her contemporaries, a more than ever delightful companion and sympathetic
friend. "She had always possessed," Godwin says of her, "in an
unparalleled degree the art of communicating happiness, and she was now
in the constant and unlimited exercise of it. She seemed to have attained
that situation which her disposition and character imperiously demanded,
but which she had never before attained; and her understanding and her
heart felt the benefit of it." She never at any time tried to hide her
feelings, whatever these might be; therefore she did not disguise her
new-found happiness, though she gave no reason for its existence. It
revealed itself in her face, in her manners, and even in her
conversation. "The serenity of her countenance," again to quote Godwin,
best of all authorities for this period of her life, "the increasing
sweetness of her manners, and that consciousness of enjoyment that seemed
ambitious that every one she saw should be happy as well as herself, were
matters of general observation to all her acquaintance." Her beauty,
depending so much more upon expression than upon charm of coloring or
regularity of features, naturally developed rather than decreased with
years. Suffering and happiness had left their impress upon her face,
giving it the strength, the strange melancholy, and the tenderness which
characterize her portrait, painted by Opie about this time. Southey, who
was just then visiting London, bears witness to her striking personal
appearance. He wrote to his friend Cottle:--

"Of all the lions or _literati_ I have seen here, Mary Imlay's
countenance is the best, infinitely the best; the only fault in it
is an expression somewhat similar to what the prints of Horne Tooke
display,--an expression indicating superiority, not haughtiness,
not sarcasm in Mary Imlay, but still it is unpleasant. Her eyes are
light brown, and although the lid of one of them is affected by a
little paralysis, they are the most meaning I ever saw."{1}

{1} Mr. Kegan Paul, in the spring of 1884, showed the author of this
Life a lock of Mary Wollstonecraft's hair. It is wonderfully
soft in texture, and in color a rich auburn, turning to gold in
the sunlight.

On March 29, 1797, after they had lived together happily and serenely for
seven months, Mary and Godwin were married. The marriage ceremony was
performed at old Saint Pancras Church, in London, and Mr. Marshal,