After the ordinary greetings and courtesies he sat down and listened.

I was silent from astonishment: was it possible this mild-looking, beardless boy, could be the veritable monster at war with all the world ?--excommunicated by the Fathers of the Church, deprived of his civil rights by the fiat of a grim Lord Chancellor, discarded by every member of his family, and denounced by the rival sages of our literature as the founder of a Satanic school?
I could not believe it; it must be a hoax.

He was habited like a boy, in a black jacket and trousers, which he seemed to have outgrown, or his tailor, as is the custom, had most shamefully stinted him in his 'sizings.' Mrs.Williams saw my embarrassment, and to relieve me asked Shelley what book he had in his hand?
His face brightened, and he answered briskly,-- "'Calderon's "Magico Prodigioso"-- I am translating some passages in it.' "'Oh, read it to us.' "Shoved off from the shore of commonplace incidents that could not interest him, and fairly launched on a theme that did, he instantly became oblivious of everything but the book in his hand.

The masterly manner in which he analysed the genius of the author, his lucid interpretation of the story, and the ease with which he translated into our language the most subtle and imaginative passages of the Spanish poet, were marvellous, as was his command of the two languages.

After this touch of his quality I no longer doubted his identity; a dead silence ensued; looking up, I asked,-- "'Where is he ?' "Mrs.Williams said, 'Who?
Shelley?
Oh, he comes and goes like a spirit, no one knows when or where.'" Two little incidents which happened in the winter of 1821-2 deserve to be recorded.