We spent the summer of 1820 at the Baths of San Giuliano, four miles from Pisa.  These baths were of great use to Shelley in soothing his nervous irritability.  We made several excursions in the neighbourhood.  The country around is fertile, and diversified and rendered picturesque by ranges of near hills and more distant mountains.  The peasantry are a handsome intelligent race; and there was a gladsome sunny heaven spread over us, that rendered home and every scene we visited cheerful and bright.  During some of the hottest days of August, Shelley made a solitary journey on foot to the summit of Monte San Pellegrino—­a mountain of some height, on the top of which there is a chapel, the object, during certain days of the year, of many pilgrimages.  The excursion delighted him while it lasted; though he exerted himself too much, and the effect was considerable lassitude and weakness on his return.  During the expedition he conceived the idea, and wrote, in the three days immediately succeeding to his return, the “Witch of Atlas”.  This poem is peculiarly characteristic of his tastes—­wildly fanciful, full of brilliant imagery, and discarding human interest and passion, to revel in the fantastic ideas that his imagination suggested.

The surpassing excellence of “The Cenci” had made me greatly desire that Shelley should increase his popularity by adopting subjects that would more suit the popular taste than a poem conceived in the abstract and dreamy spirit of the “Witch of Atlas”.  It was not only that I wished him to acquire popularity as redounding to his fame; but I believed that he would obtain a greater mastery over his own powers, and greater happiness in his mind, if public applause crowned his endeavours.  The few stanzas that precede the poem were addressed to me on my representing these ideas to him.  Even now I believe that I was in the right.  Shelley did not expect sympathy and approbation from the public; but the want of it took away a portion of the ardour that ought to have sustained him while writing.  He was thrown on his own resources, and on the inspiration of his own soul; and wrote because his mind overflowed, without the hope of being appreciated.  I had not the most distant wish that he should truckle in opinion, or submit his lofty aspirations for the human race to the low ambition and pride of the many; but I felt sure that, if his poems were more addressed to the common feelings of men, his proper rank among the writers of the day would be acknowledged, and that popularity as a poet would enable his countrymen to do justice to his character and virtues, which in those days it was the mode to attack with the most flagitious calumnies and insulting abuse.  That he felt these things deeply cannot be doubted, though he armed himself with the consciousness of acting from a lofty and heroic sense of right.  The truth burst from his heart sometimes in solitude, and he would writes few unfinished verses that showed that he felt the sting; among such I find the following:—­