother; Mary's troubles culminated in a miscarriage, which was not far from being fatal. life was saved by Shelley's promptitude and sagacity in the use of remedial means; but the cloud still hung over her spirit. Strangely enough, although one of her objections to the Magni house upon the coast was that she preferred "a more countryfied place," the new boat in which Shelley passed the time upon the bay fascinated her. She was never wholly happy at this time, save when, the wind and weather not preventing, she lay in the boat with her head on her husband's knee, as they scudded or floated between the sapphire deeps of the sea and the sapphire vault of the sky,-Shelley alternately reading his beloved Greek dramatists

and

Her

and committing his impressions to paper in verse to be treasured as long as English is spoken. It was in such conditions, with or without Mary, that he wrote that stately fragment The Triumph of Life, fraught with the ripened fruit of his thirty years' experience of life, and bearing the clear impress of that Italy in whose waters it was for the most part written; for it savours both of Dante and of Petrarch.

And now he was awaiting, not without impatience, the arrival of Leigh Hunt, who was expected to pass on ship-board within sight of Casa Magni. Shelley had written telling his friend of the white house with arches which he and Mary were inhabiting, and had bidden him cast his eye on the white house in passing and think of them. At length the news of Hunt's safe arrival in Italy with his family reached the Magni household. There was starting in hot haste for Leghorn-weighing of anchor and setting of sails on board the crank, spanking little cutter, which had been renamed the "Ariel,"-perfect plaything for a summer under cloudless skies and on stormless seas, safe means of conveyance from island to island in that ideal blue Ionian weather" of Epipsychidion and in those "halcyon regions where "the treacherous ocean has forsworn its wiles." The stretch of sea from Lerici to Leghorn seemed almost to realize that radiant vision as Shelley and Williams and the boy Vivian cut through it in their toy and entered Leghorn harbour. The reunion of Shelley and Hunt was a real joy to both men. To Hunt, Shelley was the loftiest of poets, most lovable of men, a generous benefactor, a very present help in trouble.

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Shelley, Hunt was an endearing companion, a stalwart champion of freedom, one who had suffered in purse and person for the faith, and who had further won upon the generous nature of Shelley by frankly accepting his material help. And now they were both under the same Italian sky, full of plans and projects; and it was Shelley's part to make all smooth between Hunt and Byron.

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Sorely enough did Mary and Jane begrudge the absence of Shelley and Williams on this more than ordinarily long voyage, and for the considerable number of days demanded for the needs of the business in hand. With the ailing and depressed Mary the sense of impending doom grew ever deeper as the days advanced. It was on the 1st of July that the Ariel" set sail for Leghorn. By the 8th Shelley and Williams found themselves ready and anxious to return to Casa Magni. The wind was favourable; and, though the hot weather had been breeding electric disturbance, and the sky had a look which to the experienced in such matters meant mischief, Shelley knew better. The treacherous ocean had forsworn its wiles; the merry mariners were bold and free; and between one and two o'clock the perfect plaything weighed anchor and set sail and was off and out of the safe harbour of Leghorn.

And now once more the poet knew the joy of weltering along the sunlit sea, his mind lost in the contemplation of what the masters of song had produced in ancient days and in his own time, and his senses drinking delight from sea and sky. There were Williams and Vivian to look after the boat-Sophocles and Keats

to occupy the thoughts of the lord of song who had sung the dirge of Keats. Hunt had lent Shelley the just published volume containing Lamia, Isabella, The Eve of St. Agnes, and most of Keats's best short poems; and he had with him also a tiny pocket volume of Sophocles. Ten miles out at sea, off Via Reggio, the "Ariel" still held her way gallantly; but then at length, and all too suddenly, came the change of weather for which the old sea-dogs of Leghorn had been looking. A squall burst and swept across the very spot where the plaything scudded for Lerici; and, when it had passed, those who had been watching the sea saw all the other craft riding safely, but missed the "Ariel.” The volume of Keats, open at The Eve of St. Agnes, Shelley had doubled back, cover to cover, to thrust it in one pocket of his jacket; the volume of Sophocles was thrust into the other pocket. Williams made an attempt to get off some of his clothes and swim for it. Shelley, who could not swim, probably went down without a struggle in the fifteen fathoms of seething water which was again quiet and smiling almost as soon as that passionate life of love and light and song had quietly, and in the full joy of sensuous perception and spiritual activity, passed into the unknown.

There was no one to tell Mary and Jane that their husbands had been seen to perish. The uncertainty as to what had been the issue of the hapless voyage left the two women in an agony of suspense. The "Ariel" might have weathered the storm and be riding safely at anchor off Corsica or Elba; or the voyagers might have been swept on to some inhospit

e

able stretch of coast, and be waiting to repair damages, unable meanwhile to communicate with their friends. At length the tense anguish of suspense was snapped: on the 18th of July the sea gave up its dead. All that remained of Shelley was thrown up near Via Reggio; all that remained of Williams, on the Tuscan coast some miles off. Later on the bones supposed to be those of Charles Vivian were also washed ashore. Buried at first where they were found, the remains of Shelley and Williams were afterwards cremated with due classic honours of wine and salt, oil and frankincense, through the enterprise and determined devotion of Trelawny, and in the presence of Byron and Leigh Hunt.

The Keats volume which Hunt had lent to Shelley was to have been returned in person when next they met. Its peculiarly soft paper, doubled outside its own binding, had gone to pulp and disappeared by the time the cremation took place. The binding was tendered to Hunt, who, with characteristic faith, declined to receive it, until he could take the book from Shelley in pursuance of their understanding. The remnant of the book was therefore thrown upon the poet's pyre and burned with him. Trelawny watched the slow consumption of his friend's body and noted that, when the frame divided and exposed the heart, that, more than other parts, opposed a stubborn resistance to the flames. Thrusting his hand into the fire he seized the heart and preserved it. When the cremation was complete, he gathered the ashes into a small casket; and in due time this casket was conveyed to Rome, where it was enclosed in a coffin and entombed