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Updated: May 17, 2025
I have been reading all the old Shelley literature lately, Hogg and Trelawny and Medwin and Mrs. Shelley, and that terrible piece of analysis, The Real Shelley. Hogg's Life of Shelley is an incomparable book; I should put it in the first class of biographies without hesitation.
"What the deuce do you mean by 'Hi'?" I said. "You can't come in," said the face. "Hello, is that Tootles?" "My name is not Tootles, and I don't want to come in," I said. "Are you Mr. Medwin? I've brought back your son." "I see him. Peep-bo, Tootles! Dadda can see 'oo!" The face disappeared with a jerk. I could hear voices. The face reappeared. "Hi!" I churned the gravel madly.
Medwin tells us that Shelley while a boy delighted in being on the water, and that he enjoyed the pastime at Eton. On the other hand, Mr. W.S. Halliday, a far better authority than Medwin, asserts positively that he never saw Shelley on the river at Eton, and Hogg relates nothing to prove that he practised rowing at Oxford.
It is fortunate for posterity that one of his biographers, his second cousin Captain Medwin, was his schoolfellow at Sion House; for to his recollections we owe some details of great value.
"But we don't, dearest." Her companion's smile brightened. "Then why do you come to me?" "Oh I like YOU!" Mrs. Medwin made out. "Then that's it. There are no 'Americans. It's always 'you." "Me?" Mrs. Medwin looked lovely, but a little muddled. "ME!" Mamie Cutter laughed. "But if you like me, you dear thing, you can judge if I like YOU." She gave her a kiss to dismiss her.
I am like the tiger; if I miss the first spring, I go grumbling back to my jungle." He said to Medwin, "Blank verse is the most difficult, because every line must be good." Consequently, his own blank verse is always defective sometimes execrable. No one else except, perhaps, Wordsworth who could write so well, could also write so ill.
However, his biographer, Captain Medwin, avers that Shelley valued all the poems in Keats's final volume; he cites especially Isabella and The Eve of St. Agnes. In books relating to Keats and Shelley the name of this gentleman appears repeated, without any explanation of who he was. In a MS. diary of Dr. A ward of his gave a masquerade in London upon her coming of age.
This is unfortunately decisive of the fact that he did not in spirit adhere to the resolution expressed to Moore never to touch a farthing of his wife's money, though we may accept his statement to Medwin, that he twice repaid the dowry of 10,000 l. brought to him at the marriage, as in so far diminishing the obligation.
"Shelley," says Medwin, "was at this time tall for his age, slightly and delicately built, and rather narrow-chested, with a complexion fair and ruddy, a face rather long than oval. His features, not regularly handsome, were set off by a profusion of silky brown hair, that curled naturally. The expression of his countenance was one of exceeding sweetness and innocence.
Medwin stared at her in blank bewilderment. Who was the Sieur Amadis? She went on, heedless of his perplexity. "Dad believed in a God who governed all things rightly, I have heard him say that God managed the farm and made it what it is. But he never spoke much about it and he hated the Church " The reverend gentleman interrupted her with a grave uplifted hand.
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