That such a belief had no lack of support from facts in the last century, is apparent merely from naming over the chief poets. Coleridge, Byron, Shelley, Keats, Mrs. Browning, Rossetti, all publish their ill-health through their verse. Even Browning, in whose verse, if anywhere, one would expect to find the virile poet, shows Sordello turned to poetry by the fact of his physical weakness.[Footnote: So nearly ubiquitous has ill-health been among modern poets, that Max Nordau, in his widely read indictment of art, _Degeneration_, was able to make out a plausible case for his theory that genius is a disease which is always accompanied by physical stigmata.] Obviously, if certain invalids possess a short-cut to their souls, as Birge Harrison suggests, the nature of their complaint must be significant. A jumping toothache would hardly be an advantage to a sufferer in turning his thoughts to poesy. Since verse writers recoil from the suggestion that dyspepsia is the name of their complaint, let us ask them to explain its real character to us. To take one of our earliest examples, what is the malady of William Lisles Bowles' poet, of whom we learn, Too long had sickness left her pining trace With slow still touch on each decaying grace; Untimely sorrow marked his thoughtful mien; Despair upon his languid smile was seen. [Footnote: _Monody on Henry Headley_.] We can never know. But with Shelley, it becomes evident that tuberculosis is the typical poet's complaint. Shelley was convinced that he himself was destined to die of it. The irreverent Hogg records that Shelley was also afraid of death from elephantiasis, [Footnote: T. J. Hogg, _Life of Shelley_, p. 458.] but he keeps that affliction out of his verse. So early as the composition of the _Revolt of Islam,_ Shelley tells us of himself, in the introduction, Death and love are yet contending for their prey, and in _Adonais_ he appears as A power Girt round with weakness. * * * * * A light spear ... Vibrated, as the everbearing heart Shook the weak hand that grasped it. Shelley's imaginary poet, Lionel, gains in poetical sensibility as consumption saps his strength: You might see his colour come and go, And the softest strain of music made Sweet smiles, yet sad, arise and fade Amid the dew of his tender eyes; And the breath with intermitting flow Made his pale lips quiver and part. [Footnote: _Rosalind and Helen_.]