Mr. Hogg's account of it, it is sufficiently clear that this alarming performance was nothing else than a squib, prompted perhaps by the decided success of the burlesque verses the friends had published in the name of "My Aunt Margaret Nicholson;" at all events a natural corollary from Shelley's inconvenient habit of writing interminable letters to everybody about everything. Of course Stockdale

declined to print it himself, and we can readily believe that he employed his best efforts to dissuade Shelley from having it printed by another. There the matter might have rested, but, unluckily, in spite of Shelley's anticipations, the public had not been captivated by the title-page or any other portion of "St. Irvyne," and the bookseller was beginning to feel uneasy about his bill. Shelley was a minor, dependent on a father persuaded that short allowances make good sons, and who, on the subject being delicately mooted to him, had less mildly than firmly declared his determination not to pay one single farthing. In this strait, Stockdale seems to have argued that he should best earn his claim by rendering the Shelleys an important service, which might be accomplished by preventing the appearance of Percy's adventurous pamphlet. At the same time, it was essential that his merits should be recognised by Sir Timothy, which could not well be, if he were scrupulous in respecting his son's confidence. Yet it was equally necessary to avoid creating an irreparable breach between the two, and therefore highly desirable to find some one to whose evil communications the deterioration of Shelley's patrician manners might be plausibly ascribed. Such a scape-goat providentially presented itself in the person of Mr. Jefferson Hogg, who, happening to be in town about the beginning of 1811, had several times called upon Stockdale on Shelley's business, and at his request.

The absurdity of the insinuation he nevertheless did not scruple to make seems not to have altogether escaped the publisher himself, and must be perfectly apparent to us who have had the advantage of perusing Mr. Hogg's straightfor

"appetite for indiscriminate knowledge is repressed. A blight is "thrown over the ingenuous mind," &c. Mr. Hogg's companionship was doing the same thing for Shelley in a different way, not quelling his friend's thirst for interminable discussion by repulsion, but by satiety. The entire character of their intimacy is faithfully miniatured in the celebrated story of the dog that tore Shelley's skirts, whereupon the exasperated poet set off to his College for a pistol. "I accompanied "him," says Mr. Hogg, "but on the way took occasion to engage him in a metaphysical discussion on the nature "of anger, in the course of which he "condemned that passion with great "vehemence, and could hardly be "brought to allow that it could be justi"fiable in any instance." It is needless to add that the dog went unpunished; and, had the Oxford authorities possessed the slightest insight into Shelley's peculiarities of disposition, and Mr. Hogg's merits as a safety-valve, they might have preserved an illustrious modern ornament of their University. Stockdale, as we have seen, was all anxiety to frame a bill of indictment; and, his wife chancing to have relations in the part of Buckinghamshire where Mr. Hogg had been residing, he availed himself of the circumstance to make inquiries. In those days Mr. Hogg's "Life of Shelley" was not, and the world had not learned on his own authority that not only "he would not "walk across Chancery Lane in the "narrowest part to redress all the "wrongs of Ireland, past, present, and "to come," but, which is even more to the purpose, that "he has always been "totally ignorant respecting all the "varieties of religious dissent." It was therefore easier for Mrs. Stockdale to

collect, with incredible celerity, full materials for such a representation of Shelley's honest but unspeculative friend. as suited the views of her husband, who immediately transmitted the account to Sir Timothy. Sir Timothy naturally informed his son, who informed Mr. Hogg, who immediately visited the delinquent publisher with two most indignant letters, which that pachydermatous personage has very composedly reproduced in his journal exactly as they were written. Shelley does not appear to have fulfilled his intention of calling upon Stockdale in London; but, the latter's replies to Mr. Hogg proving eminently unsatisfactory, with his wonted chivalry of feeling he addressed him the following letter from Oxford :—

"OXFORD, 28th of January, 1811. "SIR,-On my arrival at Oxford, my friend Mr. Hogg communicated to me the letters which passed in consequence of your misrepresentations of his character, the abuse of that confidence which he invariably reposed in you. I now, sir, demand to know whether you mean the evasions in your first letter to Mr. Hogg, your insulting attempted coolness in your second, as a means of escaping safely from the opprobrium naturally attached to so ungentlemanly an abuse of confidence (to say nothing of misrepresentations) as that which my father communicated to me, or as a denial of the fact of having acted in this unprecedented, this scandalous manner. If the former be your intention, I will compassionate your cowardice, and my friend, pitying your weakness, will take no further notice of your contemptible attempts at calumny. If the latter is your intention, I feel it my duty to declare, as my veracity and that of my father is thereby called in question, that I will never be satisfied, despicable as I may consider the author of that affront, until my friend has an ample apology for the injury you have attempted to do him. I expect an immediate, and demand a satisfactory letter. "Sir, I am,

"Your obedient humble servant,

"PERCY B. SHELLEY."

