Shelley and Mary Godwin were mates if ever such existed.  In a year Mary had developed from a child into splendid womanhood—­a beautiful, superior, earnest woman.  By her own efforts, of course aided by Shelley (for they were partners in everything), she became versed in the classics and delved deeply into the literature of a time long past.  Unlike her mother, Mary Shelley could do no great work alone.  The sensitiveness and the delicacy of her nature precluded that self-reliant egoism which can create.  She wrote one book, “Frankenstein,” which in point of prophetic and allegorical suggestion stamps the work as classic:  but it was written under the immediate spell of Shelley’s presence.  Shelley also could not work alone, and without her the world’s disfavor must have whipped him into insanity and death.

As it was they sought peace in love and Italy, living near Lord Byron in great intimacy, and befriended by him in many ways.

But peace was not for Shelley.  Calamity was at the door.  He could never forget how he had lifted Harriet Westbrook into a position for which she was not fitted and then left her to flounder alone.  And when word came that Harriet had drowned herself, his cup of woe was full.  Shortly before this, Fanny Godwin had gone away with great deliberation, leaving an empty laudanum-bottle to tell the tale.

On December Thirtieth, Eighteen Hundred Sixteen, Shelley and Mary Godwin were married at Saint Mildred’s Church, London.  Both had now fully concluded with Godwin that man owes a duty to the unborn and to society, and that to place one’s self in opposition to custom is at least very bad policy.  But although Shelley had made society tardy amends, society would not forgive; and in a long legal fight to obtain possession of his children, Ianthe and Charles, of whom Harriet was the mother, the Court of Chancery decided against Shelley, on the grounds that he was “an unfit person, being an atheist and a republican.”

About this time was born little Allegra, “the Dawn,” child of Lord Byron and Jane Clairmont.  Then afterwards came bickerings with Byron and threats of a duel and all that.

Finally there was a struggle between Byron and Miss Clairmont for the child:  but death solved the issue and the beautiful little girl passed beyond the reach of either.

And so we find Shelley’s heart wrung by the sorrows of others and by his own; and when Mary and he laid away in death their bright boy William and their baby girl Clara, the Fates seemed to have done their worst.  But man seems to have a certain capacity for pain, and beyond this even God can not go.

Shelley struggled on and with Mary’s help continued to write.

Another babe was born and the world grew brighter.  They were now on the shores of the Mediterranean with a little group of enthusiasts who thought and felt as they did.  For the first time they realized that, after all, they were a part of the world, and linked to the human race—­not set off alone, despised, forsaken.