As our attention is most commonly attracted by those departments of
knowledge which are striking and remarkable, rather than by those which
are really useful, so, in estimating the character of an individual, we
are prone to admire extraordinary intellectual powers and uncommon
energies of thought, and to overlook that excellence which is, in truth,
the most precious--his moral value. Was the subject of biography
distinguished by a vast erudition? Was he conspicuous for an original
genius? for a warm and fruitful fancy? Such are the implied questions
which we seek to resolve by consulting the memoirs of his life. We may
sometimes desire to be informed whether he was a man of nice honour and
conspicuous integrity; but how rarely do we feel any curiosity with
respect to that quality which is, perhaps, the most important to his
fellows--how seldom do we desire to measure his benevolence! It would be
impossible faithfully to describe the course of a single day in the
ordinary life of Shelley without showing incidentally and unintentionally,
that his nature was eminently benevolent--and many minute traits, pregnant
with proof, have been already scattered by the way; but it would be an
injustice to his memory to forbear to illustrate expressly, but briefly,
in leave-taking, the ardent, devoted, and unwearied love he bore his kind.
A personal intercourse could alone enable the observer to discern in him a
soul ready winged for flight and scarcely detained by the fetters of body:
that happiness was, if possible, still more indispensable to open the view
of the unbounded expanse of cloudless philanthropy--pure, disinterested,
and unvaried--the aspect of which often filled with mute wonder the minds
of simple people, unable to estimate a penetrating genius, a docile
sagacity, a tenacious memory, or, indeed, any of the various ornaments of
the soul.
Whenever the intimate friends of Shelley speak of him in general terms,
they speedily and unconsciously fall into the language of panegyric--a
style of discourse that is barren of instruction, wholly devoid of
interest, and justly suspected by the prudent stranger. It becomes them,
therefore, on discovering the error they have committed, humbly to entreat
the forgiveness of the charitable for human infirmity, oppressed and
weighed down by the fulness of the subject--carefully to abstain in future
from every vague expression of commendation, and faithfully to relate a
plain, honest tale of unadorned facts.
A regard for children, singular and touching, is an unerring and most
engaging indication of a benevolent mind. That this characteristic was not
wanting in Shelley might be demonstrated by numerous examples which crowd
upon the recollection, each of them bearing the strongly impressed stamp
of individuality; for genius renders every surrounding circumstance
significant and important. In one of our rambles we were traversing the
bare, squalid, ugly, corn-yielding country, that lies, if I remember
rightly, to the south-west of Oxford. The hollow road ascended a hill, and
near the summit Shelley observed a female child leaning against the bank
on the right; it was of a mean, dull and unattractive aspect, and older
than its stunted growth denoted. The morning, as well as the preceding
night, had been rainy; it had cleared up at noon with a certain ungenial
sunshine, and the afternoon was distinguished by that intense cold which
sometimes, in the winter season, terminates such days. The little girl was
oppressed by cold, by hunger and by a vague feeling of abandonment. It was
not easy to draw from her blue lips an intelligible history of her
condition. Love, however, is at once credulous and apprehensive; and
Shelley immediately decided that she had been deserted, and with his
wonted precipitation (for in the career of humanity his active spirit knew
no pause), he proposed different schemes for the permanent relief of the
poor foundling, and he hastily inquired which of them was the most
expedient. I answered that it was desirable, in the first place, to try to
procure some food, for of this the want was manifestly the most urgent. I
then climbed the hill to reconnoitre, and observed a cottage close at
hand, on the left of the road. With considerable difficulty--with a gentle
violence indeed--Shelley induced the child to accompany him thither. After
much delay, we procured from the people of the place, who resembled the
dull, uncouth and perhaps sullen rustics of that district, some warm milk.
It was a strange spectacle to watch the young poet, whilst, with the
enthusiastic and intensely earnest manner that characterises the
legitimate brethren of the celestial art--the heaven-born and fiercely
inspired sons of genuine poesy--holding the wooden bowl in one hand and
the wooden spoon in the other, and kneeling on his left knee, that he
might more certainly attain to her mouth. He urged and encouraged the
torpid and timid child to eat. The hot milk was agreeable to the girl,
and its effects were salutary; but she was obviously uneasy at the
detention. Her uneasiness increased, and ultimately prevailed. We returned
with her to the place where we had found her, Shelley bearing the bowl of
milk in his hand. Here we saw some people anxiously looking for the
child--a man and, I think, four women, strangers of the poorest class, of
a mean but not disreputable appearance. As soon as the girl perceived them
she was content, and taking the bowl from Shelley, she finished the milk
without his help.