Stockdale delayed to act upon this suggestion; and, when he at length sent in his account, Shelley had quitted London. The bill, however, overtook

him in Radnorshire :

"SIR,-Your letter has at length reached me; the remoteness of my present situation must apologize for my apparent neglect. I am sorry to say, in answer to your requisition, that the state of my finances renders immediate payment perfectly impossible. It is my intention, at the earliest period in my power to do so, to discharge your ac

"CWMELAN, RHAYADER, RADNORSHIRE, August 1st, 1811."

The offer of "moral and metaphysical essays" from one in Shelley's circumstances could not well appear very inviting, and so the acquaintance of author and publisher ended in an unpaid bill. This account, which cannot have been a large one, soon escaped Shelley's memory, and, when better times arrived, Stockdale did nothing to remind him of it-an unaccountable oversight, unless we can suppose him ignorant of the circumstances of one whose writings and proceedings were provoking so much public comment. In spite of his disappointment, Stockdale, who really appears to have been captivated by Shelley, and to have been not more forcibly impressed by the energy of his intellect than by the loveliness of his character, emphatically expresses "My "fullest assurance of his honour and rec❝titude, and my conviction that he would "vegetate, rather than live, to effect the "discharge of every honest claim upon "him." In default of having given him the opportunity, he endeavours, with full success, to extract the largest possible amount of self-glorification from his subject. Had he but had his own way, "What degradation and self-abasement "might have been spared to the widowed "wife and fatherless orphans, who, per"haps, at last, may be indebted to my brief "memoirs for the only ray of respect and "hope which may illumine their recollec"tions of a father when they have attained

66

an age for reflection, and shed a gleam "of ghastly light athwart the palpable "obscurity of his tomb." It must be acknowledged that Stockdale's eloquence, like Pandemonium, is rather sublime than luminous; it must ever remain uncertain whether the "ghastly light" is supposed to be derived from the respect, or the hope, or the wife, or the orphans, or the "brief memoirs," or any two or more of these, or all five at once; and what follows about the prayer of a hope of a possibility is even more unintelligible. But those were days in which men disparaged the character and genius of Shelley as a matter of course, without the remotest idea of the ridicule and contempt they were meriting at the hands of succeeding generations. Only six years previously, a writer in the Literary Gazette had expressed the disappointment he had felt, in common with all right-minded people, on learning that the author of "Queen Mab" possessed neither horns, tail, hoofs, or any other outward and visible sign of the diabolical nature.1 The progress of public opinion respecting Shelley has imitated the famous variations of the Moniteur on occasion of Napoleon's escape from Elba. "The tiger has "broken loose, the monster has landed, "the traitor is at Grenoble, the enemy at "Lyons, Napoleon is at Fontainebleau, "the emperor is in Paris!" Stockdale flourished in the tigrine era, when it was perfectly natural that he should terminate his articles by an invocation of "the seven other spirits, more wicked than himself."

1 This will be thought a parable or an extravaganza, and is, nevertheless, simple, serious, literal truth. There is a curious illustration of the slight recognition Shelley's writings had obtained so late as 1828, in Platen's exquisitely classical address to his friend Rumohr, whom he invites to visit him at his residence on an island in the Gulf of Spezzia, telling him that he will see, among other things, the spot Wo der Freund

Jenes Dichters ertrank, without the slightest allusion to Shelley's own achievements as a poet!

CHAPTER I.

A WRECK OFF MARGATE.

THE night of Sunday, the twelfth of February, in the present year, was what sailors call a very dirty night. Heavy masses of clouds skirted the horizon as the sun set; and, as the night drew on, violent gusts of wind swept along, accompanied with snow squalls. It was a dangerous time for vessels in the Channel, and it proved fatal to one at least.

Before the light broke on Monday morning, the thirteenth, the Margate lugger, Eclipse, put out to sea to

cruise around the sands and shoals in the neighbourhood of Margate, on the look out for any disasters that might have occurred during the night. The crew soon discovered that a vessel was ashore on the Margate Sands, and directly made for her. She proved to be the Spanish brig Samaritano, of one hundred and seventy tons, bound from Antwerp to Santander, and laden with a valuable and miscellaneous cargo. Her crew consisted of Modeste Crispo, captain, and eleven men. It seems that during a violent squall of snow and wind the vessel was driven on the sands at about half-past five in the morning; the crew attempted to put off in the ship's boats, but in vain; the oars were broken in the attempt, and the boats stove in.

