a vine-trellised walk,
a pergola, as it is called in Italian, led from the hall-door to a
summer-house at the end of the garden, which Shelley made his study, and
in which he began the "Prometheus"; and here also, as he mentions in a
letter, he wrote "Julian and Maddalo". A slight ravine, with a road in
its depth, divided the garden from the hill, on which stood the ruins of
the ancient castle of Este, whose dark massive wall gave forth an echo,
and from whose ruined crevices owls and bats flitted forth at night, as
the crescent moon sunk behind the black and heavy battlements. We looked
from the garden over the wide plain of Lombardy, bounded to the west by
the far Apennines, while to the east the horizon was lost in misty
distance. After the picturesque but limited view of mountain, ravine,
and chestnut-wood, at the Baths of Lucca, there was something infinitely
gratifying to the eye in the wide range of prospect commanded by our new
abode.

Our first misfortune, of the kind from which we soon suffered even more
severely, happened here. Our little girl, an infant in whose small
features I fancied that I traced great resemblance to her father, showed
symptoms of suffering from the heat of the climate. Teething increased
her illness and danger. We were at Este, and when we became alarmed,
hastened to Venice for the best advice. When we arrived at Fusina, we
found that we had forgotten our passport, and the soldiers on duty
attempted to prevent our crossing the laguna; but they could not resist
Shelley's impetuosity at such a moment. We had scarcely arrived at
Venice before life fled from the little sufferer, and we returned to
Este to weep her loss.

After a few weeks spent in this retreat, which was interspersed by
visits to Venice, we proceeded southward.

NOTE ON "PROMETHEUS UNBOUND", BY MRS. SHELLEY.

On the 12th of March, 1818, Shelley quitted England, never to return.
His principal motive was the hope that his health would be improved by a
milder climate; he suffered very much during the winter previous to his
emigration, and this decided his vacillating purpose. In December, 1817,
he had written from Marlow to a friend, saying:

'My health has been materially worse. My feelings at intervals are of a
deadly and torpid kind, or awakened to such a state of unnatural and
keen excitement that, only to instance the organ of sight, I find the
very blades of grass and the boughs of distant trees present thems