Meanwhile, one of the women explained the apparent desertion with a
multitude of rapid words. They had come from a distance, and to spare the
weary child the fatigue of walking farther, the day being at that time
sunny, they left her to await their return. Those unforeseen delays, which
harass all, and especially the poor, in transacting business, had detained
them much longer than they had anticipated.
Such, in a few words, is the story which was related in many, and which
the little girl, who, it was said, was somewhat deficient in
understanding as well as in stature, was unable to explain. So humble was
the condition of these poor wayfaring folks that they did not presume to
offer thanks in words; but they often turned back, and with mute wonder
gazed at Shelley who, totally unconscious that he had done anything to
excite surprise, returned with huge strides to the cottage to restore the
bowl and to pay for the milk. As the needy travellers pursued their
toilsome and possibly fruitless journey, they had at least the
satisfaction to reflect that all above them were not desolated by a dreary
apathy, but that some hearts were warm with that angelic benevolence
towards inferiors in which still higher natures, as we are taught, largely
participate.
Shelley would often pause, halting suddenly in his swift course, to admire
the children of the country people; and after gazing on a sweet and
intelligent countenance, he would exhibit, in the language and with an
aspect of acute anguish, his intense feeling of the future sorrows and
sufferings--of all the manifold evils of life which too often distort, by
a mean and most disagreeable expression, the innocent, happy and engaging
lineaments of youth. He sometimes stopped to observe the softness and
simplicity that the face and gestures of a gentle girl displayed, and he
would surpass her gentleness by his own.
We were strolling once in the neighbourhood of Oxford when Shelley was
attracted by a little girl. He turned aside, and stood and observed her in
silence. She was about six years of age, small and slight, bare-headed,
bare-legged, and her apparel variegated and tattered. She was busily
employed in collecting empty snail-shells, so much occupied, indeed, that
some moments elapsed before she turned her face towards us. When she did
so, we perceived that she was evidently a young gipsy; and Shelley was
forcibly struck by the vivid intelligence of her wild and swarthy
countenance, and especially by the sharp glance of her fierce black eyes.
"How much intellect is here!" he exclaimed; "in how humble a vessel, and
what an unworthy occupation for a person who once knew perfectly the whole
circle of the sciences; who has forgotten them all, it is true, but who
could certainly recollect them, although most probably she will never do
so, will never recall a single principle of all of them!"
As he spoke he turned aside a bramble with his foot and discovered a large
shell which the alert child instantly caught up and added to her store. At
the same moment a small stone was thrown from the other side of the road;
it fell in the hedge near us. We turned round and saw on the top of a high
bank a boy, some three years older than the girl, and in as rude a guise.
He was looking at us over a low hedge, with a smile, but plainly not
without suspicion. We might be two kidnappers, he seemed to think; he was
in charge of his little sister, and did not choose to have her stolen
before his face. He gave the signal, therefore, and she obeyed it, and had
almost joined him before we missed her from our side. They both
disappeared, and we continued our walk.
Shelley was charmed with the intelligence of the two children of nature,
and with their marvellous wildness. He talked much about them, and
compared them to birds and to the two wild leverets, which that wild
mother, the hare, produces. We sauntered about, and, half an hour
afterwards, on turning a corner, we suddenly met the two children again
full in the face. The meeting was unlooked for, and the air of the boy
showed that it was unpleasant to him. He had a large bundle of dry sticks
under his arm; these he gently dropped and stood motionless with an
apprehensive smile--a deprecatory smile. We were perhaps the lords of the
soil, and his patience was prepared, for patience was his lot--an
inalienable inheritance long entailed upon his line--to hear a severe
reproof with heavy threats, possibly even to receive blows with a stick
gathered by himself not altogether unwittingly for his own back, or to
find mercy and forbearance. Shelley's demeanour soon convinced him that he
had nothing to fear. He laid a hand on the round, matted, knotted, bare
and black head of each, viewed their moving, mercurial countenances with
renewed pleasure and admiration, and, shaking his long locks, suddenly
strode away. "That little ragged fellow knows as much as the wisest
philosopher," he presently cried, clapping the wings of his soul and
crowing aloud with shrill triumph at the felicitous union of the true with
the ridiculous, "but he will not communicate any portion of his knowledge.
