He projected also translating the “Hymns” of Homer; his version of several of the shorter ones remains, as well as that to Mercury already published in the “Posthumous Poems”.  His readings this year were chiefly Greek.  Besides the “Hymns” of Homer and the “Iliad”, he read the dramas of Aeschylus and Sophocles, the “Symposium” of Plato, and Arrian’s “Historia Indica”.  In Latin, Apuleius alone is named.  In English, the Bible was his constant study; he read a great portion of it aloud in the evening.  Among these evening readings I find also mentioned the “Faerie Queen”; and other modern works, the production of his contemporaries, Coleridge, Wordsworth, Moore and Byron.

His life was now spent more in thought than action—­he had lost the eager spirit which believed it could achieve what it projected for the benefit of mankind.  And yet in the converse of daily life Shelley was far from being a melancholy man.  He was eloquent when philosophy or politics or taste were the subjects of conversation.  He was playful; and indulged in the wild spirit that mocked itself and others—­not in bitterness, but in sport.  The author of “Nightmare Abbey” seized on some points of his character and some habits of his life when he painted Scythrop.  He was not addicted to ‘port or madeira,’ but in youth he had read of ‘Illuminati and Eleutherarchs,’ and believed that he possessed the power of operating an immediate change in the minds of men and the state of society.  These wild dreams had faded; sorrow and adversity had struck home; but he struggled with despondency as he did with physical pain.  There are few who remember him sailing paper boats, and watching the navigation of his tiny craft with eagerness—­or repeating with wild energy “The Ancient Mariner”, and Southey’s “Old Woman of Berkeley”; but those who do will recollect that it was in such, and in the creations of his own fancy when that was most daring and ideal, that he sheltered himself from the storms and disappointments, the pain and sorrow, that beset his life.

No words can express the anguish he felt when his elder children were torn from him.  In his first resentment against the Chancellor, on the passing of the decree, he had written a curse, in which there breathes, besides haughty indignation, all the tenderness of a father’s love, which could imagine and fondly dwell upon its loss and the consequences.

At one time, while the question was still pending, the Chancellor had said some words that seemed to intimate that Shelley should not be permitted the care of any of his children, and for a moment he feared that our infant son would be torn from us.  He did not hesitate to resolve, if such were menaced, to abandon country, fortune, everything, and to escape with his child; and I find some unfinished stanzas addressed to this son, whom afterwards we lost at Rome, written under the idea that we might suddenly be forced to cross the sea, so to preserve him.  This poem,