face, that it could be the poet, I returned his warm pressure.  After the ordinary greetings and courtesies he sat down and listened.  I was silent from astonishment:  was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy, could be the veritable monster at war with all the world?—­excommunicated by the Fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school?  I could not believe it; it must be a hoax.  He was habited like a boy, in a black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had most shamefully stinted him in his ‘sizings.’  Mrs. Williams saw my embarrassment, and to relieve me asked Shelley what book he had in his hand?  His face brightened, and he answered briskly,-

“‘Calderon’s “Magico Prodigioso”—­I am translating some passages in it.’

“‘Oh, read it to us.’

“Shoved off from the shore of commonplace incidents that could not interest him, and fairly launched on a theme that did, he instantly became oblivious of everything but the book in his hand.  The masterly manner in which he analysed the genius of the author, his lucid interpretation of the story, and the ease with which he translated into our language the most subtle and imaginative passages of the Spanish poet, were marvellous, as was his command of the two languages.  After this touch of his quality I no longer doubted his identity; a dead silence ensued; looking up, I asked,—­

“‘Where is he?’

“Mrs. Williams said, ’Who?  Shelley?  Oh, he comes and goes like a spirit, no one knows when or where.’”

Two little incidents which happened in the winter of 1821-2 deserve to be recorded.  News reached the Pisan circle early in December that a man who had insulted the Host at Lucca was sentenced to be burned.  Shelley proposed that the English—­himself, Byron, Medwin, and their friend Mr. Taafe—­should immediately arm and ride off to rescue him.  The scheme took Byron’s fancy; but they agreed to try less Quixotic measures before they had recourse to force, and their excitement was calmed by hearing that the man’s sentence had been commuted to the galleys.  The other affair brought them less agreeably into contact with the Tuscan police.  The party were riding home one afternoon in March, when a mounted dragoon came rushing by, breaking their ranks and nearly unhorsing Mr. Taafe.  Byron and Shelley rode after him to remonstrate; but the man struck Shelley from his saddle with a sabre blow.  The English then pursued him into Pisa, making such a clatter that one of Byron’s servants issued with a pitchfork from the Casa Lanfranchi, and wounded the fellow somewhat seriously, under the impression that it was necessary to defend his master.  Shelley called the whole matter “a trifling piece of business;” but it was strictly investigated by the authorities; and though the dragoon was found to have been in the wrong, Byron had to retire for a season to Leghorn.  Another consequence was the exile of Count Gamba and his father from Tuscany, which led to Byron’s final departure from Pisa.