1 that he
first met Mary Wollstonecraft, the one woman of genius who belonged to
the English revolutionary circle. He was not impressed, thought that she
talked too much, and in his diary spelled her name incorrectly.

In the interval between 1791 and 1797 Mary Wollstonecraft was to write
one of the books which belong to the spiritual foundations of the next
century, to taste fame and detraction, to know the joys of love and
maternity, and to experience a misery and wrong which made life itself
an unendurable shame. A later chapter will attempt an estimate of the
ideas and personality of this brilliant and courageous woman. A few
sentences must suffice here to recall the bare facts of her life
history. Born in 1759, the child of a drunken and disreputable father,
she had struggled with indomitable energy, first as a teacher and then
as a translator and literary "hack," to keep herself and help her still
more unfortunate sisters. In 1792 she published _A Vindication of the
Rights of Woman_, a plea for the human dignity of her sex and for its
claim to education. At the end of this year she went to Paris as much to
see the Revolution as to perfect herself in French. She there met a
clever and interesting American, one Gilbert Imlay, a traveller of some
little note, a soldier in the War of Independence, and now a speculative
merchant. He lived with her, and in documents acknowledged her as his
wife, though neither felt the need of a binding ceremony. A baby, Fanny,
was born, but Imlay's business imposed long separations. He gradually
tired of the woman who had honoured him too highly, and entered on more
than one intrigue. Mary Wollstonecraft attempted in despair to drown
herself in the Thames, was saved and nursed back to life and courage by
devoted friends. She again took up her pen to gain a livelihood, and for
the sake of her child's future, gradually returned to the literary
circle which valued her, not merely for her genius and originality, but
also for her beauty, her vivacity, and her charm, for her daring and
independence, and her warm, impulsive, affectionate heart.

Godwin met her again while she was bruised and lonely and
disillusionised with mankind. Her charming volume of travel sketches
(_Letters from Norway, 1796_) had made, as it well might, a deep
impression on his taste. He was, what Imlay was not, her intellectual
equal, and his character deserved her respect. He has left in the little
book which he pub