nd the consequence was that it was
speedily flooded. The rising waters filled the Square of the Baths, in
the lower part of which our house was situated. The canal overflowed in
the garden behind; the rising waters on either side at last burst open
the doors, and, meeting in the house, rose to the height of six feet. It
was a picturesque sight at night to see the peasants driving the cattle
from the plains below to the hills above the Baths. A fire was kept up
to guide them across the ford; and the forms of the men and the animals
showed in dark relief against the red glare of the flame, which was
reflected again in the waters that filled the Square.

We then removed to Pisa, and took up our abode there for the winter. The
extreme mildness of the climate suited Shelley, and his solitude was
enlivened by an intercourse with several intimate friends. Chance cast
us strangely enough on this quiet half-unpeopled town; but its very
peace suited Shelley. Its river, the near mountains, and not distant
sea, added to its attractions, and were the objects of many delightful
excursions. We feared the south of Italy, and a hotter climate, on
account of our child; our former bereavement inspiring us with terror.
We seemed to take root here, and moved little afterwards; often, indeed,
entertaining projects for visiting other parts of Italy, but still
delaying. But for our fears on account of our child, I believe we should
have wandered over the world, both being passionately fond of
travelling. But human life, besides its great unalterable necessities,
is ruled by a thousand lilliputian ties that shackle at the time,
although it is difficult to account afterwards for their influence over
our destiny.

NOTE ON POEMS OF 1821, BY MRS. SHELLEY.

My task becomes inexpressibly painful as the year draws near that which
sealed our earthly fate, and each poem, and each event it records, has a
real or mysterious connection with the fatal catastrophe. I feel that I
am incapable of putting on paper the history of those times. The heart
of the man, abhorred of the poet, who could

'peep and botanize
Upon his mother's grave,'

does not appear to me more inexplicably framed than that of one who can
dissect and probe past woes, and repeat to the public ear the groans
drawn from them in the throes of their agony.

The year 1821 was spent in Pisa, or at the Baths of San Giuliano. We
were not, as our wont had been, alone; friends had g