with the serene joy and clear warmth of Italian skies, combining a
good deal of youthful buoyancy with a sort of quiet and unpretending
philosophy, is here represented. And it is submitted that the little
classical fancies which Mrs. Shelley never ventured to publish are
quite as worthy of consideration as her more ambitious prose works.

For one thing they give us the longest poetical effort of the writer.
The moon of _Epipsychidion_ never seems to have been thrilled with the
music of the highest spheres. Yet there were times when Shelley's
inspiration and example fired her into something more than her usual
calm and cold brilliancy.

One of those periods--perhaps the happiest period in Mary's life--was
during the early months in Italy of the English 'exiles'. 'She never
was more strongly impelled to write than at this time; she felt her
powers fresh and strong within her; all she wanted was some motive,
some suggestion to guide her in the choice of a subject.' [Footnote:
Mrs. Marshall, _The Life and Letters of Mary W. Shelley_, i. 216.]

Shelley then expected her to try her hand at a drama, perhaps on the
terrible story of the Cenci, or again on the catastrophes of Charles
the First. Her _Frankenstein_ was attracting more attention than had
ever been granted to his own works. And Shelley, with that touching
simplicity which characterized his loving moments, showed the greatest
confidence in the literary career of his wife. He helped her and
encouraged her in every way. He then translated for her Plato's
_Symposium_. He led her on in her Latin and Italian studies. He wanted
her--probably as a sort of preliminary exercise before her flight into
tragedy--to translate Alfieri's _Myrrha_. 'Remember _Charles the
First_, and do you be prepared to bring at least some of _Myrrha_