“I have been far more persecuted than you, as you may judge by my present decadence,—­for I take it that I am as low in popularity and book-selling as any writer can be.  At least, so my friends assure me—­blessings on their benevolence!  This they attribute to Hunt; but they are wrong—­it must be, partly at least, owing to myself; be it so.  As to Hunt, I prefer not having turned him to starve in the streets to any personal honour which might have accrued from such genuine philanthropy.  I really act upon principle in this matter, for we have nothing much in common; and I cannot describe to you the despairing sensation of trying to do something for a man who seems incapable or unwilling to do any thing further for himself,—­at least, to the purpose.  It is like pulling a man out of a river who directly throws himself in again.  For the last three or four years Shelley assisted, and had once actually extricated him.  I have since his demise,—­and even before,—­done what I could:  but it is not in my power to make this permanent.  I want Hunt to return to England, for which I would furnish him with the means in comfort; and his situation there, on the whole, is bettered, by the payment of a portion of his debts, &c.; and he would be on the spot to continue his Journal, or Journals, with his brother, who seems a sensible, plain, sturdy, and enduring person.” * *

The new intimacy of which he here announces the commencement, and which it was gratifying to me, as the common friend of all, to find that he had formed, was a source of much pleasure to him during the stay of his noble acquaintances at Genoa.  So long, indeed, had he persuaded himself that his countrymen abroad all regarded him in no other light than as an outlaw or a show, that every new instance he met of friendly reception from them was as much a surprise as pleasure to him; and it was evident that to his mind the revival of English associations and habitudes always brought with it a sense of refreshment, like that of inhaling his native air.

With the view of inducing these friends to prolong their stay at Genoa, he suggested their taking a pretty villa called “Il Paradiso,” in the neighbourhood of his own, and accompanied them to look at it.  Upon that occasion it was that, on the lady expressing some intentions of residing there, he produced the following impromptu, which—­but for the purpose of showing that he was not so “chary of his fame” as to fear failing in such trifles—­I should have thought hardly worth transcribing.

        “Beneath ——­’s eyes
        The reclaim’d Paradise
  Should be free as the former from evil;
        But, if the new Eve
        For an apple should grieve,
  What mortal would not play the devil?"[1]

[Footnote 1:  The Genoese wits had already applied this threadbare jest to himself.  Taking it into their heads that this villa (which was also, I believe, a Casa Saluzzo) had been the one fixed on for his own residence, they said “Il Diavolo e ancora entrato in Paradise.”]