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, as well as the one previously quoted, were not written to exhibit the pangs of distress to the public; they were the spontaneous outbursts of a man who brooded over his wrongs and woes, and was impelled to shed the grace of his genius over the uncontrollable emotions of his heart.  I ought to observe that the fourth verse of this effusion is introduced in “Rosalind and Helen”.  When afterwards this child died at Rome, he wrote, a propos of the English burying-ground in that city:  ’This spot is the repository of a sacred loss, of which the yearnings of a parent’s heart are now prophetic; he is rendered immortal by love, as his memory is by death.  My beloved child lies buried here.  I envy death the body far less than the oppressors the minds of those whom they have torn from me.  The one can only kill the body, the other crushes the affections.’