It is not from churlishness, however, for of that his nature is plainly
incapable; but the sophisticated urchin will persist in thinking he has
forgotten all that he knows so well. I was about to ask him myself to
communicate some of the doctrines Plato unfolds in his _Dialogues_; but I
felt that it would do no good; the rogue would have laughed at me, and so
would his little sister. I wonder you did not propose to them some
mathematical questions: just a few interrogations in your geometry; for
that being so plain and certain, if it be once thoroughly understood, can
never be forgotten!"
A day or two afterwards (or it might be on the morrow), as we were
rambling in the favourite region at the foot of Shotover Hill, a gipsy's
tent by the roadside caught Shelley's eye. Men and women were seated on
the ground in front of it, watching a pot suspended over a smoky fire of
sticks. He cast a passing glance at the ragged group, but immediately
stopped on recognising the children, who remembered us and ran laughing
into the tent. Shelley laughed also and waved his hand, and the little
girl returned the salutation.
There were many striking contrasts in the character and behaviour of
Shelley, and one of the most remarkable was a mixture or alternation of
awkwardness with agility, of the clumsy with the graceful. He would
stumble in stepping across the floor of a drawing-room; he would trip
himself up on a smooth-shaven grass-plot, and he would tumble in the most
inconceivable manner in ascending the commodious, facile, and
well-carpeted staircase of an elegant mansion, so as to bruise his nose or
his lip on the upper steps, or to tread upon his hands, and even
occasionally to disturb the composure of a well-bred footman; on the
contrary, he would often glide without collision through a crowded
assembly, thread with unerring dexterity a most intricate path, or
securely and rapidly tread the most arduous and uncertain ways. As soon as
he saw the children enter the tent he darted after them with his peculiar
agility, followed them into their low, narrow and fragile tenement,
penetrated to the bottom of the tent without removing his hat or striking
against the woven edifice. He placed a hand on each round, rough head,
spoke a few kind words to the skulking children, and then returned not
less precipitously, and with as much ease and accuracy as if he had been a
dweller in tents from the hour when he first drew air and milk to that
day, as if he had been the descendant, not of a gentle house, but of a
long line of gipsies. His visit roused the jealousy of a stunted, feeble
dog, which followed him, and barked with helpless fury; he did not heed
it nor, perhaps, hear it. The company of gipsies were astonished at the
first visit that had ever been made by a member of either University to
their humble dwelling; but, as its object was evidently benevolent, they
did not stir or interfere, but greeted him on his return with a silent and
unobserved salutation. He seized my arm, and we prosecuted our
speculations as we walked briskly to our college.
The marvellous gentleness of his demeanour could conciliate the least
sociable natures, and it had secretly touched the wild things which he had
thus briefly noticed.
We were wandering through the roads and lanes at a short distance from the
tent soon afterwards, and were pursuing our way in silence. I turned round
at a sudden sound--the young gipsy had stolen upon us unperceived, and
with a long bramble had struck Shelley across the skirts of his coat. He
had dropped his rod, and was returning softly to the hedge.
Certain misguided persons, who, unhappily for themselves, were incapable
of understanding the true character of Shelley, have published many false
and injurious calumnies respecting him--some for hire, others drawing
largely out of the inborn vulgarity of their own minds, or from the
necessary malignity of ignorance--but no one ever ventured to say that he
was not a good judge of an orange. At this time, in his nineteenth year,
although temperate, he was less abstemious in his diet than he afterwards
became, and he was frequently provided with some fine samples. As soon as
he understood the rude but friendly welcome to the heaths and lanes, he
drew an orange from his pocket and rolled it after the retreating gipsy
along the grass by the side of the wide road. The boy started with
surprise as the golden fruit passed him, quickly caught it up and joyfully
bore it away, bending reverently over it and carrying it with both his
hands, as if, together with almost the size, it had also the weight of a
cannon-ball.
His passionate fondness of the Platonic philosophy seemed to sharpen his
natural affection for children, and his sympathy with their innocence.
Every true Platonist, he used to say, must be a lover of children, for
they are our masters and instructors in philosophy. The mind of a new-born
infant, so far from being, as Locke affirms, a sheet of blank paper, is a
pocket edition containing every dialogue, a complete Elzevir Plato, if we
can fancy such a pleasant volume, and moreover a perfect encyclopedia,
comprehending not only the newest discoveries, but all those still more
valuable and wonderful inventions that will hereafter be made.
