A very lengthy biography of Percy Bysshe Shelley appeared recently, and
the biographer thought it his duty to give the most minute and peculiar
details concerning the poet's private life. In consequence, the book is
a deplorable one in many respects, and no plain-minded person can read
it without feeling sorry that our sweet singer should be presented to us
in the guise of a weak-minded hypocrite. One critic wrote a great many
pages in which he bemoans the dreary and sordid family-life of the man
who wrote the "Ode to the West Wind." I can hardly help sympathizing
with the critic, for indeed Shelley's proceedings rather test the
patience of ordinary mortals, who do not think that poetic--or rather
artistic--ability licenses its possessor to behave like a scoundrel.
Shelley wrote the most lovely verse in praise of purity; but he tempted
a poor child to marry him, deserted her, insulted her, and finally left
her to drown herself when brutal neglect and injury had driven her
crazy. Poor Harriet Westbrook! She did not behave very discreetly after
her precious husband left her; but she was young, and thrown on a hard
world without any strength but her own to protect her. While she was
drifting into misery the airy poet was talking sentiment and ventilating
his theories of the universe to Mary Godwin.
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