t I was never very fastidious in my diet." Then he
continued, in a wild and eccentric manner: "Gronow, do you remember the
beautiful Martha, the Hebe of Spiers's? She was the loveliest girl I
ever saw, and I loved her to distraction."

Shelley was looking careworn and ill; and, as usual, was very
carelessly dressed. He had on a large and wide straw hat, his long
brown hair, already streaked with grey, flowing in large masses from
under it, and presented a wild and strange appearance.

During the time I sat by his side he asked many questions about myself
and many of our schoolfellows; but on my questioning him in turn about
himself, his way of life, and his future plans, he avoided entering
into any explanation: indeed, he gave such short and evasive answers,
that, thinking my inquisitiveness displeased him, I rose to take my
leave. I observed that I had not been lucky enough to see Lord Byron
in any of my rambles, to which he replied, "Byron is living at his
villa, surrounded by his court of sycophants; but I shall shortly see
him at Leghorn." We then shook hands. I never saw him again; for he
was drowned shortly afterwards, with his friend, Captain Williams, and
his body was washed ashore near Via Reggio. Every one is familiar with
the romantic scene which took place on the sea-shore when the remains
of my poor friend and Captain Williams were burnt, in the presence of
Byron and Trelawney, in the Roman fashion. His ashes were gathered into
an urn, and buried in the Protestant cemetery at Rome. He was but
twenty-nine years of age at his death.

ROBERT SOUTHEY, THE POET

In the year 1803, my father received a letter of introduction from Mr.
Rees, of the well-known firm of Longman, Paternoster Row, presenting
Robert Southey, the poet, to him. He came into Wales with the hope of
finding a cottage to reside in. Accordingly, a cavalcade was formed,
consisting of Mr. W. Gwynne, the two brothers Southey, my father, and
myself, and we rode up the Valley of Neath to look at a cottage about
eight miles from the town. The poet, delighted with the scenery and
situation, decided upon taking it; but the owner, unfortunately for the
honour of Welshmen, actually declined to let it to Robert Southey,
fearing that a poet could not find security for the small annual rent
of twenty-five pounds. This circumstance led the man of letters, who
eventually became one of the most distinguished men of his day, to seek
a home