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<h4>X</h4> <h3>FROM THE DIARY OF HARRIET SHELLEY</h3> George Street, Edinburgh, September 6, 1811.—Mr Hogg arrived this morning. He seemed at first to be quite oblivious of the fact that he was in the city of the unfortunate Queen Mary. Bysshe and I conducted him to the palace of Holyrood immediately, where we inspected the instructive and elegant series of portraits of the Scottish kings. I was much affected by the sight of the unfortunate Queen's bedroom. Mr Hogg has not been well grounded in history; and he was on more than one occasion inaccurate. He had never heard of Fergus the Just. Bysshe was much moved, and enchanted by the objects of interest. He ran through the rooms at a great pace, now and then pointing back at an object of interest and exclaiming: "That is good." I regretted the absence of Eliza, but perhaps it is as well that she was not with us on this occasion. She would not have permitted me to contemplate the tragic stain of Rizzio's wound, for fear of the effect the sight might have on my nerves. Mr Hogg was strangely insensible to the sorrowful associations of the spot. After we had inspected the rooms and the relics, Bysshe with intent, I, with renewed awe, and Mr Hogg with a somewhat inopportune levity, Bysshe was obliged to go home and write letters, and so I suggested that Mr Hogg should conduct me to Arthur's Seat, in order to enjoy the sublime prospect which that eminence commands. So sublime, so grand, so inspiring was the view that even Mr Hogg was impressed. As for myself, words fail to express the manifold and conflicting emotions which were stirred in my breast. The weather was fine, clear and tranquil; but alas! no sooner had we started on our descent than the wind began to blow with great violence. It was of course impossible for me in such circumstances to risk the impropriety which might be occasioned, had the wind, as was only too probable, so disturbed my dress as to reveal to my companion the indelicate spectacle of my decently concealed ankles, so I seated myself on a rock resolving to wait until the violence of the wind should subside. Mr Hogg, who laid unnecessary stress on the fact that he had not dined on either of the preceding days, and being deficient in a proper sense of delicacy and seemliness, vowed he would desert me and proceed home by himself. To my dismay he began to carry his threat into execution, and it was with the utmost difficulty that I succeeded in accomplishing the descent without affording him any unseemly exhibition. Sunday.—The manner in which the Sabbath is observed in this city is repellent to my principles. Bysshe and Mr Hogg have gone to the Kirk. I pleaded the wearisome performance would be certain in my case to bring on a headache and so I remained at home. They returned much exhausted by the wrestlings of an eminent divine with Satan. I am engaged in translating Madame Cottin's immortal "Claire D'Albe" into English prose. This occupies my morning. Bysshe is translating a treatise of Buffon, with which we were both of us charmed. In the evenings I read out "Telemachus." I regret to say that Bysshe fell asleep while I was but half way through an instructive discourse of Idomeneius relating to the wise laws of Crete. Mr Hogg is an attentive listener and it is a pleasure to read to him. York, October 10, 1811.—Travelled by post-chaise from Darlington. Read "Anna St Ives" by Holcroft in the chaise throughout the journey. Bysshe was restless and suggested my skipping certain portions of the narrative. I, of course, declined, knowing that it was the intention of the authoress that her work should be read without omissions. Bysshe is obliged to go to London. In the evenings I read out Dr Robertson's historical works to Mr Hogg. We are on the eve of a great event. My dear sister Eliza has consented to visit us and is about to arrive. What a privilege for Mr Hogg, what a source of pleasure for Bysshe. I ardently regret that he should not be present to welcome her. October 25.—Eliza has arrived. I am deeply touched by her kindness in coming and overcome when I think what a joyful surprise her presence will be for Bysshe, and how it will illuminate our household. October 26.—Bysshe arrived from London. Eliza spent the day brushing her hair. In the evening I suggested reading aloud from Holcroft; but Eliza, such is her kind-heartedness, feared that it might upset my nerves. She felt certain too, that her esteemed friend, Miss Warne, whom she regards as a pattern and model in all things, would not approve of Holcroft. October 26.—Eliza is certain that Miss Warne would find nothing to admire in York Minster. Changed our lodgings. Eliza thinks that the pure mountain air of the Lakes would be salutary to my nerves. Bysshe and Mr Hogg miss our evening readings. I sometimes, however, continue to read to them in an undertone when Eliza is brushing her hair. But the pleasure is marred by the trepidation I am in lest I should disturb her. Eliza objects to the name Bysshe. She is certain Miss Warne could not endure such a name, so in future my husband shall be called Percy. It is certainly prettier and more romantic. Keswick, November 16.—We have made the acquaintance of the Southeys. Mr Southey is a great reader and devotes two hours daily to the study of the Portuguese and Spanish languages. Mrs Southey is an adept at book-binding and binds her husband's books with elegance and neatness. Bysshe, I mean Percy, has alas three times narrowly risked offending the poet. The first time by inadvertently taking a book down from one of his book-shelves, the second time by falling asleep when Mr Southey after having locked him into his study was reading aloud to him his epic, "The Curse of Kehama," and the third time by sharply criticising his action in eating tea-cakes, and by subsequently devouring a whole plate of them, himself. Bysshe, I mean Percy, has implored me to beg Mrs Southey to instruct me in the art of making tea-cakes. I wish Eliza could begin to realise the existence of Bysshe, I mean Percy. She seems altogether unaware of his presence in the house; but then Eliza is so much occupied in considering what will be best for me that she has no time to bestow any attention to anything else. Percy is contemplating the composition of a poem which is to be called "Queen Mab." Eliza said that Miss Warne had a horror of "Queen Mab"; Bysshe explained to her that his poem was to be didactic and philosophical and had nothing to do with fairies. "That," said Eliza, "makes it worse." Bysshe ran out of the room with shrill exclamation of impatience. "Hush, hush!" said Eliza, "think of poor Harriet's nerves." November 20.—Bysshe confessed to me that he could see neither beauty nor charm in Eliza. This is curious since her black hair has always been an object of universal admiration. I am afraid that Eliza does not understand him. I need hardly say what a disappointment this is to me. Bysshe and I were thinking of writing a novel in collaboration. But Eliza said that Miss Warne considered that it was not seemly for a woman to dabble in fiction. Bysshe, I mean Percy—(In writing I find it difficult to accustom myself to the new name, but I am fortunately successful in the presence of Eliza in always saying Percy)—Percy and I are thinking of studying Hebrew. I have not yet told Eliza of this project. She is opposed to my reading Latin authors in their original tongue. November 30.—We were walking this afternoon in the neighbourhood of the lake. Percy, Eliza and myself. Percy was talking of Plato's republic when Eliza interrupted him by recalling to his mind something which she had indeed often mentioned before, namely, Miss Warne's positive dislike of all the Greek authors and especially Plato. Scarcely had she uttered these words, when we looked round and found that Bysshe had vanished in silence like a ghost in the trees. We called and searched for him in vain. But when we returned to the house we found him awaiting us buried in a book. The incident greatly displeased Eliza and she insisted upon my taking to my bed as soon as we got home, although I confess I felt no suspicion of any ailment, nor would she hear of my reading either aloud or to myself. She sat by my bed-side, brushing her hair. She grieved me by saying that she could not conceive what Miss Warne would think of Bysshe. I mean Percy. <hr class="chap" /> <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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