At the same time another child -- this one of Shelley's brain -- was given to the world: Alastor, a poem of pervading beauty in which the reader may gaze into the still depths of a fine mind's musings. Alastor was published only to be savagely attacked, contemptuously ignored. Shelley sent a copy to Southey, a former friend, and another to Godwin. Neither acknowledged the gift.

Only Mary's praise sustained him in his disappointment. She understood completely. Not a thought nor a cadence was missed in her summary of appreciation.

``You have made the labor worth while,'' he said to her, smiling. ``And in the future, since I write for a public of one, I can save the poor publishers from wasting their money.''

``A public of one,'' Mary echoed reprovingly. ``how can you say such a thing? There will be thousands who will thrill to the loveliness of Alastor. There are some even now. What about that dear, clever Mr. Thynne? I am sure he is in raptures.''

``Poor Mr. Thynne, he always has to be trotted out for my encouragement.''

``There are other Mr. Thynnes. Not everyone is bewitched by Byron's caliphs and harem beauties.''

Mary's super critical attitude toward Byron had nothing to do with his moral disrepute. She was resentful of his easy success as compared with Shelley's failure. The same month that Alastor was published, Murray sold twenty thousand copies of The Siege of Corinth, a slovenly bit of Byronism that even Shelley's generosity rebelled at.