a thing to be ashamed of. He had done things which one might laugh at,
but the privilege of laughing was limited always to the thing itself;
you could not laugh at the motive back of it--that was high, that was
noble. His most fantastic and quixotic acts had a purpose back of them
which made them fine, often great, and made the rising laugh seem
profanation and quenched it; quenched it, and changed the impulse to
homage.

Up to this time he had been loyalty itself, where his obligations lay--
treachery was new to him; he had never done an ignoble thing--baseness
was new to him; he had never done an unkind thing that also was new to
him.

This was the author of that letter, this was the man who had deserted his
young wife and was lamenting, because he must leave another woman's house
which had become a "home" to him, and go away. Is he lamenting mainly
because he must go back to his wife and child? No, the lament is mainly
for what he is to leave behind him. The physical comforts of the house?
No, in his life he had never attached importance to such things. Then
the thing which he grieves to leave is narrowed down to a person--to the
person whose "dewy looks" had sunk into his breast, and whose seducing
words had "stirred poison there."

He was ashamed of himself, his conscience was upbraiding him. He was the
slave of a degrading love; he was drunk with his passion, the real
Shelley was in temporary eclipse. This is the verdict which his previous
history must certainly deliver upon this episode, I think.

One must be allowed to assist himself with conjectures like these when
trying to find his way through a literary swamp which has so many
misleading finger-boards up as this book is furnished with.

We have now arrived at a part of the swamp where the difficulties and
perplexities are going to be greater than any we have yet met with--
where, indeed, the finger-boards are multitudinous, and the most of them
pointing diligently in the wrong direction. We are to be told by the
biography why Shelley deserted his wife and child and took up with
Cornelia Turner and Italian. It was not on account of Cornelia's sighs
and sentimentalities and tea and manna and late hours and soft and sweet
and industrious enticements; no, it was because "his happiness in his
home had been wounded and bruised almost to death."

It had been wounded and bruised almost to death in this way:

1st. Harriet persuaded him to set up a