superficial grace, are devoid of every cultivation and refinement. They have a ball at the Casino here every Sunday, which we attend—but neither Mary nor Claire dance. I do not know whether they refrain from philosophy or protestantism.
I hear that poor Mary's book is attacked most violently in the Quarterly Review.[1] We have heard some praise of it, and among others, an article of Walter Scott's in Blackwood's Magazine.
If you should have anything to send us—and, I assure you, anything relating to England is interesting to us—commit it to the care of Ollier the bookseller, or P[eacock]—they send me a parcel every quarter.
My health is, I think, better, and, I imagine, continues to improve, but I still have busy thoughts and dispiriting cares, which I would shake off—and it is now summer.A thousand good wishes to yourself and your undertakings.
Ever most affectionately yours,
P. B. S.
- ↑ No. 36 of The Quarterly Review, published in June, 1818, contains, beside the review of Frankenstein, an article on Leigh Hunt's Foliage, wherein the writer goes out of his way to introduce some most poisonous suggestions about Shelley, without, however, naming him. It seems likely that the authorship of the anonymous Frankenstein was known to the writer.