One Sunday we had been reading Plato together so diligently that the usual
hour of exercise passed away unperceived. We sallied forth hastily to take
the air for half an hour before dinner. In the middle of Magdalen Bridge
we met a woman with a child in her arms. Shelley was more attentive at
that instant to our conduct in a life that was past or to come than to a
decorous regulation of the present, according to the established usages
of society in that fleeting moment of eternal duration styled the
nineteenth century. With abrupt dexterity he caught hold of the child. The
mother, who might well fear that it was about to be thrown over the
parapet of the bridge into the sedgy waters below, held it fast by its
long train.
"Will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he asked, in
a piercing voice and with a wistful look.
The mother made no answer, but, perceiving that Shelley's object was not
murderous but altogether harmless, she dismissed her apprehension and
relaxed her hold.
"Will your baby tell us anything about pre-existence, madam?" he repeated,
with unabated earnestness.
"He cannot speak, sir," said the mother, seriously.
"Worse and worse," cried Shelley, with an air of deep disappointment,
shaking his long hair most pathetically about his young face; "but surely
the babe can speak if he will, for he is only a few weeks old. He may
fancy, perhaps, that he cannot, but it is only a silly whim. He cannot
have forgotten entirely the use of speech in so short a time. The thing is
absolutely impossible!"
"It is not for me to dispute with you, gentlemen," the woman meekly
replied, her eye glancing at our academical garb, "but I can safely
declare that I never heard him speak, nor any child, indeed, of his age."
It was a fine, placid boy: so far from being disturbed by the
interruption, he looked up and smiled. Shelley pressed his fat cheeks with
his fingers; we commended his healthy appearance and his equanimity, and
the mother was permitted to proceed, probably to her satisfaction, for she
would doubtless prefer a less speculative nurse. Shelley sighed deeply as
we walked on.
"How provokingly close are those new-born babes!" he ejaculated; "but it
is not the less certain, notwithstanding the cunning attempts to conceal
the truth, that all knowledge is reminiscence. The doctrine is far more
ancient than the times of Plato, and as old as the venerable allegory
that the Muses are the daughters of Memory; not one of the nine was ever
said to be the child of Invention!"
In consequence of this theory, upon which his active imagination loved to
dwell, and which he was delighted to maintain in argument with the few
persons qualified to dispute with him on the higher metaphysics, his
fondness for children--a fondness innate in generous minds--was augmented
and elevated, and the gentle instinct expanded into a profound and
philosophical sentiment. The Platonists have been illustrious in all ages
on account of the strength and permanence of their attachments. In Shelley
the parental affections were developed at an early period to an unusual
extent. It was manifest, therefore, that his heart was formed by nature
and by cultivation to derive the most exquisite gratification from the
society of his own progeny, or the most poignant anguish from a natural or
unnatural bereavement. To strike him here was the cruel admonition which
a cursory glance would at once convey to him who might seek where to wound
him most severely with a single blow, should he ever provoke the vengeance
of an enemy to the active and fearless spirit of liberal investigation and
to all solid learning--of a foe to the human race. With respect to the
theory of the pre-existence of the soul, it is not wonderful that an
ardent votary of the intellectual should love to uphold it in strenuous
and protracted disputation, as it places the immortality of the soul in an
impregnable castle, and not only secures it an existence independent of
the body, as it were, by usage and prescription, but moreover, raising it
out of the dirt on tall stilts, elevates it far above the mud of matter.
It is not wonderful that a subtle sophist, who esteemed above all riches
and terrene honours victory in well-fought debate, should be willing to
maintain a dogma that is not only of difficult eversion by those who,
struggling as mere metaphysicians, use no other weapon than unassisted
reason, but which one of the most illustrious Fathers of the Church--a
man of amazing powers and stupendous erudition, armed with the prodigious
resources of the Christian theology, the renowned Origen--was unable to
dismiss; retaining it as not dissonant from his informed reason, and as
affording a larger scope for justice in the moral government of the
universe.
