Shelley made many friendships, and lasting ones. He was wonderfully generous; he visited the sick; he helped the needy; putting himself often into grievous straits for means to give quickly. As he was fine of figure and of feature, so his voice was fine, delicate, penetrative, yet in moments of great excitement rising to a shrillness that spoiled melody and rasped the ear; so his finer generosities and kindnesses sometimes passed into a rasping indifference or even cruelty toward those nearest him, he feeling that first Westbrook _mesalliance_, on occasions, like a torture--specially when the presence of the tyrannic, coarse, aggravating sister-in-law was like a poisonous irritant; he--under the teachings of a conscientious father, in his young days--was scarce more than half responsible for his wry life; running to badnesses--on occasions--under good impulses; perhaps marrying that first wife because she wanted to marry him; and quitting her--well--because “she didn’t care.” Intellectually, as well as morally, he was pagan; seeing things in their simplest aspects, and so dealing with them; intense, passionate, borne away in tempests of quick decision, whose grounds he cannot fathom; always beating his wings against the cagements that hem us in; eager to look into those depths where light is blinding and will not let us look; seeming at times to measure by some sudden reach of soul what is immeasurable; but under the vain uplifts, always reverent, with a dim hope shining fitfully; contemptuous of harassing creeds or any jugglery of forms--of whatever splendid fashionings of mere material, whether robes or rites--and yearning to solve by some strong, swift flight of imagination what is insoluble. There are many reverent steps that go to that little Protestant cemetery--an English greenery upon the borders of the Roman Campagna--where the ashes of Shelley rest and where myrtles grow. And from its neighborhood, between Mount Aventine and the Janiculan heights, one may see reaches of the gleaming Tiber, and the great dome of St. Peter’s lifting against the northern sky, like another tomb, its cross almost hidden in the gray distance. _Pisa and Don Juan._