The history of Shelley’s brief visit to Pisa has been related by many, and is, I believe, told in his published letters; but it appears to me that those who have recounted it have in some respects fallen short.  Excepting Mary Shelley, the best-informed spoke too soon after the event.  Shelley’s own letters are slightly misleading, from a very intelligible cause.  After he had encouraged, if he did not suggest, the enterprise of “The Liberal,”—­and I believe it would be nearly impossible for any one of the three men interested in that venture to ascertain exactly who was its author,—­his mind misgave him.  He knew my father’s necessities and his childish capacities for business.  With a keen sense of the power displayed in “Don Juan,” and even in more melodramatic works, Shelley had acquired a full knowledge of the singularly licentious training from which Byron had then scarcely emerged, and of the vacillating caprice which enfeebled all his actions.  His own ability to grapple with practical affairs was very great; but he himself had scarcely formed a sufficient estimate of it.  Determined to maintain a thorough equality and freedom with the noble bard in their social relations, he shrank from any position which might raise in Byron’s jealous and unstable mind the idea that he was under pressure; yet he was anxious to prevent disappointment for Leigh Hunt.  He dreaded failure, and resolved that he would do his best to prevent it; and yet again he scarcely anticipated success.

As early as the end of 1818, he described the way in which Byron spent his life, after he had been partly exiled, partly emancipated from the ordinary restraints of society.  At that time, “the Italian women were the most contemptible of all who existed under the moon,—­an ordinary Englishman could not approach them”; “but,” writes Shelley, “Lord Byron is familiar with the lowest sort of these women,—­the people his gondolieri pick up in the streets.”  Byron’s curiosity, indeed, tempted him to learn something of vice in its most revolting aspects.  “He has,” writes Shelley, “a certain degree of candor, while you talk to him, but unfortunately it does not outlast your departure.”  I am sure that before 1821 Byron had risen in his friend’s estimation, or the “Liberal” scheme would never have been contemplated; and there were excellent reasons for the change.  It is only by degrees that men have learned to appreciate at once the extraordinary nature and force of Byron’s genius and the equally monstrous and marvellous nature of the evil training by which he was “dragged up.”  In the midst of extravagant license he gained experiences which might have extinguished his mind, but which, as they did not have that effect, added to his resources.  In the process some of his personal qualities as a companion suffered severely.  Very few grown men have been so extravagantly sensitive to personal approbation; and he was anxious to conciliate the liking of all who approached him, however foreign to his own set,