The lugger, Eclipse, as she was running for the brig, spoke a Whitstable smack, and borrowed two of her men and her boat. They boarded the vessel as the tide went down, and hoped to be able to get her off at high water. For this purpose six Margate boatmen and two of the Whitstable men were left on board. But, with the rising tide, the

1 The following narrative is by one who had the best local opportunities of being accurate, and of receiving accounts of every detail of the rescue from the lips of the men who were engaged in it.

gale came on again in all its fury, and they soon gave up all hopes of saving the vessel. They hoisted their boat on board, and all hands began to feel that it was no longer a question of saving the vessel, but of saving their own lives. The sea began to break furiously over the wreck, lifting her, and then bumping her with crushing force upon the sands. Her timbers did not long withstand this trial of their strength; a hole was soon knocked in her; she filled with water, and settled down upon the sand. The waves began now to break over the deck; the boat was speedily knocked to pieces and swept overboard; the hatches were forced up, and some of the cargo floated on deck, and was washed away. The brig began to roll fearfully as the waves one after another crashed over her; and the men, fearing that she would be forced on her broadside, cut the weather rigging of the mainmast, and it was speedily swept overboard. All hands now sought refuge in the forerigging. Nineteen lives had then no other hope between them and a terrible death than the few shrouds of that shaking mast. The wind swept by them with hurricane force; each wave that broke upon the vessel sprang up into columns of foam, and drenched them to the skin; the air was full of spray and sleet, which froze upon them as it fell. And thus they waited, hour after hour, and no help came, until one and all despaired of life.

In the meanwhile, news of the wreck had spread like wildfire through Margate. In spite of the gale and the blinding snow squalls, many struggled to the cliff, and with spyglasses tried to penetrate the flying scud, or to gain, through the breaks in the storm, glimpses of the wreck.

As soon as they saw the peril the crew of the brig were in, the smaller of the two Margate life-boats was manned, and made to the rescue. But all the efforts of her crew were in rain; the gale

was furious, and the seas broke over and filled the boat. This her gallant crew heeded little at first, for they had every confidence in the powers of the boat to ride safely through any storm, her airtight compartments preventing her from sinking; but to their dismay they found that she was losing her buoyancy and fast becoming unmanageable; she was filling with water, which came up to the men's waists. The air-boxes had evidently filled; and they remembered, too late, that the valves with which each box is provided, in order to let out any water that may leak in, had in the excitement of starting been left unscrewed. Their boat was then no longer a lifeboat, and the struggle became one for their own safety. Although then within a quarter of a mile of the brig, there was no help for it; the boat was unmanageable, and the only chance of life left to the boatmen was to run her ashore as soon as possible on the nearest part of the coast. It was doubtful whether they would be able to do even this, and it was not until after four hours' battling with the sea and gale that they succeeded in getting ashore in Westgate Bay. There the coast-guard were ready to receive them, and did their best to revive the exhausted men. As soon as it was discovered that the first life-boat had become disabled, the big life-boat (The Friend of all Nations) was got ready. With much trouble it was dragged round to the other side of the pier, and there launched. Away she started, her brave crew doing their utmost to battle with the gale, and work their way out to the brig; but all their efforts were in vain. The tremendous wind and sea overpowered them; the tiller gave way; and, after a hard struggle, this life-boat was driven ashore about a mile from the town.

With both their life-boats wrecked, the Margate people gave up all hopes of saving the crew of the vessel. There seemed no hope for it; they must be content to let them perish within their sight. But this should not be the case until every possible effort had been made; and two luggers, The

Nelson and The Lively, undaunted by the fate of the life-boats, put off to the rescue. The fate of one was soon settled; a fearful squall of wind caught her before she had got many hundred yards clear of the pier, and swept her foremast out of her; and her crew, in turn, had to make every possible effort to avoid being driven on the shore-rocks and wrecked. The Lively was more fortunate; she got to sea, but could not cross the sand, or get to the wreck. The Margate people began to despair; and, when the tidings passed among the crowd that the lieutenant of the Margate coast-guard had sent an express over to Ramsgate for the Ramsgate steamer and life-boat, it was thought impossible, on the one hand, that they could make their way round the North Foreland in the teeth of so tremendous a gale, or, on the other, that the ship could hold together, or the crew live, exposed as they were in the rigging, during the time it would of necessity take for the steamer and boat to get to them.

We now change the scene to Rams

gate.

CHAPTER II.

MAKING FOR THE WRECK.

FROM an early hour on the Monday morning, groups of boatmen had assembled on the pier at Ramsgate, occasionally joined by some of the most hardy of the townspeople, or by a stray visitor, attracted out by the wild scene that the storm presented. In the intervals between the snow squalls, they could faintly discern a vessel or two in the distance running before the gale; and they were all keenly on the look out for signals of distress, that they might put off to the rescue. But no such signal was given. Every now and then, as the wind boomed by, some landsman thought it the report of a gun from one or other of the three light-vessels which guard the dangerous Goodwin Sands; but the boatmen shook their