Now turn “Cranbourne Lane” into Pisan acquaintances, which I am sure are dirty enough, and “brandy” into that wherewithal to buy brandy (and that no small sum però), and you have the whole story of Shelley’s Italian Platonics. We now know, indeed, few of those whom we knew last year. Pacchiani is at Prato; Mavrocordato in Greece; the Argyropolis in Florence; and so the world slides. Taafe is still here—the butt of Lord Byron’s quizzing, and the poet laureate of Pisa. On the occasion of a young lady’s birthday he wrote—
Eyes that shed a thousand flowers!
Why should flowers be sent to you?
Sweetest flowers of heavenly bowers,
Love and friendship, are what are due.
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After some divine Italian weather, we are now enjoying some fine English weather; cioè, it does not rain, but not a ray can pierce the web aloft.—Most truly yours,
Mary W. S.
Mary Shelley to Mrs. Hunt.
5th March 1822.
My dearest Marianne—I hope that this letter will find you quite well, recovering from your severe attack, and looking towards your haven Italy with best hopes. I do indeed believe that you will find a relief here from your many English cares, and that the winds which waft you will sing the requiem to all your ills. It was indeed unfortunate that you encountered such weather on the very threshold of your journey, and as the wind howled through the long night, how often did I think of you! At length it seemed as if we should never, never meet; but I will not give way to such a presentiment. We enjoy here divine weather. The sun hot, too hot, with a freshness and clearness in the breeze that bears with it all the delights of spring. The hedges are budding, and you should see me and my friend Mrs. Williams poking about for violets by the sides of dry ditches; she being herself—
A violet by a mossy stone
Half hidden from the eye.