“In choosing for friends such women as Mrs. Newton, Mrs. Boinville, and Cornelia Turner, Shelley gave good proof of his insight and discrimination.”  That is the fabulist’s opinion—­Harriet Shelley’s is not reported.

Early in August, Shelley was in London trying to raise money.  In September he wrote the poem to the baby, already quoted from.  In the first week of October Shelley and family went to Warwick, then to Edinburgh, arriving there about the middle of the month.

“Harriet was happy.”  Why?  The author furnishes a reason, but hides from us whether it is history or conjecture; it is because “the babe had borne the journey well.”  It has all the aspect of one of his artful devices—­ flung in in his favorite casual way—­the way he has when he wants to draw one’s attention away from an obvious thing and amuse it with some trifle that is less obvious but more useful—­in a history like this.  The obvious thing is, that Harriet was happy because there was much territory between her husband and Cornelia Turner now; and because the perilous Italian lessons were taking a rest; and because, if there chanced to be any respondings like a tremulous instrument to every breath of passion or of sentiment in stock in these days, she might hope to get a share of them herself; and because, with her husband liberated, now, from the fetid fascinations of that sentimental retreat so pitilessly described by Hogg, who also dubbed it “Shelley’s paradise” later, she might hope to persuade him to stay away from it permanently; and because she might also hope that his brain would cool, now, and his heart become healthy, and both brain and heart consider the situation and resolve that it would be a right and manly thing to stand by this girl-wife and her child and see that they were honorably dealt with, and cherished and protected and loved by the man that had promised these things, and so be made happy and kept so.  And because, also—­may we conjecture this?—­we may hope for the privilege of taking up our cozy Latin lessons again, that used to be so pleasant, and brought us so near together—­so near, indeed, that often our heads touched, just as heads do over Italian lessons; and our hands met in casual and unintentional, but still most delicious and thrilling little contacts and momentary clasps, just as they inevitably do over Italian lessons.  Suppose one should say to any young wife:  “I find that your husband is poring over the Italian poets and being instructed in the beautiful Italian language by the lovely Cornelia Robinson”—­would that cozy picture fail to rise before her mind? would its possibilities fail to suggest themselves to her? would there be a pang in her heart and a blush on her face? or, on the contrary, would the remark give her pleasure, make her joyous and gay?  Why, one needs only to make the experiment—­the result will not be uncertain.

However, we learn—­by authority of deeply reasoned and searching conjecture—­that the baby bore the journey well, and that that was why the young wife was happy.  That accounts for two per cent. of the happiness, but it was not right to imply that it accounted for the other ninety-eight also.