Trelawny to Mrs. Shelley.
Cephalonia, 17th September 1825.
Dear Mary—I have just escaped from Greece and landed here, in the hopes of patching up my broken frame and shattered constitution. Two musket balls, fired at the distance of two paces, struck me and passed through my framework, which damn’d near finished me; but ’tis a long story, and my writing arm is rendered unfit for service, and I am yet unpractised with the left. But a friend of mine here, a Major Bacon, is on his way to England, and will enlighten you as to me. I shall be confined here some time. Write to me then at this place. I need rest and quiet, for I am shook to the foundation. Love to Jane and Clare, and believe me still your devoted friend,
Edward Trelawny.
It would seem that this letter was many months in reaching Mary, for in February 1826 she was writing to him in these terms—
I hear at last that Mr. Hodges has letters for me, and that prevents a thousand things I was about to say concerning the pain your very long silence had occasioned me. Consider, dear friend, that your last was in April, so that nearly a year has gone by, and not only did I not hear from you, but until the arrival of Mr. Hodges, many months had elapsed since I had heard of you.
Sometimes I flattered myself that the foundations of my little habitation would have been shaken by a “ship Shelley ahoy” that even Jane, distant a mile, would have heard. That dear hope lost, I feared a thousand things.
Hamilton Browne’s illness, the death of many English, the return of every other from Greece, filled me with gloomy apprehensions.
But you live,—what kind of life your letters will, I trust, inform me,—what possible kind of life in a cavern surrounded by precipices,—inaccessible! All this will satisfy your craving imagination. The friendship you have for Odysseus, does that satisfy your warm heart?... I gather from your last letter and other intelligence that you think of marrying the daughter of your favourite chief, and thus will renounce England and even the English for ever. And yet,—no! you love some of us, I am sure, too much to forget us, even if you neglect us for a while; but truly, I long for your letters, which will tell all. And remember, dear friend, it is about yourself I am anxious. Of Greece I read in the papers. I see many informants, but I can learn your actions, hopes, and, above all valuable to me, the continuation of your affection for me, from your letters only.
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