at this occurrence in the portrait of the maniac in "Julian and Maddalo."

It is almost impossible to say to what extent SHELLEY is to blame for the causes which led this unhappy woman to seek refuge from her troubles in the grave. It is certain that she became imbued with his religious opinions, and was thus deprived of the only comfort that could possibly bring rest to her weary soul.

In a short time after this occurrence, he married Miss Godwin, and to her we must attribute the inspiration of some of his greatest poems. In 1818 he wrote his "Beatrice Cenci," and in 1819 his beautiful tribute to Keats.

SHELLEY was passionately fond of boating. There was no other amusement that afforded him so much pleasure. In July, 1822, he and a Mr. Williams sailed from Leghorn to Lerici in a boat of peculiar construction, requiring the most skilful management. The boat was upset in a storm, and their bodies were washed ashore. In SHELLEY'S pocket was found a copy of Keats' poem, "Lamia." The quarantine regulations of Tuscany required everything to be burnt. that drifted to shore. In accordance with this custom, his remains were burned in the presence of Lord Byron, Leigh Hunt, and Mr. Trelawney. A funeral pyre was made of the most precious materials, including frankincense, perfume, and wine. As the beautiful flame lifted its quivering light to heaven, it is said to have looked as though it contained the glassy essence of vitality.

His ashes were collected and deposited in the Protestant burial-ground in Rome, near the grave of Keats, where flowers ever bloom and breathe their perfume upon the air.

SHELLEY has been cited as an august example to those who aspire to universal knowledge. He was the most diligent of students. He read and studied at all times at table, in bed, and while walking and riding. Out of the

twenty-four hours he frequently read eighteen. It is said that he was unrivaled in the justness and extent of his observations on natural objects, and that he knew every plant by its name, and was familiar with all the productions of the earth.

It would be difficult to define his views of religion. Indeed, it would seem that he had no fixed or settled ideas of religion. In "Queen Mab" he speaks of a spirit of the universe and a co-eternal fairy of the earth. At one time he believed in the doctrine of a pre-existing state. On one occasion he met a ragged, bare-headed gypsy girl, about five or six years old, gathering shells. He ran up to her and exclaimed: "How much intellect is here, and what an occupation for one who once knew the whole circle of the sciences who has forgotten them all, it is true, but who could certainly recollect them, though it is most probable she never will."

After propounding a number of questions to the little gypsy, which of course were unintelligible to her, he turned from her and said to a friend accompanying him, “Every true Platonist must be fond of children, for they are our masters in philosophy. The mind of a new-born child is not, as Locke says, a sheet of blank paper. On the contrary it is an Elzevir Plato, say rather an encyclopædia, comprising all that ever was or ever will be discovered."

Quite a number of similar stories are told illustrative of SHELLEY'S faith in the doctrine of Pre-existence. It is said that one day he met a woman on Magdalen Bridge with a child in her arms. He immediately seized it, to the horror of the mother, who took him for a madman, and was fearful that he might throw it in the water. SHELLEY exclaimed, "Madam, will your baby tell us anything about Pre-existence?" On being assured that the child could not speak, he continued, “Worse and worse; but surely the babe can

speak if he will, for he is only a few weeks old. He may perhaps fancy that he cannot, but that is a silly whim. He cannot have entirely forgotten the use of speech in so short a time. The thing is impossible."

We cannot take leave of SHELLEY without a few words in regard to his poetry.

He was perhaps the most perfect versifier in the language. His words seemed ever to come winged and obedient to his call. His lines to "An Indian Air," and his "Ode to the Skylark," are unequaled for the exquisite softness and delicacy of their rhythm and melody. They give "a very echo to the seat where Love is throned." Words fail to express sufficient admiration for the "Sensitive Plant." It seems that a touch would profane it. It is of this world, and yet not of this world. We have in it everything that is deliciously ravishing in romance and poetry. It is everywhere enameled with thoughts of gold. Passion seems to emanate from it as if from a shrine. It is like an exhalation from the most exquisite perfume that dies, as it were, from its very sweetness. All the inspiration at the command of genius, beauty, power, and passion, breathes and glows and burns around it, and we are as much impressed with its weird and inexplicable philosophy,

"Where nothing is, but all things seem,

And we the shadows of the dream,"

as with the delicious and entrancing music of its numbers. What could be finer than the description of the flowers. that bloomed in the garden where the Sensitive Plant closed its fan-like leaves beneath the kisses of night?

"And the Naiad-like Lily of the vale,

Whom youth makes so fair and passion so pale ;

And the Rose like a nymph to the bath addressed,
Which unveiled the depth of her glowing breast,
Till fold after fold to the fainting air

The soul of her beauty and love lay bare."

The description of the Eve of this Eden, who "tended this garden fair," is even more passionately beautiful:

"She had no companion of mortal race,

But her tremulous breath and flushing face

Told, while the morn kissed the sleep from her eyes,
That her dreams were less slumber than Paradise.

"As if some bright spirit, for her sweet sake,
Had deserted Heaven while the stars were awake;
As if yet around her he lingering were,

Though the veil of daylight concealed him from her." "Epipsychidion," next to the "Sensitive Plant," is the most strangely beautiful of all the author's productions. It is one of the most exquisite love-poems in the whole range of English literature. It is the very soul of passion and purity. There is not the slightest taint of indelicacy about it. There is nothing whatever in it that could tend to convey the impression of licentiousness or sensuality. It is confused in passion's golden purity.

"Like a naked bride,

Glowing at once with love and loveliness,

Blushes and trembles at its own excess."

In a former part of this sketch we spoke of SHELLEY'S insane speculations upon the Christian religion. It is gratifying to know that as he advanced in life his faith became more and more weakened in the wretched philosophy which he endeavored to substitute for the divine precepts of our Saviour. Had he lived a few years longer, we do not doubt that his atheistical opinions would have been wholly discarded.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA.

ANTONY AND CLEOPATRA deservedly stands in the front rank of SHAKSPEARE'S Roman historical dramas. It is one of the most wonderful, varied, and magnificent of all his creations. There is an irregular grandeur about it that presents a striking contrast to the restrained and thoughtful emotions and passions delineated in "Coriolanus" and "Julius Cæsar." Critics unite in the opinion that it was written at a period when the author's mind was in the fulness of its power. Coleridge says: "The highest praise, or rather form of praise, of this play which I can offer in my own mind, is the doubt which the perusal always occasions in me whether ANTONY AND Cleopatra is not, in all exhibitions of a giant power, in its strength and vigor of maturity, a formidable rival of “Macbeth,” "Lear," "Hamlet," and "Othello."

He places it in mental contrast with "Romeo and Juliet" "as the love of passion and appetite opposed to the love of affection and instinct."

There is little or no resemblance between Juliet and CLEOPATRA. The love of Juliet is the love of youth and innocence. It has all the warmth, and tenderness, and luxuriance of the climate in which she lived. The love of CLEOPATRA, on the contrary, is the love of a woman, as she herself says, who has passed her "salad days," and is no longer "green in judgment." It is a love that rages like the