In addition to his extreme fondness for children, another and a not less
unequivocal characteristic of a truly philanthropic mind was eminently and
still more remarkably conspicuous in Shelley--his admiration of men of
learning and genius. In truth the devotion, the reverence, the religion
with which he was kindled towards all the masters of intellect, cannot be
described, and must be utterly inconceivable to minds less deeply
enamoured with the love of wisdom. The irreverent many cannot comprehend
the awe, the careless apathetic worldling cannot imagine the enthusiasm,
nor can the tongue that attempts only to speak of things visible to the
bodily eye, express the mighty motion that inwardly agitated him when he
approached, for the first time, a volume which he believed to be replete
with the recondite and mystic philosophy of antiquity; his cheeks glowed,
his eyes became bright, his whole frame trembled, and his entire attention
was immediately swallowed up in the depths of contemplation. The rapid and
vigorous conversion of his soul to intellect can only be compared with the
instantaneous ignition and combustion which dazzle the sight, when a
bundle of dry reeds or other inflammable substance is thrown upon a fire
already rich with accumulated heat.
The company of persons of merit was delightful to him, and he often spoke
with a peculiar warmth of the satisfaction he hoped to derive from the
society of the most distinguished literary and scientific characters of
the day in England, and the other countries of Europe, when his own
attainments would justify him in seeking their acquaintance. He was never
weary of recounting the rewards and favours that authors had formerly
received; and he would detail in pathetic language, and with a touching
earnestness, the instances of that poverty and neglect which an iron age
assigned as the fitting portion of solid erudition and undoubted talents.
He would contrast the niggard praise and the paltry payments that the cold
and wealthy moderns reluctantly dole out, with the ample and heartfelt
commendation and the noble remuneration which were freely offered by the
more generous but less opulent ancients. He spoke with an animation of
gesture and an elevation of voice of him who undertook a long journey,
that he might once see the historian Livy; and he recounted the rich
legacies which were bequeathed to Cicero and Pliny the younger by
testators venerating their abilities and attainments--his zeal,
enthusiastic in the cause of letters, giving an interest and a novelty to
the most trite and familiar instances. His disposition being wholly
munificent, gentle and friendly, how generous a patron would he have
proved had he ever been in the actual possession of even moderate wealth!
Out of a scanty and somewhat precarious income, inadequate to allow the
indulgence of the most ordinary superfluities, and diminished by various
casual but unavoidable incumbrances, he was able, by restricting himself
to a diet more simple than the fare of the most austere anchorite, and by
refusing himself horses and the other gratifications that appear properly
to belong to his station, and of which he was in truth very fond, to
bestow upon men of letters, whose merits were of too high an order to be
rightly estimated by their own generation, donations large indeed, if we
consider from how narrow a source they flowed.
But to speak of this, his signal and truly admirable bounty, save only in
the most distant manner and the most general terms, would be a flagrant
violation of that unequalled delicacy with which it was extended to
undeserved indigence, accompanied by well-founded and most commendable
pride. To allude to any particular instance, however obscurely and
indistinctly, would be unpardonable; but it would be scarcely less
blameable to dismiss the consideration of the character of the benevolent
young poet without some imperfect testimony of this rare excellence.
That he gave freely, when the needy scholar asked or in silent, hopeless
poverty seemed to ask his aid, will be demonstrated most clearly by
relating shortly one example of his generosity, where the applicant had no
pretensions to literary renown, and no claim whatever, except perhaps
honest penury. It is delightful to attempt to delineate from various
points of view a creature of infinite moral beauty, but one instance must
suffice; an ample volume might be composed of such tales, but one may be
selected because it contains a large admixture of that ingredient which is
essential to the conversion of almsgiving into the genuine virtue of
charity--self-denial.
On returning to town after the long vacation at the end of October, I
found Shelley at one of the hotels in Covent Garden. Having some business
in hand he was passing a few days there alone. We had taken some mutton
chops hastily at a dark place in one of the minute courts of the city at
an early hour, and we went forth to walk; for to walk at all times, and
especially in the evening, was his supreme delight.
The aspect of the fields to the north of Somers Town, between that
beggarly suburb and Kentish Town, has been totally changed of late.
Although this district could never be accounted pretty, nor deserving a
high place even amongst suburban scenes, yet the air, or often the wind,
seemed pure and fresh to captives emerging from the smoke of London. There
were certain old elms, much very green grass, quiet cattle feeding and
groups of noisy children playing with something of the freedom of the
village green. There was, oh blessed thing! an entire absence of carriages
and of blood-horses; of the dust and dress and affectation and fashion of
the parks; there were, moreover, old and quaint edifices and objects which
gave character to the scene.
