New-York tribune. [volume] (New York [N.Y.]) 1866-1924, 1880-05-16
SHELLEY'S HoUSE ATSAN TERENz0.


E" And did YOU once Shelley plain : Mr.. Brown
ing asks. How strange it seems y he adds. with
an enthusiasm which the memory OF no other port
not have been 50 moved 10y meeting person who
had only seen Wordsworth pa;n or Scott. or even
Byron. Shelley in our age like Spcnscr for all
ages is the poets poet Only few enthusiasts
talnOng them too many dust commentators and sIlah-
bling bibliOgrapheTs) care for relics and mcmoTias
of Shelley. Thus IT happens that his house near
Spezia, the last house. built with hands which
sheltered this homeless poet, has not been made -
coast Of the wild Spczian bay is lined with
fonndries. forts, and manufactures 1t Is not song
now that floats musical away" as Mr.. Matthew
Arnold says but the noise of the celebrated thou
sand ton gun playing out IT'S match with the hun
dred inch iTOn-platcd shield. The new town Of
SpcZia sprawls along the beach, displaying the red
front of big hotel to the and noisy with the ham
mers of masons who are running up Il lev new pen
siOns. But behind the new town Is the old la IAN city
of narrow streets which Shelley must have known.
The houses seem TO climb the bill. and turn away
from the and the sun and above them stands an
ancient CASTLE unnoted by Bacdckrr. From the
castle one looks down tho bay towards Shelley >
house. which is concealed from view by rocky
prOmOntOry. For eight lire a boatman Will row the
pilgrim thithpr and back if the wind prove I'M
favorable Tor sailing The boat slips past the forts
and fOundrcs and round OllvcclOthcd hill topprd
with tall smoky chimneyS' After an hours rowing
Italy behind A cliif, worn into caves by the sea,
is crowned by castle like those familiar III the
pictures Of Claudc. The boat rounds the point and
you are close to an old Italian fishing town. standing
with its back to the dark woods of the cliffs, while
the red and yellow houses and the ChuTc-tOwcr are
reflected in the water. The cls come close down to
the little bay and the dark wood that covers them
makes the bright little town seem brighter by con-
trast.
Just outside the town stands a large bleak house.
Shelpy's hOusc-gIay and old and deserted. The
windows are barred with green shutters, the bat
tered door is locked, the ornaments on the corners of
the roof are falling away. The house las rough
stone lOggia. in which the waShcrwmnCn of San
Terence are drying queer shirts and odd ockings.
The spa-waVcs even in the cancst weather break
with pccvish muI1nur on the shnglc, and even on
the STEPS of the lOggia. The place is Ike the hut of
the fisherman ThcOcTitus against 1t softly
fOatcth up the sea" Almost under the blank win
dOws the fishing people are drawing net Chill,
drcn, old men with bare wTinklcd legs and
Young fellows in their prime, are pulling ut tho
cords and after an hours labor rejoice over few
quarts of small fry. There is no one to trouble the
pilgrim by showing the hOuse-nO one even asks
for half franc The village has forgotten
its old ncghbOr, the English poet If the house
ever had garden the ground had been turned into
little cOrnicld AStcp takes You from the house into
the pine woods on the cliff. The ground under the
trees is Ovcrgrown with dark moss and through the
bOughs of the pines you bee the WIDE bay, Lcrici,
with its old tower, and the isle where were the
temple and the haTbOr of Venus. There is not n
sound nor q sight to tell of modern Italy. The
woods, with their messy carpet, arc as quiet as
when Shelley watched all the day the yellow bees
in the ivy blossom Then the silence is broken by q
sound in the highest branches. n great sea-bird
shakes his wings in the bOughs, and floats like the
spirit of Shelley, out TO the sea-