His university days are but a repetition of his earlier experiences.  While a student at Oxford he read some scraps of Hume’s philosophy, and immediately published a pamphlet called “The Necessity of Atheism.”  It was a crude, foolish piece of work, and Shelley distributed it by post to every one to whom it might give offense.  Naturally this brought on a conflict with the authorities, but Shelley would not listen to reason or make any explanation, and was expelled from the university in 1811.

Shelley’s marriage was even more unfortunate.  While living in London, on a generous sister’s pocket money, a certain young schoolgirl, Harriet Westbrook, was attracted by Shelley’s crude revolutionary doctrines.  She promptly left school, as her own personal part in the general rebellion, and refused to return or even to listen to her parents upon the subject.  Having been taught by Shelley, she threw herself upon his protection; and this unbalanced couple were presently married, as they said, “in deference to anarch custom.”  The two infants had already proclaimed a rebellion against the institution of marriage, for which they proposed to substitute the doctrine of elective affinity.  For two years they wandered about England, Ireland, and Wales, living on a small allowance from Shelley’s father, who had disinherited his son because of his ill-considered marriage.  The pair soon separated, and two years later Shelley, having formed a strong friendship with one Godwin,—­a leader of young enthusiasts and a preacher of anarchy,—­presently showed his belief in Godwin’s theories by eloping with his daughter Mary.  It is a sad story, and the details were perhaps better forgotten.  We should remember that in Shelley we are dealing with a tragic blend of high-mindedness and light-headedness.  Byron wrote of him, “The most gentle, the most amiable, and the least worldly-minded person I ever met!”

Led partly by the general hostility against him, and partly by his own delicate health, Shelley went to Italy in 1818, and never returned to England.  After wandering over Italy he finally settled in Pisa, beloved of so many English poets,—­beautiful, sleepy Pisa, where one looks out of his window on the main street at the busiest hour of the day, and the only living thing in sight is a donkey, dozing lazily, with his head in the shade and his body in the sunshine.  Here his best poetry was written, and here he found comfort in the friendship of Byron, Hunt, and Trelawney, who are forever associated with Shelley’s Italian life.  He still remained hostile to English social institutions; but life is a good teacher, and that Shelley dimly recognized the error of his rebellion is shown in the increasing sadness of his later poems: 

    O world, O life, O time! 
    On whose last steps I climb,
      Trembling at that where I had stood before;
    When will return the glory of your prime? 
      No more—­oh, never more! 
    Out of the day and night
    A joy has taken flight;
      Fresh spring, and summer, and winter hoar,
    Move my faint heart with grief, but with delight
      No more—­oh, never more!