lorence, where Shelley
passed several hours daily in the Gallery, and made various notes on its
ancient works of art. His thoughts were a good deal taken up also by the
project of a steamboat, undertaken by a friend, an engineer, to ply
between Leghorn and Marseilles, for which he supplied a sum of money.
This was a sort of plan to delight Shelley, and he was greatly
disappointed when it was thrown aside.

There was something in Florence that disagreed excessively with his
health, and he suffered far more pain than usual; so much so that we
left it sooner than we intended, and removed to Pisa, where we had some
friends, and, above all, where we could consult the celebrated Vacca as
to the cause of Shelley's sufferings. He, like every other medical man,
could only guess at that, and gave little hope of immediate relief; he
enjoined him to abstain from all physicians and medicine, and to leave
his complaint to Nature. As he had vainly consulted medical men of the
highest repute in England, he was easily persuaded to adopt this advice.
Pain and ill-health followed him to the end; but the residence at Pisa
agreed with him better than any other, and there in consequence we
remained.

In the Spring we spent a week or two near Leghorn, borrowing the house
of some friends who were absent on a journey to England. It was on a
beautiful summer evening, while wandering among the lanes whose
myrtle-hedges were the bowers of the fire-flies, that we heard the
carolling of the skylark which inspired one of the most beautiful of his
poems. He addressed the letter to Mrs. Gisborne from this house, which
was hers: he had made his study of the workshop of her son, who was an
engineer. Mrs. Gisborne had been a friend of my father in her younger
days. She was a lady of great accomplishments, and charming from her
frank and affectionate nature. She had the most intense love of
knowledge, a delicate and trembling sensibility, and preserved freshness
of mind after a life of considerable adversity. As a favourite friend of
my father, we had sought her with eagerness; and the most open and
cordial friendship was established between us.

Our stay at the Baths of San Giuliano was shortened by an accident. At
the foot of our garden ran the canal that communicated between the
Serchio and the Arno. The Serchio overflowed its banks, and, breaking
its bounds, this canal also overflowed; all this part of the country is
below the level of its rivers, a