Whenever Shelley was imprisoned in London--for to a poet a close and
crowded city must be a dreary gaol--his steps would take that direction,
unless his residence was too remote, or he was accompanied by one who
chose to guide his walk. On this occasion I was led thither, as indeed I
had anticipated. The weather was fine, but the autumn was already
advanced; we had not sauntered long in these fields when the dusky evening
closed in, and the darkness gradually thickened.
"How black those trees are," said Shelley, stopping short and pointing to
a row of elms. "It is so dark the trees might well be houses and the turf
pavement--the eye would sustain no loss. It is useless, therefore, to
remain here; let us return." He proposed tea at his hotel, I assented; and
hastily buttoning his coat he seized my arm and set off at his great pace,
striding with bent knees over the fields and through the narrow streets.
We were crossing the New Road, when he said shortly, "I must call for a
moment, but it will not be out of the way at all," and then dragged me
suddenly towards the left. I inquired whither we were bound, and, I
believe, I suggested the postponement of the intended call till the
morrow. He answered, it was not at all out of our way.
I was hurried along rapidly towards the left. We soon fell into an
animated discussion respecting the nature of the virtue of the Romans,
which in some measure beguiled the weary way. Whilst he was talking with
much vehemence and a total disregard of the people who thronged the
streets, he suddenly wheeled about and pushed me through a narrow door; to
my infinite surprise I found myself in a pawnbroker's shop. It was in the
neighbourhood of Newgate Street, for he had no idea whatever, in practice,
either of time or space, nor did he in any degree regard method in the
conduct of business.
There were several women in the shop in brown and grey cloaks, with
squalling children. Some of them were attempting to persuade the children
to be quiet, or at least to scream with moderation; the others were
enlarging upon and pointing out the beauties of certain coarse and dirty
sheets that lay before them to a man on the other side of the counter.
I bore this substitute for our proposed tea some minutes with tolerable
patience, but as the call did not promise to terminate speedily, I said to
Shelley, in a whisper, "Is not this almost as bad as the Roman virtue?"
Upon this he approached the pawnbroker; it was long before he could obtain
a hearing, and he did not find civility. The man was unwilling to part
with a valuable pledge so soon, or perhaps he hoped to retain it
eventually; or it might be that the obliquity of his nature disqualified
him for respectful behaviour.
A pawnbroker is frequently an important witness in criminal proceedings.
It has happened to me, therefore, afterwards to see many specimens of this
kind of banker. They sometimes appeared not less respectable than other
tradesmen, and sometimes I have been forcibly reminded of the first I ever
met with, by an equally ill-conditioned fellow. I was so little pleased
with the introduction that I stood aloof in the shop, and did not hear
what passed between him and Shelley.
On our way to Covent Garden I expressed my surprise and dissatisfaction at
our strange visit, and I learned that when he came to London before, in
the course of the summer, some old man had related to him a tale of
distress--of a calamity which could only be alleviated by the timely
application of ten pounds; five of them he drew at once from his pocket,
and to raise the other five he had pawned his beautiful solar microscope!
He related this act of beneficence simply and briefly, as if it were a
matter of course, and such indeed it was to him. I was ashamed at my
impatience, and we strode along in silence.
It was past ten when we reached the hotel. Some excellent tea and a
liberal supply of hot muffins in the coffee-room, now quiet and solitary,
were the more grateful after the wearisome delay and vast deviation.
Shelley often turned his head and cast eager glances towards the door,
and whenever the waiter replenished our tea-pot or approached our box he
was interrogated whether anyone had yet called.
At last the desired summons was brought. Shelley drew forth some
banknotes, hurried to the bar, and returned as hastily, bearing in triumph
under his arm a mahogany box, followed by the officious waiter, with whose
assistance he placed it upon the bench by his side. He viewed it often
with evident satisfaction, and sometimes patted it affectionately in the
course of calm conversation. The solar microscope was always a favourite
plaything or instrument of scientific inquiry. Whenever he entered a house
his first care was to choose some window of a southern aspect, and, if
permission could be obtained by prayer or by purchase, straightway to cut
a hole through the shutter to receive it.
His regard for his solar microscope was as lasting as it was strong; for
he retained it several years after this adventure, and long after he had
parted with all the rest of his philosophical apparatus.
Such is the story of the microscope, and no rightly judging person who
hears it will require the further accumulation of proofs of a benevolent
heart; nor can I, perhaps, better close this sketch than with that
impression of the pure and genial beauty of Shelley's nature which this
simple anecdote will bequeath.