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