The weakness ascribed to Shelley’s voice was equally taken from exceptional instances, and the account of it usually suggests the idea that he spoke in a falsetto which might almost be mistaken for the “shriek” of a harsh-toned woman.  Nothing could be more unlike the reality.  The voice was indeed quite peculiar, and I do not know where any parallel to it is likely to be found unless in Lancashire.  Shelley had no ear for music,—­the words that he wrote for existing airs being, strangely enough, inappropriate in rhythm and even in cadence; and though he had a manifest relish for music and often talked of it, I do not remember that I ever heard him sing even the briefest snatch.  I cannot tell, therefore, what was the “register” of his singing voice; but his speaking voice unquestionably was then of a high natural counter-tenor.  I should say that he usually spoke at a pitch somewhere about the D natural above the base line; but it was in no respect a falsetto.  It was a natural chest-voice, not powerful, but telling, musical, and expressive.  In reading aloud, the strain was peculiarly clear, and had a sustained, song-like quality, which came out more strongly when, as he often did, he recited verse.  When he called out in pain,—­a very rare occurrence,—­or sometimes in comic playfulness, you might hear the “shrillness” of which people talk; but it was only because the organ was forced beyond the ordinary effort.  His usual speech was clear, and yet with a breath in it, with an especially distinct articulation, a soft, vibrating tone, emphatic, pleasant, and persuasive.

It seems to me that these physical characteristics forcibly illustrate the moral and intellectual genius of the man.  The impulsiveness which has been ascribed to him is a wrong expression, for it is usually interpreted to mean the action of sudden motives waywardly, capriciously, or at least intermittingly working; whereas the character which Shelley so constantly displayed was an overbearing strength of conviction and feeling, a species of audacious, but chivalrous readiness to act upon conviction as promptly as possible, and, above all, a zealous disposition to say out all that was in his mind.  It is better expressed by the word which some satirist put into the mouth of Coleridge, speaking of himself, and, instead of impulsiveness, it should have been called an “utterancy,” coupled with decision and promptitude of action.  The physical development of the man with the progress of time may be traced in the advancement of his writings.  The physical qualities which are equally to be found in his poetry and prose were quite as manifest in his aspect, and not less so in his conduct of affairs.  It must be remembered that his life terminated long before he had arrived half-way, “nel mezzo del cammin di nostra vita,” when more than one other great intellect has been but commencing its true work.  I believe, that, if Shelley had lived, he would himself have been the most potent and useful commentator on his own writings, in the production of other and more complete works.  But meanwhile the true measure of his genius is to be found in the influence which he has had, not only over those who have proclaimed their debt to him, but over numbers who have mistrusted and even denounced him.