Shelley, the poet, cut off at so early an age; just when his great
poetical talents had been matured by study and reflection, and when he
probably would have produced some great work, was my friend and
associate at Eton. He was a boy of studious and meditative habits,
averse to all games and sports, and a great reader of novels and
romances. He was a thin, slight lad, with remarkably lustrous eyes,
fine hair, and a very peculiar shrill voice and laugh. His most
intimate friend at Eton was a boy named Price, who was considered one
of the best classical scholars amongst us. At his tutor, Bethell's,
where he lodged, he attempted many mechanical and scientific
experiments. By the aid of a common tinker, he contrived to make
something like a steam-engine, which, unfortunately, one day suddenly
exploded; to the great consternation of the neighbourhood and to the
imminent danger of a severe flogging from Dr. Reate.
Soon after leaving school, and about the year 1810, he came, in a state
of great distress and difficulty, to Swansea, when we had an
opportunity of rendering him a service; but we never could ascertain
what had brought him to Wales, though we had reason to suppose it was
some mysterious affaire du coeur.
The last time I saw Shelley was at Genoa, in 1822, sitting on the
sea-shore, and, when I came upon him, making a true poet's meal of
bread and fruit; He at once recognized me, jumped up, and appearing
greatly delighted, exclaimed, "Here you see me at my old Eton habits;
but instead of the green fields for a couch, I have here the shores of
the Mediterranean. It is very grand, and very romantic. I only wish I
had some of the excellent brown bread and butter we used to get at
Spiers's: but I was never very fastidious in my diet." Then he
continued, in a wild and eccentric manner: "Gronow, do you remember the
beautiful Martha, the Hebe of Spiers's? She was the loveliest girl I
ever saw, and I loved her to distraction."
Shelley was looking careworn and ill; and, as usual, was very
carelessly dressed. He had on a large and wide straw hat, his long
brown hair, already streaked with grey, flowing in large masses from
under it, and presented a wild and strange appearance.
During the time I sat by his side he asked many questions about myself
and many of our schoolfellows; but on my questioning him in turn about
himself, his way of life, and his future plans, he avoided entering
into any explanation: indeed, he gave such short and evasive answers,
that, thinking my inquisitiveness displeased him, I rose to take my
leave. I observed that I had not been lucky enough to see Lord Byron
in any of my rambles, to which he replied, "Byron is living at his
villa, surrounded by his court of sycophants; but I shall shortly see
him at Leghorn." We then shook hands. I never saw him again; for he
was drowned shortly afterwards, with his friend, Captain Williams, and
his body was washed ashore near Via Reggio. Every one is familiar with
the romantic scene which took place on the sea-shore when the remains
of my poor friend and Captain Williams were burnt, in the presence of
Byron and Trelawney, in the Roman fashion. His ashes were gathered into
an urn, and buried in the Protestant cemetery at Rome. He was but
twenty-nine years of age at his death.