ever we might have been required to say in the confessional. The natural shrinking is, if not a sin, a regrettable weakness. That, if granted, is a full justification by anticipation of the publicity bestowed upon these letters. If a woman, so exquisitely sensitive, condemns herself for shrinking from a revelation of her soul secrets, how is an outsider to say that she was wrong?
Yet, in spite of the authority, which no doubt justifies the son's action, and of the argument which I fully admit to have its force, I have some hesitation as to the conclusion. I felt unpleasantly like an unjustifiable eavesdropper while reading these letters, and I cannot at once admit that the feeling was simply erroneous, or due to the illusion that the writers of letters so full of life must still be living. Can I justify that instinctive repulsion, or justify it without falling into the mere common-places of respectable morality? In some respects there is obviously no room for complaint. There is no question of a revelation of anything painful to survivors or discreditable to the writers. The letters can only confirm whatever judgment we have already formed of the depth and tenderness of character of Browning and his wife. They are an ideal pair of lovers. The question comes up
