coast to Leghorn, which, by keeping close in shore, was very
practicable. They returned to Pisa by the canal, when, missing the
direct cut, they got entangled among weeds, and the boat upset; a
wetting was all the harm done, except that the intense cold of his
drenched clothes made Shelley faint. Once I went down with him to the
mouth of the Arno, where the stream, then high and swift, met the
tideless sea, and disturbed its sluggish waters. It was a waste and
dreary scene; the desert sand stretched into a point surrounded by waves
that broke idly though perpetually around; it was a scene very similar
to Lido, of which he had said--

'I love all waste
And solitary places; where we taste
The pleasure of believing what we see
Is boundless, as we wish our souls to be:
And such was this wide ocean, and this shore
More barren than its billows.'

Our little boat was of greater use, unaccompanied by any danger, when we
removed to the Baths. Some friends lived at the village of Pugnano, four
miles off, and we went to and fro to see them, in our boat, by the
canal; which, fed by the Serchio, was, though an artificial, a full and
picturesque stream, making its way under verdant banks, sheltered by
trees that dipped their boughs into the murmuring waters. By day,
multitudes of Ephemera darted to and fro on the surface; at night, the
fireflies came out among the shrubs on the banks; the cicale at noon-day
kept up their hum; the aziola cooed in the quiet evening. It was a
pleasant summer, bright in all but Shelley's health and inconstant
spirits; yet he enjoyed himself greatly, and became more and more
attached to the part of the country were chance appeared to cast us.
Sometimes he projected taking a farm situated on the height of one of
the near hills, surrounded by chestnut and pine woods, and overlooking a
wide extent of country: or settling still farther in the maritime
Apennines, at Massa. Several of his slighter and unfinished poems were
inspired by these scenes, and by the companions around us. It is the
nature of that poetry, however, which overflows from the soul oftener to
express sorrow and regret than joy; for it is when oppressed by the
weight of life, and away from those he loves, that the poet has recourse
to the solace of expression in verse.

Still, Shelley's passion was the ocean; and he wished that our summers,
instead of being passed among the hills near Pisa, should be spent on
the