...
Barton, they said, met her while on one of his lecture tours....
Their baby ... a little, red object like a boiled lobster ... the
anonymous, undistinguished creatures all babies are at that time--the
mother used to bring it in among us and coo and coo over it so
ridiculously that we made her behaviour a joke among us.
* * * * *
Barton's secretary was a beautiful, gentle, large-eyed girl ... wholly
feminine ... soft-voiced ... as a reaction from the nagging of his wife,
from her blatancy and utter lack of sympathy with any of his projects,
he insensibly drifted into a relationship closer and closer, with this
girl ... they used to take long walks into the pines together ... and be
observed coming back slowly out of the sunset ... hand in hand ... to
drop each other's hands, when they considered that the observing line of
vision had been reached.
* * * * *
Lying under my huge army tent, by the shore of pretty little Lake Emily,
I dreamed long and often, in the hush of starry midnight, of
reconstructing the life of the whole world--especially the love-life
between men and women.
Shelley was my God, not Christ. Shelley's notes to _Queen Mab_ were my
creed, as his poetry and Whitman's furnished me my Bible. Through them I
would reform the world!
I had not realised then (as Shelley did not till his death), the
terrific inertia of people, their content, even, with the cramping and
conventional ideas and beliefs that hold them in unconscious slavery.
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