Did any one see the papers from which I drew that volume, the wonder
would be how any eyes or patience were capable of extracting it from so
confused a mass, interlined and broken into fragments, so that the sense
could only be deciphered and joined by guesses which might seem rather
intuitive than founded on reasoning. Yet I believe no mistake was made.)
The winter of 1822 was passed in Pisa, if we might call that season
winter in which autumn merged into spring after the interval of but few
days of bleaker weather. Spring sprang up early, and with extreme
beauty. Shelley had conceived the idea of writing a tragedy on the
subject of Charles I. It was one that he believed adapted for a drama;
full of intense interest, contrasted character, and busy passion. He had
recommended it long before, when he encouraged me to attempt a play.
Whether the subject proved more difficult than he anticipated, or
whether in fact he could not bend his mind away from the broodings and
wanderings of thought, divested from human interest, which he best
loved, I cannot tell; but he proceeded slowly, and threw it aside for
one of the most mystical of his poems, the "Triumph of Life", on which
he was employed at the last.
His passion for boating was fostered at this time by having among our
friends several sailors.
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