Because these epistles began in kindly fashion with 'My Dear Boy,' the writer was suspected of wishing to imitate the style of Chesterfield's Letters, and also of thinking he resembled the courtly Earl in elegance, accomplishments, and worldly wisdom. It was easy, and no less pleasant than easy to the two undergraduates, to make fun of the epistles, so curiously deficient in coherence and perspicacity. Always _franked_ by the member for New Shoreham, the letters sometimes 'scolded the dear boy nobly, royally, gloriously.' One of these franked, furious and fiery missives having moved Hogg to speak of it derisively, and with a sprightly reference to a familiar line of Campbell's 'Hohenlinden,' Shelley henceforth took to speaking of his father as 'the fiery Hun.' The son had other nicknames for the father, whom he so often offended,--sometimes unintentionally, and sometimes with deliberate and malicious purpose to rouse and exasperate the irritability, that afforded the two youthful Oxonians so much diversion;--the irritability which the son (of whose poetical light and sweetness so much has been written by fantastic adulators) was bound by filial duty to consider tenderly and soothe to the utmost of his ability; was bound by honour and care for his own dignity to screen and palliate. Writing and talking of him as 'the Fiery Hun,' Shelley could also speak of his father contemptuously as 'Killjoy' and 'the Old Boy,' in the letters that passed between him and Hogg after their dismissal from University College. Whilst Hogg was exquisitely droll about the defects of Mr. Timothy Shelley's letters, he of course heard all about his friend's passion for his cousin, Harriett Grove, which, though it never touched the boy's deepest and strongest affections, was still a sufficiently fervid sentiment to justify him in thinking it a grand and eternal devotion. It is not surprising that Shelley opened his heart on this interesting topic to his constant companion. On the contrary, it would be strange had he done otherwise. It is rare for a boy to pass through his first love-fever without confiding to a sympathetic hearer of his own sex, how he fares under the violent delights and still more violent anxieties of his heart's unrest. In speaking to his dear and incomparable Hogg of Miss Harriett Grove's beauty and accomplishments, her irresistible voice and richly radiant tresses, her composure that too nearly resembled coldness, and the circumspection that might not be imputed to her for unkindness, young Bysshe Shelley only did as most youngsters would have done under similar circumstances,--as most youngsters under similar circumstances will do, to the end of Time and Love.